"You've 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 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!"
"Nonsense; call him," said Charles II., knitting his black brows together; "every one seems to be sentimental here. There, look at Miss Stewart, who is wiping her eyes—now deuce take the French fellow!"
The duke called to Raoul, and taking Miss Grafton by the hand, he led her toward the king.
"Monsieur de Bragelonne," said Charles II., "did you not ask me the day before yesterday for permission to return to Paris?"
"Yes, sire," replied Raoul, greatly puzzled by this address.
"And I refused you, I think?"
"Yes, sire."
"Were you not angry with me for it?"