Part 48 (1/2)
But my Lady Kirke was blush-proof.
”Don't forget to pay special compliments to the favourites,” she calls, as we set out for Whitehall; and she must run to the door in a flutter and ask if Pierre Radisson has any love-verse ready writ, in case of an _amour_ with one of the court ladies.
”No,” says Radisson, ”but here are unpaid tailor bills! 'Tis as good as your _billets-doux_! I'll kiss 'em just as hard!”
”So!” cries Lady Kirke, bobbing a courtesy and blowing a kiss from her finger-tips as we rolled away in Sir John's coach.
”The old flirt-o'-tail,” blurted Radisson, ”you could pack her brains in a hazel-nut; but 'twould turn the stomach of a grub!”
'Twas not the Whitehall you know to-day, which is but a remnant of the grand old pile that stretched all the way from the river front to the inner park. Before the fires, Whitehall was a city of palaces reaching far into St. James, with a fleet of royal barges at float below the river stairs. From Scotland Yard to Bridge Street the royal ensign blew to the wind above tower and parapet and battlement. I mind under the archway that spanned little Whitehall Street M. Radisson dismissed our coachman.
”How shall we bring up the matter of Hortense?” I asked.
”Trust me,” said Radisson. ”The G.o.ds of chance!”
”Will you pet.i.tion the king direct?”
”Egad--no! Never pet.i.tion a selfish man direct, or you'll get a No!
Bring him round to the generous, so that he may take all credit for it himself! Do you hold back among the on-lookers till I've told our story o' the north! 'Tis not a state occasion! Egad, there'll be court wenches aplenty ready to take up with a likely looking man! Have a word with Hortense if you can! Let me but get the king's ear--” And Radisson laughed with a confidence, methought, nothing on earth could shake.
Then we were pa.s.sed from the sentinel doing duty at the gate to the king's guards, and from the guards to orderlies, and from orderlies to fellows in royal colours, who led us from an ante-room to that glorious gallery of art where it pleased the king to take his pleasure that night.
It was not a state occasion, as Radisson said; but for a moment I think the glitter in which those jaded voluptuaries burned out their moth-lives blinded even the clear vision of Pierre Radisson. The great gallery was thronged with graceful courtiers and stately dowagers and gaily attired page-boys and fair ladies with a beauty of youth on their features and the satiety of age in their look. My Lord Preston, I mind, was costumed in purple velvet with tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of pearls such as a girl might wear. Young Blood moved from group to group to show his white velvets sparkling with diamonds. One of the Sidneys was there playing at hazard with my Lady Castlemaine for a monstrous pile of gold on the table, which some onlookers whispered made up three thousand guineas. As I watched my lady lost; but in spite of that, she coiled her bare arm around the gold as if to hold the winnings back.
”And indeed,” I heard her say, with a pout, ”I've a mind to prove your love! I've a mind not to pay!”
At which young Sidney kisses her finger-tips and bids her pay the debt in favours; for the way to the king was through the influence of Castlemaine or Portsmouth or other of the dissolute crew.
Round other tables sat men and women, old and young, playing away estate and fortune and honour at tick-tack or ombre or ba.s.set. One n.o.ble lord was so old that he could not see to game, and must needs have his valet by to tell him how the dice came up. On the walls hung the works of Vand.y.k.e and Correggio and Raphael and Rubens; but the pure faces of art's creation looked down on statesmen bending low to the beck of adventuresses, old men p.a.w.ning a n.o.ble name for the leer of a Portsmouth, and women vying for the glance of a jaded king.
At the far end of the apartment was a page-boy dressed as Cupid, singing love-songs. In the group of listeners lolled the languid king.
Portsmouth sat near, fanning the pa.s.sion of a poor young fool, who hung about her like a moth; but Charles was not a lover to be spurred. As Portsmouth played her ruse the more openly a contemptuous smile flitted over the proud, dark face of the king, and he only fondled his lap-dog with indifferent heed for all those flatterers and foot-lickers and curry-favours hovering round royalty.
Barillon, the French amba.s.sador, p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, I can tell you, when Chaffinch, the king's man, came back with word that His Majesty was ready to hear M. Radisson.
”Now, lad, move about and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut!”
whispers M. Radisson as he left me.
Barillon would have followed to the king's group, but His Majesty looked up with a quiet insolence that sent the amba.s.sador to another circle. Then a page-boy touched my arm.
”Master Stanhope?” he questioned.
”Yes,” said I.
”Come this way,” and he led to a tapestried corner, where sat the queen and her ladies.
Mistress Hortense stood behind the royal chair.