Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential lackey, at the same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.
Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how he cursed the delay.
The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary attention.
“Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter,” said Patrick.
“From Lord de Winter!” repeated Buckingham; “let him come in.”
Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls.
“Why didn’t the baron come himself?” demanded Buckingham. “I expected him this morning.”
“He desired me to tell your Grace,” replied Felton, “that he very much regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to keep at the castle.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Buckingham; “he has a prisoner.”
“It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace,” replied Felton.
“Well, then, speak!”
“That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!”
“Leave us, Patrick,” said Buckingham; “but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently.”
Patrick went out.
“We are alone, sir,” said Buckingham; “speak!”
“My Lord,” said Felton, “the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”
“Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.”
“Here it is, my Lord.”
“Give it to me,” said the duke.
And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.
“Pardon, my Lord,” said Felton, stopping the duke; “but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?”
“Yes, sir, I know it,” replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.
“Then your Grace knows her real name?” asked Felton, in a sharp tone.
“I know it”; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.
“And knowing that real name, my Lord,” replied Felton, “will you sign it all the same?”
“Doubtless,” said Buckingham, “and rather twice than once.”
“I cannot believe,” continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, “that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates.”
“I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.”
“And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?”
Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.
“Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?”
“Reply to them, my Lord,” said Felton; “the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.”
Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.
“Without remorse,” said he. “The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation.” The duke put his pen to the paper.
“You will not sign that order, my Lord!” said Felton, making a step toward the duke.
“I will not sign this order! And why not?”
“Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.”
“I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn,” said Buckingham. “This lady is infamous.”
“My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you.”
“Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?” said Buckingham.
“My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you’re about to do, and beware of going too far!”
“What do you say? God pardon me!” cried Buckingham, “I really think he threatens me!”
“No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes.”
“Mr. Felton,” said Buckingham, “you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.”
“You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her; let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you.”
“You will exact!” said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced them.
“My Lord,” continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, “my Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!”
“Ah, this is too much!” cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.
Felton barred his passage.
“I ask it humbly of you, my Lord,” said he; “sign the order for the liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you have dishonored.”
“Withdraw, sir,” said Buckingham, “or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons.”
“You shall not call,” said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. “Beware, my Lord, you are in the hands of God!”
“In the hands of the devil, you mean!” cried Buckingham, raising his voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely shouting.
“Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter,” said Felton, holding out a paper to the duke.
“By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!”
“Sign, my Lord!”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Help!” shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his sword.
But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was upon the duke.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, “A letter from France, my Lord.”
“From France!”