The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “Why did not My Lord come himself?” Buckingham demanded. “I expected him this morning.”

  “Lord Winter requested me to present his compliments and to inform Your Grace that he was unavoidably detained because of the prisoner at the castle.”

  “Yes, yes, I know—I know he has a prisoner—”

  “It is about that prisoner that I beg to speak to Your Grace.”

  “Well, speak up, then.”

  “What I have to tell Your Grace is extremely confidential.”

  “You may go, Patrick,” Buckingham told his valet. “But keep within reach; I shall be ringing for you presently.” Patrick gone, Buckingham looked at Felton. “Now we are alone, sir, tell me what all this means.”

  “If Your Grace recalls, Lord Winter wrote recently requesting you to sign an embarkation order for a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”

  “Certainly; I asked him to send me the order and I promised to sign it.”

  “Here is the order, My Lord.”

  Taking the paper from Felton, Buckingham glanced casually at it and, realizing it was the one mentioned, he put it on the table, took up a quill and prepared to sign it.

  “Begging Your Grace’s pardon,” Felton said stepping forward, “Your Grace knows that Charlotte Backson is not the real name of this young woman.”

  “Certainly, sir, I know that,” the Duke replied as he dipped his quill in the inkhorn.

  “Then Your Grace knows her real name?” Felton asked sharply.

  “Yes, I know that too,” Buckingham acknowledged as he put pen to paper.

  “And knowing that—” Felton’s voice trembled, “Your Grace will sign this order all the same?”

  “Certainly. With the greatest pleasure, twice or thrice over!”

  Felton’s voice grew sharper and though low-pitched assumed a certain shrillness. His words came increasingly staccato:

  “Does Your Grace realize that the deportee is Lady Clark?” he asked.

  “Of course I do. But how do you know?”

  “I know, My Lord, by this means or that. But I cannot understand how Your Grace dare venture in all conscience to sign this order for deportation—”

  Buckingham stared haughtily at him.

  “Look here, sir, your questions sound very strange and I am very foolish to answer.”

  “Your Grace must answer. The circumstances are even more serious than Your Grace imagines.”

  Knowing that the youth came from Lord Winter, Buckingham supposed that he spoke in his master’s name. Somewhat less sternly:

  “I shall sign this order without a qualm,” he told Felton. “Lord Winter knows as well as I that the person concerned is a criminal. She is very lucky to get off with deportation—” he concluded, about to set pen to paper. Felton took two steps forward.

  “You will not sign that order, My Lord!” he said.

  “I will not sign that order? And why not, pray?”

  “Because Your Grace will look into your heart and will do this lady justice.”

  “I would do her justice by sending her to Tyburn. This lady is infamous.”

  “Your Grace, Lady Clark is an angel, as you well know, and I demand that you set her free.”

  “You demand—look here, man, are you mad, to talk thus to me?”

  “Forgive me, My Lord, I am speaking as best I can. And I am restraining myself, at that. I implore you to think of what you are about to do. Let Your Grace beware of going too far!”

  “What’s that you say? Damme, I believe the fellow is threatening me.”

  “No, My Lord, I am still pleading. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vessel overflow. Just one slight mistake—” Felton stared meaningfully at Buckingham, “one slight mistake can bring down punishment upon the mightiest head, spared hitherto despite so many crimes.”

  “Mr. Felton,” said Buckingham, “you will withdraw and place yourself under arrest forthwith.”

  “You shall hear me out, My Lord. You seduced this young woman, you outraged and defiled her. Now you have a chance to repair your crime. Let her go free and I shall require nothing else from you.”

  “You will require—?” Buckingham stared at Felton in astonishment, pronouncing the three words with great emphasis.

  “My Lord—” Felton grew more and more excited as he spoke. “Beware! All England is weary of your iniquities. Your Lordship has abused, nay, almost usurped the royal power, and you stand an object of horror to God and man. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here and now!”

  “This is too much!” cried Buckingham, making for the door. But Felton blocked his passage.

