Lady Strafford looked at the beautiful frail woman in her lace and silk who was so delicate, so charming, so gay, and who had more power over the King than his own conscience, and her heart gave a sick swerve. She never had, never could, wholly trust the French Papist Queen, for she was herself too wholly open and English in her nature.
Henriette Marie rose, and the jasmine perfume was stirred by the shaking of her garments.
"Is it not better," she said, with a lovely, tender smile, "that Lord Strafford should come here and face his enemies, than that he should lurk in York among his soldiers as if he feared what creatures like this Pym could do?"
"Madame," returned Lady Strafford, through white lips, "no one would ever think the Earl feared his enemies. But to come to London now is not courage but folly."
"It is obedience to the King's wishes," said the Queen, and a haughty fire sparkled in her dark liquid eyes.
"The King," returned the Countess, "asketh too much from his servant, by Heaven, madame! Those who love my lord would see him stay at York—"
"And those who love the King would obey him," flashed Henriette Marie.
The Countess controlled herself and swept a curtsey.
"I take my leave," she said. "May Your Majesty hold as ever sacred the promises with which you have brought my lord in among those who madden to destroy him! As for me, my heart is fallen low. Madame, a good night."