HAMPTON COURT.
The revelation of which we have been witnesses, that Montalais made to
La Valliere, in a preceding chapter, very naturally makes us return to
the principal hero of this tale, a poor wandering knight, roving about
at the king's caprice. If our reader will be good enough to follow us,
we will, in his company, cross that strait more stormy than the
Euripus--that which separates Calais from Dover; we will speed across
that green and fertile country, with its numerous little streams;
through Maidstone, and many other villages and towns, each prettier than
the other; and finally arrive at London. From thence, like bloodhounds
following a track, after having ascertained that Raoul had made his
first stay at Whitehall, his second at St. James's, and having learned
that he had been warmly received by Monk, and introduced into the best
society of Charles II.'s court, we will follow him to one of Charles
II.'s summer residences, near the town of Kingston, at Hampton Court,
situated on the Thames. This river is not, at that spot, the boastful
highway which bears upon its broad bosom its thousands of travelers; nor
are its waters black and troubled as those of Cocytus, as it boastfully
asserts, "I, too? am the sea." No; at Hampton Court it is a soft and
murmuring stream, with moss-grown banks, reflecting, in its broad
mirror, the willows and beeches which ornament its sides, and on which
may occasionally be seen a light bark indolently reclining among the
tall reeds, in a little creek formed of alders and forget-me-nots. The
surrounding county on all sides seemed smiling in happiness and wealth;
the brick cottages, from whose chimneys the blue smoke was slowly
ascending in wreaths, peeped forth from the belts of green holly which
environed them; children dressed in red frocks appeared and disappeared
amid the high grass, like poppies bowed by the gentle breath of the
passing breeze. The sheep, ruminating with closed eyes, lay lazily about
under the shadow of the stunted aspens; while, far and near, the
kingfisher, clad in emerald and gold, skimmed swiftly along the surface
of the water, like a magic ball, heedlessly touching, as he passed, the
line of his brother angler, who sat watching, in his boat, the fish as
they rose to the surface of the sparkling stream.
High above this paradise of dark shadows and soft light arose the palace
of Hampton Court, which had been built by Wolsey--a residence which the
haughty cardinal had been obliged, timid courtier that he was, to offer
to his master, Henry VIII., who had frowned with envy and feelings of
cupidity at the aspect of the new palace. Hampton Court, with its brick
walls, its large windows, its handsome iron gates, as well as its
curious bell-turrets, its retired covered walks, and interior fountains,
like those of the Alhambra, was a perfect bower of roses, jasmine, and
clematis. Every sense, of sight and smell particularly, was gratified,
and formed a most charming framework for the picture of love which
Charles II. unrolled among the voluptuous paintings of Titian, of
Pordenone, and of Vandyck: the same Charles whose father's portrait--the
martyr king--was hanging in his gallery, and who could show upon the
wainscots of the various apartments the holes made by the balls of the
puritanical followers of Cromwell, on the 24th August, 1648, at the time
they had brought Charles I. prisoner to Hampton Court. There it was that
the king, intoxicated with pleasure and amusement, held his court--he
who, a poet in feeling, thought himself justified in redeeming, by a
whole day of voluptuousness, every minute which had been formerly passed
in anguish and misery. It was not the soft greensward of Hampton
Court--so soft that it almost resembled the richest velvet in the
thickness of its texture--nor was it the beds of flowers, with their
variegated hues, which encircled the foot of every tree, with rose-trees
many feet in height, embracing most lovingly their trunks--nor even the
enormous lime-trees, whose branches swept the earth like willows,
offering a ready concealment for love or reflection beneath the shade
of their foliage--it was none of these things for which Charles II.
loved his palace of Hampton Court. Perhaps it might have been that
beautiful sheet of water, which the cool breeze rippled like the wavy
undulations of Cleopatra's hair; waters bedecked with cresses and white
water-lilies, with hardy bulbs, which, half unfolding themselves beneath
the sun's warm rays, reveal the golden-colored germs which lie concealed
in their milk-white covering; murmuring waters, on the bosom of which
the black swans majestically floated, and the restless waterfowl, with
their tender broods covered with silken down, darted restlessly in every
direction, in pursuit of the insects among the flags, or the frogs in
their mossy retreats. Perhaps it might have been the enormous hollies,
with their dark and tender green foliage; or the bridges which united
the banks of the canals in their embrace; or the fawns browsing in the
endless avenues of the park; or the numberless birds which hopped about
the gardens, or flew from branch to branch, amid the dense foliage of
the trees.