  “I ask Your Lordship most humbly to sign the order for this lady’s liberation,” he pleaded with a return of calm. “Remember she is a woman whom you have dishonored.”

  “Withdraw forthwith, sir, or I shall call my attendant and have you put in irons.”

  “You shall not call!” Felton cried, thrusting himself between the Duke and the bell which stood on a small silver-encrusted table. “Beware, My Lord!” his eyes blazed. “You are in the hands of God!”

  “In the hands of the Devil, you mean,” Buckingham cried, raising his voice so as to be heard by his servants without actually calling for them.

  “I insist Your Lordship sign,” Felton insisted threateningly as he held a paper before the Duke. “Sign the liberation of Lady Clark.”

  “I sign by force! You are joking. Ho, Patrick!”

  “Sign, My Lord!”

  “Certainly not!”

  “You must sign!”

  “Never!”

  Buckingham sprang for his sword, reached it but could not draw it; Felton was upon him. From under his shirt, Felton drew the knife Milady had given him. Buckingham cried for help. Suddenly Patrick appeared.

  “A letter from France, My Lord.”

  Buckingham looked up … Patrick advanced, letter in hand … Felton lunged.…

  “Thus die all traitors, villains and fornicators,” said Felton solemnly.

  Buckingham gasped.

  “Ah, you have killed me!” he cried.

  Patrick rushed to his support. Felton, seeing the door free, took to his heels.…

  Felton entered the antechamber where the deputies of La Rochelle awaited His Grace’s pleasure, crossed it rapidly and was about to rush down the staircase when on the top step he ran into Lord Winter. Seeing how pale and confused Felton was, staring into space, his face and hands spattered with blood, the nobleman seized him, crying:

  “God have mercy on me, I knew it. And I have come just one minute too late! Fool and wretch that I am!”

  Felton offering no resistance, Lord Winter placed him in the hands of the guards who, pending further orders, led him to a small terrace overlooking the sea. Then Lord Winter hastened to Buckingham’s apartment.

  Meanwhile, close upon the Duke’s cry: “Ah, you have killed me!” and Patrick’s appeal for help, the gentleman with news from France entered Buckingham’s dressing room. He found the Duke stretched out on a sofa, pressing his clenched hands over his wound.

  “La Porte,” the Duke whispered, “La Porte, do you come from her?”

  “Ay, Milord and perhaps too late,” the Queen’s loyal secretary replied with tears in his eyes.

  “Hush, La Porte, not so loud,” Buckingham spoke effortfully “We might be overheard.” He coughed. “Patrick, let no one enter. Ah, God, I am dying and I shall never know what message she sent!” And the Duke fainted.

  Just then Lord Winter, the deputies from La Rochelle and the leaders of the expedition all made their way into His Grace’s presence. Exclamations of surprise, horror and despair filled the little room. Those within explained what had happened to their friends in the corridor, the news spread like wildfire throughout the palace and presently throughout the city.

  A moment later the report of heavy cannon announced that something new and unexpected had taken place. Lord Winter tore his hair in an a
gony of self-reproach.

  “Too late,” he groaned, “too late by one minute! My God, my God, what a tragedy!”

  (At seven o’clock that morning he had been informed that a rope ladder was dangling from one of the windows of the castle … rushing to Milady’s room he had found it empty, the window open and the bars sawed through … suddenly he had recalled the verbal caution D’Artagnan’s messenger had transmitted … in panic, fear of what might befall, the Duke had darted to the stables … without waiting to have his own horse saddled he had leaped on the first one at hand … he had galloped off to the Admiralty … he had climbed the stairs three at a time … and at the top of the staircase he had met Felton.…)

  The Duke was not dead—not yet, thought Winter. Buckingham recovered a little and opened his eyes again. Hope sprang anew in the hearts of his friends.

  “Gentlemen,” the Duke said faintly, “I beg you to leave me alone with Patrick and La Porte.” Then, noticing his friend: “Ah, you Winter!” he said. “You sent me a curious lunatic this morning; look at what he did to me!”

  “My Lord, God help me, I shall never forgive myself!”

