Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

SEVEN

Nell was a little sad at the beginning of that year. She had seen the disgrace of my lord Buckingham who had seemed such a brilliant ornament at the Court, and although she never really gave her mind to politics, she knew that even if Louise had not brought this about, she had had a hand in it. She was aware too of the growing friendship between the Lord Treasurer, the Earl of Danby, and Louise. Nell firmly believed that, while these two held their present positions, she would remain Madam Gwyn and never become a countess; and, what was more important, her two little boys would never be anything but Charles and James Beauclerk.

It was true that recently Charles had given her five hundred pounds for new hangings in her house, but even in this there was some cause for sadness. Charles was graciously apologizing for spending so little time with her.

She was not poor, but she realized that, compared with the establishments of Barbara in her heyday and Louise at present, her home was a comparatively humble one. Nell had never learned thrift, and money slipped through her hands. She was over-generous and never refused loans or alms. She had eight servants to feed, as well as her mother, herself, and her two sons. Rose’s husband, Captain Cassels, had been killed while fighting with his regiment in Holland, and there was Rose to help along.

She had her own Sedan chair, and of course she must have her French coach; six horses were needed to draw it, and bills came in for oats and hay. She liked to have people around her and was a lavish hostess.

Nell’s mother needed medicines from the apothecaries for her constant complaints, and Nell was continually paying for ointments and cordials, plague-water and clysters. The children were in need of sugar candy, pectoral syrup, and plasters. Charles was a healthy little boy; James was almost as healthy; but they suffered from the usual childish ailments and Nell was determined that they were both going to live to hold as great titles as any held by Louise’s or Barbara’s brats.

Nell had always loved the theater; she attended frequently, and the King’s mistress must have one of the best seats. She was a gambler at heart and she enjoyed a flutter either on horses or gamecocks. Mr. Groundes, her steward, remonstrated with her but, as Nell said: “If I cannot pay for my fancies, then must the bills be passed on to Mr. Chaffinch.”

She enjoyed riding forth in her coach, stopping at the Exchange to examine the goods for sale, her footman following her ready to carry her purchases. She would only buy the best for Charles and James. “Dukes’ skins they were going to be from the start,” she would declare.

But as she entertained her friends and was jolted forth in her coach, she was a little sad. It was a long time since the King had visited her, and although when they met he was friendly and always had a smile and joke for Nelly, his nights were spent with the Frenchwoman. It was almost as though he, like Louise, looked on that mock marriage as a true one and felt the need to treat it as such.

Lord Rochester, returned to Court after one of his many exiles from it, shook his head sadly.

“’Tis a pity,” he said, “that His Majesty is so enamored of the Frenchwoman.”

“There are times when I think Charles bewitched,” said Nell crossly. “When the woman isn’t squinting she is weeping, and when she’s doing both she’s spying for France. What can he find so alluring in a weeping, squinting spy?”

“Novelty in the squint, mayhap, for though he has witnessed tears and spies in plenty, I have never before seen His Majesty enamored of a squint.”

When he wandered through the Palace of Whitehall he thought of Nell who so sadly missed the King, and paused outside the door of that chamber occupied by Louise to stick on it one of those couplets for which he was renowned.

“Within this place a bed’s appointed

For a French bitch and God’s anointed.”

Louise was furious, as she always was at any affront to her dignity, and as there was no doubt of the author of the couplet she demanded that Rochester be once more banished from Court.

The King agreed that the noble Lord took liberties, and that he should be dismissed. So Rochester’s efforts to attack Nell’s enemy gained her nothing and lost her the presence of one who—although in his scurrilous verses he did not spare her—she regarded as her friend.

Moll Davies now had a daughter, but the King’s visits to her were rarer than those he paid Nell.

Louise continued to hold the King’s attention. Louise was clever and she was cautious. She had made several attempts to turn the King from the suggested Dutch marriage, but she was quick to realize that it would have been unwise to be too insistent. Her strength lay in dignity; she must never rant as Barbara had; she must never be vulgar as Nell was. Moreover she had studied Queen Catherine, and from the appearance of the Queen she judged that she would not live long. If she could take the Queen’s place Louise need never fear Louis again. The crown of England was preferable even to a tabouret at the Court of Versailles.

Nell Gwyn irritated her, but she would not lower her dignity by showing jealousy of a girl who had sold oranges at the King’s Theater.

In spite of the shadow cast by the proposed Dutch marriage, Louise had never been feeling more sure of herself. Then, suddenly, a terrible misfortune befell her.

Nell first heard of it through Rochester. Back from exile in the country, where the King never allowed him to stay for long, he called on Nell and, settling himself in one of the elaborate chairs, stretched his legs and smiling at his toes, said: “Nell, His Majesty is sick.”

Nell stood up in alarm, but Rochester waved a white hand. “I pray you calm yourself. ’Tis naught but the pox. And he hath taken it lightly. ’Twas some slut brought to him by Chaffinch. The royal body will be submitted to the usual treatment. Rejoice in this, Nell. Out of evil cometh good. Charles has not visited you of late. Rejoice, I say. For although His Majesty hath taken the sickness but slightly, the French bitch hath it far worse. ’Twill be many months before she will share a bed with God’s anointed.”

Nell laughed aloud, suddenly remembering the jalap she had served to Moll Davies.

“You are sure of this?” she asked.

“I swear it. Our lady Duchess is in a fury. She strides up and down her apartment, wailing in her own language. Now is the time for the lucky Mrs. Nelly to leap into her shoes.”

“And Charles?”

“A week or two, the usual course of pills, and all will be well. He was born healthy and, no matter to what he subjects the royal person, it remains healthy. Nelly, the enemy is hors de combat. Forget it not! Prepare to reign supreme. I hear that Louis Quatorze has sent her a diamond and pearl necklace—just to keep her spirits up. I heard too that she is to travel to Bath and Tunbridge Wells in the hope of a speedy return to health. Be ready to welcome His Majesty back to good health, sweet Nell. And remember what I tell you. Administer to His Majesty’s comfort. Let him see that his merry Nell contributes more to his peace and enjoyment than Madame Squintabella. And then … only then … remind him of your brats.”

“I will remember to remind him,” said Nell grimly.

