Comtesse de Segur - "Francois le Bossu"

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Ichabod S. Spencer - "The Religious Duty of Obedience to Law"

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The Touchstone of Fortune written by Charles Major

C >> Charles Major >> The Touchstone of Fortune




"Yes, yes, your Grace! Many a day, many a day! Ah, we are a sad, naughty
court, I fear," answered my Lady, with a penitent sigh. Her chief desire
was to be a modish person; therefore she would not be left out of the
iniquitous monde, though her face, if nothing else, placed her safely
beyond the pale of Whitehall sin. One of the saddest things in life is to
be balked in an honest desire to be wicked!

"Yes, you won't know yourself when your character comes back to you,
filtered through many mouths," said the duchess, laughing. "But don't
take offence; retaliate!"

"My cousin will have to learn the art, your Grace," I suggested.

"Ah, I have a thought!" cried the duchess, turning to Frances. "Nothing
succeeds like novelty here at court. Be novel. Don't abuse people save to
their faces, but don't spare any one then. Remember that a biting epigram
is the best loved form of wit among us Sodomites. We love it for its own
sake, but more for the pain it gives the other fellow. We like to see him
squirm, and we have many a joyous hour over our friends' misfortunes.
Turn yourself into a mental bodkin, and you will find favor among us, for
it is better to be feared than loved in our happy family."

"Ah, how beautiful!" cried Lady Wentworth, determined to be heard, even
though never addressed.

"But as I have said," continued the duchess, "try, if you can, to be
novel, and be a bodkin only to the victim's face, save, of course, in the
case of a new bit of racy scandal. That must be used to the greatest
advantage as soon as possible, for scandal, like unsalted butter, will
not keep."

The duchess laughed, as though speaking in jest, but she was in earnest
and spoke the truth.

"But I must learn the current faults of my friends-to-be," suggested
Frances, laughing, "so that I may not fall into the unpardonable error of
repeating an old story. Stale scandal is doubtless an offence in the ear
of the Anointed."

The Anointed was the king.

"That is true," returned the duchess, seriously. "Old scandals bore him,
but if, by good fortune, a rich new bit comes your way, save it for our
Rowley, whisper it in his ear and forget it. Leave to him the pleasure of
disseminating it. He dearly loves the 'ohs' and 'ahs' of delight incident
to the telling of a racy tale. But I'll take you in hand one of these
days and tell you how best to please the king, though your beauty will
make all other means mere surplusage. To please the king, you need but be
yourself; to please my husband, the duke, is even an easier task. He is
everybody's friend. They will be wanting to divorce the queen and me for
your sake. Two such fools about pretty women the world has never known
before and I hope never will again. To see the two royal brothers ogling
and smiling and smirking is better than a play. I used to be disgusted,
but now it amuses me. So if my husband makes love to you, don't fear that
I shall be offended, and if the king makes love to you, as he surely
will, have no fear of the queen. She is used to it."

"I shall try to please every one," said Frances.

"No, no, no!" cried the duchess. "That would be your ruin! A dog licks
the hand that smites it. We're all dogs. Every failure I have known at
court has come from too great a desire to please."

Frances laughed uneasily, for she knew she was hearing the truth,
disguised as a jest. After a moment's silence, she asked:--

"May I not at least try to please your Grace? And may I not seek your
advice and thank you now and then for a reprimand?"

"Yours is the first request of the sort I have ever heard from a maid of
honor, and I shall take you at your word," said the duchess. "I'm not
posing as the head of a morality school, but if I may, I shall try to be
your guide."

Lady Wentworth was almost comatose with pride--"pride on the brain"
Frances afterwards called it.

Presently her Grace continued seriously. "The king will make love to you
on sight. If he fails in obtaining a satisfactory response, he may affect
to be offended for a few days, during which time my husband may try his
hand. Failing, he will smile and will withdraw to make room for Rowley's
return attack. Rowley's return will be in earnest, and then will come
your trial, for the whole court will fawn upon you, will lie about you,
and beg your favor for them with the king."

"Surely it is a delightful prospect," returned my cousin, smiling.

"Oh, delightful, delightful!" ejaculated Lady Wentworth in a semilucid
interval.

"Now I'll send for the Mother of the Maids," said her Grace, "who will
show you to your rooms and instruct you in the duties, forms, and
ceremonies of court. I suppose you dance the country dances. They are the
king's favorites. He calls the changes."

