“What did he offer her on the Prince’s behalf?” inquired the Princess.
“Why, Madam, a mere nothing—a flea-bite. The virtue of an opera-singer might be priced more highly. Sixteen hundred guineas a year. I wonder Baltimore had the effrontery to run of such an errand.”
“He’s more princely in his own pleasures,” cries the Queen. “I hear he has offered Polly Peachum two thousand guineas a year and a diamond necklace. But my son adds a disgusting avarice to his other virtues. However—who writ the letter for the Vane, Hervey? ’Twas excellently done.”
“Madam, your humble servant!” He bowed exquisitely—his thin white hand on the embroidery above his heart.
“Aha! didn’t I say ’twas a masterpiece of tenderness and diplomacy, Emily? When one of the Walpoles was spoke of as the writer, I said there was a finesse the Walpoles lack. It might almost be thought a woman’s, and has certainly won the heart of that blundering fool, the English People,” concludes the Mother of her country.
“It is happy in your commendation, Madam,” says the author, “but indeed Lord Baltimore did his errand so cold and haughty as he might have been dismissing a cook-maid for indiscretion. Mrs. Vane virtually slaughtered him and sent a cartel of defiance to the Prince, and since I knew it would not be displeasing to your Majesty I put the salt and pepper—even a dash of mustard also, in the cartel, seasoned with sobs and tears. The poor afflicted lady is much commiserated by the public to whom she has published the letter; and the Prince’s.”
“Excellent, Hervey, excellent!” says the royal matron. “Disservice to the Prince is service to us. Call for more chocolate. But tell me, how is it that the little slut Polly refuses Baltimore’s friendly offers? Of course he’s more than half mad and wholly bad. Didn’t I always say so, Emily? But she’s not to know that, and sure she estimates herself very high if such a sum won’t buy her. What’s the reason? Is there a higher bidder?”
“Why no, Madam, but you’re to remember the girl’s at auction, and won’t knock herself down to the first bidder. Is there not Sir Robert Walpole, that has a fine person and the finances of the country at his back?—(Her Majesty laughed with infinite relish at this description of her minister and his swollen body)— Is there not his Majesty the King? Mrs. Howard’s charms are on the wane, and Miss Polly may hope for your Majesty’s interest at Kensington Palace! Unfortunately she does not speak High Dutch.”
He delivered this with a demure gravity, and the Queen laughed more heartily than before. The King’s German favourites were a favourite subject of jest between her and her vice-chamberlain, and Princess Emily’s. “Fie, for shame, my Lord!” did but increase the hilarity. The Queen wiped her eyes with her laced handkerchief.
“Is she so pretty a creature as they say? But for the follies of the Duchess of Queensbury that ought to have a whipping for her pains—making a mere play a political matter! I had been to the playhouse to see her. But is she the sort to take a man’s taste?”