“I think I met them all in England,” said the Prince slowly. “Give me their names severally, M. Sylvius, that I may judge of their qualities.”
“Firstly, the Duke of Monmouth—he is already with the King of France—commanding the English companies.”
“Pass him, he can serve no serious purpose,” interrupted William. “The Earl of Arlington—I do mistrust him now; it is believed he drew up the treaty of Dover and was well paid for it, is it not?”
“I am sure of it, Highness … he leans avowedly to the French; then there is my lord the Viscount——”
“I do remember him,” answered William thoughtfully. “I should think he is honest—for an Englishman, though slow and lazy and unstable.”
“Finally his Grace of Buckingham, Highness, who stands high in favour with the King.”
The Prince was silent at the name, and his eyes hardened.
He had ugly memories of Buckingham.
The Court of Charles, that had flashed its brightest for his bewilderment, had filled him only with disgust and aversion. The King, at first inclined to confide the treaty of Dover to William, had found him impervious to flattery, and informed Louis that his nephew was “too Dutch and too Protestant for anything to be hoped for from him.”
But Buckingham, repelled in the advances he deemed irresistible, fell back on his wit, and with the readiness of a shallow nature ridiculed what he could not understand.