“You would love me, then, if you were not queen!  Madame, say that you would love me then!  I can believe that it is the dignity of your rank alone which makes you cruel to me; I can believe that you had been Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped.  Thanks for those sweet words!  Oh, my beautiful sovereign, a hundred times, thanks!”

“Oh, my Lord!  You have ill understood, wrongly interpreted; I did not mean to say—­”

“Silence, silence!” cried the duke.  “If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to lift me from it.  You have told me yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; I, perhaps, may leave my life in it—­for, although it may be strange, I have for some time had a presentiment that I should shortly die.”  And the duke smiled, with a smile at once sad and charming.

“Oh, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, with an accent of terror which proved how much greater an interest she took in the duke than she ventured to tell.

“I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, it is even ridiculous for me to name it to you, and, believe me, I take no heed of such dreams.  But the words you have just spoken, the hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid all—­were it my life.”

“Oh, but I,” said Anne, “I also, duke, have had presentiments; I also have had dreams.  I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding, wounded.”

“In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?” interrupted Buckingham.

“Yes, it was so, my Lord, it was so—­in the left side, and with a knife.  Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream?  I have imparted it to no one but my God, and that in my prayers.”

“I ask for no more.  You love me, madame; it is enough.”

“I love you, I?”

“Yes, yes.  Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you did not love me?  Should we have the same presentiments if our existences did not touch at the heart?  You love me, my beautiful queen, and you will weep for me?”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, “this is more than I can bear.  In the name of heaven, Duke, leave me, go!  I do not know whether I love you or love you not; but what I know is that I will not be perjured.  Take pity on me, then, and go!  Oh, if you are struck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine that your love for me was the cause of your death, I could not console myself; I should run mad.  Depart then, depart, I implore you!”

“Oh, how beautiful you are thus!  Oh, how I love you!” said Buckingham.

“Go, go, I implore you, and return hereafter!  Come back as ambassador, come back as minister, come back surrounded with guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over you, and then I shall no longer fear for your days, and I shall be happy in seeing you.”

“Oh, is this true what you say?”

“Yes.”