Title:       Three Musketeers
Author:      Dumas, Alexandre
Date:        1844

Chapter LIX

What Took Place At Portsmouth On August 23d, 1628

     Felton took leave of milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk
takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.

     His whole person appeared in its ordinary state of calmness; only an
unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow was
more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his speech had
a short dry accent, which indicated that something dark was at work within
him.

     As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept
his face toward milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her
eyes.  Both felt relieved from the fear of pursuit, nobody ever came into
milady's apartment before nine o'clock; and it would require three hours to
go from the castle to London.

     Felton jumped on shore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top
of the beach, saluted milady a last time, and took his course toward the
city.

     At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline again, and
he could, on turning round, only see the mast of the sloop.

     He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at
nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the morning,
with its houses and towers.

     Beyond Portsmouth, the sea was covered with vessels, whose masts, like
a forest of poplars, bent with each breath of the wind.

     Felton, in his rapid walk, repassed in his mind all which two years of
meditation and a long residence among partisans furnished of accusations,
true or false, against the favorite of James I.  and Charles I.

     When he compared the public crimes of this minister, startling crimes,
European crimes, if so we may say, with the private and unknown crimes with
which milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable of the two
men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of whom the public
knew not the life.  This was because his love, so strange, so new, and so
ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary accusations of Lady de
Winter as we view, through a magnifying glass, as frightful monsters atoms
in reality imperceptible by the side of an ant.

     The rapidity of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he
left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved, or
rather that he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced, present
fatigue, all together exalted his mind above human feeling.

     He entered Portsmouth about eight o'clock in the morning; the whole
population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and the port; the
troops about to be embarked were marching toward the sea.

     Felton arrived at the palace of the admiralty, covered with dust, and
streaming with perspiration.  His countenance usually so pale, was purple
with heat and passion.  The sentinel wanted to repulse him, but Felton called
to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which
he was the bearer -

     "A pressing message from the Lord de Winter," said he.

     At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his grace's
most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders for Felton to be
allowed to pass, who, besides wore the uniform of a naval officer.

     Felton darted into the palace.

     At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering
likewise, covered with dust, and out of breath, leaving at the gate a
post-horse, which, as soon as he had alighted from it, sank down exhausted.

     Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke's confidential
valet-de-chambre, at the same moment.  Felton named Lord de Winter, the
unknown would not name anybody, and asserted that it was to the duke alone
he should make himself known.  Each was anxious to gain admission before the
other.

     Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of duty and in relations
of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to him who came in his name.
The other was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how he cursed the
delay.

     The valet-de-chambre led Felton through a large hall, in which waited
the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince of Soubise, and
introduced him into a closet, where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was
finishing his toilet, on which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary
attention.

     "Lieutenant Felton, on the part of the Lord de Winter," said Patrick.

     "From Lord de Winter!" repeated Buckingham; "let him come in."

     Felton entered.  At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a
rich robe-de-chambre worked with gold, to put on a blue velvet doublet
embroidered with pearls.

     "Why did not the baron come himself?" demanded Buckingham; "I expected
him this morning."

     "He desired me to tell your grace," replied Felton, "that he very much
regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he
is obliged to keep at the castle."

     "Yes, I know," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner."

     "It is of that prisoner I wish to speak of your grace," replied Felton.

     "Well, then, speak!"

     "That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my
lord!"

     "Leave us, Patrick," said Buckingham, "but remain within sound of the
bell.  I will call you presently."

     Patrick went out.

     "We are alone, sir," said Buckingham; "speak!"

     "My lord," said Felton, "the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day
to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman
named Charlotte Backson."

     "Yes, sir, and I answered him, that if he would bring or send me that
order, I would sign it."

     "Here it is, my lord."

     "Give it to me," said the duke.

     And, taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and
perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it
on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

     "I ask your pardon, my lord," said Felton, stopping the duke; "but does
your grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of
this young woman?"

     "Yes, sir, I do know it," replied the duke, dipping the pen in the ink.

     "Then your grace knows her real name?" asked Felton in a sharp tone.

     "Yes, I know that too;" and the duke put the pen to the paper.  Felton
grew pale.

     "And, knowing that real name, my lord," replied Felton, "will you sign
it all the same?"

     "Doubtless, I will," said Buckingham, "and rather twice than once."

     "I cannot believe," continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp
and rough, "that your grace knows that it is to Lady de Winter this relates."