“Do not, dear Nelly, attempt to win the last battle first. ’Tis not the way to victory.”

Then began a joyous spring and summer for Nell. She plunged right into the gaiety of the Court. The King was well again—not so Louise; and her frequent visits to Bath and Tunbridge Wells did little to relieve her. Her only consolation was to put on the magnificent necklace sent her by Louis—a reminder that she must get well quickly for there was work for her to do. But Louise knew that, if she failed to hold Charles, Louis would have little use for her. And there was nothing she could do but follow her doctor’s advice and long to return to her place at Court.

The Court went to Windsor; and there was merry sport in the green fields. A mock battle was staged to represent the siege of Maestricht. Charles was particularly interested because that was the battle at which Monmouth had excelled.

He doted on that boy, thought Nell. ’Twas a pity he had not equal pleasure in little Charles and James Beauclerk. Not that he did not show the utmost affection towards them; not that it did not delight him to take the little fellows in his arms and lavish caresses on them.

Caresses! thought Nell bitterly. They won’t make their fortunes.

Her anger against Charles’ eldest son spurted out one day.

“Ha,” she cried, “here comes Prince Perkin, to show us all how to win battles.”

The color flamed in Monmouth’s face. “Who are you to speak thus to me?” he asked. “You forget I am the King’s son, whereas you … you belong to the gutter.”

“’Tis true,” said Nell cheerfully. “I and your mother are much of a piece—both whores and both come up from the gutter.”

Monmouth passed, cursing the low orange-girl whom his father was besotted enough to honor.

But Nell was not really angry with Monmouth. She found she could not be. She saw in him a resemblance to her own little Charles. They’re halfbrothers, she thought. She could understand Monmouth’s ambitions. Had she not felt the same about her own boys?

Now she began to regard the handsome young man with a maternal eye. Strangely enough he found his arrogance quelled a little. Nell was low—none would deny that; but she was a born charmer; and to see those saucy eyes, momentarily sentimental and maternal as they rested upon him, could not but give the young Duke a feeling of pleasure.

He decided that, although she made the most outrageous comments and had no sense of the fitness of things, the little orange-girl was not without her attractions, and for the life of him he could not dislike her as he felt a young man in his position should.

Meanwhile Nell was back in high favor. Now Charles was wondering why he had neglected her so long. It was pleasant to escape from Louise’s culture and enjoy a romp with Nell. Nell was so natural; moreover she learned quickly. She was already developing a taste for the kind of music which pleased the King.

It never failed to amuse him to see her in her apartments, the grand lady Madam Eleanor Gwyn. It grieved him that he could as yet do nothing for the boys, but he promised himself he would as soon as he felt it was safe to do so.

The King, recovered from his illness, was in good spirits. He recalled Rochester, for, although he could not entirely like the fellow, he knew of none who could write such witty verses and make him laugh so heartily—even though it was often at the King’s expense.

The Court was merry. Charles refused to be worried by affairs of state. Louise was in retirement and, as there was no need to stand on dignity, there was much merrymaking during these months with Nell reigning supreme as the Queen of the Court, determined to enjoy every moment before that time when Louise must inevitably come forward and send her back a pace or two.

One day, when the King rose, it was to find one of Rochester’s verses stuck on his door.

The courtiers gathered about him to read it.

Charles read aloud:

“Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King

Whose word no man relies on.

He never said a foolish thing

And never did a wise one.”

There was an expectant hush when the King finished reading. A man must indeed have a lively sense of humor to be able to laugh at what he knew to be so true of himself.

There was Rochester in the background, debonair and reckless, not caring if the verses earned him another banishment from the Court he loved to grace. How could he, his expression demanded, refrain from writing such neat and witty verses when they occurred to him and happened to be so true?

The King laughed suddenly and loudly.

“Why, my friends,” he said to the company, “‘tis true, what he says, but the matter is easily accounted for—my discourse is my own, my actions are my Ministry’s.”

Indeed it was a very merry Court during those months.

Nell gave a musical party in her finely furnished house; it was looking particularly grand, for if the King could not give her the titles she craved for her sons, he tried hard to make up for that with his gifts.

Nell, looking round the room, could hardly believe that this was now her home. It was not easy to conjure up the memory of that hovel in the Cole-yard now. Yet when she went up to that room where her mother would now be sleeping, the gin bottle not far out of reach, it was not so difficult.

But what a sight this was, with the candlelight gleaming on the rich dress of ladies and Court gallants! Nell glanced at her own skirts covered in silver and gold lace, at the jewels glittering on her fingers.

She, little Nell Gwyn of the Cole-yard, was giving a party at which the principal guests were the King and his brother, the Duke of York.

This was a particularly happy evening for Nell, because during it she would have a chance to do a good turn to a poor player from the theater. He had a beautiful voice, this young Bowman, and she wanted the King to hear it and compliment him, for the King’s compliments would mean that London playgoers would crowd into the theater to hear the man; and it was a mighty pleasant thing, thought Nell, having had one’s feet set on the road to good fortune to do all in one’s power to lead others that way.

She watched the King’s expression as he listened to the singing. She sidled up to him.

“A good performer, Nell,” he said.

“I am delighted so to please Your Majesty,” she told him. “I wish to bring the singer to you that you may thank him personally. It will mean much to the boy.”

“Do so, Nell, if it be your wish,” said Charles and, as he watched her small figure whisk away, he thought affectionately that it was like Nell, in the midst of her extravagant splendor, to think of those less fortunate. He was happy with Nell. If she did not continuously plague him about those boys of hers he would know complete peace with her. But she was right, of course, to do what she could for their sons. He would not have her neglectful of their welfare. And one day she should be rewarded. As soon as it was possible he would give young Charles all that he had given Barbara’s and Louise’s.

Nell was approaching with young Bowman, who nervously stood before the King.

“I thank you heartily for your music,” said Charles warmly. He would not deny Nell the appreciation which she wanted. That cost nothing, and he wanted her to know that, were he in a position to do so, he would grant all her requests. “I thank you heartily again and again.”

Nell was at his side. “Sir,” she said, “to show you do not speak like a courtier, could you not make the performers a worthy present?”

“Assuredly yes,” said the King, and felt in his pockets. He grimaced. He was without money. He called to his brother.

