The King, who was ill at figures, like all true spendthrifts, sat confused by her speech. Nell laughed again. The landlord, who was in and out, stopped long enough to enter upon his bill, in rambling characters, “3 chickens.” This was all his dull ear had comprehended. He then piously proceeded on his way.
“Gadso!” exclaimed the King, woefully. “It is too much for me.”
“Pooh, pooh, ’tis too simple for you, Sire,” laughed Nell. “I solved it when a child. Here is my bird; and here is your bird; and our dearest Duchess shall sup on her third bird!”
Nell quickly spitted one chicken upon a huge fork and so removed it to her own plate. The second chicken, she likewise conveyed to his Majesty’s. Then, with all the politeness which she only could summon, she bowed low and offered the empty platter to the Duchess.
Portsmouth struck it to the board angrily with her gloved hand and steadied herself against the table.
“Hussy!” she hissed, and forthwith pretended to grow faint.
Charles was at her elbow in an instant, supporting her.
“Oh,–Sire, I–” she continued, in her efforts to speak.
“What is it?” cried Charles, seriously, endeavouring to assist her. “You are pale, Louise.”
“I am faint,” replied she, with much difficulty. “Pardon my longer audience, Sire; I am not well. Garçon, my chair. Assist me to the door.”