“The rascal spoke truth,” remarked Buckingham. “I had just lost my horse in a quagmire. But proceed, count.”
“I hope I shall not offend your grace by what I am now about to mention, but I could not help asking the rascal whether you had favored him with your ballad. “want an explicit answer,’ I said; “I have a wager depending upon the point.’
“he been on horseback,’ rejoined Duval, “would have compelled the duke to sing it, but under the circumstances, I excused him.’”
The count was here interrupted by loud laughter from the king, in which the Duchess of Portsmouth, and all those around, joined.
“What more have you to tell?” asked Buckingham, rather angrily.
“Not much,” replied the count. “Fancying the rascal meant to rob me next, I was preparing to empty my pockets, but he stopped me. “le Comte,’ he said, “I have simply a favor to ask of you. I am persuaded you will not refuse it. Oblige me by restoring the purse to the Duke of Buckingham. “With much pleasure,’ I replied. “I cannot sufficiently applaud your conduct, but permit me to observe that it is somewhat inconsistent with your character.” I perceive, count, that you understand very little about my character,’ he rejoined.
“He then signed to his squire, who handed me the purse. “No need of explanation,’ cried Duval. “His grace will perfectly comprehend why I cannot keep it.’ Without a word more, he and his squire galloped off, leaving me in a complete state of bewilderment. As requested, I now restore the purse to your grace.”
And taking it from his pocket, he delivered it to Buckingham, amid general laughter.
“How comes it that you did not mention this incident to me before?” demanded the duke.
“I am sure your grace will forgive me when I say that I purposely reserved it for his majesty’s amusement,” replied the count.
“I would not have lost it for the world,” cried Charles.
He had not ceased laughing as he passed through the gates of the castle.
CHAPTER V
THE DUKE OF ORMOND IS AVENGED BY HIS SON
Blood was not amongst the king’s retinue at Windsor Castle. His duties detained him at Whitehall.
Of late, he had become sullen and morose, and began once more to rail bitterly against the Duke of Ormond, hinting darkly at some fresh design that he had conceived, of which his grace was to be the victim; but his followers urged him to abandon it, and told him frankly they would have no hand in it. Be his project what it might, it was never consummated. The hour of retribution was at hand.
Montalt had paid several secret visits to the Tower, and on most of these occasions he had enjoyed an evening walk on the ramparts with Edith.
For some reason, however, for which he could not account, the fickle damsel began to cool in her manner towards him, and at last told him, in plain terms, that she could meet him no more.
Distracted by this heartless determination, Montalt flew into transports of jealous rage; and, convinced that he had been supplanted, swore with a tremendous oath that he would find his rival out and slay him.
The malicious little coquette laughed at his passion, and frankly admitted that he was right in his conjecture; but she added, with a peculiarly arch smile, that his rival was quite out of his reach.
This was enough for Montalt. Seeing in a moment how matters stood, he became as humble as he had just been violent.
Edith liked him much better in this mood; and being softened by his humility, consented that their intimacy should not wholly cease. She even agreed to meet him next day in St. James’s Park.
“To-morrow afternoon,” she said, with a captivating look, “I shall take an airing with my mother on the Mall. Most likely we shall ramble on to the long canal; and if you should happen to be there at the time, I shall not be very much offended if you join us.”
“A thousand thanks for the permission!” cried Montalt, kissing her hand rapturously. “I have acted very foolishly; but I will behave better in future. There are some rivals with whom it would be absurd to compete. I am content to wait.”
“With such a disposition, there may, possibly, be a chance for you,” said Edith. “But mind, you must not come again to the Tower.”
“Not till you invite me,” he replied.
Each afternoon, Blood walked with his followers in St. James’s Park. His insolent deportment on the Mall, and the defiant glances he cast around, provoked many an indignant remark; but the favor he enjoyed at court, and his own evil reputation, generally secured him from insult in return.
On the afternoon on which Montalt hoped to meet the bewitching coquette, Blood walked forth as usual. Those who encountered him on the Mall, and knew him, remarked that his manner was fiercer than usual. He scowled angrily when regarded too closely, and would have picked a quarrel, if anyone had been willing to humor his inclinations.
Montalt had not informed him of his appointment, and being anxious to get away, was seeking for an excuse, when the colonel quitted the Mall, and took the direction of the long canal.
Seated on a bench opposite the Decoy, they discovered Edith and her mother. The golden-haired damsel was very becomingly dressed, and looked remarkably well. Between her and her mother sat a plainly-attired, middle-aged person, of very quiet manner, who was no other than the king’s confidential valet, Chiffinch.
Whatever proposal Chiffinch was making to the enchantress, seemed to be very favorably entertained — at least Montalt thought so. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks flushed, as she listened to the words of the tempter.
All this was quite as intelligible to Blood as to Montalt, and occasioned him no surprise, but it immediately suggested the course that ought to be pursued. No time ought to be lost in paying court to the new royal favorite.
Changing his manner with marvellous celerity, and calling up his most insinuating smiles, he made his bow, and paid her some high-flown compliments.
