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 passion 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 ambassador, pricked 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 ambassador 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.
Queen Catherine extended her hand for my salute.
"Her Majesty is pleased to ask what has become of the sailor-lad and
his bride," said Hortense.
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