Ten Years Later, Alexandre Dumas [win 10 ebook reader txt] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around his neck. “M. de Bragelonne,” he said, “is it, indeed, a gentleman who is speaking to me?”
“Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman. Get cured, my lord, and he will hold quite another language to you.”
“But, M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice, half-choked, and putting his hand to his neck,—“Do you not see I am choking?”
“If your death were to take place at this moment, my lord,” replied Raoul, with unruffled composure, “I should, indeed, regard it as a great happiness, for this circumstance would prevent all kinds of evil remarks; not alone about yourself, but also about those illustrious persons whom your devotion is compromising in so absurd a manner.”
“You are right, you are right,” said the young man, almost beside himself. “Yes, yes; better to die, than to suffer as I do at this moment.” And he grasped a beautiful dagger, the handle of which was inlaid with precious stones; and which he half drew from his breast.
Raoul thrust his hand aside. “Be careful what you do,” he said; “if you do not kill yourself, you commit a ridiculous action; and if you were to kill yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the nuptial robe of the princess of England.”
Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath; during this interval, his lips quivered, his fingers worked convulsively, and his eyes wandered, as though in delirium. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I know nowhere a nobler mind than yours; you are, indeed, a worthy son of the most perfect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents.” And he threw his arms round Raoul’s neck. All who were present, astounded at this conduct, which was the very reverse of what was expected, considering the violence of the one adversary and the determination of the other, began immediately to clap their hands, and a thousand cheers and joyful shouts arose from all sides. De Guiche, in his turn, embraced Buckingham somewhat against his inclination; but, at all events, he did embrace him. This was the signal for French and English to do the same; and they who, until that moment, had looked at each other with restless uncertainty, fraternized on the spot. In the meantime, the procession of the princess arrived, and had it not been for Bragelonne, two armies would have been engaged together in conflict, and blood would have been shed upon the flowers with which the ground was covered. At the appearance, however, of the banners borne at the head of the procession, complete order was restored.
Chapter XI. Night.
Concord returned to its place amidst the tents. English and French rivaled each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the illustrious travelers. The English forwarded to the French baskets of flowers, of which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the arrival of the young princess; the French in return invited the English to a supper, which was to be given the next day. Congratulations were poured in upon the princess everywhere during her journey. From the respect paid her on all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the adoration with which she was treated by two or three; she appeared an object of worship. The queen-mother gave the French the most affectionate reception. France was her native country, and she had suffered too much unhappiness in England for England to have made her forget France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affection for it, that love for a country where they had both been hospitably received, and where a brilliant future opened before them. After the public entry was over, and the spectators in the streets had partially dispersed, and the sound of the music and cheering of the crowd could be heard only in the distance; when the night had closed in, wrapping with its star-covered mantle the sea, the harbor, the town, and surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by the great events of the day, returned to his tent, and seated himself upon one of the stools with so profound an expression of distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed upon him, until he heard him sigh, and then he approached him. The count had thrown himself back on his seat, leaning his shoulders against the partition of the tent, and remained thus, his face buried in his hands, with heaving chest and restless limbs.
“You are suffering?” asked Raoul.
“Cruelly.”
“Bodily, I suppose?”
“Yes; bodily.”
“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his eyes fixed upon his friend.
“Yes; a night’s rest will probably restore me.”
“Shall I leave you?”
“No; I wish to talk to you.”
“You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my questions.”
“Proceed then.”
“You will be frank with me?”
“I always am.”
“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?”
“I suspect.”
“Because he is in love with Madame, is it not?”
“One could almost swear to it, to observe him.”
“You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.”
“It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I have read his distress in his eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole day.”
“You are a poet, my dear count, and find subjects for your muse everywhere.”
“I can perceive love clearly enough.”
“Where it does not exist?”
“Nay, where it does exist.”
“Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche?”
“I am convinced of what I say,” said the count.
“Now, inform me, count,” said Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon him, “what happened to render you so clear-sighted.”
Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I suppose.”
“Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be the case this evening.”
“I am fatigued.”
“Listen to me, Guiche; we have been campaigners together; we have been on horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses dying from exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not fatigue that
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