It might well have been any of these charms, for Hampton Court possessed
them all; and possessed, too, almost forests of white roses, which
climbed and trailed along the lofty trellises, showering down upon the
ground their snowy leaves rich with odorous perfumes. But no; what
Charles II. most loved in Hampton Court was the charming figures who,
when mid-day was passed, flitted to and fro along the broad terraces of
the gardens. Like Louis XIV., he had had their wealth of beauties
painted for his cabinet by one of the great artists of the period--an
artist who well knew the secret of transferring to canvas a ray of light
which had escaped from their beaming eyes laden with love and love's
delights.
The day of our arrival at Hampton Court is almost as clear and bright as
a summer's day in France; the atmosphere is laden with the delicious
perfume of the geraniums, sweet-peas, seringas, and heliotrope, which
are scattered in profusion around. It is past mid-day, and the king,
having dined after his return from hunting, paid a visit to Lady
Castlemaine, the lady who was reputed at the time to hold his heart in
bondage; and, with this proof of his devotion discharged, he was readily
permitted to pursue his infidelities until evening arrived. Love and
amusement ruled the whole court. It was the period when ladies would
seriously interrogate their ruder companions as to their opinion upon a
foot more or less captivating, according to whether it wore a pink or
green silk-stocking; for it was the period when Charles II. had declared
that there was no hope of safety for a woman who wore green
silk-stockings, because Miss Lucy Stewart wore them of that color. While
the king is endeavoring in all directions to inculcate others with his
preferences on this point, we will ourselves bend our steps toward an
avenue of beech-trees opposite the terrace, and listen to the
conversation of a young girl in a dark-colored dress, who is walking
with another of about her own age dressed in lilac and dark blue. They
crossed a beautiful lawn, in the middle of which arose a fountain, with
the figure of a syren executed in bronze, and strolled on, talking as
they went, toward the terrace, along which, looking out upon the park,
and interspersed at frequent intervals, were erected summer-houses,
various in form and ornaments. These summer-houses were nearly all
occupied. The two young women passed on, the one blushing deeply, while
the other seemed dreamily silent. At last, having reached the end of the
terrace which looks on the river, and finding there a cool retreat, they
sat down close to each other.
"Where are we going, Stewart?" said the younger to her companion.
"My dear Grafton, we are going where you yourself led the way."
"I?"
"Yes, you; to the extremity of the palace, toward that seat yonder,
where the young Frenchman is seated, wasting his time and sighs and
lamentations."
Miss Mary Grafton hurriedly said, "No, no; I am not going there."
"Why not?"
"Let us go back, Stewart."
"Nay, on the contrary, let us go on and have an explanation."
"About what?"
"About how it happens that the Vicomte de Bragelonne always accompanies
you in all your walks, as you invariably accompany him in his."
"And you conclude either that he loves me or that I love him?"
"Why not?--he is a most agreeable and charming companion--No one hears
me, I hope," said Lucy Stewart, as she turned round with a smile, which
indicated, moreover, that her uneasiness on the subject was not extreme.
"No, no," said Mary, "the king is engaged in his summer-house with the
Duke of Buckingham."
"Oh! apropos of the duke; Mary, it seems he has shown you great
attention since his return from France; how is your own heart in that
direction?"
Mary Grafton shrugged her shoulders with seeming indifference.
"Well, well, I will ask Bragelonne about that," said Stewart, laughing;
"let us go and find him at once."
"What for?"
"I wish to speak to him."
"Not yet; one word before you do; come, Stewart, you who know so many of
the king's secrets, tell me why M. de Bragelonne is in England?"
"Because he was sent as an envoy from one sovereign to another."
"That may be; but, seriously, although politics do not much concern us,
we know enough to be satisfied that M. de Bragelonne has no mission of
any serious import here."
"Well, then, listen," said Stewart, with assumed gravity, "for your sake
I am going to betray a state secret. Shall I tell you the nature of the
letter which King Louis XIV. gave M. de Bragelonne for King Charles II.?
I will; these are the very words, 'My brother, the bearer of this is a
gentleman attached to my court, and the son of one whom you regard most
warmly. Treat him kindly, I beg, and try and make him like England.'"
"Did it say that?"
"Word for word--or something very like it. I will not answer for the
form; but the substance I am sure of."
"Well, and what conclusion do you, or rather what conclusion does the
king, draw from that?"
