“Yes,” said Roxhythe. “King Charles, thank God, is not of a strenuous disposition.”
“But you will come?”
Roxhythe rose. He smiled down at the brisk Comte.
“For the good of my soul,” he bowed.
He went to the levée, gorgeously clad in silver and pale blue, with slashings of rose-pink. Even the critical Saint-Aignan was pleased to approve of his costume. He observed that Roxhythe “took the eye.”
His Majesty was very gracious. He allowed Roxhythe to kiss his hand, and he stayed for some moments to talk to him. Then he pursued his regal way, an imposing little figure, bearing himself with all the haughtiness, the sublime magnificence that characterised him.
Roxhythe always protested that His Most Christian Majesty was a figure of fun, but in his heart he must have respected him, although he never acknowledged it. He remarked, when pressed, that Louis tickled his sense of humour.
When the King left him my lord paid some extravagant compliments to the La Vallière, under the eye of Madame de Montespan, for whom he possessed some strange fascination, until that eye was flaming with anger. Then he left La Vallière, and paid still more extravagant compliments to La Montespan, to the amusement of Mademoiselle. After that he disappeared in the wake of de Guiche, and was next seen in attendance on Mademoiselle de Foucheron, one of the Queen’s ladies.
Monsieur, as was called the Duc d’Orléans, strolled across the room, saw Roxhythe, exclaimed at him, and claimed his attention. Roxhythe’s boredom grew. He did not find the King’s brother entertaining. He presently departed, taking with him one Philippe de Courcillon, Marquis de Dangeau. He appeared no more that evening.
Saint-Aignan found him in elegant déshabillé, in his room, some hours later.
“Mais, mon ami! Madame has been asking for you!”
“Alas!” Roxhythe sat down. “I met Monsieur instead.”
“Madame did not arrive until an hour later. I told her you were fatigued from your journey and had retired early. And why did you drag de Courcillon with you? Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, tu es incorrigible!”
“Oh? Was it not permitted? De Courcillon amuses me. We went into the gardens and exchanged reminiscences. I never believe in outstaying my welcome.”
Saint-Aignan caught sight of himself in the glass.
“I am not satisfied with this wig,” he mused. “It lacks that indescribable something—My dear Marquis, you could not outstay your welcome, but certain it is that everyone is ten thousand times more intrigued to see you now that you are gone. It is very curious.”
“No, very natural. I never stay longer than an hour at a levée.”
Saint-Aignan started to laugh.
“Pardieu, Roxhyt’e! Que tu es amusant! And they tolerate you at Whitehall? La-la! That is why they call you enigmatical! Because you do things that no one else dare dream of doing! And you have not offended tonight! No. ‘Voilà,’ they say.—‘C’est Roxhyt’e!’ Oh, grand poseur!”
“Go to bed,” smiled my lord. “You fatigue me!”
“I would you might stay here an hundred years,” continued Saint-Aignan. “I should never weary of you!” He went out, still chuckling.
Roxhythe arrived at the Palais Royal next afternoon, and inquired for Madame.
The lackey shook his head.
“Madame does not receive this afternoon, monsieur.”
Roxhythe tapped his comfit-box with an impatient finger.
“My friend, you are not acquainted with me. I am Roxhythe.”
The man bowed at once.
“Pardon, milor’! If milor’ will enter, I will inform Madame. Madame has said she will receive milor’.”
Roxhythe was shown into a great room overlooking the courtyard.
After a few moments the lackey returned.
“If milor’ will deign to follow me. …”
He led Roxhythe up the grand staircase, and across the hall, to a smaller room which was Madame’s private salon.
The Duchesse rose at his entry, and extended her hand.
“I have been expecting you, my lord.”
Roxhythe bowed, carrying her fingers to his lips. If he ever bent the knee to a woman, that woman was Henrietta Stuart, Duchesse d’Orléans.
“I am honoured, Madame.”
She waved him to a chair, and made a sign to her lady-in-waiting to leave the room. The lady went out, gracefully.
“Sit down near me! C’est cela! Tell me, did you recognize my demoiselle d’honneur?”
Roxhythe frowned.
“Was she with you at Dunkirk, Madame?”
“And in London. You do not remember?”
“On the contrary. Mademoiselle de Kéroualle. His Majesty conceived a liking for her.”
Madame’s great eyes scanned his face.
“Mademoiselle desires to join the Court at Whitehall.”
Roxhythe’s lips twitched.
“I see. Well, you have chosen a fit envoy.”
“So I think. Charles will permit it?”
“No doubt he will be delighted.”
Madame had charming dimples. She showed them now.
“He is a sad man,” she said. “Poor Charles!” The dimples vanished. “Well—M. Colbert de Croissy informs us that His Majesty—considers.”
“What I admire about M. Colbert is his careful truth,” remarked Roxhythe.
“Then His Majesty has not come to a decision?”
“By no means. Subject to certain conditions he will give the matter his serious consideration.”
“Ah!” Madame pulled a cushion into place. “Go on, Roxhythe.”
My lord chose and ate a comfit with great deliberation. Then he snapped the box and put it away.
“Madame, you must forgive me an I weary you, but I wish to come to an understanding. You’ll permit me to go back a little. In February as you know, M. Colbert was granted an audience at Whitehall. There were present, His Majesty, His Grace of York, Sir Thomas Clifford, and myself. M. Colbert laid before us as prettily worded a scheme as it has ever been my lot to listen to. The second thing I admire in M. Colbert is his capacity for vague terms. The proposition that he unfolded was rosy in hue—for England. The only point where we were left in the dark regarded France. His Majesty was, and still is, curious to know in what way France stands to profit by the alliance.”
“Did M. Colbert not tell you?” evaded Madame.
“M. Colbert showed himself most astute except in one point. That was his estimation of King Charles. He did not give him credit for any brain, Madame.”
“M. Colbert knows that His Majesty