Chiffinch, having risen at his approach, he at once took the place vacated by the valet, and dividing his attention between mother and daughter, succeeded in pleasing both.
Having accomplished his object, he surrendered his seat to Montalt, who he saw was dying to obtain it; and taking Chiffinch apart, held a brief conference with him. For what he then learnt, he congratulated himself on his discernment.
Proposing to return presently to the ladies, he quitted Chiffinch, and walked on with Flodoard and Mandeville by the side of the canal.
He had not gone far, when two very distinguished personages were seen approaching from the opposite direction.
Both were richly attired, their bearing lofty, while the strong personal resemblance between them, coupled with the difference of age, proclaimed them to be father and son. Such, in fact, was their relationship. They were the Duke of Ormond and his son, the Earl of Ossory.
Blood knew them at once; and the sight of the Duke of Ormond rekindled in an instant all his smouldering hate. His hand involuntarily sought his sword.
On his side, Ormond had recognized his intended assassin, and the Earl of Ossory had made the same discovery; but they would have passed him with dignified scorn, had not Blood, as if possessed by madness, planted himself in the duke’s path.
“Again we meet, but not for the last time,” cried the frantic miscreant, shaking his clenched hand at him. “I shall yet hang you at Tyburn.”
Disdaining to make any answer, Ormond seized his son’s arm, who was about to chastise the insolent ruffian, and forced him away.
Astounded at Blood’s insane conduct, his followers dragged him off.
But the affair was not destined to end thus.
Ossory had not gone far, when, foaming with rage, he broke from his father.
“Leave the law to punish him,” cried Ormond.
“The law!” exclaimed his son. “There is no law in England, when robbers and assassins can stalk abroad thus. I will punish him myself.”
Disregarding the duke’s entreaties, he ran after Blood, who, hear
ing his footsteps and shouts, likewise burst from his followers, and faced him.
“Cut-throat and robber!” cried the young noble; “I will not sully my steel with the blood of a wretch so vile, but thy insolence shall not pass unpunished.”
With his cane he struck Blood several severe blows on the head and shoulders, knocking off his hat and peruke.
Staggered for a moment by the attack, Blood presently recovered, and with a roar like that of an enraged lion, plucked forth his rapier, and made a desperate lunge at Ossory.
The gallant young noble saved himself by leaping backwards, and then flinging away his cane, drew, and engaged his furious adversary.
Blood was a consummate master of fence, and possessed immense strength of wrist, but blinded by rage, he fought wildly.
After the exchange of a few rapid passes, he made a deadly thrust, which Ossory dexterously parried, and returning it with the rapidity of lightning, his point passed through his adversary’s heart, the sword-hilt striking against his breast.
Blood fell into the arms of his followers, who had kept aloof during the fray, but now flew towards him.
He almost instantly expired.
His last vindictive look was fixed on the Duke of Ormond, who had hurried to the spot, and witnessed the tragical close of the conflict.
CHAPTER VI
THE LAST INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE COUNT DE BELLE- GARDE AND THE DUCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH
The gaiety of the court was somewhat damped by the announcement made by the Count de Bellegarde of his immediate departure for Paris.
The king was sorry to lose him, and did not know how to supply his place. No one possessed such unfailing good spirits as the count — no one was so pleasant a companion — no one related such diverting stories. The loss of his society was, therefore, a real deprivation to his majesty.
But if Charles was grieved, the Duchess of Portsmouth — as Buckingham had foreseen — was in despair. To her, Achille was indispensable. He was her confidant and counsellor — not, perhaps, the wisest and best; but, at any rate, she consulted and trusted him.
She sent for him to her boudoir, to talk to him privately, and try to dissuade him from going; but all her efforts were fruitless.
“You have some motive that you do not care to avow for your sudden departure,” she said, angry that he would not yield to her importunities.
“You are right, sweet cousin. I know you won’t betray me. “absolutely necessary for me to leave the country for a short time.”
“What have you done?” she said, looking at him fixedly.
“Nothing very dreadful,” he replied, with a smile “Have you lost money? If so, I will assist you. I know you have been unlucky at play lately.”
“True! The jade Fortune has turned her back on me latterly, but I don’t want funds.”
“Can I relieve you from any other embarrassment? You may command all my influence with the king.”
“I know it, sweet cousin. But this is an affair — How ever, I cannot explain,” he said, stopping short.
“I feel very much disposed to prevent your departure, Achille,” she observed, shaking her head. “A word to his majesty will do it.”
“You will throw no obstacles in my way, I am sure, Louise, when I tell you that my honor is concerned in the affair. Question no more, if you love me. I promise to return without delay, if I can. Should you not hear from me within a week, conclude—”
“Conclude what, Achille?”
“That I cannot write,” he rejoined, gravely.
“You alarm me. You are bound on some mad enterprise. You shall not go.” —
“I must, Louise. If we meet no more, cherish the memory of the cousin whom you loved, in spite of his follies.”
“Achille, this is serious! I must have an explanation. You know how attached I am to you.”
“I require no assurance of your regard, Louise. Will it surprise you to learn that I am tired of life?”