"Yes, your Grace," answered Frances.

"And the brantle and the coranto?" asked the duchess.

"Yes, your Grace."

"And do you play cards?"

"Yes, your Grace, but I loathe games."

"Ah, I see you're equipped," said the duchess. "But here comes the Mother
of the Maids."

The duchess presented Frances to the Mother, who presently led her forth
across the threshold of a new life, destined to be filled with many
strange happenings.

After leaving the Duchess of York, Frances and the Mother of the Maids
entered the Stone Gallery, half the length of which they would have to
traverse before reaching the door that entered the narrow corridor
leading to the apartments of the maids of honor. Midway in the gallery,
a man, evidently in wine, accosted Frances without so much as removing
his hat.

"Ah, ah! Whom have we here?" he asked, winking to the Mother of the
Maids.

Frances was astonished and a little frightened, but she soon brought
herself together and retorted:--

"What is it to you, sir, whom we have here?"

At once it occurred to Frances that the impertinent man was either the
king or the duke, but she hid her suspicion.

"Much it is to me, fair mistress," returned the gentleman, taking off his
hat and bowing. "The sun shines for all, and when one dare be as
beautiful as yourself, all men may bask in the radiance and may ask,
'What new luminary is this?'"

"You may bask to your heart's content," retorted Frances, laughing, "but
you must know that it does not please the sun to be stopped by an
unprepossessing stranger."

The Mother's face bore a look of consternation, and the gentleman threw
back his head, laughing uproariously.

"Ah, my beauty, but I would not remain a stranger. If I am
unprepossessing, it is because I am as God made me and I cannot help it.
But I can help being a stranger to you and would make myself known, and
would present my compliments to--"

"To the devil, who perhaps may like your impertinence better than I like
it," retorted Frances, turning from him angrily and hastening toward the
opposite end of the gallery.

When Frances reached the door of the corridor, she looked back and saw
the Mother of the Maids listening attentively to the gentleman. He was
laughing heartily, and when the Mother left him, Frances noticed that she
courtesied almost to the floor, a ceremony little used save with the
king, the queen, the duke, and the duchess.

When the door of the gallery was closed behind Frances, she asked the
Mother:--

"Who is the impudent fellow?"

"He? Why, he--is--why, he is Sir Rowley," answered the Mother,
hesitatingly, and Frances knew that she had won her first round with the
king, though she kept her knowledge to herself.




CHAPTER IV

A SMILE AT THE DEVIL


In the evening the duchess gave a little ball in her parlor to present
Frances to the king and to the queen, if her Majesty should attend, to
the Duke of York, and to others living in Whitehall immediately connected
with the palace household.

I went to the ball early, wishing to be there before Frances arrived,
to help her if need be over the untrodden paths of court forms and
etiquette. Soon after I entered her Grace's parlor, Mary Hamilton came
in with her mother, and I joined them. I should have been glad to see a
gleam of joy in Mary's eyes when I approached, but I had to be content
with a calm, gracious "I'm glad to see you, baron."

Presently the Duke of York arrived with the duchess on his arm, and they
took their places at the end of the room opposite the musicians' gallery.
Mary and I hastened to kiss their hands, and, withdrawing to a little
distance, awaited Frances's arrival. After the others in the room had
paid their respects to her Grace, she beckoned me to her chair and
said:--

"Your cousin will arrive presently. I have just seen her. Look for a
sensation when she comes. She is radiant, though her gown is as simple as
a country girl's."

"I hear you have brought us a great beauty, baron," remarked the duke.

"Yes, your Highness. We who love her think so," I answered.

"You'll be wanting to be made an earl for your service in bringing her,
eh, baron?" said the duke, laughing. Then bending toward me and
whispering: "A word in your ear, Clyde. You may have it if you play your
cards right and are persistent in importunity."

"No, your Highness. I ask for nothing save favor to my cousin," I
replied.

"She is like to have enough of that and to spare, without asking, if she
is half as beautiful as she is said to be," returned his Grace.

"Of that your Highness may now be your own judge," I returned. "Here she
comes."

At that moment Frances entered on the arm of the Mother of the Maids, and
the duke, catching sight of her, exclaimed:--

"God have pity on the other women! Half has not been told, baron. There
is no beauty at court compared to hers. Earl? You may be a duke!"

