“For a very simple reason,” returned Anne of Austria;
“because the English are her countrymen, because they have
expended large sums in order to accompany her to France, and
because it would be hardly polite — not politic, certainly
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— to dismiss abruptly those members of the English nobility
who have not shrunk from any devotion or from any
sacrifice.”
“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert
a wretched country to come to a beautiful one, where a
greater effect can be produced for a crown than can be
procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary devotion, really,
to travel a hundred leagues in company with a woman one is
in love with!”
“In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in love
with Madame?”
“The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him, too.”
Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The
name of the Duke of Buckingham recalled certain
recollections of a very tender and melancholy nature. “The
Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.
“Yes; one of those arm-chair soldiers —- ”
“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria,
courageously.
“This is too bad; my own mother takes the part of my wife’s
lover against me,” exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an
extent that his weak organization was effected almost to
tears.
“Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “such an
expression is unworthy of you. Your wife has no lover and,
had she one, it would not be the Duke of Buckingham. The
members of that family, I repeat are loyal and discreet, and
the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected by them.”
“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said
Philip; “and may I ask if the English so very religiously
respect what belongs to princes of France?”
Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the
pretext of taking her pen from her desk again, but in
reality to conceal her confusion from her son. “Really,
Philip,” she said, “you seem to discover expressions for the
purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger blinds you while
it alarms me; reflect a little.”
“There is no need for reflection, madame. I can see with my
own eyes.”
“Well, and what do you see?”
“That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes to make
presents to her, and she ventures to accept them. Yesterday
she was talking about sachets a la violette; well, our
French perfumers, you know very well, madame, for you have
over and over again asked for it without success — our
French perfumers, I say, have never been able to procure
this scent. The duke, however, wore about him a sachet a la
violette, and I am sure that the one my wife has came from
him.”
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your
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pyramids on needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you,
can there be in a man giving to his countrywoman a receipt
for a new essence? These strange ideas, I protest, painfully
recall your father to me; he who so frequently and so
unjustly made me suffer.”
“The Duke of Buckingham’s father was probably more reserved
and more respectful than his son,” said Philip,
thoughtlessly, not perceiving how deeply he had wounded his
mother’s feelings. The queen turned pale, and pressed her
clenched hands upon her bosom; but, recovering herself
immediately, she said, “You came here with some intention or
another, I suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“What was it?”
“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to
inform you that I will not submit to such behavior from the
Duke of Buckingham.”
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“I shall complain to the king.”
“And what do you expect the king to reply?”
“Very well, then,” said Monsieur, with an expression of
stern determination on his countenance, which offered a
singular contrast to its usual gentleness. “Very well. I
will right myself!”
“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of
Austria, in alarm.
“I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, I
will have him quit France, and I will see that my wishes are