  “That would be quite wrong, my dear Winter,” said Buckingham stretching out his hand to him, “what man on earth deserves to leave another inconsolable? But pray leave us, I entreat you.”

  Lord Winter withdrew, sobbing with grief, the door closed upon him, and the wounded Duke, La Porte and Patrick remained closeted in the dressing room. A doctor was being sought but so far without success.

  Kneeling beside the Duke’s sofa, Anne of Austria’s faithful servant said tremulously:

  “Your Grace will live, I know it. Your Grace will live.”

  “What has she written to me, La Porte?” Buckingham inquired feebly, covered with blood and overcoming the most atrocious pain in order to speak of the woman he loved. “What has she written? Read me her letter.”

  “Oh, Milord!”

  “Do as I say, La Porte. Don’t you see I have no time to lose?”

  La Porte broke the seal and placed the parchment before the Duke’s eyes.

  “Read, I say, read, I cannot see clearly; soon, perhaps, I shall not be able to hear. Read, man, so I may know what she wrote me before I die.”

  La Porte made no further protest and read:

  My Lord:

  By what I have suffered through you and for you since I have known you, I conjure you, if you have any regard for my well-being, to interrupt those great armaments you are preparing against France. I beseech you by the same token to cease this war which is generally said to be due to religious causes but privately whispered to spring from the love you bear me.

  This war may not only visit great catastrophes upon England and France but great misfortunes upon your own head, My Lord, which would leave me inconsolable.

  Pray watch carefully over your life which is threatened and which will be dear to me from the moment I no longer have cause to regard you as an enemy.

  Your affectionate

  Anne

  Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen attentively; when the reading was done he sank back disconsolate, as he had never expected to find this letter so bitterly disappointing.

  “Have you nothing further to tell me, La Porte? No oral message.”

  “Yes, Milord. Her Majesty charged me to beg you to be very careful. She had learned recently that a plot was afoot to murder Your Grace.”

  “Is that all, La Porte? Is that all?”

  “Her Majesty charged me also to tell Your Grace—” La Porte lowered his voice, “to tell Your Grace that she still loved you.”

  “God be praised, I can die in peace! To her, my death will not be the death of a stranger!”

  La Porte burst into tears.

  “Patrick,” the Duke ordered, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”

  As Patrick obeyed, La Porte recognized the casket as having once belonged to the Queen.

  “Now the white satin sachet, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls.”

  Patrick again obeyed.

  “Here, La Porte, here are the only tokens I ever received from her: a silver casket and these two letters! You will return them to Her Majesty. And as a last remembrance—” Buckingham looked around him for some valuable object, “you will also give her—”

  He still searched about him, but his eyes, dimmed by approaching death, fell upon nothing save the knife that had fallen from Felton’s hands. Following his gaze, La Porte noted that the blade was still red with Buckingham’s blood.

  “—you will also give her this knife!” Buckingham gasped, pressing La Porte’s hand.

  He found just strength enough to place the sachet at the bottom of the silver casket and drop the knife in. Next he motioned to La Porte that he was no longer able to speak. Then, in a final convulsion he could not master, he slid from the sofa to the floor. Patrick uttered a loud cry. Buckingham attempted to smile a last time but Death arrested his thought, which remained impressed upon his brow like a last kiss of love.

  At this moment the Duke’s physician arrived, much distraught. They had not been able to reach him before because he had already boarded the flagship. He approached the Duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his and letting it fall:

  “All is useless,” he whispered, “His Grace is dead.”

  “Dead!” Patrick screamed. “His Grace dead!”

  At this cry the crowd returned to Buckingham’s apartment to mourn the passing of their master. Lord Winter, assured that Buckingham had expired, ran to the terrace where Felton was still under guard. By now the young man had regained his natural coolness and self-possession.

  “You traitor, you wretch, what have you done?” the nobleman said.

  “I have avenged myself!”

  “Avenged yourself?” Lord Winter stared, incredulous. Then mastering his fury: “Say rather that you have served as the tool of that accursed woman. But remember, I swear by all that is holy, this crime shall be her last!”

