“I have been told that she ceases to love me.”
“You do not believe it, I trust?”
“He who wrote me so does not sign his letter.”
“An anonymous denunciation! some treachery, be assured,” said Miss Grafton.
“Stay,” said Raoul, showing the young girl a letter which he had read over a thousand times; she took it from his hand and read as follows:
“Vicomte—You are perfectly right to amuse yourself yonder with the lovely faces of Charles II’s court, for at Louis XIV’s court, the castle in which your affections are enshrined is being besieged. Stay in London altogether, poor vicomte, or return without delay to Paris.”
“There is no signature,” said Miss Mary.
“None.”
“Believe it not, then.”
“Very good; but here is a second letter, from my friend de Guiche, which says, ‘I am lying here wounded and ill. Return, Raoul, oh, return!’ ”
“What do you intend doing?” inquired the young girl, with a feeling of oppression at her heart.
“My intention, as soon as I received this letter, was immediately to take my leave of the king.”
“When did you receive it?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“It is dated Fontainebleau.”
“A singular circumstance, do you not think, for the court is now at Paris? At all events, I would have set off; but when I mentioned my intention to the king, he began to laugh, and said to me, ‘How comes it, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, that you think of leaving? Has your sovereign recalled you?’ I colored, naturally enough, for I was confused by the question; for the fact is, the king himself sent me here, and I have received no order to return.”
Mary frowned in deep thought, and said, “Do you remain, then?”
“I must, Mademoiselle.”
“Do you ever receive any letters from her to whom you are so devoted?”
“Never.”
“Never, do you say? Does she not love you, then?”
“At least, she has not written to me since my departure, although she used occasionally to write to me before. I trust she may have been prevented.”
“Hush! the duke is coming.”
And Buckingham at that moment was seen at the end of the walk, approaching towards them, alone and smiling; he advanced slowly, and held out his hands to them both. “Have you arrived at an understanding?” he said.
“About what?”
“About whatever might render you happy, dear Mary, and make Raoul less miserable.”
“I do not understand you, my lord,” said Raoul.
“That is my view of the subject, Miss Mary; do you wish me to mention it before M. de Bragelonne?” he added, with a smile.
“If you mean,” replied the young girl, haughtily, “that I was not indisposed to love M. de Bragelonne, that is useless, for I have told him so myself.”
Buckingham reflected for a moment, and, without seeming in any way discountenanced, as she expected, he said: “My reason for leaving you with M. de Bragelonne was, that I thoroughly knew your refined delicacy of feeling, no less than the perfect loyalty of your mind and heart, and I hoped that M. de Bragelonne’s cure might be effected by the hands of a physician such as you are.”
“But, my lord, before you spoke of M. de Bragelonne’s heart, you spoke to me of your own. Do you mean to effect the cure of two hearts at the same time?”
“Perfectly true, Madame; but you will do me the justice to admit that I have long discontinued a useless pursuit, acknowledging that my own wound is incurable.”
“My lord,” said Mary, collecting herself for a moment before she spoke, “M. de Bragelonne is happy, for he loves and is beloved. He has no need of such a physician as I can be.”
“M. de Bragelonne,” said Buckingham, “is on the very eve of experiencing a serious misfortune, and he has greater need than ever of sympathy and affection.”
“Explain yourself, my lord,” inquired Raoul, anxiously.
“No; gradually I will explain myself; but, if you desire it, I can tell Miss Grafton what you may not listen to yourself.”
“My lord, you are putting me to the torture; you know something you wish to conceal from me?”
“I know that Miss Mary Grafton is the most charming object that a heart ill at ease could possibly meet with in its way through life.”
“I have already told you that the Vicomte de Bragelonne loves elsewhere,” said the young girl.
“He is wrong, then.”
“Do you assume to know, my lord, that I am wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Whom is it that he loves, then?” exclaimed the young girl.
“He loves a lady who is unworthy of him,” said Buckingham, with that calm, collected manner peculiar to Englishmen.
Miss Grafton uttered a cry, which, together with the remark that Buckingham had that moment made, spread over de Bragelonne’s features a deadly paleness, arising from the sudden surprise, and also from a vague fear of impending misfortune. “My lord,” he exclaimed, “you have just pronounced words which compel me, without a moment’s delay, to seek their explanation in Paris.”
“You will remain here,” said Buckingham, “because you have no right to leave; and no one has the right to quit the service of the king for that of any woman, even were she as worthy of being loved as Mary Grafton is.”
“You will tell me all, then?”
“I will, on condition that you will remain.”
“I will remain, if you will promise to speak openly and without reserve.”
Thus far had their conversation proceeded, and Buckingham, in all probability, was on the point of revealing, not indeed all that had taken place, but at least all he was aware of, when one of the king’s attendants appeared at the end of the terrace, and advanced towards the summerhouse where the king was sitting with Lucy Stewart. A courier followed him, covered with dust from head to foot, and who seemed as if he had but a few moments before dismounted from his horse.
“The courier from France! Madame’s courier!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the princess’s livery; and while the attendant and the courier advanced towards the king, Buckingham and Miss Grafton exchanged a look full of intelligence with each other.
178
The Courier from Madame
Charles