"That the king of France has his own reasons for removing M. de
Bragelonne, and for getting him married--somewhere else than in France."
"So that, then, in consequence of this letter--"
"King Charles received M. de Bragelonne, as you are aware, in the most
distinguished and friendly manner; the handsomest apartments in
Whitehall were allotted to him; and as you are the most valuable and
precious person in his court, inasmuch as you have rejected his
heart--nay, do not blush--he wished you to take a fancy to this
Frenchman, and he was desirous to confer upon him so costly a prize. And
this is the reason why you, the heiress of three hundred thousand
pounds, a future duchess, and one so beautiful and so good, have been
thrown in Bragelonne's way, in all the promenades and parties of
pleasure to which he was invited. In fact, it was a plot--a kind of
conspiracy."
Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to
her, and, pressing her companion's arm, said: "Thank the king, Lucy."
"Yes, yes, but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care."
Hardly had she pronounced these words than the duke appeared from one of
the pavilions on the terrace, and, approaching the two girls, with a
smile, said: "You are mistaken, Miss Lucy; I am not jealous; and the
proof, Miss Mary, is yonder, in the person of M. de Bragelonne himself,
who ought to be the cause of my jealousy, but who is dreaming in pensive
solitude. Poor fellow! Allow me to leave you for a few minutes, while I
avail myself of those few minutes to converse with Miss Lucy Stewart, to
whom I have something to say." And then, bowing to Lucy, he added: "Will
you do me the honor to accept my hand, in order that I may lead you to
the king, who is waiting for us?" With these words, Buckingham, still
smiling, took Miss Stewart's hand, and led her away. When by herself,
Mary Grafton, her head gently inclined toward her shoulder, with that
indolent gracefulness of action which distinguishes young English girls,
remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on Raoul, but as if uncertain
what to do. At last, after first blushing violently, and then turning
deadly pale, thus revealing the internal combat which assailed her
heart, she seemed to make up her mind to adopt a decided course, and,
with a tolerably firm step, advanced toward the seat on which Raoul was
reclining, buried in the profoundest meditation, as we have already
said. The sound of Miss Mary's steps, though they could be hardly heard
upon the green sward, awakened Raoul from his musing attitude: he turned
round, perceived the young girl, and walked forward to meet the
companion whom his happy destiny had thrown in his way.
"I have been sent to you, monsieur," said Mary Grafton; "will you accept
me?"
"To whom is my gratitude due, for so great a happiness?" inquired Raoul.
"To the Duke of Buckingham," replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did
not really feel.
"To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?--he who so passionately seeks
your charming society! Am I really to believe you are serious,
mademoiselle?"
"The fact is, monsieur, you perceive that everything seems to conspire
to make us pass the best, or rather the longest, part of our days
together. Yesterday, it was the king who desired me to beg you to seat
yourself next to me at dinner; to-day, it is the Duke of Buckingham who
begs me to come and place myself near to you on this seat."
"And he has gone away in order to leave us together?" asked Raoul, with
some embarrassment.
"Look yonder, at the turning of that path; he is just out of sight, with
Miss Stewart. Are these polite attentions usual in France, Monsieur le
Comte?"
"I cannot very precisely' say what people do in France, mademoiselle,
for I can hardly be called a Frenchman. I have resided in many
countries, and almost always as a soldier; and then, I have spent a long
period of my life in the country. I am almost a savage."
"You do not like your residence in England, I fear."
"I scarcely know," said Raoul, inattentively, and sighing deeply at the
same time.
"What! you do not know."
"Forgive me," said Raoul, shaking his head, and collecting his thoughts,
"I did not hear you."
"Oh!" said the young girl, sighing in her turn, "how wrong the duke was
to send me here!"
"Wrong!" said Raoul, "perhaps so; for I am but a rude, uncouth
companion, and my society annoys you. The duke was, indeed, very wrong
to send you."
"It is precisely," replied Mary Grafton, in a clear, calm voice,
"because your society does not annoy me, that the duke was wrong to send
me to you."
It was now Raoul's turn to blush. "But," he resumed, "how happens it,
that the Duke of Buckingham should send you to me: and why should you
have come? the duke loves you, and you love him."
"No," replied Mary, seriously, "the duke does not love me, because he is
in love with the Duchesse d'Orleans; and, as for myself, I have no
affection for the duke."
Raoul looked at the young girl with astonishment.
"Are you a friend of the Duke of Buckingham?" she inquired.
"The duke has honored me by calling me so ever since we met in France."
