tered behind the thick curtains of his own tent, embracing with a glance the whole square, he noticed that, after a few moments' pause, the curtains of De Quiche's tent were agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind them he could perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes glistening in the obscurity, fastened ardently upon the princess' sitting apartment, which was partially lighted by the lamp in the inner room. That soft light which illumined the windows was the count's star. The fervent aspirations of his nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in the shadow, divined the many passionate thoughts which established, between the tent of the young ambassador and the balcony of the princess, a mysterious and magical bond of sympathy — a bond created by thoughts imprinted with so much strength and persistence of will that they certainly besought that happy and loving dreams might alight upon the perfumed couch, which the count, with the eyes of his soul, devoured so eagerly. But De Guiche and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one of the houses looking on the square was opened, too, the window of the house where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which issued from this latter window the profile of the duke could be distinctly seen, as he indolently reclined upon the balcony with its velvet hangings; he also was breathing in the direction of the princess' apartment his prayers and the wild visions of his love.
Bragelonne could not resist smiling, as, thinking of madame, he said to himself:
"Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged;" and then added compassionately, as he thought of Monsieur, "and he is a husband well threatened, too; it is a good thing for him that he is a prince of such high rank, and that he has an army to win for him that which is his own."
Bragelonne watched for some time the conduct of the two lovers, listened to the loud and uncivil slumbers of Mauicamp, who snored as imperiously as though he had his blue-and-gold, instead of his violet suit, and then turned toward the night breeze which bore toward him, he seemed to think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after having laid in a due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he retired to rest, thinking that with regard to his own love affair, perhaps four or six eyes, quite as ardent as those of De Guiche and Buckingham, were coveting his OAvn idol in the chateau at Blois.
"And Mademoiselle de Montalais is by no means a very safe garrison," said he to himself, as he sighed aloud.
