despair was caused by the woman they loved, and because
death, thus deceptive, was like a gift or a favor conferred
upon them.”
Buckingham rose, his features distorted, and his hands
pressed against his heart. “You are right, madame,” he said,
“but those of whom you speak had received their order of
exile from the lips of the one whom they loved; they were
not driven away; they were entreated to leave, and were not
laughed at.”
“No,” murmured Anne of Austria, “they were not forgotten.
But who says you are driven away, or that you are exiled?
Who says that your devotion will not be remembered? I do not
speak on any one’s behalf but my own, when I tell you to
leave. Do me this kindness — grant me this favor; let me,
for this also, be indebted to one of your name.”
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“It is for your sake, then, madame?”
“For mine alone.”
“No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to mock,
— no prince even who shall say, `I required it.'”
“Listen to me, duke,” and hereupon the dignified features of
the queen assumed a solemn expression. “I swear to you that
no one commands in this matter but myself. I swear to you
that, not only shall no one either laugh or boast in any
way, but no one even shall fail in the respect due to your
rank. Rely upon me, duke, as I rely upon you.”
“You do not explain yourself, madame; my heart is full of
bitterness, and I am in utter despair; no consolation,
however gentle and affectionate, can afford me relief.”
“Do you remember your mother, duke?” replied the queen, with
a winning smile.
“Very slightly, madame; yet I remember how she used to cover
me with her caresses and her tears whenever I wept.”
“Villiers,” murmured the queen, passing her arm round the
young man’s neck, “look upon me as your mother, and believe
that no one shall ever make my son weep.”
“I thank you, madame,” said the young man, affected and
almost suffocated by his emotion, “I feel there is indeed
still room in my heart for a gentler and nobler sentiment
than love.”
The queen-mother looked at him and pressed his hand. “Go,”
she said.
“When must I leave? Command me.”
“At any time that may suit you, my lord,” resumed the queen;
“you will choose your own day of departure. Instead,
however, of setting off to-day, as you would doubtless wish
to do, or to-morrow, as others may have expected, leave the
day after to-morrow, in the evening; but announce to-day
that it is your wish to leave.”
“My wish?” murmured the young duke.
“Yes, duke.”
“And shall I never return to France?”
Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly absorbed
in sad and serious thought. “It would be a consolation for
me,” she said, “if you were to return on the day when I
shall be carried to my final resting-place at Saint-Denis
beside the king, my husband.”
“Madame, you are goodness itself; the tide of prosperity is
setting in on you; your cup brims over with happiness, and
many long years are yet before you.”
“In that case you will not come for some time, then,” said
the queen, endeavoring to smile.
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“I shall not return,” said Buckingham, “young as I am. Death
does not reckon by years; it is impartial; some die young,
some reach old age.”
“I will not harbor any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me comfort
you; return in two years. I perceive from your face that the
very idea which saddens you so much now, will have
disappeared before six months have passed, and will be not
only dead but forgotten in the period of absence I have
assigned you.’
“I think you judged me better a little while ago madame,”
replied the young man, “when you said that time is powerless
against members of the family of Buckingham.”
“Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke upon the
forehead with an affection she could not restrain. “Go, go;
spare me and forget yourself no longer. I am the queen; you