Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Vicomte de Bragelonne; Or, Ten Years Later<br />Being the completion of "The Three Musketeers" a by Alexandre Dumas (read the beginning after the end novel .TXT) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Vicomte de Bragelonne; Or, Ten Years Later<br />Being the completion of "The Three Musketeers" a by Alexandre Dumas (read the beginning after the end novel .TXT) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
"Madame, I do confess it."
She looked at him steadily. He was so noble and so handsome in his bearing, his eye 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 far away in France.' For this I thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne; you are, indeed, a noble-hearted, noble-minded man, and I regard you yet 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[Pg 179] why you are sad, and why you have become more than usually so during these four past days?"
Raoul was deeply and sensibly moved by her sweet and melancholy tone; 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 heavy atmosphere and characteristic gloom of England seem to weigh like a burden upon me. Sometimes my dreams are golden-hued and full of wondrous enjoyment, but suddenly a mist arises and overspreads my dreams, and blots 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 to a friend."
"You say you are French in heart and soul."
"Yes, not only I repeat it, that my mother was French, but, further still, 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 afterward; 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 Belliere. Do you know her?" she added, observing Raoul start suddenly.
"I have heard her name mentioned."
"She, too, loves with her whole heart; and her last letter informs me that 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 as pure as a lily."
"But if she loves you, why are you sad?"
"I have been told that she has ceased 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 from 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 here."
And Buckingham at that moment was seen at the end of the walk, approaching toward 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 me 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 her[Pg 180]self 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 woman who is unworthy of him," said Buckingham, with that calm, collected manner peculiar to an Englishman.
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 at 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."[Pg 181]
"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 toward 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 toward the king, Buckingham and Miss Grafton exchanged a look full of intelligence with each other.
CHAPTER XLV. 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 he was swearing for 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, upon a day when 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 profess, 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 got Vandyck 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 laughing, sire."
"Do you wish me to weep, then?"
"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 is 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 become mad about 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 it, since 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;
Comments (0)