While Frances and the Mother were making their way across the room to pay
their respects to the duke and the duchess, a buzz of admiration could be
heard on every hand, and Mary whispered to me behind her fan:--

"If the king were unmarried, I would wager all I have that your cousin
would be our queen within a month."

Count Grammont, who was standing behind me, leaned forward and whispered,
"Your cousin, baron?"

"Yes, count," I answered.

"Mon Dieu!" he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "You will soon be a
duke. We may not call her the queen of hearts, for already we have one,
but surely she is the duchess of hearts. I wish I might present her in
Paris. Ah Dieu! She would make quickly my peace with my king!"

Poor Grammont's one object in life was that his peace might be made with
his king. He lived only in the hope of a recall to Versailles.

Frances made a graceful courtesy, as she kissed their Highness's hands,
and, when the brief ceremony of presentation to the duke was over, turned
to Mary and me, glad to have a moment's respite beside us. She said
nothing, but I could see that for the moment the gorgeous scene about
us had bewildered her. The vast mouldings of gold, the frescoed cupids,
nymphs and goddesses, the wonderful paintings, the brilliant tapestries,
all fairly shone in the light of a thousand wax candles, while the
polished floor of many-colored woods was a mirror under her feet,
reflecting all this beauty.

The powdered and rouged courtiers, arrayed in silks, gold lace and
jewels, seemed more like creatures from a land of phantasy than beings of
flesh and blood. The men with their great curled wigs, their plumed,
bejewelled hats and glittering gold swords, seemed to have stepped from
the pages of a wonderful picture-book, and the women, whose gorgeous
gowns exposed their bepowdered skin halfway to their waists, measuring
from the chin, and whose lifted petticoats made a proportionate display,
measuring from the feet, surely were brought from some fair land of folly
and shame.

I touched Frances's hand to awaken her, and whispered: "Show neither
wonder nor interest. See nothing, or these fools about us will laugh."

She laughed nervously, nodding her head to tell me that she understood.

"But I must look. I can't help it," she said.

"You must see it all without looking," I suggested, and Mary helped me
out by saying:--

"It is all tinsel, not worth looking at. That is the quality of all you
will see at court; gold foil, king and all."

Presently I saw the gentlemen removing their hats and tucking them under
their arms, so I knew the king had entered, and felt sure he would soon
come up to salute his hostess, the duchess, near whom we were standing.

I told Frances that she was about to meet the king, and admonished her to
keep a strong heart. She smiled as she answered:--

"I think I have met him already." Then she told us briefly of her
encounter with the tipsy gentleman in the Stone Gallery.

She had entirely recovered her self-possession and was prepared to meet
calmly the man who was a demigod to millions of English subjects.

The queen did not come with the king, so he loitered a moment among the
courtiers before making his way to the duchess, but the delay was short,
and soon he presented himself. The duchess rose when he approached, but
hardly allowed him time to finish his bow till she took his arm, turned
toward us, and smiled to Frances to approach. I touched my cousin's arm,
gently thrusting her forward, and the next moment she was courtesying to
the floor before the man who believed, in common with most of his
subjects, that he owned by divine right the body and soul of every
man in England, together with every man's ox and his ass, his wife and
his daughter, and all that to him belonged.

The king raised Frances, still retaining her hand, and bent most
gallantly before her.

"I have met Mistress Jennings," said he, smiling, "and she told me to pay
my compliments to the devil."

The king laughed, so of course the courtiers who heard him also laughed.
Instantly the news spread, and one might have heard on every hand, "The
new maid told the king to go to the devil." But as the king seemed to be
pleased, the courtiers were, too, and the new maid of honor became a
person of distinction at once.

The king's unexpected remark disconcerted Frances for a moment, and her
confusion added to her charm. In a moment she recovered herself,
courtesied, and said:--

"I beg your Majesty not to remind me of my terrible mistake. I thought
you were a bold cavalier, and of course did not know that I was speaking
to my king. I offer my humble apology. Pray do not pay your compliments
to the devil, but keep them for me, your Majesty's most devoted subject."

"Odds fish!" exclaimed his Majesty. "I'm glad of the reprieve. I did not
want to go to the devil, but Odds fish! I'd be willing to do so for a
smile from my most devoted subject."

"Merci, sire!" answered Frances, with a courtesy and smiling as
graciously as even a king could ask.

"If my most devoted subject will honor her king by asking him to dance
the next coranto with her, he will do his best to make amends for his
boldness earlier in the day, for he is naturally a modest king."

