The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [70]
“My Lord, you call to your defense arguments that accuse you the more strongly. These proofs of love that you invoke are almost crimes.”
“That is because you do not love me, Madame. If you loved me, how differently you would feel! If you loved me, oh! if but you loved me, I would be too happy, I would perish for very delight.”
The Queen sighed.
“Your Majesty mentioned Madame de Chevreuse; alas, she was less cruel than you, for Lord Holland loved her and she responded to his love.”
“Madame de Chevreuse was not a queen,” Anne of Austria replied, overcome, in spite of herself, by the depths of Buckingham’s love.
“So you would love me, Madame, were you not queen; ah, tell me that you would love me! Let me believe that only the dignity of your rank makes you so cruel to me . . . let me believe that were you Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped . . . I thank you Madame, I thank my beauteous sovereign one hundredfold for her most gracious words.”
“No, My Lord, you misunderstand . . . you misconstrue my meaning. . . .”
“Madame, I find my happiness in illusion and error; I pray you mercifully to leave them me. You have told me I was drawn to Paris as into a trap, which may cost me my life—”
“God forbid!” The Queen’s terror revealed her interest in Buckingham more clearly than words could do. “My Lord—”
“Madame, I must tell you that for some time I have felt a strange presentiment . . .” he smiled, at once melancholy and charming, “Who shall say? I may die sooner than I imagine. . . .”
“But, My Lord—”
“I do not mention this, Madame, to frighten you. Forget what I said . . . it was ridiculous . . . I take no heed of such dreams . . . But your words and the hope you have suggested would prove to be a royal wage for even my life—”
“I too feel strange portents; I too dream dreams; I too, queen though I be, saw a vision. It was you, My Lord, lying wounded on a couch, your blood flowing from your veins.”
“In my left side . . . a knife wound. . . .”
“Yes, My Lord, but who can have told you of it? It was but a dream which I confessed to God alone and in my prayers—”
“I ask no more so but you tell me that you love me, Madame.”
“I . . . I . . . ?”
“If you do not love me, then why does God send the same dreams to us? Could we feel the same presentiments in common if our existences were not one? You love me, Madam, and you will weep my death.”
“Ah, God, be merciful to give me strength. I beg Your Grace to go. Whether I love you or not is another question, but I implore you, My Lord, to depart. I shall not make myself privy to perjury; take pity on me and go. If you were struck down here in France and I were held responsible for your death, I myself would die of grief. Pray go, Monsieur, by your love, pray leave me.”
“How beautiful Your Majesty is in this supreme moment! How fervently your servant Buckingham worships you!”
“Go, I beg you. You will come back later, as ambassador, as minister, surrounded by guards who will defend you and watch over you. Then at least I shall have no cause to fear for your days, then I shall delight in seeing you.”
“Shall I believe this?”
“You must, My Lord—”
“Madame, let me beg as a token of your indulgence some object which comes from you . . . something to prove to me that I am not dreaming . . . something that you have worn on your person . . . something I may wear in turn . . . a ring, a necklace, a chain. . . .”
“Will you leave if I give what you ask?”
“Assuredly.”
“At this very instant?”
“Ay.”
“You will quit France? You will return to England?”
“I swear it.”
“Wait then, wait, My Lord—”
The Queen went back to her apartment, returning almost at once with a small rosewood coffer, the Royal and Imperial coat-of-arms stamped upon it in gold:
“My Lord, here is a gift by which to remember me.”
Buckingham took up the casket, fell to one knee . . .
“You promised me to leave,” the Queen reminded