  Felton looked him in the eye with perfect composure.

  “I do not know what you mean, My Lord!” He bowed his head. “I do not know of whom you speak. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused you my commission as Captain. I punished him for his injustice, that is all.”

  Lord Winter, nonplussed, watched the men bind Felton: he could make nothing, absolutely nothing of such callousness in one so young and recently so close to his heart. One thing alone, he thought, could cast a shadow over the youth’s pallid brow. And, observing Felton, Lord Winter guessed that at every sound he heard, the naïve Puritan fancied he recognized the step and voice of Milady, coming to throw herself in his arms, to accuse herself and to share his death.

  Suddenly Felton started. His glance, ranging over the harbor, had become fixed on a tiny speck out at sea. With the eagle eye of a sailor he had identified what the average man would have mistaken for a gull poised on the waves. It was the white sail of a sloop heading for France.

  Felton turned ashen, placed his hand upon his heart which was breaking and suddenly understood the full extent of all her treachery.

  “One last favor, My Lord!” he begged.

  “Well?”

  “What o’clock is it?”

  The nobleman drew out his watch.

  “It lacks ten minutes to nine.”

  Milady had sailed more than an hour before the time stipulated. Hearing the cannon boom, she had immediately given orders to weigh anchor. Now the sloop was bobbing under a bright blue sky far and safe from shore.

  With the inherent fatalism and resignation of the fanatic:

  “God has willed it so, God’s will be done!” Felton sighed. But he could not tear his glance away from that ship and from the vision he glimpsed of the white phantom for whom he had sacrificed his life.

  “You shall be punished in your own person, poor wretch,” Lord Winter declared. “But on the head of my brother whom I love
d so dearly, I vow that your accomplice will suffer a worse fate!”

  Felton bowed his head without uttering a syllable. Lord Winter swung on his heel, ran down the stairs and made straight for the port.

  LX

  OF WHAT WAS HAPPENING IN FRANCE

  On hearing of Buckingham’s death, Charles I, King of England, was desperately afraid lest the news discourage his allies of La Rochelle. As Richelieu was to write later in his memoirs, the British monarch attempted to keep this news a secret as long as he could. He closed all the ports in his kingdom and saw to it that no vessel left the island until the forces that Buckingham had mustered were on their way to France. Buckingham gone, His Majesty himself undertook to direct preparations for the campaign. He actually went so far as to detain in England the Danish ambassadors, who had taken their leave, and the Ambassador Ordinary of Holland, who was to return to the port of Flushing the India merchant vessels which Charles had decided to restore to the United Provinces.

  But King Charles did not think of giving these orders until five hours after the murder of Buckingham. It was then two o’clock in the afternoon and two vessels had already made off. One of these bore Milady to France. Suspecting what had happened, she was confirmed in her belief as she sailed past the flagship of the fleet and saw a black ensign flying at the mast head. Of the second ship, more anon.

  Meanwhile at the French camp outside La Rochelle things were at a standstill. King Louis XIII, bored as usual but perhaps even more so in camp than elsewhere, decided to go to Saint-Germain to celebrate the feast day of his patron saint. He therefore requested of the Cardinal an escort of musketeers—only twenty, since His Majesty was to travel incognito. His Eminence, often infected by the monarch’s tedium, granted his royal lieutenant this leave of absence with the utmost pleasure. The King promised to return about the fifteenth of September.

  His Eminence notified Monsieur de Tréville who had his baggage immediately prepared. The Captain of musketeers was aware that our four friends, impelled by urgent reasons which he did not know, were most anxious to return to Paris. He therefore detailed them at once as part of the royal escort. Indeed they learned the great news only a quarter of an hour after Monsieur de Tréville himself, for they were the first to whom he imparted it. It was then that D’Artagnan appreciated to its full extent the favor the Cardinal had conferred on him by allowing him at long last to transfer to the musketeers. Otherwise he would have been forced to remain in camp whilst his companions sped joyfully back to Paris.