“I thought the King might pass this way, and came to see,” hastily explained his lordship, observing that she was reflecting upon the incongruity of his friendship for her and of his visit to Madame Gwyn.
“And if he did?” she asked, dubiously, not seeing the connection.
“I have a plan to make his visits less frequent, Louise,–for your sweet sake and mine.”
The man was becoming master. He had pleased her, and she was beginning to believe.
“Yes?” she said, in a way which might mean anything, but certainly that she was listening, and intently listening too.
“You have servants you can trust?” he asked.
“I have,” she replied as quickly; and she gloried in the thought that some at least were as faithful as Louis’s court afforded.
“They must watch Nell’s terrace here, night and day,” he almost commanded in his eagerness, “who comes out, who goes in and the hour. She may forget her royal lover; and–well–we shall have witnesses in waiting. We owe this kindness–to his Majesty.”
Portsmouth shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “Mon Dieu!” she said. “My servants have watched, my lord, already. The despatches would have been signed and Louis’s army on the march against the Dutch but for this vulgar player-girl, whom I have never seen. The King forgets all else.”
The beautiful Duchess was piqued, indeed, that the English King should be so swayed. She felt that it was a personal disgrace–an insult to her charms and to her culture. She felt that the court knew it and laughed, and she feared that Louis soon would know. Nell Gwyn! How she hated her–scarce less than she loved Louis and her France.