What took place at Portsmouth, August 23, 1628
Felton took leave of milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk takes leave of his sister—by kissing her hand.
He entered Portsmouth about eight o’clock in the morning. The whole population was on foot. Drums were beating in the streets and in the port. The troops about to be embarked were marching toward the sea.
Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty covered with dust and streaming with perspiration. His face, usually so pale, was purple with heart and passion. The sentinel was about to keep him away, but Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer,“A pressing message from Lord Winter,” said he.
At the name of Lord Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace’s most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to pass Felton, who, indeed, wore a naval officer’s uniform.
Felton darted into the palace.
At the moment he entered the vestibule another man was entering likewise, covered with dust and out of breath, leaving at the gate a post- horse, which, as soon as he had alighted from it, sank down exhausted.
Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential valet, at the same moment. Felton named Lord Winter. The stranger would give no name, and asserted that he could make himself known to the duke alone. Each insisted on being admitted before the other.
Patrick, who knew Lord Winter had official dealings and friendly relations with the duke, gave the preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easy to see how he cursed the delay.
The valet led Felton through a large hall, in which were waiting the deputies from Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet, where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, on which, as usual, he was bestowing extraordinary attention.
“Lieutenant Felton, from Lord Winter,” said Patrick.
“From Lord Winter!” repeated Buckingham. “Let him come in.”
Felton entered. He held the knife with which milady had stabbed herself open in his bosom. With one bound he was on the duke.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying,“A letter from France, my lord!”
“From France!” cried Buckingham, forgetting everything on thinking from whom that letter came.
Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his side up to the handle.
“Ah, traitor!” cried Buckingham, “thou hast killed me!”
“Murder!” screamed Patrick.
Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we said, the deputies from Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and sprang toward the staircase. But on the first step he met Lord Winter, who, seeing him pale, wild, livid, and stained with blood, both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying,“I knew it! I guessed it! A minute too late! Oh, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!”Felton made no resistance. Lord Winter placed him in the hands of the guards, who led him, until they should receive fresh orders, to a little terrace looking out over the sea; and then he rushed into Buckingham’s room.
At the cry uttered by the duke and Patrick’s scream the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber darted into the closet.
He found the duke lying on a sofa, with his hand pressed convulsively over the wound.
“La Porte,” said the duke in a faint voice—“La Porte, do you come from her?”
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied Anne of Austria’s faithful cloakbearer, “but too late, perhaps.”
“Silence, La Porte; you may be overheard.—Patrick, let no one enter. —Oh, I shall not know what she says to me!—My God! I am dying!”
And the duke fainted.
The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, opened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “leave me alone with Patrick and La Porte.— Ah, is that you, De Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning. See what a condition he has brought me to!”
“Oh, my lord!” cried the baron, “I shall never console myself for it.”
“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 of another man’s life. But leave us, I pray you.”
The baron went out sobbing.