     "I do know it, perfectly well, although I must confess I am astonished
that you know it."

     "And will your grace sign that order without remorse?"

     Buckingham looked at the young man with much hauteur.

     "Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and
that it is very silly, on my part, to answer them?"

     "Reply to them, my lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more
serious than perhaps you imagine."

     Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter,
perhaps spoke in his name, and softened his manner a little.

     "Doubtless without any remorse," said he, "the baron knows, as well as
myself, that Lady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her
very favorably to remit her punishment to transportation."

     The duke put his pen to the paper again.

     "You will not sign that order, my lord!" said Felton, making a step
toward the duke.

     "I will not sign this order!" said Buckingham, "and why not?"

     "Because you will consult your own conscience, and you will do justice
to my lady."

     "I should do justice to my lady by sending her to Tyburn," said the
duke; "my lady is an infamous woman."

     "My lord, Lady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand
her liberty of you."

     "Why, the man must be mad to talk to me in this manner!" said
Buckingham.

     "My lord, excuse me!  I speak as I am able; I restrain myself all I can.
But, my lord, think of what you are about to do, and beware of going too
far!"

     "What do you say?  God pardon me!" cried Buckingham.  "I really think
the man threatens me!"

     "No, my lord, I still pray, and I say to you: one drop of water suffices
to make the full vase overflow, one slight fault may draw down punishment
upon the head spared amidst many crimes."

     "Master Felton," said Buckingham, "you will please to withdraw, and
place yourself under arrest immediately."

     "You shall hear me to the end, my lord.  You have seduced this young
girl, you have outraged, defiled her; repair your crimes toward her, let her
go free, and I will require nothing else of you."

     "You will require!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with
astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the words as he pronounced
them.

     "My lord," continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke - "my
lord, beware!  all England is tired of your iniquities; my lord, you have
abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my lord, you are held
in horror by God and men; God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish
you here."

     "Well!  this is too much!" cried Buckingham, making a step toward the
door.

     Felton barred his passage.

     "I ask it humbly of you, my lord," said he; "sign the order for the
liberation of Lady de Winter; reflect, she is a woman you have dishonored."

     "Withdraw, sir," said Buckingham, "or I will call my attendant, and have
you placed in irons."

     "You shall not call," said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and
the bell placed upon a gueridon incrusted with silver; "beware, my lord, you
are in the hands of God!"

     "In the hands of the devil, you mean!" cried Buckingham, raising his
voice so as to attract the notice of his people without absolutely calling.

     "Sign, my lord, sign the liberation of Lady de Winter," said Felton,
holding a paper to the duke.

     "What, by force!  you are joking!  hilloa!  Patrick!"

     "Sign, my lord!"

     "Never."

     "Never?"

     "Who waits there?" cried the duke aloud, and at the same time sprang
toward his sword.

     But Felton did not give him time to draw it; he held the knife with
which milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was upon
the duke.

     At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying:

     "A letter from France, my lord."

     "From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything or thinking from
whom that letter came.

     Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his
side up to the handle.

     "Ah, traitor!" cried Buckingham, "thou hast killed me!"

     "Murder!" screamed Patrick.

     Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door
free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we said, the deputies
from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and
precipitated himself toward the staircase; but upon the first step he met
Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained with blood
both upon his hands and face, seized him, crying:

     "I knew it!  I guessed it!  but too late by a minute, unfortunate,
unfortunate that I am!"

     Felton made no resistance; Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of the
guards, who led him, while awaiting fresh orders, to a little terrace looking
out upon the sea: and then the baron hastened to the duke.

     At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom
Felton had met in the antechamber, rushed into the closet.

     He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the
wound.

     "Laporte," said the duke in a faint voice, "Laporte, do you come from
her?"

     "Yes, monsieur," replied the faithful cloak-bearer of Anne of Austria,
"but too late perhaps."

     "Silence!  Laporte, you may be overheard: Patrick, let no one enter: oh!
I cannot tell what she says to me!  my God!  I am dying."

     And the duke fainted.

     In the meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the
expedition, the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way
into the chamber; cries of despair resounded on all sides.  The news, which
filled the palace with tears and groans soon became known, and was spread
throughout the city.

     The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had
taken place.

     Lord de Winter tore his hair in agony.

     "Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute!  oh!  my God!
my God!  what a misfortune!"

