“Art a likely figure, in verity, to go courting the prude burgher’s daughter!” he drawled upon a yawn. “Aye, well—off with thee, then, and I’ll have a nap to pass the weary time. Qui dort dine, as the French say—though my sleek cousin of France would scarce put up with the alternative!—But mind how you play, my lord, with your kisses and your blade—I can ill afford to lose my last friend!”
Rockhurst answered but by a look of affectionate devotion. Then, after a little pause:—
“I will send Chitterley with candles,” said he, “and bid him lay the table against my return.”
Upon which, he made as low a bow toward the languid figure as if the exile sat in state upon his throne, and withdrew from the room.
In the entrance-hall, dimly lit by a tallow candle thrust in an iron sconce, he paused, and an air of concentration succeeded the spurt of enforced gaiety.
Charles had indeed summed up the situation. The English Royalists, bankrupt of credit, bankrupt at last of hope, the King himself reduced to pledge his orders, even his favourite silver-hilt sword, the royal dinner “dwindled to one dish”; withal the taste of wine like to some receding memory! It would require an inspiration of audacity this evening to provide the rashly promised guerdon. But Rockhurst had a soul to which emergency was a sure spur. He wasted no further time upon reflection, since reflection served but to show ever more sternly that in this night’s foray he must suffer chance and his own boldness to guide him. Going to the door of the servants’ quarters, he called for the French factotum—a clever rascal, cook, valet, groom,—who, with his faithful English attendant, represented the household of the whilom sumptuous Lord Viscount.
“Marcelin!”
“Monseigneur?” The word rang back in brisk interrogation from the underground kitchen.
“Get thee a lantern and attend me. We go foraging, you understand?”