“That is very true,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice. “It follows, then, my lord,” she added, “that you, who are a man of feeling, will soon quit France in order to shut yourself up with your wealth and your relics of the past.” Buckingham raised his head and said, “I think not, madame.” “What do you mean?” “On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to take up my residence in France.” It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to exhibit surprise. “Why?” she said. “Are you not in favor with the new king?” “Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty’s kindness to me is unbounded.” “It cannot,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has diminished, for it is said to be enormous.” “My income, madame, has never been so large.” “There is some secret cause, then?” “No, madame,” said Buckingham, eagerly, “there is nothing secret in my reason for this determination. I prefer residence in France; I like a court so distinguished by its refinement and courtesy; I like the amusements, somewhat serious in their nature, which are not the amusements of my own country, and which are met with in France.” Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly. “Amusements of a serious nature?” she said. “Has your Grace well reflected on their seriousness?” The duke hesitated. “There is no amusement so serious,” continued the queen, “as to prevent a man of your rank--” “Your majesty seems to insist greatly on that point,” interrupted the duke. “Do you think so, my lord?” “If you will forgive me for saying so, it is the second time you have vaunted the attractions of England at the expense of the delight which all experience who live in France.” Anne of Austria approached the young man, and placing her beautiful hand upon his shoulder, which trembled at the touch, said, “Believe me, monsieur, nothing can equal a residence in one’s own native country. I have very 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.”