The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [290]
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