“I cannot very precisely say what people do in France, Mademoiselle, for I can hardly be called a Frenchman. I have resided in many countries, and almost always as a soldier; and then, I have spent a long period of my life in the country. I am almost a savage.”
“You do not like your residence in England, I fear.”
“I scarcely know,” said Raoul, inattentively, and sighing deeply at the same time.
“What! you do not know?”
“Forgive me,” said Raoul, shaking his head, and collecting his thoughts, “I did not hear you.”
“Oh!” said the young girl, sighing in her turn, “how wrong the duke was to send me here!”
“Wrong!” said Raoul, “perhaps so; for I am but a rude, uncouth companion, and my society annoys you. The duke did, indeed, very wrong to send you.”
“It is precisely,” replied Mary Grafton, in a clear, calm voice, “because your society does not annoy me, that the duke was wrong to send me to you.”
It was now Raoul’s turn to blush. “But,” he resumed, “how happens it that the Duke of Buckingham should send you to me; and why did you come? the duke loves you, and you love him.”
“No,” replied Mary, seriously, “the duke does not love me, because he is in love with the Duchesse d’Orléans; and, as for myself, I have no affection for the duke.”
Raoul looked at the young lady with astonishment.
“Are you a friend of the Duke of Buckingham?” she inquired.
“The duke has honored me by calling me so ever since we met in France.”
“You are simple acquaintances, then?”
“No; for the duke is the most intimate friend of one whom I regard as a brother.”
“The Duc de Guiche?”
“Yes.”
“He who is in love with Madame la Duchesse d’Orléans?”
“Oh! What is that you are saying?”
“And who loves him in return,” continued the young girl, quietly.
Raoul bent down his head, and Mary Grafton, sighing deeply, continued, “They are very happy. But, leave me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, for the Duke of Buckingham has given you a very troublesome commission in offering me as a companion for your promenade. Your heart is elsewhere, and it is with the greatest difficulty you can be charitable enough to lend me your attention. Confess truly; it would be unfair on your part, vicomte, not to admit it.”
“Madame, I do confess it.”
She looked at him steadily. He was so noble and so handsome in his bearing, his eyes revealed so much gentleness, candor, and resolution, that the idea could not possibly enter her mind that he was either rudely discourteous, or a mere simpleton. She only perceived, clearly enough, that he loved another woman, and not herself, with the whole strength of his heart. “Ah! I now understand you,” she said; “you have left your heart behind you in France.” Raoul bowed. “The duke is aware of your affection?”
“No one knows it,” replied Raoul.
“Why, therefore, do you tell me? Nay, answer me.”
“I cannot.”
“It is for me, then, to anticipate an explanation; you do not wish to tell me anything, because you are now convinced that I do not love the duke; because you see that I possibly might have loved you; because you are a gentleman of noble and delicate sentiments; and because, instead of accepting, even were it for the mere amusement of the passing hour, a hand which is almost pressed upon you; and because, instead of meeting my smiles with a smiling lip, you, who are young, have preferred to tell me, whom men have called beautiful, ‘My heart is over the sea—it is in France.’ For this, I thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne; you are, indeed, a noble-hearted, noble-minded man, and I regard you all the more for it, as a friend only. And now let us cease speaking of myself, and talk of your own affairs. Forget that I have ever spoken to you of myself, tell me why you are sad, and why you have become more than usually so during these past four days?”
Raoul was deeply and sensibly moved by these sweet and melancholy tones; and as he could not, at the moment, find a word to say, the young girl again came to his assistance.
“Pity me,” she said. “My mother was born in France, and I can truly affirm that I, too, am French in blood, as well as in feeling; but the leaden atmosphere and characteristic gloom of England seem to weigh upon me. Sometimes my dreams are golden-hued and full of wonderful enjoyments, when suddenly a mist rises and overspreads my fancy, blotting them out forever. Such, indeed, is the case at the present moment. Forgive me; I have now said enough on that subject; give me your hand, and relate your griefs to me as a friend.”
“You say you are French in heart and soul?”
“Yes, not only, I repeat it, that my mother was French, but, further, as my father, a friend of King Charles I, was exiled in France, I, during the trial of that prince, as well as during the Protector’s life, was brought up in Paris; at the Restoration of King Charles II, my poor father returned to England, where he died almost immediately afterwards; and then the king created me a duchess, and has dowered me according to my rank.
“Have you any relations in France?” Raoul inquired, with the deepest interest.
“I have a sister there, my senior by seven or eight years, who was married in France, and was early left a widow; her name is Madame de Bellière. Do you know her?” she added, observing Raoul start suddenly.
“I have heard her name.”
“She, too, loves with her whole heart; and her last letters inform me she is happy, and her affection is, I conclude, returned. I told you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that although I possess half of her nature, I do not share her happiness. But let us now speak of yourself; whom do you love in France?”
“A young girl, as soft and pure as a lily.”
“But