“James, I beg of you reward these good musicians in my name.”

James discovered that he, too, had left his purse in his apartments.

“I have nothing here, Sir,” he said, “naught but a guinea or two.”

Nell stood, arms akimbo, looking from the King to the Duke.

“Od’s Fish!” she cried. “What company have I got into?”

There was laughter all round; and none laughed more heartily than the King.

Nell was happy, delighting in her fine apartments, the favor she enjoyed with the King, and the love she bore him.

All the same she did not forget to make sure that the musicians were adequately rewarded.

It was a successful evening among many.

Thus it was while Louise nursed herself back to health.

Louise was recovered, and now the King was dividing his time between her and Nell. Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland, although no longer in favor with the King, continued to fight for the rights of those children whom she declared were as much his as her own. Louise felt that by some divine right her own son should have the precedence over Barbara’s. The King was pestered first by one, then by the other. Barbara’s sons were to be the Dukes of Grafton and Southampton; Louise’s was to have the title of Duke of Richmond, which was vacant on the death of Frances Stuart’s husband. But Charles must arrange that the patents be passed all at the same time, to avoid jealousy.

Still there were no titles for Charles and James Beauclerk. Nell was unable to conceal her chagrin. She could not refrain from insulting Louise on every possible occasion. “If she is a person of such rank, related to all the nobility of France,” she demanded, “why does she play the whore? I’m a doxy by profession, and I do not pretend to be anything else. I am constant to the King, and I know that he will not continue to pass over my boys.”

But Louise had now managed to win Danby to her side, and Danby’s position was high in the country. Charles could not ignore him because his wizardry in matters of finance had made such marked improvements in Charles’ affairs. Nell knew that she owed her own and her sons’ lack of honors to the Danby-Portsmouth league, and she was also wise enough to know that while Danby remained in power she would find it very difficult to get the recognition she so eagerly desired.

Danby was fast building up the Court party of which he was the head. He wanted to revive the Divine Right of Kings and the absolutism of the monarchy as in the days of Charles I. In opposition, the Country party, led by Shaftesbury with Buckingham as his lieutenant, aimed to support the Parliament. Danby’s party called Shaftesbury’s party Whigs, which was a term hitherto only applied to Scottish robbers who raided the border and stole their neighbors’ goods under a cloak of hypocrisy. Shaftesbury retaliated by dubbing Danby’s party Tories, a term used in Ireland for those who were superstitious, bloodthirsty, ignorant, and not to be trusted.

The King watched the rivalry with seeming indifference, but he was alert. He recognized the skill of Shaftesbury—the cleverest and most formidable member of the Opposition party. Charles and his brother James had nicknamed him “Little Sincerity.” He was a small man who suffered much from ill health at this time; he had changed sides many times during the course of the last few years. When the civil war had started he had been cautious and retiring, waiting to see which side could serve him best. When it seemed the Royalists were winning he hastily joined them, and then was forced to desert to the other side with the greatest speed. He became a Field Marshal in Cromwell’s armies; but while he kept close to Cromwell he took the precaution to marry a woman who was of a Royalist family. She died early, which was to the good, for Cromwell then became Lord Protector and the lady’s background might have been an encumbrance to an ambitious man. Afterwards he married an heiress. He was clever enough to join none of the Royalist risings, but he was one of the first to present himself at Charles’ exiled Court to welcome him back to England. He took a great part in the downfall of Clarendon, who held a post which he coveted. When the Great Seal was his, he was quick to see that the Opposition was likely to be very powerful; he had no wish to commit himself too hurriedly to support that which might prove to be a lost cause. But he was forced at this time to waver no longer. His way was clear. He must make Parliament supreme, for he clearly saw that his destiny lay therein. If Parliament were supreme, then Shaftesbury should be its head.

He did not underrate the King. Charles was lazy. As Buckingham had once said, “he could if he would,” and never had Buckingham said a truer word. It was only poor James of York who “would if he could.” Between lazy Charles and aspiring James, one must walk with caution.

Charles had once said to him: “I believe you are the wickedest dog in England.”

Shaftesbury, whose tongue was as quick as his mind, retorted: “May it please Your Majesty, of a subject, I believe I am.”

Charles could never resist a witty rejoinder; he knew “Little Sincerity” for a man without scruples, but he had to respect that quick and clever brain; in his continual tussles with his Parliament it was men such as Shaftesbury whom he must needs watch.

Nell, looking on, understanding little of politics, accepted Danby as her enemy because he and Louise were friends; Buckingham, friend of Shaftesbury, had been the means of bringing her to the attention of the King; so she looked upon Buckingham as her friend. The reckless Rochester was Buckingham’s friend and therefore inclined to support the. Shaftesbury party. So to her house these men came, and it was at her table they sat and discussed their plans. One of these, which was formulating in the agile brain of Shaftesbury, was to have Monmouth proclaimed legitimate and, on the King’s death, set upon the throne as a puppet who would do his bidding; Shaftesbury and Buckingham were formidable enemies of the Duke of York.

Monmouth, too, came to Nell’s parties, and an affection sprang up between them. Nell continued to refer to the proud young man as Prince Perkin and the Pretender, but Monmouth had to accept such inroads on his dignity as “Nelly’s talk.”

Charles knew of Nell’s Whig friends, but he knew Nell. She was completely loyal to him as a man. She saw him, not only as the King, but in that inimitable way of hers which made him feel half husband, half son. She was lustily ready for passion, but the maternal instinct was always there; and Charles knew that Nell was the one person in his kingdom who could be relied upon for disinterested love. It was true she pestered at times: titles for her sons, a grand title for herself. But he always remembered that she had not done this until her sons were born, and it was that maternal instinct which prompted her to do so now. Honors for her sons she must have. And she wanted the boys not to be ashamed of their mother.

He made no effort to stop those entertainments she gave to these men whom he knew were trying to shatter the doctrine of the Divine Right of Kings. Nell was careless; she did not realize that she was dabbling in high politics. Often unconsciously she gave away little bits of information which were useful. His affection for her, as hers for him, burned steadily, no matter what he felt now and then for others.

