“Come here, come here,” his friend urged, beckoning him. “There,” he indicated, when the pale man had joined him, “below there—to the right—picking roses. She’s got red hair. She’s sent by Providence.”
A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the alleys of the garden; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned towards her observers; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over her head, and her hair—dim gold in its shadows—where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red.
The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, “Who the devil is she?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the other. “One of the Queen’s women, probably. But whoever she is, she’s got red hair.”
The younger man frowned more fiercely still. “What is she doing in the King’s private garden? This is a pretty state of things.” He stamped his foot angrily. “Go down and turn her out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may not occur again.”
But the elder man laughed. “Hoity-toity! Calm yourself, Uncle. What would you have? The King is at a safe distance, hiding in one of his northern hunting-boxes, sulking, and nursing his spleen, as is his wont. When the King’s away, the palace mice will play—at lèse majesté, the thrilling game. If you wish to stop them, persuade the King to come home and show his face. Otherwise, we’ll gather our rosebuds while we may; and I’m not the man to cross a red-haired woman.”
“You’re the Constable of Bellefontaine,” retorted his friend, “and it’s your business to see that the King’s orders are respected.”
“The King’s orders are so seldom respectable; and then, I’ve a grand talent for neglecting my business. I’m trying to elevate the Constableship of Bellefontaine into a sinecure,” the plump man explained genially. “But I’m pained to see that your sense of humour is not escaping the general decay of your faculties. What you need is a love-affair with a red-haired woman; and yonder’s a red-haired woman, dropped from the skies for your salvation. Go—engage her in talk—and fall in love with her. There’s a dear,” he pleaded.
“Dropped from the skies,” the pale man repeated, with mild scorn. “As if I didn’t know my Hilary! Of course, you’ve had her up your sleeve the whole time.”
“Upon my soul and honour, you are utterly mistaken. Upon my soul and honour, I’ve never set eyes on her before,” Hilary asseverated warmly.