“But let me make you a little gift. Perhaps a little jewel—something you can put on sometimes that will make you think of me—” She turned her head and spoke to Louise de Kerouaille who was standing just at her shoulder. Louise was never far from Minette when the King was in the room. “My dear, will you bring me my jewel-box—it’s in the center drawer of that cabinet.”
Louise made a delicate little curtsy; all her movements were graceful and pretty. She had a kind of well-bred diffidence, a refinement and an easy elegance which Charles admired in women but seldom found combined in the gustier ladies of his own Court. She was Parisian to the last fibre of her body, the last thread of her gown. And though she had undeniably flirted with him she had never been brazen or tactless or bold—she was a woman who must be won before she might be possessed. Charles, quite thoroughly jaded, was piqued at the notion of being once more the pursuer, not the pursued.
As she stood now before Minette, holding the box in her two hands, he said: “Here’s the jewel I want—Let her stay in England, Minette.”
Louise blushed, very becomingly, and lowered her eyes. Several of the English ladies stiffened perceptibly. The Duchess of Ravenspur and the Countess of Castlemaine exchanged indignant glances—for all the English mistresses had been allied against Louise from the first moment they had seen her. Amused and subtle smiles appeared on the faces of the men. But Minette shook her head.
“I’m responsible to her parents, Sire. They trust me to bring her back.” And then, to smooth over the awkward moment, she added: “Here—whatever you like—whatever will make you think most often of me.”
Charles smiled suavely, not at all offended or embarrassed, and made a selection from the trinkets in the box. Within a moment he seemed to have completely forgotten the episode. But he had not at all. Someday, he promised himself, I’ll have that woman—and his memory was often as long in such matters as it was short in others.
At that moment the Queen entered with several of her ladies, among whom the Duchess of Richmond was always to be found these days. Since Frances’s disfigurement by small-pox she and Catherine had become ever faster friends, until now she hung about her Majesty with a kind of trustful pathetic dependence in which the lords and ladies of Whitehall found cause only for contemptuous amusement.
Minette left the next day.
Charles, ’with York and Monmouth and Rupert, went on board the French ship and sailed partway out into the Channel. From the moment he had seen her he had been dreading this hour of parting; now he felt that he could not bring himself to let her go. For he had a mortal fear that he would never see her again. She looked tired; she looked disillusioned; she looked ill.
Three times he said goodbye, but each time he returned to embrace her once more. “Oh, my God, Minette!” he muttered at last. “I
Minette had tried not to cry, but now the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Remember what you promised me. And remember that I love you and that I’ve always loved you better than anyone else on earth. If I don’t see you again—”
“Don’t
Minette tipped back her head and smiled at him, her face suddenly cleared and peaceful. Like an obedient child she repeated after him, “I’m coming back next year—I promise—”
AMBER HAD BEEN almost as annoyed as Charles that Monsieur insisted upon Minette remaining in Dover—for she had not wanted to leave London. Until the last moment she hesitated, but when the Queen set out she went along. All the fortnight of Minette’s visit, however, she was unhappy and ill-at-ease. She wanted desperately to go back to London, to try someway, any way she could, to see him again. She was passionately relieved when the French fleet set sail and Minette was on her way home.
She had no more than entered the Palace—where she kept and often occupied her old suite—when she sent a footboy to discover Lord Carlton’s whereabouts. Impatience and nervousness made her irritable and she found fault with everything as she waited, criticized the gown Madame Rouvière had just completed, complained that she had been jolted to a jelly by that infernal coachman who was to be discharged at once, and swore she had never seen such a draggle-tail slut as that French cat, de Kerouaille.
“What’s keeping that little catch-fart!” she demanded furiously at last. “He’s been gone two hours and more! I’ll baste his sides for this!” And just then, hearing his quiet “Madame—” behind her, she whirled about. “Well, sirrah!” she cried. “How now? Is this the way you serve me?”
