of whims as the multiplication table. At present she spends both her time and her fortune—where d’ye suppose, Monsieur Mornay? In the fire region and the prisons. Strange tastes for the heiress of half a province in France and the whole of the fortune of the Bresacs.” “Ma foi! Une sérieuse!” “Ochone! she’s saucy enough—with a bit of a temper, too, they say.” “But the prisons?” “Are but her trade to-day—perhaps to-morrow—that’s all. What do ye think? She has but just promised the coranto and an hour[17] alone in the garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from the King.” [17] “The cutpurse?” “The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the scaffold.” “Pardieu!” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.” Cornbury laughed. “I’ faith, so far as she’s concerned, they’re one and the same, I’m thinking. A stroke of janius, Mornay! Have yourself but thrown into prison, and you may win her, after all.” He moved away. Mornay looked around him for this scornful mistress, but she had gone into the garden with Captain Ferrers. “Mordieu!” he growled. “There’s truth in that jest. In prison I’ll be, soon enough, unless the King—” He paused, with a curious smile. “The King—aha! I’ve a better use for Charles than that,” and he made his way to the retiring-room, where his lackey, Vigot, resplendent in a yellow coat and black waistcoat, was awaiting his orders. [18] [18] The night progressed. Came next the country dances—invented upon a time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce to the court some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but the sibilance of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed them of much of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color heightened, held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress Stewart and my lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige, called their recalcitrant
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