“Surprised too, I think—they are in conclave now.”
“I will go in.—I suppose we shall march on the Hague at once?”
“The Hague?” repeated Buckingham. “It is the most beautiful village in the world—I hope His Majesty will not burn it, Marquis.”
Monmouth approached, his racquet in his hand, all eagerness for the news.
“Peace rejected—war to be continued!”
The thoughtless soldier is pleased: his quick fancy sees the green tennis-court, the roses, the placid sky exchanged again for the charge of the cavalry, the attack on the bastions, the English flags against the smoke of the noisy cannon.
He sees himself commended, flattered, praised by the great King, complimented by the great Condé again, as he was before the trenches of Nymwegen.
He catches up his hat, and slips his arm through my lord Buckingham’s blue velvet sleeve; laughing together they go into the castle.
The Marquis and Madame Lavalette follow; the tennis-court stands empty; the rose-petals drift over the smooth grass and cling in the nets.
A wind rises, and it is chilly for an August twilight.