As for Louise, he had not felt the same for her since their enforced separation. She had forgotten her gentle manners when she realized that she had caught the sickness. She had railed against him in her fury; it had been necessary to give her a handsome present to pacify her. Not, she had declared, that anything could pacify her for the loss of her health, and for the terrible indignity of being forced to suffer from such a disease, and he believed that her manner of fretting, her anger and railings had impeded her recovery.

He would not have been altogether displeased if Louise had told him she intended to return to France. He could not, of course, suggest that she should go. That would offend Louis, and he dared not do that at this stage. Moreover it was well for Louis to believe he had a spy close to the King of England.

Charles would employ tactics not new to him in his relationship with Louise. He would placate and promise; but it did not mean that he would keep his promises.

He brooded on these matters as he attended race meetings at Newmarket or sat fishing at Windsor, or strolled in St. James’ Park, feeding the ducks, his dogs at his heels, sauntering with the wits and ladies who delighted him.

He heard that Clarendon had died in Rouen, and that saddened him a little, for he had never forgotten the old man who had served him so well in the days of his exile. John Milton, who had written Paradise Lost, died also. No one greatly cared. The witty and scurrilous verses of Rochester were more widely read than Milton’s epic poetry. These reminders of death turned the King’s thoughts into melancholy channels. He recalled Jemmy’s unhealthy thoughts. If it were true that Shaftesbury planned to make Mon-mouth heir, what of James, Duke of York? James was at heart a good man, but he was by no means a clever one. James would deem it his duty to fight for what he believed to be right, and he was a Stuart who believed that kings ruled by Divine Right and that they were God’s anointed.

Trouble lies ahead, thought the King uneasily. Then characteristically: But it is my death that sets light to the train of powder. When I am dead what concern shall it be of mine?

So he fished and sauntered, divided his time between Louise and Nell, vaguely wished that Louise would go back to France, vaguely hoped that he could give Nell her heart’s desire and make her sons the little lords she would have them be.

With the coming of the new year there was a change at Court.

A small party on horseback came clattering through the streets. The leader of this party, wearing jacket, plumed hat, and a periwig, was Hortense Mancini, Duchess Mazarin. Her great eyes seemed black but on closer inspection were seen to be a shade of blue so dark as to resemble the color of violets; her hair was bluish-black, her features classic, her figure voluptuously beautiful. She was known throughout Europe as the most beautiful woman in the world, and all those who saw her believed that she was justly described.

She had brought with her a few of her personal servants—five men and two women—and at her side rode her little black page who prepared her coffee.

She drew up at the house of Lady Elizabeth Harvey, who came out to greet her and let her know that she was delighted to welcome her.

The citizens of London saw her no more that day. They stood about in the keen frosty air telling themselves that, the woman being so beautiful, and the King’s reputation being what it was, she could have come to England for one purpose only.

They waited now to witness the discomfiture of Madam Carwell, as they had called Louise since her arrival in England. They refused to try to pronounce Kéroualle. Louise was Carwell to them, and no fine English title was going to alter that. It would please the Londoners to see her neglected whom they called The Catholic Whore.

Here was another foreigner, but this woman was at least a beauty, and they would be glad to see their King lured from the side of the squint-eyed French spy.

Louise was worried. She believed that she had lost her hold on the King. She knew that that hold had largely been due to the fact that she had not been easy to seduce. She could not, of course, have held out any longer; to have done so might have made the King realize that he did not greatly desire her.

The sickness which she had contracted had not only taken its toll of her looks; it had left her nervous, and she wondered whether she could ever regain the health she had once enjoyed. She had grown fat and, although the King had nicknamed her Fubbs with the utmost affection, she felt the name carried with it a certain lack of dignity. She was beginning to fear that had Charles been less indulgent, less careless, she would have been passed over long ago.

She did not believe that he did half those things which he promised he would do and which she was commanded by the French King through Courtin, the French ambassador, to persuade him to.

He would look at her with that shrewd yet lazy smile and say: “So you would advise that, Fubbs? Ah, yes, of course, I understand.”

She often heard him laugh uproariously at some of Nell Gwyn’s comments and frequently these were uttered to discountenance herself. And now this most disturbing news had reached her. Hortense Mancini was in London.

There was no one in England whom she could really trust. Buckingham, her enemy, was in decline, but for how long would he remain so? Shaftesbury hated her and would want to destroy her influence with the King, since he was anti-Catholic and she had heard through Courtin that he was planning to expunge all popery from the country. It might have been that Shaftesbury knew of that secret clause in the Treaty of Dover concerning the King’s religion; if so, he would know that she had her instructions from Louis to make the King’s conversion complete and public as soon as she could.

She was trembling, for she had lost some of her calmness during her illness.

She decided that there was only one person in England who would help her now, and that the time had come for her to redeem those vague promises which she had held out to him. She dressed herself with care. In spite of her increased bulk she knew well how to dress to advantage and she had taste and poise which few ladies at Court possessed.

She sent one of her women to Lord Danby’s apartments with a message which was to be discreetly delivered and which explained that she would shortly be coming to see him, and she hoped he would be able to give her a private interview.

The woman quickly returned with the news that Lord Danby eagerly awaited her coming.

He received her with a show of respect.

“I am honored to receive Your Grace.”

“I trust that in coming thus for a friendly talk I do not encroach on your time.”

“Time is well spent in your company,” said Danby. He had guessed the cause of her alarm. “I hear that we have a foreign Duchess newly arrived among us.”

“It is Madame Mazarin … notorious in all the Courts of Europe.”

“And doubtless come to win notoriety in this one,” said Danby slyly.

Louise flinched. “I doubt it not. If you know aught …” she began.

Danby looked at his fingernails. “I gather,” he said, “that she does not wish to live in the Palace, as Your Grace does.”

“She comes because she is poor,” said Louise. “I have heard that that mad husband of hers quickly dissipated the fortune she inherited from her uncle.”

“’Tis true. She has let His Majesty know that she must have an adequate income before taking up her apartments in Whitehall.”

Louise came closer to him. She said nothing, but her meaning was clear to him: You will advise the King against providing this income. You, whose financial genius enables you to enrich yourself while you suppress waste in others, you, under whom the King’s budget has been balanced, will do all in your power to prevent his giving this woman what she asks. You will range yourself on the side of the Duchess of Portsmouth, which means that you will be the enemy of the Duchess Mazarin.

