“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?” “By those who, at Le 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 du 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 despair was caused by the woman they loved, and because death, thus deceptive, was like a gift of a favor conferred upon them.”