"You are simple acquaintances, then?"
"No; for the duke is the most intimate friend of one whom I regard as a
brother."
"The Duc de Guiche?"
"Yes."
"He who is in love with Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans."
"Oh! What is that you are saying?"
"And who loves him in return," continued the young girl, quietly.
Raoul bent down his head, and Mary Grafton, sighing deeply, continued,
"They are very happy. But, leave me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, for the
Duke of Buckingham has given you a very troublesome commission in
offering me as a companion in your promenade. Your heart is elsewhere,
and it is with the greatest difficulty you can be charitable enough to
lend me your attention. Confess truly; it would be unfair on your part,
vicomte, not to confess it."
"Madame, I do confess it."
She looked at him steadily. He was so noble and so handsome in his
bearing, his eye revealed so much gentleness, candor, and resolution,
that the idea could not possibly enter her mind that he was either
rudely discourteous, or a mere simpleton. She only perceived, clearly
enough, that he loved another woman, and not herself, with the whole
strength of his heart. "Ah! I now understand you," she said; "you have
left your heart behind you in France." Raoul bowed. "The duke is aware
of your affection."
"No one knows it," replied Raoul.
"Why, therefore, do you tell me? Nay, answer me."
"I cannot."
"It is for me, then, to anticipate an explanation you do not wish to
tell me anything, because you are now convinced that I do not love the
duke; because you see that I possibly might have loved you; because you
are a gentleman of noble and delicate sentiments; and because, instead
of accepting, even were it for the mere amusement of the passing hour, a
hand which is almost pressed upon you; and, because instead of meeting
my smiles with a smiling lip, you, who are young, have preferred to tell
me, whom men have called beautiful, 'My heart is far away in France.'
For this I thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne; you are, indeed, a
noble-hearted, noble-minded man, and I regard you yet more for it. As a
friend only. And now let us cease speaking of myself, and talk of your
own affairs. Forget that I have ever spoken to you of myself; tell me
why you are sad, and why you have become more than usually so during
these four past days?"
Raoul was deeply and sensibly moved by her sweet and melancholy tone;
and as he could not, at the moment, find a word to say, the young girl
again came to his assistance.
"Pity me," she said. "My mother was born in France, and I can truly
affirm that I, too, am French in blood, as well as in feeling; but the
heavy atmosphere and characteristic gloom of England seem to weigh like
a burden upon me. Sometimes my dreams are golden-hued and full of
wondrous enjoyment, but suddenly a mist arises and overspreads my
dreams, and blots them out forever. Such, indeed, is the case at the
present moment. Forgive me; I have now said enough on that subject: give
me your hand, and relate your griefs to me as to a friend."
"You say you are French in heart and soul."
"Yes, not only I repeat it, that my mother was French, but, further
still, as my father, a friend of King Charles I., was exiled in France,
I, during the trial of that prince, as well as during the Protector's
life, was brought up in Paris; at the restoration of King Charles II.,
my poor father returned to England, where he died almost immediately
afterward; and then the king created me a duchess, and has dowered me
according to my rank."
"Have you any relations in France?" Raoul inquired with the deepest
interest.
"I have a sister there, my senior by seven or eight years, who was
married in France, and was early left a widow; her name is Madame de
Belliere. Do you know her?" she added, observing Raoul start suddenly.
"I have heard her name mentioned."
"She, too, loves with her whole heart; and her last letter informs me
that she is happy, and her affection is, I conclude, returned. I told
you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that although I possess half of her nature,
I do not share her happiness. But let us now speak of yourself: whom do
you love in France?"
"A young girl, as soft and as pure as a lily."
"But if she loves you, why are you sad?"
"I have been told that she has ceased to love me."
"You do not believe it, I trust?"
"He who wrote me so does not sign his letter."
"An anonymous denunciation! some treachery, be assured," said Miss
Grafton.
"Stay," said Raoul, showing the young girl a letter which he had read
over a thousand times; she took it from his hand and read as follows:
"Vicomte--You are perfectly right to amuse yourself yonder with the
lovely faces of Charles II.'s court, for at Louis XIV.'s court, the
castle in which your affections are enshrined is being besieged.
Stay in London altogether, poor vicomte, or return without delay to
Paris."
"There is no signature," said Miss Mary.
"None."
"Believe it not, then."
"Very good; but here is a second letter, from my friend De Guiche, which
says, 'I am lying here wounded and ill. Return, Raoul, oh return!'"