Why not? thought Danby excitedly. Intrigue was stimulating. Discovery? Charles never blamed others for falling into temptation which he himself made no attempt to resist.

He took her hand and kissed it. When she allowed it to remain in his, he was sure.

“Your Grace is more beautiful than before your illness,” he said; and he laughed inwardly, realizing that she, the coldest woman at Court, was offering herself in exchange for his protection.

He kissed her without respect, without affection. He was accustomed to taking bribes.

Hortense received the King at the house of Lady Elizabeth Harvey.

She had guessed that as soon as he heard of her arrival in his capital he would wish to visit her. It was exactly what Hortense wanted.

She lay back on a sofa awaiting him. She was voluptuously beautiful and, although she was thirty and had led a wild and adventurous life, her beauty was in no way impaired. Her perfect classical features would remain perfect and classical as long as she lived. Her abundant bluish-black hair fell curling about her bare shoulders; but her most beautiful assets were her wonderful violet eyes.

Hortense was imperturbably good-humored, lazy, of a temperament to match the King’s; completely sensual, she was widely experienced in amatory adventures. She had often been advised that she would do well to visit England, and had again and again decided to renew her acquaintance with Charles; but each time something had happened to prevent her, some new lover had beguiled her and made her forget the man who had wished to be her lover in her youth. It was sheer poverty which had driven her to England now—sheer poverty and the fact that she had created such a scandal in Savoy that she had been asked to leave. The last three scandalous years had been spent in the company of César Vicard, a dashing, handsome young man who had posed as the Abbé of St Réal. When the letters which had passed between the Duchess and the soi-disant Abbé had been discovered, they, completely lacking in reticence, had so shocked those into whose hands they fell, that the Duchess had been asked to leave Savoy.

So, finding herself poor and in need of refuge, Hortense had come to England. She knew no fear. She had faced the perilous crossing in the depth of winter, and with a few servants had come to a completely strange country, never doubting that her spectacular beauty would ensure for her a position at Court.

Charles strode in, took her hand, and kissed it while his eyes did not leave her face.

“Hortense!” he cried. “But you are the same Hortense whom I loved all those years ago. No, not the same. Od’s Fish, I should not have believed then that it was possible for any to be more beautiful than the youngest of les Mazarinettes. But I see that there is one more fair: the Duchess Mazarin—Hortense grown up.”

She laughed at him and waved him to be seated with a fascinating easy gesture as though she were the Queen, he the subject. Charles did not mind. He felt that he should indeed forget his royalty in the presence of such beauty.

The long lashes lay against her olive skin. Charles stared at the beautiful blue-black hair lying so negligently on the bare shoulders. This languid beauty aroused in him such desire as he rarely felt nowadays. He knew that his bout of sickness had changed him; he was not the man he had been. But he was determined that Hortense should become his mistress.

“You should not be here,” he said. “You should come to Whitehall at once.”

“Nay,” she said, smiling her indolent smile. “Mayhap later. If it could be arranged.”

“But it shall be arranged.”

She laughed. There was no pretence about her. She had been brought up at the French Court. She had all the graces of that Court and she had learned to be practical.

“I am very poor,” she said.

“I heard that you had inherited the whole of your uncle’s fortune.”

“’Twas so,” said Hortense. “Armand, my husband, quickly took possession of it.”

“What! All of it?”

“All of it. But what mattered that? I escaped.”

“We have heard of your adventures, Hortense. I wonder you did not visit me before.”

“Suffice it that I have come now.”

Charles was thinking quickly. She would ask for a pension, and if it were large enough she would move into Whitehall. He must see Danby quickly and something must be arranged. But he would not discuss that with her now. She was Italian, brought up in France, and therefore, indolent as she seemed, she would know how to drive her bargain. It was not that he was averse to discussing money with a woman; but he feared she would ask too much and he be unable to refuse her.

He satisfied himself with contemplating that incomparable beauty and telling himself that she would be his mistress all in good time.

“We should have married,” he said.

“Ah! How it reminds me. And what an enchanting husband you would have made! Far better than Armand who forced me to fly from him.”

“Your uncle would have none of me. He did not wish to give his niece to a wandering prince without a kingdom.”

“’Twas a sad thing that you did not regain your kingdom earlier.”

“I have often thought it … Now, having seen you, I regret it more than ever, since, had I been a King with a country when I asked for your hand, it would not have been refused me.”

“Marie, too, might have been a Queen,” said Hortense. “But our uncle would not let her be. Think of it! Marie might have been Queen of France and I Queen of England—but for Uncle Mazarin.”

Charles looked into her face, marveling at its perfections, but Hortense’s dreamy thoughts were far away. She was thinking of the French Court where she had been brought up with her four sisters, Laura, Olympia, Marie, Mariana. They had all joined in the ballets devised for the little King and his brother Philippe; and her uncle, Cardinal Mazarin, and Louis’ mother, Anne of Austria, had ruled France between them. All the Cardinal’s nieces had been noted for their beauty, but many said that little Hortense was the loveliest of them all. What graces they had learned in that most graceful Court!

She remembered that Louis—impressionable and idealistic—had fallen in love first with Olympia and then more passionately, more seriously with Marie. She remembered Marie’s unhappiness, the tears, the heartbreak. She remembered Louis, so young, so determined to have his own way and marry Marie. Poor Louis! And poor Marie!

It was the Cardinal who had ruined their hopes. Some men would have rejoiced to see a niece the Queen of France. Not Mazarin. He feared the French. They hated him and blamed him for all their misfortunes; he believed that if he allowed their King to marry his niece they would have risen against him, and there would have been revolution in France. He remembered the civil war of the Fronde. Perhaps he had been wise. But what misery the young people had suffered. Louis had married the plain little Infanta of Spain, Marie Thérèse, whom he would never love, and now his love affairs were the talk of the world. And poor Marie! She had been hastily married to Lorenzo Colonna who was the Grand Constable of Naples; and he had succeeded in making her as unhappy as she had made him and as, doubtless, Marie Thérèse, the meek and prim little Spaniard, had made Louis.

