The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [283]
The speed of his running inflamed his blood still more: the idea that he was leaving behind him the woman he loved, or rather adored like a saint, exposed to a dreadful vengeance, the emotion he had been through, and his present fatigue, all exalted his soul still further above human feelings.
He entered Portsmouth towards eight o’clock in the morning. The entire population was afoot; drums were beating in the streets and at the port; the troops of the embarkation were moving down to the sea.
Felton arrived at the Admiralty covered with dust and streaming with sweat. His face, ordinarily so pale, was purple with heat and anger. The sentry was going to chase him away, but Felton sent for the head of the guard post, and taking from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer, said:
“An urgent message from Lord de Winter.”
At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known as one of His Grace’s closest intimates, the head of the post gave the order to admit Felton, who, moreover, was himself wearing the uniform of a naval officer.
Felton rushed into the palace.
Just as he entered the vestibule, another man also entered, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the door a post-horse which, on arriving, fell to its knees.
He and Felton addressed themselves at the same time to Patrick, the duke’s confidential valet. Felton named the baron de Winter, the unknown man would name no one, and declared that he would make himself known to the duke alone. They each insisted on going ahead of the other.
Patrick, who knew that Lord de Winter had both official and friendly relations with the duke, gave preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easy to see how he cursed this delay.
The valet led Felton across a large hall in which the deputies of La Rochelle, headed by the prince de Soubise,193 were waiting, and ushered him into a dressing room where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, to which, this time as always, he paid extraordinary attention.
“Lieutenant Felton,” said Patrick, “on the part of Lord de Winter.”
“On the part of Lord de Winter?” repeated Buckingham. “Show him in.”
Felton came in. At that moment, Buckingham threw a rich, gold-brocaded dressing gown onto a couch, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet all embroidered with pearls.
“Why didn’t the baron come himself?” asked Buckingham. “I was expecting him this morning.”
“He asked me to tell Your Grace,” replied Felton, “that he deeply regrets not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to mount at the castle.”
“Yes, yes,” said Buckingham, “I know, he has a prisoner.”
“It is precisely of that prisoner that I wished to speak with Your Grace,” Felton picked up.
“Well, speak then!”
“What I have to say can be heard only by you, Milord.”
“Leave us, Patrick,” said Buckingham, “but stay within earshot of the bell. I shall summon you presently.”
Patrick left.
“We are alone, Monsieur,” said Buckingham. “Speak.”
“Milord,” said Felton, “the baron de Winter wrote to you the other day asking you to sign an order of transportation concerning a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”
“Yes, Monsieur, and I replied that he should bring me or send me the order, and I would sign it.”
“Here it is, Milord.”
“Give it to me,” said the duke.
And, taking the paper from Felton’s hand, he quickly glanced over it. Then, seeing that it was indeed the one that had been announced to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.
“Excuse me, Milord,” said Felton, stopping the duke, “but