Pierre Radisson was her "dear sweet savage," and "naughty spark," and
"bold, bad beau," and "devilish fellow," and "lovely wretch!"
"La, Pierre," she cries, with a tap of her fan, "anybody can go to the
king's _levee_! But, dear heart!" she trills, with a sidelong ogle.
"Ta!--ta! naughty devil!--to think of our sweet savage going to
Whitehall of an evening! Lud, Mary, I'll wager you, Her Grace of
Portsmouth hath laid eyes on him----"
"The Lord forbid!" ejaculates Pierre Radisson.
"Hoighty-toighty! Now! there you go, my saucy spark! Good lack! An
the king's women laid eyes on any other man, 'twould turn his head and
be his fortune! Naughty fellow!" she warns, with a flirt of her fan.
"We shall watch you! Ta-ta, don't tell me no! Oh, we know this _gaite
de coeur_! You'll presently be _intime_ o' Portsmouth and Cleveland
and all o' them!"
"Madame," groans Pierre Radisson, "swear, if you will! But as you love
me, don't abuse the French tongue!"
At which she gave him a slap with her fan.
"An I were not so young," she simpers, "I'd cuff your ears, you saucy
Pierre!"
"So young!" mutters Pierre Radisson, with grim looks at her powdered
locks. "Egad's life, so is the bud on a century plant young," and he
turns to his wife.
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