And Charles, seeing the young Hortense, and connoisseur of beauty that he was even in those days, had declared that he would be happy to make her his wife. He had urgent need of the money which would have helped him to regain his throne, and it was known that the Cardinal’s wealth would go to his nieces. To the penurious exile the exquisite and wealthy child had seemed an ideal match.

But the Cardinal had frowned on Charles’ offer. He saw the young man as a reckless profligate who would never regain his throne, and he did not wish his niece to link her fortunes with such a man.

So the Cardinal had prevented his two nieces from becoming queens. He had torn them from two charming people that they might make marriages with unhappy results to all concerned.

“Those days are long ago,” said Charles. “’Tis a sad habit to brood on what might have been. ’Tis a happier one to let the present make up for the disappointments of the past.”

“Which we should do?”

“Which we shall do,” said Charles vehemently.

“It is good of you to offer me refuge here,” said Hortense.

“Good! Nay, ’tis what all the world would expect of me.”

Hortense laughed that low and musical laugh of hers. “And of me,” she said.

“Od’s Fish! I wonder you did not come before.”

Hortense’s dreamy eyes looked back once more into the past. César Vicard had been an exciting lover. It had not been her wish to leave him. There had been others equally exciting, equally enthralling, and she would have been too indolent to leave any of them had circumstances not made it necessary for her to do so.

Yet she had left her husband and four children. So in a dire emergency she could rouse herself.

“It is an adventure,” she said, “to come to a new country.”

“And to an old friend?” he asked passionately.

“It was so long ago. So much has happened. You may have heard of the life I led with Armand.”

“Vague rumors reached me.”

“You wonder why my uncle arranged that marriage,” she said. “I might have had Charles Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy. He would have made a better husband. At least he was called Charles. Then there was Pedro of Portugal, and the Maréchal Turenne.”

“The last would have been a little aged for you, I imagine.”

“Thirty-five years older. But life with him could not have been worse than it was with Armand. Even the Prince de Cortenay who, I knew, concerned himself with my uncle’s money rather than with myself …”

“The graceless fool!” said Charles softly.

“He could not have made my life more intolerable than did Armand.”

“Your uncle delayed marrying you so often that when he was on his deathbed he acted without due thought in that important matter.”

“To my cost.”

“It was so unsatisfactory?”

“I was fifteen, he was thirty. Some I could have understood. Some I could have excused. A libertine … yes; I have never pretended to be a saint. He had a fine title: Armand de la Porte Marquis de Meilleraye and Grand Master of the Artillery of France. Would you have expected such a one to be a bigot … a madman? But he was. We had not been married many months when he became obsessed with the idea that everyone about him was impure, and that it was his duty to purify them. He sought to purify statues, pictures …”

“Sacrilege!” said Charles.

“And myself.”

“Greater sacrilege!” murmured Charles.

Hortense laughed lightly. “Do you blame me for leaving him? How could I stay? I endured that life for seven wretched years. I saw my fortune being dissipated—and not in the way one would expect a husband to dissipate his wife’s fortune. He agreed to take my uncle’s name. Uncle thought he would be amenable. We became the Duc and Duchesse Mazarin. Uncle would not allow him to use the ‘de.’ He said: ‘Not Hortense, my fortune, and de Mazarin. That is too much. Hortense, yes. A fortune, yes. But you call yourself plain Duc Mazarin.’”

Charles laughed. “That is characteristic of the old man.”

“And so to me came the Palais Mazarin. You remember it—in the Rue de Richelieu—and with it came the Hôtel Tuboeuf and the picture and sculpture galleries, those which had been built by Mazard, as well as the property in the Rue des Petits Champs.”

“Such treasures! They must have been as good as anything Louis had in the Louvre.”

“Indeed yes. Pictures by the greatest artists. Statues, priceless books, furniture … It all came to me.”

“And he—your husband—sold it and so frittered away your inheritance?”

“He sold some. He thought it was wrong for a woman to adorn herself with jewels. He was verging on madness from the very beginning. I remember how I first came upon him before a great masterpiece, a brush in his hand. I said to him: ‘Armand, what are you doing? Are you imagining that you are a great painter?’ And he stood up, pointing the brush at the painting, his eyes blazing with what I can only believe was madness. He said: ‘These pictures are indecent. No one should look on such nakedness. All the servants here will be corrupted.’ And I looked closer and saw that he had been painting over the nudes. There were his crude additions, ruining masterpieces. That was not all. He took a hammer and smashed many of the statues. I dare not think how much he has wantonly destroyed.”

“And you lived with that man for seven years!”

“Seven years! I thought it my duty to do so. Oh, he was a madman. He forbade the maidservants to milk the cows, for he said this might put indecent thoughts into their heads. He wanted to extract our daughter’s front teeth because they were well-formed and he feared they might give rise to vanity. He wrote to Louis, telling him that he had had instructions from the Angel Gabriel to warn the King that disaster would overtake him if he did not immediately give up Louise de la Vallière. You see he was mad—quite mad. But I was glad later that he had written to Louis thus, for when I ran away from him he asked Louis to insist on my returning to him, and Louis’ answer was that he was sure Armand’s good friend the Angel Gabriel, with whom he seemed to be on such excellent terms, could help him more in this matter than could the King of France.”

Charles laughed. “Ah, you did well to leave such a madman. The only complaint I would make is that you waited so long before coming to England.”

“Oh, I was in and out of convents. And believe me, Charles, in some of these convents the life is rigorous indeed. I would as lief be a prisoner in the Bastille as in some of them. I was in the Convent of the Daughters of Mary, in Paris, and I was right glad to leave it.”

“You were meant to grace a Court, never a convent,” said Charles.

She sighed. “I feel as though I may have come home. This is a country strange to me, but I have good friends here. My little cousin, Mary Beatrice, the wife of your own brother, is here. How I long to see her! And there is you, my dear Charles, the friend of my childhood. How fares Mary Beatrice?”

“She grows reconciled to her aged husband. I have become her friend. That was inevitable because, from the first, she reminded me of you.”

She smiled lazily. “Then of course there is my old friend, St. Evremond. He has long been urging me to come to England.”

“Good St. Evremond! I always liked the fellow. He has settled happily here; I like his wit.”

