frequently had occasion to regret Spain. I have lived long,
my lord, very long for a woman, and I confess to you, that
not a year has passed I have not regretted Spain.”
“Not one year, madame?” said the young duke coldly. “Not one
of those years when you reigned Queen of Beauty — as you
still are, indeed?”
“A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old enough to be your
mother.” She emphasized these latter words in a manner, and
with a gentleness, which penetrated Buckingham’s heart.
“Yes,” she said, “I am old enough to be your mother; and for
this reason, I will give you a word of advice.”
“That advice being that I should return to London?” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, my lord.”
The duke clasped his hands with a terrified gesture which
could not fail of its effect upon the queen, already
disposed to softer feelings by the tenderness of her own
recollections. “It must be so,” added the queen.
“What!” he again exclaimed, “am I seriously told that I must
leave, — that I must exile myself, — that I am to flee at
once?”
“Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France was
your native country.”
“Madame, the country of those who love is the country of
those whom they love.”
“Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are
addressing.”
Buckingham threw himself on his knees. “Madame, you are the
source of intelligence, of goodness, and of compassion; you
are the first person in this kingdom, not only by your rank,
but the first person in the world on account of your angelic
attributes. I have said nothing, madame. Have I, indeed,
said anything you should answer with such a cruel remark?
What have I betrayed?”
“You have betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low tone
of voice.
“I have said nothing, — I know nothing.”
“You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence of a
woman, and besides —- ”
“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you are listening to
me.”
“On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects and
all the qualities of youth.”
“I have been betrayed or denounced, then?”
“By whom?”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“By those who, at Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity,
read my heart like an open book.”
“I do not know whom you mean.”
“M. de Bragelonne, for instance.”
“I know the name without being acquainted with the person to
whom it belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said nothing.”
“Who can it be, then? If any one, madame, had had the
boldness to notice in me that which I do not myself wish to
behold —- ”
“What would you do, duke?”
“There are secrets which kill those who discover them.”
“He, then, who has discovered your secret, madman that you
are, still lives; and, what is more, you will not slay him,
for he is armed on all sides, — he is a husband, a jealous
man, — he is the second gentleman in France, — he is my
son, the Duc d’Orleans.”
The duke turned pale as death. “You are very cruel, madame,”
he said.
“You see, Buckingham,” said Anne of Austria, sadly, “how you
pass from one extreme to another, and fight with shadows,
when it would seem so easy to remain at peace with
yourself.”
“If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle,”
replied the young man, gently, abandoning himself to the
most gloomy depression.
Anne ran towards him and took him by the hand. “Villiers,”
she said, in English, with a vehemence of tone which nothing
could resist, “what is it you ask? Do you ask a mother to
sacrifice her son, — a queen to consent to the dishonor of
her house? Child that you are, do not dream of it. What! in
order to spare your tears am I to commit these crimes?
Villiers! you speak of the dead; the dead, at least, were
full of respect and submission; they resigned themselves to
an order of exile; they carried their despair away with them
in their hearts, like a priceless possession, because the