"A modest manner and a bold heart, I fear, your Majesty," returned
Frances, making the most pleasing compliment she could have paid her
sovereign. "May I be honored with your Majesty's hand for the next
coranto?"

"It is my will," graciously answered the king.

The ball opened with a brantle which his Majesty danced with the duchess,
Frances remaining, meantime, with Mary and me, awaiting the coranto with
the king, a royal favor which would win for her the envy of many a lady,
as the king seldom danced.

When the brantle was finished, the king worked his way over to Frances,
and when the bugle announced the coranto, she was saved the embarrassment
of seeking him, as she must have done had he not been by her side.

An altogether unexpected ordeal awaited Frances, for when the French
musicians began to play and his Majesty led her out, she found herself
and the king the only dancers on the floor except the Duke of York with
Mistress Stuart, and the Duke of Monmouth with his father's friend, Lady
Castlemain. Every one else stood by the wall, many of the ladies hoping
to see the new maid fail, and all of the gentlemen eager to behold her
and to comment.

The coranto is a difficult movement to perform gracefully. It consists of
a step forward, a pause during which the dancer balances on one foot,
holding the other suspended forward for a moment, then another step,
followed by a bow on the gentleman's part and a deep courtesy by the
lady.

I confess that I was uneasy, for Frances was a country girl, and the
coranto was the most trying, though, if well done, the most beautiful of
all dances.

Mary clasped my hand in alarm for Frances and whispered: "I do hope she
dances well. The lack of grace in a woman is inexcusable. She had better
not dance at all than poorly."

Mary's hopes were realized at once, for the king and Frances had not been
on the floor three minutes till the gentlemen began to clap their hands
softly, and in a moment a round of applause came from the entire
audience, as often happened in those informal balls.

The king turned to Frances, saying: "They are applauding your dancing.
Take your bow."

"No, it's all for your Majesty," she returned.

"No, no, my dancing is an old story to them. It is your grace they are
applauding."

"Spare me, your Majesty," she pleaded, laughing.

As the applause continued, they stopped dancing for a moment, and Frances
made her courtesy to the audience. Thereupon the applause increased, and
she courtesied again, kissing her hand as she rose from the floor.

The girl was in high spirits, and laughed as she talked to the king, who
smiled on her in a manner that caused my Lady Castlemain to remark:--

"The young milkmaid's affectations are disgusting." Other equally
flattering remarks were to be heard from women of the Castlemain stamp,
but the men were a unit in praising the new beauty.

Of course the king soon declared his undying love for her, and she
answered, laughing:--

"If your Majesty will swear by your grandmother's great toe that you have
never before spoken to a woman in this fashion, I'll listen and believe,
but failing the oath, you must pardon me if I laugh."

"I hope you would not laugh at your king?" he asked.

"Ay, at the Pope," she retorted, "if I found him amusing."

"But if I swear by the sacred relic you name, never again so long as I
live to speak in this fashion to any other woman, may I proceed?"
returned the king.

"I would not be a party to an oath whereby my king would be forsworn,"
she answered.

To which the king replied: "I shall say what I please to my most devoted
subject. Am I not the king?"

"I am content that you say what you please if you grant me the same
privilege," answered Frances.

The king laughed and said he would gladly grant the privilege in private,
but that in public he had a "damnable dignity" to uphold.

* * * * *

After the dancing was over for the evening, the king offered Frances a
purse of gold to be used at the card-table, but she declined, and as
nearly every one else went to the tables, the duchess granted leave to
Frances, Mary, and myself to depart.

Mary and I went with Frances to her parlor adjoining her bedroom, where
we remained for an hour or more talking over the events of the night.
Mary had heard one in the ballroom say this and another say that. Frances
had heard all sorts of remarks, some of them kind, others spiteful.
I had heard nothing but praise of my cousin, and all that we had heard
was discussed excitedly and commented on earnestly or laughingly, as the
case might be.

Frances was in high spirits till by an unlucky chance Mary spoke of her
brother George, of whose acquaintance with Frances she knew nothing, and
instantly my cousin's eyes began to fill. I saw that the tears would
come, despite all her efforts, if something were not done to stay them.
Therefore I spoke of her father's joy when he should hear of her triumph,
and my remark furnished an excuse for her weeping. In the course of an
hour Mary and I left Frances and went to the card-tables, where we found
Mary's mother, who at that time, happening to be winner in a large sum,
was ready to quit the game, so we all walked home across the park with
linkboys.