“So you have made him Master of your ducks, I hear.”

“A task well suited to his talents,” said Charles, “for there is nothing he need do but watch the creatures and now and then throw them something to eat; but to perform this task he must saunter in the Park and converse while he stands beside the lake. It is a pleasure to saunter and converse with him.”

“I wonder does he grow homesick for France? Does he wish he had not been so indiscreet as to criticize my uncle at the time of the Treaty of the Pyrenees?”

“Does he tell you?”

“He tells me that he would never wish to leave England if I were there.”

“So he has helped to bring you. I must reward my keeper of the ducks.”

“He but spoke like a courtier, I doubt not.”

“All men would speak like courtiers to you, Hortense.”

“As they do to all women.”

“With you they would mean the fulsome things they say.”

She laughed. “I will call my blackamoor to make coffee for Your Majesty. You will never have tasted coffee such as he can brew.”

“And while we talk, we will arrange for you to move to Whitehall.”

“Nay, I would not do so. I would prefer a house … nearby. I do not think Her Grace of Portsmouth would wish me to have my quarters in Whitehall Palace.”

“It is spacious. I have made improvements, and it is not the rambling mass of buildings it was when’ I came back to England.”

“Nevertheless, I would prefer to be nearby, you understand, but not too near.”

Charles was thinking quickly. He was determined to lose no time in making this exciting addition to his seraglio.

With amusement he accepted coffee from Hortense’s little slave, and as he sipped it he said: “Lord Windsor, who is Master of Horse to the Duchess of York, would most gladly vacate his house for you. It faces St. James’ Park and would suit you very happily, I doubt not.”

“It seems as though Your Majesty is ready to make me very happy in England.”

“I shall set about that task with all my heart and soul,” said Charles, taking her hand and kissing it.

It was some months before Hortense moved to Whitehall. The question of money was a delicate one. Charles had placed himself in Danby’s hands, for Danby had proved his worth in matters of finance.

Danby had summed up the character of the beautiful Hortense: Sensual, but by no means vicious; cultured, but by no means shrewd. She would let great opportunities elude her, not because she did not see them, but because she was too indolent to seize them.

He did not believe that she would long hold the King’s undivided attention. She was more beautiful than any of the King’s ladies, it was true, but Charles nowadays wanted more than beauty. Hortense desired a large pension because she needed it to live in the state to which she was accustomed. She had no wish to store up for herself great wealth as Louise did. She would not ask for honors, titles; she did not wish to reign as a queen in the Court. She wanted to be lazily content with good food, good wine, a lover capable of satisfying her. She would never intrigue.

Danby had decided that he would be well advised to support Louise. Therefore he held the King back from supplying the large income which Hortense demanded.

Hortense was, he knew, hoping that her husband would give her a bigger allowance than the four hundred pounds a year which was all he would allow her out of the vast fortune she had brought him. Danby believed that if Hortense received what she wanted she would accept Charles as a lover whether he supplied the income or not. That was Hortense’s nature. She now asked £4,000 a year from Charles. But, as Danby pointed out, that would not be all she would ask.

Hortense was extravagant by nature. She had told Charles of how, one day shortly before her uncle’s death, she had thrown three hundred pistoles out of the window of the Palais Mazarin because she liked to see the servants scramble for them and fight each other.

“Uncle was such a careful man,” Hortense had said. “Some say my action shortened his life. But it did not prevent his leaving me his fortune.”

Oh yes, Danby pointed out, if the King wished to keep his exchequer in order, they must be careful of such a woman.

But the whole country was talking of the King’s latest mistress. Sir Carr Scrope wrote in the prologue to Etherege’s Man of Mode which was produced in the King’s Theater that year:

“Of foreign women why should we fetch the scum

When we can be so richly served at home?”

And the audience roared its approval of the lines, although most people declared that anything was worthwhile if it put Madam Carwell’s nose out of joint.

But Charles was impatient. He insisted on the pension’s being paid, and as there was no hope of Hortense’s being able to persuade Louis to force her husband to increase her allowance, she accepted Charles’ offer and became his mistress.

Louise was distraught. Nell shrugged her shoulders. She was beginning to understand her position at Court. She was there when she was wanted, ready to make sport and be gay. She never reproached Charles for his infidelities. She knew she was safe and that no reigning beauty would be able to displace her. For one thing, Charles would never let her go. She was the buffoon, the female court jester, apart from all others. This was a battle between Louise and Hortense, and Hortense held all the cards which should bring victory. She was so beautiful that people waited in the streets to see her pass. She was deeply sensual. Louise was cold by nature, and had to pretend to share Charles’ pleasure in their relations. Hortense had no need to pretend. Louise must constantly be considering instructions from France, and the King knew it. Hortense need consider nothing but her own immediate satisfaction. Hortense never showed jealousy of Louise; Louise continually showed jealousy of Hortense. Hortense offered not only sexual delight but peace. In this she was like Nell. But she lacked Nell’s maternal devotion and she lacked Nell’s constancy—although this was not apparent at this stage.

Edmund Waller wrote a set of verses called The Triple Combat, in which he portrayed the three chief mistresses struggling for supremacy. The country was amused; so was the Court. Charles acquired a new nickname—Chanticleer; and everyone was aware of how the affair progressed. Barbara had left for France, and Charles had at last made it clear that he wished to sever their relationship. “All that I ask of you,” he had said, “is to make as little noise as you can and I care not whom you love.”

Louise, who had been with child, suffered a miscarriage, and appeared at Court looking thin and ill. She had a slight affliction of one eye, and the skin round the affected eye became discolored.

“It would seem,” said Rochester, “that Her Grace, aware of the superior attractions of Madame Mazarin’s dark eyes, would seek to transform herself into a brunette.”

The Court took up the story. Everyone was only too glad to jeer at Madam Carwell.

Louise was indeed melancholy. She feared that that nightmare, which had haunted her whenever she felt she was losing her hold on Charles, would become a reality. She was terrified that Hortense would persuade the King to send her, Louise, back to France and he, unable to deny his latest mistress what she asked, would agree. Louise need not have worried on that score, for Hortense would never bestir herself to make such demands.