"What do you intend doing?" inquired the young girl, with a feeling of
oppression at her heart.
"My intention, as soon as I received this letter, was immediately to
take my leave of the king."
"When did you receive it?"
"The day before yesterday."
"It is dated from Fontainebleau."
"A singular circumstance, do you not think, for the court is now at
Paris? At all events, I would have set off; but when I mentioned my
intention to the king, he began to laugh, and said to me, 'How comes it,
Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, that you think of leaving? Has your sovereign
recalled you?' I colored, naturally enough, for I was confused by the
question; for the fact is, the king himself sent me here, and I have
received no order to return."
Mary frowned in deep thought, and said, "Do you remain, then?"
"I must, mademoiselle."
"Do you ever receive any letters from her to whom you are so devoted?"
"Never."
"Never, do you say? Does she not love you, then?"
"At least, she has not written to me since my departure, although she
used occasionally to write to me before. I trust she may have been
prevented."
"Hush! the duke is here."
And Buckingham at that moment was seen at the end of the walk,
approaching toward them, alone and smiling; he advanced slowly, and held
out his hands to them both. "Have you arrived at an understanding?" he
said.
"About what?"
"About whatever might render you happy, dear Mary, and make Raoul less
miserable."
"I do not understand you, my lord," said Raoul.
"That is my view of the subject, Miss Mary: do you wish me to mention it
before M. de Bragelonne?" he added with a smile.
"If you mean," replied the young girl, haughtily, "that I was not
indisposed to love M. de Bragelonne, that is useless, for I have told
him so myself."
Buckingham reflected for a moment, and, without seeming in any way
discountenanced, as she expected, he said: "My reason for leaving you
with M. de Bragelonne was, that I thoroughly knew your refined delicacy
of feeling, no less than the perfect loyalty of your mind and heart, and
I hoped that M. de Bragelonne's cure might be effected by the hands of a
physician such as you are."
"But, my lord, before you spoke of M. de Bragelonne's heart, you spoke
to me of your own. Do you mean me to effect the cure of two hearts at
the same time?"
"Perfectly true, madame: but you will do me the justice to admit that I
have long discontinued a useless pursuit, acknowledging that my own
wound is incurable."
"My lord," said Mary, collecting herself for a moment before she spoke,
"M. de Bragelonne is happy, for he loves and is beloved. He has no need
of such a physician as I can be."
"M. de Bragelonne," said Buckingham, "is on the very eve of experiencing
a serious misfortune, and he has greater need than ever of sympathy and
affection."
"Explain yourself, my lord," inquired Raoul anxiously.
"No; gradually I will explain myself; but, if you desire it, I can tell
Miss Grafton what you may not listen to yourself."
"My lord, you are putting me to the torture; you know something you wish
to conceal from me?"
"I know that Miss Mary Grafton is the most charming object that a heart
ill at ease could, possibly meet with in its way through life."
"I have already told you that the Vicomte de Bragelonne loves
elsewhere," said the young girl.
"He is wrong, then."
"Do you assume to know, my lord, that I am wrong?"
"Yes."
"Whom is it that he loves, then?" exclaimed the young girl.
"He loves a woman who is unworthy of him," said Buckingham, with that
calm, collected manner peculiar to an Englishman.
Miss Grafton uttered a cry, which, together with the remark that
Buckingham had that moment made, spread over De Bragelonne's features a
deadly paleness, arising from the sudden surprise, and also from a vague
fear of impending misfortune. "My lord," he exclaimed, "You have just
pronounced words which compel me, without a moment's delay, to seek
their explanation at Paris."
"You will remain here," said Buckingham, "because you have no right to
leave: and no one has the right to quit the service of the king for that
of any woman, even were she as worthy of being loved as Mary Grafton
is."
"You will tell me all, then?"
"I will, on condition that you will remain."
"I will remain, if you will promise to speak openly, and without
reserve."
Thus far had their conversation proceeded, and Buckingham, in all
probability, was on the point of revealing, not indeed all that had
taken place, but at least all he was aware of, when one of the king's
attendants appeared at the end of the terrace, and advanced toward the
summer-house where the king was sitting with Lucy Stewart. A courier
followed him, covered with dust from head to foot, and who seemed as if
he had but a few moments before dismounted from his horse.
"The courier from France! Madame's courier!" exclaimed Raoul,
recognizing the princess's livery; and while the attendant and the
courier advanced toward the king, Buckingham and Miss Grafton exchanged
a look full of intelligence with each other.