autiful, so good, have been thrown in
Bragelonne's way, in all the promenades and parties of pleasure to which
he was invited. In fact it was a plot,--a kind of conspiracy."

Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to
her, and pressing her companion's arm, said: "Thank the king, Lucy."

"Yes, yes, but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care."

Hardly had she pronounced these words, when the duke appeared from one
of the pavilions on the terrace, and, approaching the two girls, with
a smile, said, "You are mistaken, Miss Lucy; I am not jealous; and the
proof, Miss Mary, is yonder, in the person of M. de Bragelonne himself,
who ought to be the cause of my jealousy, but who is dreaming in pensive
solitude. Poor fellow! Allow me to leave you for a few minutes, while I
avail myself of those few minutes to converse with Miss Lucy Stewart, to
whom I have something to say." And then, bowing to Lucy, he added, "Will
you do me the honor to accept my hand, in order that I may lead you to
the king, who is waiting for us?" With these words, Buckingham, still
smiling, took Miss Stewart's hand, and led her away. When by herself,
Mary Grafton, her head gently inclined towards her shoulder, with that
indolent gracefulness of action which distinguishes young English girls,
remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on Raoul, but as if uncertain
what to do. At last, after first blushing violently, and then turning
deadly pale, thus revealing the internal combat which assailed her
heart, she seemed to make up her mind to adopt a decided course, and
with a tolerably firm step, advanced towards the seat on which Raoul
was reclining, buried in the profoundest meditation, as we have already
said. The sound of Miss Mary's steps, though they could hardly be heard
upon the green sward, awakened Raoul from his musing attitude; he
turned round, perceived the young girl, and walked forward to meet the
companion whom his happy destiny had thrown in his way.

"I have been sent to you, monsieur," said Mary Grafton; "will you take
care of me?"

"To whom is my gratitude due, for so great a happiness?" inquired Raoul.

"To the Duke of Buckingham," replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did
not really feel.

"To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?--he who so passionately
seeks your charming society! Am I really to believe you are serious,
mademoiselle?"

"The fact is, monsieur, you perceive, that everything seems t