“It is true,” said the duke, “you cannot owe me a grudge any longer now.”
“Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship is yours.”
“There is certainly no reason why you should bear me any ill-will from the moment I leave her never to see her again.”
Raoul heard these words, and comprehending that his presence was now useless between the two young men, who had now only friendly words to exchange, withdrew a few paces; a movement which brought him closer to De Wardes, who was conversing with the Chevalier de Lorraine respecting the departure of Buckingham. “A strategic retreat,” said De Wardes.
“Why so?”
“Because the dear duke saves a sword-thrust by it.” At which reply both laughed.
Raoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with anger and his lip curling with disdain. The Chevalier de Lorraine turned on his heel, but De Wardes remained and waited.
“You will not break yourself of the habit,” said Raoul to De Wardes, “of insulting the absent; yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of Buckingham.”
“You know very well, monsieur,” returned De Wardes, “that I sometimes insult those who are present.”
De Wardes was close to Raoul, their shoulders met, their faces approached, as if to mutually inflame each other by the fire of their looks and of their anger. It could be seen that the one was at the height of fury, the other at the end of his patience. Suddenly a voice was heard behind them full of grace and courtesy saying, “I believe I heard my name pronounced.”