The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “leave me alone with Patrick and Laporte—ah, is that you, de Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which he has put me.”
“Oh, my Lord!” cried the baron, “I shall never console myself.”
“And you would be quite wrong, my dear de Winter,” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to him. “I do not know the man who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray you.”
The baron went out sobbing.
There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.
“You will live, my Lord, you will live!” repeated the faithful servant of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke’s sofa.
“What has she written to me?” said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, “what has she written to me? Read me her letter.”
“Oh, my Lord!” said Laporte.
“Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?”
Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.
“Read!” said he, “read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me.”