The french masters, p.158
The French Masters, page 158
“Yes, I know that,” said Buckingham; “he has a prisoner.”
“It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace,” replied Felton.
“Well, then, speak!”
“That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!”
“Leave us, Patrick,” said Buckingham; “but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently.”
Patrick went out.
“We are alone, sir,” said Buckingham; “speak!”
“My Lord,” said Felton, “the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”
“Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.”
“Here it is, my Lord.”
“Give it to me,” said the duke.
And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.
“Pardon, my Lord,” said Felton, stopping the duke; “but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?”
“Yes, sir, I know it,” replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.
“Then your Grace knows her real name?” asked Felton, in a sharp tone.
“I know it”; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.
“And knowing that real name, my Lord,” replied Felton, “will you sign it all the same?”
“Doubtless,” said Buckingham, “and rather twice than once.”
“I cannot believe,” continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, “that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates.”
“I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.”
“And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?”
Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.
“Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?”
“Reply to them, my Lord,” said Felton; “the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.”
Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.
“Without remorse,” said he. “The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation.” The duke put his pen to the paper.
“You will not sign that order, my Lord!” said Felton, making a step toward the duke.
“I will not sign this order! And why not?”
“Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.”
“I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn,” said Buckingham. “This lady is infamous.”
“My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you.”
“Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?” said Buckingham.
“My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you’re about to do, and beware of going too far!”
“What do you say? God pardon me!” cried Buckingham, “I really think he threatens me!”
“No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes.”
“Mr. Felton,” said Buckingham, “you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.”
“You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her; let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you.”
“You will exact!” said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced them.
“My Lord,” continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, “my Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!”
“Ah, this is too much!” cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.
Felton barred his passage.
“I ask it humbly of you, my Lord,” said he; “sign the order for the liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you have dishonored.”
“Withdraw, sir,” said Buckingham, “or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons.”
“You shall not call,” said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. “Beware, my Lord, you are in the hands of God!”
“In the hands of the devil, you mean!” cried Buckingham, raising his voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely shouting.
“Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter,” said Felton, holding out a paper to the duke.
“By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!”
“Sign, my Lord!”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Help!” shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his sword.
But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was upon the duke.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, “A letter from France, my Lord.”
“From France!” cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from whom that letter came.
Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his side up to the handle.
“Ah, traitor,” cried Buckingham, “you have killed me!”
“Murder!” screamed Patrick.
Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying, “I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!”
Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke’s chamber.
At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.
He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the wound.
“Laporte,” said the duke, in a dying voice, “Laporte, do you come from her?”
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of Austria, “but too late, perhaps.”
“Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!”
And the duke swooned.
Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition, the officers of Buckingham’s household, had all made their way into the chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread itself throughout the city.
The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had taken place.
Lord de Winter tore his hair.
“Too late by a minute!” cried he, “too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my God! what a misfortune!”
He had been informed at seven o’clock in the morning that a rope ladder floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to Milady’s chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars filed, had remembered the verbal caution d’Artagnan had transmitted to him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.
The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “leave me alone with Patrick and Laporte — ah, is that you, de Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which he has put me.”
“Oh, my Lord!” cried the baron, “I shall never console myself.”
“And you would be quite wrong, my dear de Winter,” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to him. “I do not know the man who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray you.”
The baron went out sobbing.
There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.
“You will live, my Lord, you will live!” repeated the faithful servant of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke’s sofa.
“What has she written to me?” said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, “what has she written to me? Read me her letter.”
“Oh, my Lord!” said Laporte.
“Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?”
Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.
“Read!” said he, “read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me.”
Laporte made no further objection, and read:
“My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord, for which I should never console myself.
“Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.
“Your affectionate
“ANNE” Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter disappointment, he asked, “Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?”
“The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had advice that your assassination would be attempted.”
“And is that all — is that all?” replied Buckingham, impatiently.
“She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.”
“Ah,” said Buckingham, “God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger!”
Laporte burst into tears.
“Patrick,” said the due, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”
Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having belonged to the queen.
“Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls.”
Patrick again obeyed.
“Here, Laporte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only tokens I ever received from her — this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial” — he looked round for some valuable object— “you will add—”
He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the blood spread over its blade.
“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of Laporte. He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.
Patrick uttered a loud cry.
Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought, which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.
At this moment the duke’s surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was already on board the admiral’s ship, where they had been obliged to seek him.
He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his own, and letting it fall, “All is useless,” said he, “he is dead.”
“Dead, dead!” cried Patrick.
At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.
As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.
“Wretch!” said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after abandoned him, “wretch! what have you done?”
“I have avenged myself!” said he.
“Avenged yourself,” said the baron. “Rather say that you have served as an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime shall be her last.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Felton, quietly, “and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished him for his injustice, that is all.”
De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and could not tell what to think of such insensibility.
One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton. At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to accuse herself, and die with him.
All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea, commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed toward the cost of France.
He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking, and at once perceived all the treachery.
“One last favor, my Lord!” said he to the baron.
“What?” asked his Lordship.
“What o’clock is it?”
The baron drew out his watch. “It wants ten minutes to nine,” said he.
Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half. As soon as she heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at great distance from the coast.
“God has so willed it!” said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of her to whom he had sacrificed his life.
De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.
“Be punished ALONE, for the first, miserable man!” said Lord de Winter to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the sea; “but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved so much that your accomplice is not saved.”
Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.
As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight to the port.
CHAPTER 60
IN FRANCE
The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.
He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United Provinces.
But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the event — that is to say, till two o’clock in the afternoon — two vessels had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who, already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral’s ship.
As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how it set sail.
During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.
M de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.
The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was then that d’Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers — for without that circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his companions left it.
It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme. Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days afterward Aramis received the following letter:
