Richelieu took it from his hands, gazed at it for a moment or two with evident admiration, and then set it down on the table, saying, "Beautiful! beautiful indeed! Have you heard any thing from England?" he continued, abruptly.
"No," answered Edward; but, instantly correcting himself, he added, "Yes: I forgot. I found a letter waiting me; but I have not opened it. It is merely from my old tutor."
"Let me see it," said Richelieu, in a tone that admitted of no refusal.
Edward took it from the pocket of his coat and gave it to him in silence.
Without the least ceremony, Richelieu opened it, and, after looking at the date, gave it back again, saying, "Why, it is six months old; and I have news not much more than seven days. The English fleet is just ready to sail, it seems, and only waits for your mighty duke to lead them. He will find some stones in his way before he harbors in Rochelle. But now good-night, Monsieur Edward Langdale. Be here to-morrow betimes, and we will talk more. Just now I am tired, and must to rest."
CHAPTER XLIII.
Space is growing short, and we have much to tell. It was several weeks after the period of which we have just been writing when Edward Langdale and old Clement Tournon, now restored to health and some degree of strength, were in the cabinet of the great minister of France. Manifold papers were before them, and Richelieu's brow was cloudy and stern; but the old syndic of the goldsmiths of Rochelle was as calm, and seemingly as much at ease, as when he first encountered Edward Langdale in the streets of his city.
"Your Eminence, they will not accept it," he said. "There are things which you do not consider. True, they are, as you say, pressed by famine. They may, or they may not,—for I have no correct information,—be forced to surrender or die for want of food within four days; but, if I know the people of Rochelle, they will die rather than surrender, unless they have better terms than these. It is useless to propose them. I should be in some sort deceiving your Eminence were I to be the bearer of such offers. I know that, without the free exercise of their religion being assured to my fellow-citizens, die they will,—of famine or pestilence, or by cannon-balls. I cannot undertake to propose such terms."
"Are you aware," asked Richelieu, in slow but emphatic language, "that, seven days ago, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was stabbed at Portsmouth, by an assassin named Felton, and died upon the spot?"