“You tired of life, Achille? Impossible! I hope you do not meditate any sinful act?”
“I will never raise my hand against myself. Be sure of that.”
“But do not throw your life away.”
He was silent for a moment, and then said, with deep but suppressed emotion:
“If anything should happen to me, a letter will be delivered to you. By all the love you have ever borne me, I implore you to fulfil my last request.”
“I will — I promise it solemnly.”
He pressed her hand gratefully, and was again silent for some moments.
Rousing himself at last by a powerful effort, he cried:
“Before I go, I should like to do a good turn to Talbot Harland.”
“This is very generous of you, Achille. I have always looked upon you as Talbot’s rival. You know how I took you to task formerly for your attentions to Dorinda Neville.”
“There is no longer any rivalry between us. Besides, Dorinda only pretended to encourage me, in order to plague Talbot, as I soon discovered. But I like them both, and it would give me real pleasure to be instrumental in bringing about their union. You can easily accomplish it, if you are so disposed.”
“I think the matter is pretty nearly settled,” replied the duchess, with a smile. “The question, I fancy, was put at the hawking-party, this morning; and, judging by Talbot’s looks, he was not reduced to absolute despair by the answer he received. I have not yet spoken to Dorinda on the subject; but I will let you know her decision at the ball this evening. You will attend it?”
“Of course, “he replied.— “My preparations are nearly made.”
“Ah, Achille!” she exclaimed; “if we should never meet again after to-night, I shall often think of you.”
“You have made me easy by the promise you have given me, and which I know you will keep religiously. My fate may be a mystery to all the world; to you it will be none. You will learn the secret.”
He kissed her hand respectfully, and retired, leaving her full of gloomy apprehension.
CHAPTER VII
DORINDA’S PORTION
Though decidedly out of spirits, the Duchess of Portsmouth was present at the grand banquet in St. George’s Hall, and afterwards at the brilliant ball given in the magnificent dancing-saloons.
Before his majesty sat down to the banquet, Chiffinch arrived at the castle, and gave him details of Blood’s death by the hand of the Earl of Ossory.
Charles was not painfully affected by the news, and perhaps thought himself well rid of an attendant whom he had already begun to find troublesome. But his valet had some other intelligence respecting a certain golden-haired damsel that unquestionably delighted him.
Whatever Bellegarde might have felt on hearing of Blood’s death, he manifested no outward emotion. The Duchess of Portsmouth, who knew he was playing a part, wondered how he could get through it so well. To see him in the dance, or watch him in the card-room among the punters at basset, one would have thought him the gayest of the gay.
Early in the evening, he had encountered Talbot Harland in the ball-room, and ascertained from him that, contrary to the Duchess of Portsmouth’s impression, Dorinda’s answer had not been given, the fair damsel declaring that the king’s consent must first be obtained.
“Have you spoken to his majesty?” inquired the count.
“Not yet,” replied the other.
“Well, that point shall soon be settled. Engage Lady Muskerry for the first country-dance, and as soon as it is over, take her ladyship to the Duchess of Portsmouth, whom you will find with his majesty in the small saloon. Leave the rest to me. I undertake that the result shall be perfectly satisfactory to you.”
Thanking the count warmly, Talbot immediately went in search of Lady Muskerry, who did not require to be asked twice. Half the company stood up on the occasion, and amongst the dancers was Dorinda, her partner being the Count de Bellegarde.
The dance seemed interminable to Talbot; but when it was over, in accordance with his instructi
ons, he led her ladyship, who was full of excitement and delight, to the small saloon.
There they found the Duchess of Portsmouth and the king, no one being with them except the Duke of Buckingham.
They had only just made reverence, when Dorinda entered the saloon, attended by the Count de Bellegarde.
As the fair damsel drew near, the Duchess of Portsmouth stepped forward to meet her, and led her towards the king, who arose at her approach.
Seeing that Dorinda was in some confusion, Charles said, in the most gracious tones imaginable, “The duchess tells me you have a little request to make.”
“Pardon me, my liege,” she replied, blushing deeply; “I have nothing whatever to ask of your majesty.”
“Do not mind what she says, sire,” observed the duchess. “She has a favor to ask.”
“Oddsfish! I will spare her blushes,” cried the good-natured monarch. “You desire my consent to your marriage with a very worthy young gentleman, whom I see before me. You have it. Approach, sir,” he added to Talbot, who delightedly obeyed the mandate.
“Take her,” pursued the king, placing her hand in that of the young man. “May your union be crowned with happiness!”
They knelt before him at the words, and Talbot faltered out his gratitude.
“I have not done,” continued Charles, raising Dorinda graciously. “Your bride,” he added to Talbot— “and no man ever won a lovelier bride — will have a portion of ten thousand pounds.”
“Oh, sire! this is too much!” exclaimed Dorinda.
“Your husband will not think it so,” observed Charles, laughing. “I hope the marriage has your ladyship’s approval?” he added, playfully, to Lady Muskerry.
“It is sufficient for me that it has received your majesty’s sanction,” she replied. “Without that, it would never have received mine.”
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