Nell, as merry as ever, appeared at Court dressed in mourning.

“For whom do you mourn?” she was asked.

“For the discarded Duchess and her dead hopes,” explained Nell maliciously.

The King heard of this and was amused. He wished now and then that Louise would go back to France, but he was determined that whatever happened he would keep Nell at hand. It was pleasant to remember that she was always there, ready, without recriminations, to make good sport.

Louise lifted tearful eyes to the King. She had wept so much that those eyes, never big, seemed almost to have shrunk into her head. Her recent miscarriage and her illness of the previous year had undermined her health considerably. Charles would have been sorry for her had she been less sorry for herself. Although he was kind as always, Louise sensed that his thoughts were far away—she believed with Hortense—and she fancied she saw distaste in his eyes.

None of Charles’ mistresses—not even Barbara—had been so acquisitive as Louise, and her great consolation now was that she and her sister Henriette, whom she had brought to England and married to the dissolute Earl of Pembroke, were very rich. But was that to be the only gratification of one who had sought to be a queen?

“I have served Your Majesty with all my heart,” began Louise.

She did not understand him. Recriminations dulled his pity.

“You are the friend of Kings,” he said.

She noticed that he used the plural, and her hopes sank.

A less kindly man would have called her Louis’ spy.

She said: “I come to ask Your Majesty’s leave to retire to Bath. There I think I might take the waters and regain my health.”

Her eyes were pleading with him: Forbid me to go. Tell me that you wish to keep me beside you.

But Charles had brightened. “My dear Fubbs,” he said, “by all means go to Bath. One of my favorite cities. There you will recover your health, I doubt not. Lose no time in going there.”

It was a sorrowing Louise who made arrangements for the journey.

She did not know that the King was no longer as completely enamored of Hortense as he had been. She was beautiful—the most beautiful woman in his kingdom—he was ready to admit that. But beauty was not all. She had brought into her house a French croupier, Morin, and had introduced the game of basset to England. The King deplored gambling. He had always sought to lure his mistresses from the gaming table. It had always proved less costly in the long run to provide them with masques and banquets. He was therefore annoyed with Hortense for introducing a new form of gambling.

The little Countess of Sussex, Barbara’s daughter, who was reputed to be Charles’ also, was completely charmed by Hortense. She would not leave her side and Hortense, attracted by the little girl, gave herself up to playing games with her. This was very charming, but often when the King wished for Hortense’s company Hortense could not tear herself away from his daughter.

There was another matter which was changing the King’s attitude. She had a lover. This was the young and handsome Prince of Monaco who was visiting England. He had come, it was said, all the way from Monte Carlo with the express purpose of making Hortense his mistress.

Hortense was unable to resist his good looks and his youth. The young man became a constant visitor at her house, for Hortense was too reckless, too careless of the future, to hide her infatuation for him.

Barbara had taken lovers while she was the King’s mistress, and he had gone back again and again to Barbara; but those were different days. He was almost forty-seven—no longer so young, and even his amazing virility was beginning to fade. Since he had recovered from his illness he appeared to be sterile, for he had fathered no child since the birth of Moll Davies’ daughter.

He was growing old; therefore that immense infatuation he had felt for Hortense, and which had flared up so suddenly, as suddenly died down. He wanted to be amused. Louise was no good at amusing him. She would only weep and recount her ills. So he made his way to Nell’s house in Pall Mall.

Nell was delighted to receive him. There she was, ready to act court jester, ready to laugh at him, the disconsolate lover who had been disappointed in his mistress, but ready to comfort, ready to show beneath all that banter and high spirits that she felt motherly towards him and was really very angry with the foolish Hortense for preferring the Prince of Monaco.

Buckingham was often at Nell’s house. So was Monmouth. Shaftesbury was there. Nell was getting herself embroiled with the Whigs, thought Charles with amusement.

But it was pleasant to have Nell dance and sing for them and, when Charles saw her imitation of Lady Danby, and Buckingham’s of Lady Danby’s husband, the King found himself laughing as he had not laughed for some weeks. He realized that he had been foolish to neglect the tonic only Nell could give.

Then, with Louise recuperating at Bath, and Hortense relegated to being just one of Charles’ more casual mistresses, Nell stepped into chief place once more.

Rochester warned her: “’Twill only be for a while, Nell. Louise will be back to the fray—doubt it not. And she’s a fine lady, while the dust of the Cole-yard still clings to little Nell. Not that I should try to wipe it off. That was where Moll failed. But do not be surprised if you are not number one all the time. Just fall back when required, but make hay, Nelly. Make hay while the sun shines.”

So Nell made the King visit her not only for parties but during the day, that he might come to better acquaintance with his two sons.

One day she called little Charles to tell him that his father had come.

“Come hither, little bastard,” she called.

“Nelly,” protested the King, “do not say that.”

“And why should I not?”

“It does not sound well.”

“Sound well or not, ’tis truth. For what else should I call the boy since his father, by giving him no other title, proclaims him such to the world?”

The King was thoughtful, and very shortly after that one of Nell’s dearest ambitions was realized.

Her son was no longer merely Charles Beauclerk; he was Baron Headington and Earl of Burford.

Nell danced through the house in Pall Mall, waving the patent which proclaimed little Charles’ title.

“Come hither, my lord Burford,” she shouted. “You have a seat in the House of Lords, my love. Think of that! You have a King for a father, and all the world knows it.”

The new Earl laughed aloud to see his mother so gay, and little James—my lord Beauclerk—joined with him.

She seized them and hugged them. She called to the servants, that she might introduce them to my lord Burford and my lord Beauclerk.

She could be heard, shouting all day: “Bring my lord Burford’s pectoral syrup. I swear he has a cough coming. And I doubt not that it would be good for my lord Beauclerk to take some too. Oh, my lord Burford needs a new scarf. I will go to the Exchange for white sarcenet this very day.”

She fingered delicate fabrics in the shops. She bought shoes, laced with gold, for the children. “My lord Burford has such tender feet … and his brother, my lord Beauclerk, not less so.”

The house echoed with Nell’s laughter and delighted satisfaction.

The servants imitated their mistress, and it seemed that every sentence uttered to any in that house must contain a reference to my lord Earl or my lord Beauclerk.