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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (dark books to read .TXT) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
“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 summer-house 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.
Chapter XXXVIII. The Courier from Madame.
Charles II. was busily engaged in proving, or in endeavoring to prove, to Miss Stewart that she was the only person for whom he cared at all, and consequently was avowing to her an affection similar to that which his ancestor Henry IV. had entertained for Gabrielle. Unfortunately for Charles II., he had hit upon an unlucky day, the very day Miss Stewart had taken it into her head to make him jealous, and therefore, instead of being touched by his offer, as the king had hoped, she laughed heartily.
“Oh! sire, sire,” she cried, laughing all the while; “if I were to be unfortunate enough to ask you for a proof of the affection you possess, how easy it would be to see that you are telling a falsehood.”
“Nay, listen to me,” said Charles, “you know my cartoons by Raphael; you know whether I care for them or not; the whole world envies me their possession, as you well know also; my father commissioned Van Dyck to purchase them. Would you like me to send them to your house this very day?”
“Oh, no!” replied the young girl; “pray keep them yourself, sire; my house is far too small to accommodate such visitors.”
“In that case you shall have Hampton Court to put the cartoons in.”
“Be less generous, sire, and learn to love a little while longer, that is all I have to ask you.”
“I shall never cease to love you; is not that enough?”
“You are smiling, sire.”
“Do you wish me to weep?”
“No; but I should like to see you a little more melancholy.”
“Thank Heaven, I have been so long enough; fourteen years of exile, poverty, and misery, I think I may well regard it as a debt discharged; besides, melancholy makes people look so plain.”
“Far from that—for look at the young Frenchman.”
“What! the Vicomte de Bragelonne? are you smitten too? By Heaven, they will all grow mad over him one after the other; but he, on the contrary, has a reason for being melancholy.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, indeed! you wish me to betray state secrets, do you?”
“If I wish it, you must do so, for you told me you were quite ready to do everything I wished.”
“Well, then, he is bored in his own country. Does that satisfy you?”
“Bored?”
“Yes, a proof that he is a simpleton; I allow him to fall in love with Miss Mary Grafton, and he feels bored. Can you believe it?”
“Very good; it seems, then, that if you were to find Miss Lucy Stewart indifferent to you, you would console yourself by falling in love with Miss Mary Grafton.”
“I don’t say that; in the first place, you know that Mary Grafton does not care for me; besides, a man can only console himself for a lost affection by the discovery of a new one. Again, however, I repeat, the question is not of myself, but of that young man. One might almost be tempted to call the girl he has left behind him a Helen—a Helen before the little ceremony she went through with Paris, of course.”
“He has left some one, then?”
“That is to say, some one has left him.”
“Poor fellow! so much the worse!”
“Why do you mean by ‘so much the worse’?”
“Why not? why did he leave?”
“Do you think it was of his own wish or will that he left?”
“Was he obliged to leave, then?”
“He left Paris under orders, my dear Stewart; and prepare to be surprised—by express orders of the king.”
“Ah! I begin to see, now.”
“At least say nothing at all about it.”
“You know very well that I am just as discreet as anybody else. And so the king sent him away?”
“Yes.”
“And during his absence he takes his sweetheart from him?”
“Yes; and, will you believe it? the silly fellow, instead of thanking the king, is making himself miserable.”
“What! thank the king for depriving him of the woman he loves! Really, sire, yours is
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