seemed anxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Amidst all
this hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as though a perfect
stranger to the scene, remained on his horse somewhat in the
rear of Guiche, and watched the rays of light reflected on
the water, inhaling with rapture the sea breezes, and
listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the shore
and on the beach, tossing the spray into the air with a
noise that echoed in the distance. “But,” exclaimed De
Guiche, “what is Buckingham’s motive for providing such a
supply of lodgings?”
“Yes, yes,” said De Wardes; “what reason has he?”
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“A very excellent one,” replied Manicamp.
“You know what it is, then?”
“I fancy I do.”
“Tell us then.”
“Bend your head down towards me.”
“What! may it not be spoken except in private?”
“You shall judge of that yourself.”
“Very well.” De Guiche bent down.
“Love,” said Manicamp.
“I do not understand you at all.”
“Say rather, you cannot understand me yet.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Very well; it is quite certain, count, that his royal
highness will be the most unfortunate of husbands.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Duke of Buckingham —- ”
“It is a name of ill omen to the princes of the house of
France.”
“And so the duke is madly in love with Madame, so the rumor
runs, and will have no one approach her but himself.”
De Guiche colored. “Thank you, thank you,” said he to
Manicamp, grasping his hand. Then, recovering himself,
added, “Whatever you do, Manicamp, be careful that this
project of Buckingham’s is not made known to any Frenchman
here; for, if so, many a sword would be unsheathed in this
country that does not fear English steel.”
“But after all,” said Manicamp, “I have had no satisfactory
proof given me of the love in question, and it may be no
more than an idle tale.”
“No, no,” said De Guiche, “it must be the truth;” and
despite his command over himself, he clenched his teeth.
“Well,” said Manicamp, “after all, what does it matter to
you? What does it matter to me whether the prince is to be
what the late king was? Buckingham the father for the queen,
Buckingham the son for the princess.”
“Manicamp! Manicamp!
“It is a fact, or at least, everybody says so.”
“Silence!” cried the count.
“But why, silence?” said De Wardes, “it is a highly
creditable circumstance for the French nation. Are not you
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of my opinion, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”
“To what circumstance do you allude?” inquired De Bragelonne
with an abstracted air.
“That the English should render homage to the beauty of our
queens and our princesses.”
“Forgive me, but I have not been paying attention to what
has passed; will you oblige me by explaining,
“There is no doubt it was necessary that Buckingham the
father should come to Paris in order that his majesty, King
Louis XIII., should perceive that his wife was one of the
most beautiful women of the French court; and it seems
necessary, at the present time, that Buckingham the son
should consecrate, by the devotion of his worship, the
beauty of a princess who has French blood in her veins. The
fact of having inspired a passion on the other side of the
Channel will henceforth confer a title to beauty on this.”
“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I do not like to hear such
matters treated so lightly. Gentlemen like ourselves should
be careful guardians of the honor of our queens and our
princesses. If we jest at them, what will our servants do?”
“How am I to understand that?” said De Wardes, whose ears
tingled at the remark.
“In any way you choose, monsieur,” replied De Bragelonne,
coldly.
“Bragelonne, Bragelonne,” murmured De Guiche.
“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young
man had spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “do not set such an
example in public, in the street too. De Wardes, you are
wrong.”
“Wrong; in what way, may I ask?”
“You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speaking