it, and then, slightly smiling, again entered into
conversation with her faithful guardians, Raoul and De
Guiche, who were quietly riding at her carriage doors.
Buckingham felt himself a prey to all the tortures of
jealousy; an unknown, unheard of anguish glided through his
veins, and laid siege to his heart; and then, as if to show
that he knew the folly of his conduct, and that he wished to
correct, by the humblest submission, his flights of
absurdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reeking
with sweat and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close
beside the carriage, amidst the crowd of courtiers.
Occasionally he obtained a word from Madame as a recompense,
and yet her speech seemed almost a reproach.
“That is well, my lord,” she said, “now you are reasonable.”
Or from Raoul, “Your Grace is killing your horse.”
Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s remarks, for he
instinctively felt, without having had any proof that such
was the case, that Raoul checked the display of De Guiche’s
feelings, and that, had it not been for Raoul, some mad act
or proceeding, either of the count, or of Buckingham
himself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a
disturbance — perhaps even exile itself. From the moment of
that excited conversation the two young men had held in
front of the tents at Havre, when Raoul made the duke
perceive the impropriety of his conduct, Buckingham felt
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himself attracted towards Raoul almost in spite of himself.
He often entered into conversation with him, and it was
nearly always to talk to him either of his father or of
D’Artagnan, their mutual friend, in whose praise Buckingham
was nearly as enthusiastic as Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as
much as possible, to make the conversation turn upon this
subject in De Wardes’s presence, who had, during the whole
journey, been exceedingly annoyed at the superior position
taken by Bragelonne, and especially by his influence over De
Guiche. De Wardes had that keen and merciless penetration
most evil natures possess; he had immediately remarked De
Guiche’s melancholy, and divined the nature of his regard
for the princess. Instead, however, of treating the subject
with the same reserve which Raoul practiced; instead of
regarding with that respect, which was their due, the
obligations and duties of society, De Wardes resolutely
attacked in the count the ever-sounding chord of juvenile
audacity and pride. It happened one evening, during a halt
at Nantes, that while De Guiche and De Wardes were leaning
against a barrier, engaged in conversation, Buckingham and
Raoul were also talking together as they walked up and down.
Manicamp was engaged in devoted attendance on the princess,
who already treated him without reserve, on account of his
versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of manner, and
conciliatory disposition.
“Confess,” said De Wardes, “that you are really ill and that
your pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you.”
“I do not understand you,” said the count.
“And yet it is easy enough; you are dying of love.”
“You are mad, De Wardes.”
“Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really
indifferent to your martyrdom; but she takes so much notice
of it, observes it to such an extent, that she compromises
herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival at Paris, M. de
Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.”
“For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.”
“Come, come, a truce to child’s play,” replied the count’s
evil genius, in an undertone; “you know as well as I do what
I mean. Besides, you must have observed how the princess’s
glance softens as she looks at you; — you can tell, by the
very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she takes in
listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she
appreciates the verses you recite to her. You cannot deny,
too, that every morning she tells you how indifferently she
slept the previous night.”
“True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your
telling me all that?”
“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?”
“No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough