At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of King Charles I. loved his friend.
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de Grammont is right; this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow—the last of all Paris.”
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian.”
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I once knew a Bragelonne—is he still alive?”
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”
“The Comte de la Fere, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a start of joy.
“The Comte de la Fere!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to me?”
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “The Comte de la Fere!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I entreat you—is not the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”