“You will live, my lord, you will live!” repeated Anne of Austria’s faithful servant, on his knees before the duke’s sofa.
“What did she write me?” said Buckingham feebly, streaming with blood and suppressing his frightful agony to speak of her he loved; “what did she write me? Read me her letter.”
“Oh, my lord!” said La Porte.
“Obey, La Porte. Do you not see I have no time to lose?”
La Porte broke the seal and placed the paper before the duke’s eyes; but Buckingham tried in vain to make out the writing.
“Read it!” said he—“read it! I cannot see. Read, then! for soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written me.”
La Porte made no further objection, and read,
“Milord,—By what I have suffered by you and for you since I have known you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to interrupt those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war the ostensible cause of which is publicly said to be religion, and the hidden and real cause of which is privately whispered to be your love for me. This war may bring not only great catastrophes on England and France, but misfortunes on you, milord, for which I should never console myself.
“Be careful of your life, which is threatened, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.—Your affectionate
“Anne.”
Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter. Then when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter disappointment in it,
“Have you nothing else to say to me verbally, La Porte?” asked he.
“Yes, monseigneur. The queen charged me to bid you be on your guard, for she has been informed that your assassination would be attempted.”
“And is that all, is that all?” replied Buckingham impatiently.
“She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.”
“Ah,” said Buckingham, “God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger.”
La Porte burst into tears.
“Patrick,” said the duke, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”
Patrick brought the object desired, which La Porte recognized as having belonged to the queen.
“Now the white satin sachet on which her monogram is embroidered in pearls.”
Patrick again obeyed.
“Here, La Porte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only remembrances I ever received from her—this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial” —he looked round for some valuable object—“you will add to them—”
He still looked; but his eyes, darkened by death, saw only the knife which had fallen from Felton’s hand, still steaming with the red blood spread over its blade.
“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of La Porte.
He had just strength enough to place the sachet at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to La Porte that he was no longer able to speak. Then in a last convulsion, which he had no longer the power to resist, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.
Patrick uttered a loud cry.
Buckingham tried to smile a last time, but death checked his wish, which remained graven on his brow like a last kiss of love.
As soon as Lord Winter saw Buckingham was dead he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers were still guarding on the terrace of the palace.
“Miserable wretch!” said he to the young man, who since Buckingham’s death had regained the coolness and self-possession which was never again to abandon him—“miserable wretch! What hast thou done?”
“I have avenged myself!” said he.
“Avenged yourself!” said the baron. “Rather say that you have served as an instrument for that cursed woman. But I swear to you that this crime shall be her last.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Felton quietly, “and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my lord. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused your request to have me appointed captain. I punished him for his injustice, that is all.”
De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and did not know what to think of such insensibility.
“Be punished alone, in the first place, miserable man!” said Lord Winter to Felton, “but I swear to you, by the memory of my brother whom I loved so much, that your accomplice is not saved.”
Felton hung down his head without pronouncing a syllable.
Lord Winter descended the stairs rapidly, and went to the port.
