Buckingham slowly took hold of Madame’s letter, and trembling with emotion, read the following words:
“For your own sake, for mine, for the honor and safety of every one, send M. de Bragelonne back to France immediately. Your devoted sister, HENRIETTA.”
“Well, Villiers, what do you say?”
“Really, sire, I have nothing to say,” replied the duke, stupefied.
“Nay, would you, of all persons,” said the king, artfully, “advise me not to listen to my sister when she writes so urgently?”
“Oh, no, no, sire; and yet—”
“You have not read the postscript, Villiers; it is under the fold of the letter, and escaped me at first; read it.” And as the duke turned down a fold of the letter, he read:
“A thousand kind remembrances to those who love me.”
The duke’s head sank gradually on his breast; the paper trembled in his fingers, as if it had been changed to lead. The king paused for a moment, and, seeing that Buckingham did not speak, “He must follow his destiny, as we ours,” continued the king; “every man has his own share of grief in this world; I have had my own,—I have had that of others who belong to me,—and have thus had a double weight of woe to endure!—But the deuce take all my cares now! Go, and bring our friend here, Villiers.”
The duke opened the trellised door of the summer-house, and pointing at Raoul and Mary, who were walking together side by side, said, “What a cruel blow, sire, for poor Miss Grafton!”