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.”
“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.”