Miss Mary Grafton hurriedly said, “No, no; I am not going there.”
“Why not?”
“Let us go back, Lucy.”
“Nay, on the contrary, let us go on, and have an explanation.”
“What about?”
“About how it happens that the Vicomte de Bragelonne always accompanies you in all your walks, as you invariably accompany him in his.”
“And you conclude either that he loves me, or that I love him?”
“Why not?—he is a most agreeable and charming companion.—No one hears me, I hope,” said Lucy Stewart, as she turned round with a smile, which indicated, moreover, that her uneasiness on the subject was not extreme.
“No, no,” said Mary, “the king is engaged in his summerhouse with the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Oh! apropos of the duke, Mary, it seems he has shown you great attention since his return from France; how is your own heart in that direction?”
Mary Grafton shrugged her shoulders with seeming indifference.
“Well, well, I will ask Bragelonne about it,” said Stewart, laughing; “let us go and find him at once.”
“What for?”
“I wish to speak to him.”
“Not yet, one word before you do: come, come, you who know so many of the king’s secrets, tell me why M. de Bragelonne is in England?”
“Because he was sent as an envoy from one sovereign to another.”
“That may be; but, seriously, although politics do not much concern us, we know enough to be satisfied that M. de Bragelonne has no mission of serious import here.”
“Well, then, listen,” said Stewart, with assumed gravity, “for your sake I am going to betray a state secret. Shall I tell you the nature of the letter which King Louis XIV gave M. de Bragelonne for King Charles II? I will; these are the very words: ‘My brother, the bearer of this is a gentleman attached to my court, and the son of one whom you regard most warmly. Treat him kindly, I beg, and try and make him like England.’ ”
“Did it say that!”
“Word for word—or something very like it. I will not answer for the form, but the substance I am sure of.”
“Well, and what conclusion do you, or rather what conclusion does the king, draw from that?”
“That the king of France has his own reasons for removing M. de Bragelonne, and for getting him married anywhere else than in France.”
“So that, then, in consequence of this letter—”
“King Charles received M. de Bragelonne, as you are aware, in the most distinguished and friendly manner; the handsomest apartments in Whitehall were allotted to him; and as you are the most valuable and precious person in his court, inasmuch as you have rejected his heart—nay, do not blush—he wished you to take a fancy to this Frenchman, and he was desirous to confer upon him so costly a prize. And this is the reason why you, the heiress of three hundred thousand pounds, a future duchess, so beautiful, so good, have been thrown in Bragelonne’s way, in all the promenades and parties of pleasure to which he was invited. In fact it was a plot—a kind of conspiracy.”
Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to her, and pressing her companion’s arm, said: “Thank the king, Lucy.”
“Yes, yes, but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care.”
Hardly had she pronounced these words, when the duke appeared from one of the pavilions on the terrace, and, approaching the two girls, with a smile, said, “You are mistaken, Miss Lucy; I am not jealous; and the proof, Miss Mary, is yonder, in the person of M. de Bragelonne himself, who ought to be the cause of my jealousy, but who is dreaming in pensive solitude. Poor fellow! Allow me to leave you for a few minutes, while I avail myself of those few minutes to converse with Miss Lucy Stewart, to whom I have something to say.” And then, bowing to Lucy, he added, “Will you do me the honor to accept my hand, in order that I may lead you to the king, who is waiting for us?” With these words, Buckingham, still smiling, took Miss Stewart’s hand, and led her away. When by herself, Mary Grafton, her head gently inclined towards her shoulder, with that indolent gracefulness of action which distinguishes young English girls, remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on Raoul, but as if uncertain what to do. At last, after first blushing violently, and then turning deadly pale, thus revealing the internal combat which assailed her heart, she seemed to make up her mind to adopt a decided course, and with a tolerably firm step, advanced towards the seat on which Raoul was reclining, buried in the profoundest meditation, as we have already said. The sound of Miss Mary’s steps, though they could hardly be heard upon the green sward, awakened Raoul from his musing attitude; he turned round, perceived the young girl, and walked forward to meet the companion whom his happy destiny had thrown in his way.
“I have been sent to you, Monsieur,” said Mary Grafton; “will you take care of me?”
“To whom is my gratitude due, for so great a happiness?” inquired Raoul.
“To the Duke of Buckingham,” replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did not really feel.
“To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?—he who so passionately seeks your charming society! Am I really to believe you are serious, Mademoiselle?”
“The fact is, Monsieur, you perceive, that everything seems to conspire to make us pass the best, or rather the longest, part of our days together. Yesterday it was the king who desired me to beg you to seat yourself next to me at dinner; today, it is the Duke of Buckingham who begs me to come and place myself near you on this seat.”
“And he has gone away in order to leave us together?” asked Raoul, with some embarrassment.
“Look yonder, at the turning of that path; he is just out of sight, with Miss Stewart. Are these polite attentions
