“Oh, monsieur—no more, I beg you.” She looked down; her hands were trembling, her cheeks going red and white by turns.
He put his head behind the curtains of the coach, so that none might see him from outside, and looking at him now, she beheld tears in his eyes.
“Do not misunderstand me, madame. I ask your pardon only for having discomposed you, startled you. As for what I said, it were idle to ask pardon, since I could no more help saying it than I can help drawing breath. I obeyed an instinct stronger than the will to live. I gave expression to something that dominates my whole being, and will ever dominate it as long as I have life. Adieu, madame! At need you know where a servant who will gladly die for you is to be found.” He kissed the hem of her robe, dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and was gone before she could say a word in answer.
She sat pale, and very thoughtful, and the Princesse de Conti, watching her furtively, observed that her eyes were moist.
“I will answer for the Queen’s virtue,” she stated afterwards, “but I cannot speak so positively for the hardness of her heart, since without doubt the Duke’s tears affected her spirits.”
But it was not yet the end. As Buckingham was nearing Calais, he was met by a courier from Whitehall, with instructions for him regarding the negotiations he had been empowered to carry out with France in the matter of an alliance against Spain—negotiations which had not thriven with Louis and Richelieu, possibly because the ambassador was ill-chosen. The instructions came too late to be of use, but in time to serve as a pretext for Buckingham’s return to Amiens. There he sought an audience of the Queen-Mother, and delivered himself to her of a futile message for the King. This chimerical business—as Madame de Motteville shrewdly calls it—being accomplished, he came to the real matter which had prompted him to use that pretext for his return, and sought audience of Anne of Austria.
It was early morning, and the Queen was not yet risen. But the levées at the Court of France were precisely what the word implies, and they were held by royalty whilst still abed. It was not, therefore, amazing that he should have been admitted to her presence. She was alone save for her lady-in-waiting, Madame de Lannoi, who was, we are told, aged, prudent and virtuous. Conceive, therefore, the outraged feelings of this lady upon seeing the English duke precipitate himself wildly into the room, and on his knees at the royal bedside seize the coverlet and bear it to his lips.
Whilst the young Queen looked confused and agitated, Madame de Lannoi became a pillar of icy dignity.
“M. le Duc,” says she, “it is not customary in France to kneel when speaking to the Queen.”
“I care nothing for the customs of France, madame,” he answered rudely. “I am not a Frenchman.”