The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [289]
“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 agony 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