As she spoke, the room was suddenly filled with savoury odour. The moon-faced landlord had again appeared, flourishing a platter containing two finely roasted chickens. His face glowed with pride and ale.
“The court’s famished,” exclaimed Charles, as he greeted the inn-keeper; “proceed!”
“Two capons! I have it,” triumphantly thought Portsmouth, as she reflected upon a riddle she had once heard in far-off France. It could not be known in England. Nothing so clever could be known in England. She looked contemptuously at Nell, and then at the two chickens, as she propounded it.
“Let your wits find then three capons on this plate.”
“Three chickens!” cried Charles, in wonderment, closely scrutinizing the two fowl upon the plate and then looking up inquiringly at the Duchess. “There are but two.”
Nell only gurgled.
“Another glass, landlord, and I’ll see four,” she said. “Here’s to you two, and to me too.” She drank gaily to her toast.
“That is not the answer, madame,” coldly retorted the Duchess.
“Are we come to blows over two innocent chickens?” asked Charles, somewhat concerned still for the outcome. “Bring on your witnesses.” “This is one chicken, your Majesty,” declared the Duchess. “Another’s two; and two and one make three.”
With much formality and something of the air of a conjurer, she counted the first chicken and the second chicken and then recounted the first chicken, in such a way as to make it appear that there were three birds in all.