* * * * *

During the following month or two Hamilton was abroad, neither I nor any
one else at court so far as I knew having heard from him. After a time
the rumors connecting his name with Roger's death reached my ears, but
I paid no heed to them, believing them to have been made of whole cloth,
for I did not know that he had been present when the crime was committed.
But one day my cousin's actions and words set me thinking.

Roger was only a tanner; therefore after a deal of stir in the matter of
his death with no result more tangible than vague insinuations from
Crofts and his friends, the investigation by the London authorities was
dropped, at least for a time. Roger's tragedy was forgotten or was put
aside, save in so far as it was kept alive by Crofts, who felt that it
was well to keep the person of George Hamilton as a fender between
himself and the crime.

So, as frequently happens when a bad man turns good, Hamilton's troubles
began to gather and were awaiting his return. I did not know where he was
(though I afterwards learned he was in Paris), and therefore was unable
to warn him. In fact, I knew little that was worth telling him at the
time of which I am writing, since I did not believe he was really in
danger. I did not even know that he was aware of the Roger Wentworth
tragedy.

Meantime Frances was making progress at court, of which even I, with all
my hopefulness, had little dreamed. What she desired above all else was
money for her father. Sir Richard and Sarah had moved up to London to be
near Frances and were living in a modest little house at the end of a
cul-de-sac called Temple Street, just off the Strand near Temple Bar.

The opportunity to get money soon came to Frances in the form of an offer
by the king of a small pension which would have placed her and her father
beyond the pale of want. But the king's manner in offering it had caused
her to refuse.

She had fallen into the wholesome way of telling me all that occurred
touching herself, which during this time consisted chiefly of the efforts
of nearly every man of prominence in Whitehall, from the king and the
duke to bandylegged Little Jermyn, the lady-killer, to convince her of
his desperate passion. She laughed at them all, and her indifference
seemed to increase their ardor.

One day Frances met me in the Stone Gallery as I was coming from my
lodging in the Wardrobe over the Gate, and asked me to walk out with her.
I saw that something untoward had happened, so I joined her and we went
to the park. When we were a short way from the palace, she told me of the
king's offer and tried to tell me of his manner, the latter evidently
having been meant to be understood by Frances in case she wished to see
it as he doubtless intended she should. She saw it as the king intended,
but the result was far from what he expected.

"I turned my back on him," she said angrily, "and left him without so
much as a word or a courtesy, and I intend to leave Whitehall."

"By no means!" I exclaimed. "Accept or refuse the king's pension as you
choose, and pass serenely on your way, unconscious of what he may have
implied. If you remain at court, you must learn not to see a mere implied
affront, and perhaps to smile at many an overt one. Before you came you
had full warning of what would happen. Don't see! Don't feel! Don't care!
Be true to yourself and smile at the devil if you happen to meet him. He
has no weapon against a smile. One escapes many a disagreeable situation
by not seeing it, and one always finds trouble by looking for it."

"Your philosophy wearies me," she answered petulantly.

"In that case, I'll confine my remarks to facts and to a mere statement
of your duty. You must have money. Accept the king's pension and laugh at
him."

"I'll not take your advice," she retorted angrily. "I'll return to my
father's house at once. He was right. A decent woman has no business at
court."

"Since you speak so plainly, I'll do likewise," I rejoined, growing
angry. "You came to court to make your fortune by marriage. That is a
bald, ugly way to state the case, but it is the truth. Admit it."

"I fear I must," she answered, hanging her head.

"You surely could not ask greater progress toward your desire than you
are making," I continued. "You came into favor at a bound, and have been
growing each day, not only with the king, but with all the court,
including the queen, the duchess, and the duke. Every one loves you and,
better still, respects you, which is a distinction few beautiful women
enjoy nowadays. Dick Talbot, the Duke of Tyrconnel, the richest unmarried
nobleman in England, is eager to marry you, and would ask you to be his
wife if you would but throw him a smile."

"I hate him!" she retorted impatiently. "An overgrown Irish fool. One
would as well marry a bull calf!"

"But he is as decent as any man I know, and will meet all your purposes
in coming to court in the matter of wealth and station. I don't know that
it is a misfortune for a woman to marry a man she can rule."