and the most fastidious sculptor a
little more fineness in the nose.

Buckingham remained for a moment dazzled. Never had Anne of Austria
appeared to him so beautiful, amid balls, fetes, or carousals, as she
appeared to him at this moment, dressed in a simple robe of white satin,
and accompanied by Donna Estafania--the only one of her Spanish women
who had not been driven from her by the jealousy of the king or by the
persecutions of Richelieu.

Anne of Austria took two steps forward. Buckingham threw himself at
her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, kissed the hem of her
robe.

"Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be written
to."

"Yes, yes, madame! Yes, your Majesty!" cried the duke. "I know that
I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would become
animated or marble warm; but what then! They who love believe easily in
love. Besides, I have lost nothing by this journey because I see you."

"Yes," replied Anne, "but you know why and how I see you; because,
insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in remaining in a city
where, by remaining, you run the risk of your life, and make me run
the risk of my honor. I see you to tell you that everything separates
us--the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows.
It is sacrilege to struggle against so many things, my Lord. In short, I
see you to tell you that we must never see each other again."

"Speak on, madame, speak on, Queen," said Buckingham; "the sweetness of
your voice covers the harshness of your words. You talk of sacrilege!
Why, the sacrilege is the separation of two hearts formed by God for
each other."

"My Lord," cried the queen, "you forget that I have never said that I
love you."

"But you have never told me that you did not love me; and truly, to
speak such words to me would be, on the part of your Majesty, too great
an ingratitude. For tell me, where can you find a love like mine--a
love which neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish, a
love which contents itself with a lost ribbon, a stray look, or a chance
word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time,
and during those three years I have loved you thus. Shall I tell you
each ornament of your toilet? Mark! I see you now. You were seated
upon cushions in the Spanish fashion; you wore a robe of green satin
embroidered with gold and silver, hanging sleeves knotted upon your
beautiful arms-