The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [68]
George Villiers stood before the glass, running his fingers through his long fair hair to restore the curls which his hat had disordered. Then he twirled his mustache and, his heart swelling with joy and happiness and pride at being so close to the moment he had yearned for so long, he smiled with hope and confidence.
Suddenly a door concealed in the tapestry opened and a woman appeared. Seeing this apparition in the mirror, Buckingham uttered a cry. It was the Queen.
Anne of Austria, then twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, was at the height of her beauty. Her bearing was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, sparkling like emeralds, were of matchless splendor yet filled with sweetness and majesty. Her mouth was small and rosy, and though her under-lip, like that of all the princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly, it was eminently gracious in her smile and profoundly haughty in her scorn. Her skin was much admired for its velvety softness; her hands and arms, surprisingly white and delicate of texture, were celebrated by all the poets of the age. And her hair, very blond in her youth, had turned to a warm chestnut; curled very simply and amply powdered, it framed her face so admirably that the most rigid critic could only have desired a little more rouge and the most exacting sculptor a nose somewhat more delicately chiseled.
Buckingham stood before her, lost in awe of her beauty. Never had the Queen appeared to him so lovely at Court balls, fêtes and entertainments as she did in this moment clad in a simple gown of white satin and accompanied by Dona Estefana, the only one of her Spanish duennas whom the King’s jealousy or the Cardinal’s persecution had not banished from her side.
The Queen took two steps forward, Buckingham threw himself at her feet; before she could prevent him, he had kissed the hem of her gown.
“My Lord Duke,” said the Queen, “you must already know that I did not write to you.”
“I do. Alas! a madman I, to dream that snow might melt and marble thaw. But what will you, Madame, a lover believes in love. My journey has not been in vain; at least I have seen you.”
“You know very well, My Lord, how and why I am here now. Indifferent to my anguish, you insisted on staying here at the risk of your life and the peril of my honor. I am here now to tell you that everything parts us: the depths of the seas, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of oaths sworn. To struggle against such obstacles is sacrilege, My Lord. I tell you we must never meet again.”
“Speak on, Madame, speak on: the warmth of Your Majesty’s voice defeats the harshness of your words. You spoke of sacrilege, but surely such sacrilege lies solely in the separation of two hearts that were made for each other.”
“My Lord Duke, you forget I never told you I loved you.”
“But Your Majesty never told me that you did not love me. To tell me this now would be an ingratitude too great on Your Majesty’s part. Oh, tell me, Madame, where shall you, queen as you are, ever find a love like mine . . . a love which neither time nor absence nor despair can quench . . . a love content to thrive upon a lost ribbon, a stray glance, a random word. . . .
“I first set eyes upon you, Madame, three years ago, and ever since I have loved you nobly and ardently as I did that day. Shall I describe the gown you wore, shall I cite each article of apparel that I remember? I see Your Majesty as clearly now as I did then. You were seated, Spanish-fashion, upon square cushions . . . you wore a green satin dress stitched with silver and gold . . . your sleeves hung down caught by diamond clasps, over your arms—your beautiful arms! . . . You wore a close ruff, a cap of the same color as your dress, and athwart your cap, a heron