     He had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a ladder of
ropes was floating from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to
milady's chamber, found it empty, the window open, and the bars filed, had
remembered the verbal caution D'Artagnan had transmitted to him by his
messenger, had trembled for the duke, the running to the stable, without
taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the first he came to,
had galloped off at full speed, had alighted in the courtyard, had ascended
the stairs precipitately, and on the top step, as we have said, had met
Felton.

     The duke, however, was not dead; he recovered a little, opened his eyes,
and hope revived in all hearts.

     "Gentlemen," said he, "leave me alone with Patrick and Laporte.  Ah!
is that you, De Winter!  you sent me a strange madman this morning; see what
a state he was placed me in!"

     "Oh my lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself for it."

     "And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter," said Buckingham,
holding out his hand to him.  "I do not know the ma who deserves being
regretted during the whole life of another man - but leave us, I pray you."

     The baron went out sobbing with grief.

     There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke, Laporte and
Patrick.  A doctor was being sought for, but none was yet found.

     "You will live, milord, you will live!" repeated the faithful servant
of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke's sofa.

     "What has she written to me?" said Buckingham feebly, streaming with
blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved; "what has she
written to me?  Read me her letter."

     "Oh!  milord!" said Laporte.

     "Obey, Laporte; do you not see I have no time to lose?"

     Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the
duke; but Buckingham in vain endeavored to make out the writing.

     "Read!" said he, "read!  I cannot see, read then!  for soon, perhaps,
I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to
me."

     Laporte made no more difficulty, and read:

     "Milord: By that which, since I have known you, I have suffered by you
and for 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, of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and
of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed and
real cause.  This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England
and France, but misfortunes upon you, milord, for which I should never
console myself.

     "Be careful of your life, which is menaced, 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.

     "Have you nothing else to say to me yourself, Laporte?" asked he.

     "Yes, milord!  the queen charged me to tell you to be very careful, 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."

     Laporte burst into tears.

     "Patrick," said the duke, "bring me the casket in which the diamond
studs were kept."

     Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having
belonged to the queen.

     "Now the sachet of white satin, upon which her cipher is  embroidered
in pearls."

     Patrick again obeyed.

     "Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only remembrances I
ever received from her, this silver casket and these letters.  You will
restore them to her majesty: and as a last memorial" - (he looked round for
some valuable object) - "you will add - "

     He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, met with nothing but
the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the
blood spread over its blade.

     "And you will add to them this knife," said the duke, pressing the hand
of Laporte.  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
Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; and then, in a last convulsion,
with which he had not the power to contend, he slipped off the sofa on the
floor.

     Patrick uttered a loud cry.

     Buckingham endeavored to smile a last time; but death arrested his wish,
which remained engraven on his brow like a last kiss of love.

     At this moment the duke's surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was
already on board the admiral's ship, from which he had been obliged to be
fetched.

     He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his
own, and letting it fall -

     "All is useless," said he, "he is dead."

     "Dead!  dead!" screamed Patrick.

     At this cry all the crowd came again into the apartment, and throughout
the palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.

     As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton,
whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.

     "Miserable wretch!" said he, to the young man, who since the death of
Buckingham had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after
abandoned 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 to that accursed woman; but I swear to you, that this crime
shall be her last crime."

     "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 you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished
him for his injustice, that is all."

     De Winter, quite stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton,
and could not tell what to think of such insensibility.

     One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton.
At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the step
and voice of milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to accuse herself,
and meet death with him.

     All at once he started - his eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea,
which the terrace upon which he was overlooked; with the eagle glance of a
sailor, he had recognized there, where another would have only seen a gull
hovering over the waves, the sail of the sloop, which was directed toward the
coast of France.

     He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking,
and at once perceived all the treachery.

     "One last favor, my lord!" said he, to the baron.

     "What is that?" replied his lordship.

     "What o'clock is it?"

     The baron drew out his watch.

     "It wants ten minutes to nine."

     Milady had advanced her departure by an hour and a half: as soon as she
heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the anchor
to be weighed.

     The vessel was making way under a blue sky at a great distance from the
coast.

     "God has so willed it!" said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but
without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board of
which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white phantom of her to
whom he had sacrificed his life.

     De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.

     "Be punished alone, in the first place, miserable man!" said Lord de
Winter to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the
sea, "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

     As to Lord de Winter he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight
to the port.