WHAT TOOK PLACE AT PORTSMOUTH AUGUST 23, 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 body 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 were free 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 onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of

the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the

city.

At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could

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 despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the

wind.

Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations

against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of

premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.

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 Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one

views 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 whom 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 in the

port; the troops about to embark 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, he said, "A pressing message from

Lord de Winter."

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 to let Felton

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, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which,

on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke`s confidential lackey, at the

same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name

anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make

himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in

relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one

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 led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies

from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him

into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his

toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary

attention.

"Lieutenant Felton, from 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 toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet

doublet embroidered with pearls.

"Why didn`t 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 that," said Buckingham; "he has a prisoner."

"It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to 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 shall 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, to bring or send me that order and 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.

"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 know it," replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.

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

"I know it"; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.

"And knowing that real name, my Lord," replied Felton, "will you sign it

all the same?"

"Doubtless," 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 Milady de Winter this

relates."

"I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it."

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

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

"Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and

that I am very foolish to answer them?"

"Reply to them, my Lord," said Felton; "the circumstances are more

serious than you perhaps believe."

Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter,

undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.

"Without remorse," said he. "The baron knows, as well as myself, that

Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very

favorably to commute her punishment to transportation."

The duke put his pen to the paper.

"You will not sign that order, my Lord!" said Felton, making a step

toward the duke.

"I will not sign this order! And why not?"

"Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the

lady."

"I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn," said Buckingham.

"This lady is infamous."

"My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I

demand her liberty of you."

"Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?" said Buckingham.

"My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my

Lord, think of what you`re about to do, and beware of going too far!"

"What do you say? God pardon me!" cried Buckingham, "I really think he

threatens me!"

"No, my Lord, I still plead. 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, despite many crimes."

"Mr. Felton," said Buckingham, "you will withdraw, and place yourself at

once under arrest."

"You will 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 exact nothing else from you."

"You will exact!" said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment,

and dwelling upon each syllable of the three 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!"

"Ah, 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 Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom 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 on a stand encrusted 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

shouting.

"Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter," said Felton,

holding out paper to the duke.

"By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!"

"Sign, my Lord!"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Help!" shouted the duke; and at the same time he 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 in 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, "you have 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 have said, the

deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as

possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he

met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained

with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, 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 further orders, to a little

terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke`s

chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom

Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

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

wound.

"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from

her?"

"Yes, monseigneur," 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 swooned.

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 spread

itself throughout the city.

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

taken place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

"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 rope ladder

floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to

Milady`s chamber, had 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, and running to the

stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the

first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in

the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top

step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.

The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his

eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.

"Gentlemen," said he, "leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is

that you, De Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See

the state in which he has put me."

"Oh, my Lord!" cried the baron, "I shall never console myself."

"And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter," said Buckingham,

holding out his hand to him. "I do not know the man who deserves being

regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray

you."

The baron went out sobbing.

There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and

Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.

"You will live, my Lord, 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, my Lord!" 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 tried 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 further objection, and read:

"My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you

and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to

countermand 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 cause. This war may not only bring great

catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord,

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, he asked, "Have you nothing else to say to me by the

living voice, Laporte?"

"The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had

advice 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 due, "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 scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in

pearls."

Patrick again obeyed.

"Here, Laporte," said Buckingham, "these are the only tokens 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--"

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only 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 scent bag 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; than, in a last

convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped

from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought,

which remained engraved 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, where they had been obliged to seek

him.

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!" cried Patrick.

At this cry all the crowd re-entered 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.

"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, "wretch! what have you 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."

"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, 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 die with him.

All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea,

commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a

sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a

gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed

toward the cost 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?" asked his Lordship.

"What o`clock is it?"

The baron drew out his watch. "It wants ten minutes to nine," said he.

Milady had hastened 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

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 outline of

her to whom he had sacrificed his life.

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

"Be punished ALONE, for the first, 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 have loved

so much that your accomplice is not saved."

Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.

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

to the port.

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