Charles graciously assisted the girl to her feet with the same courtesy he would have shown to the first lady of the Court.
The rage of the Queen now passed all bounds of restraint. “And this before me, your wife! You weigh the word of this bedraggled creature of the streets above that of the royal House of France, and Queen of this turbulent realm! By God, you deserve to be hooted by your loathsome mob. Who is this strumpet?” De Courcy whispered a word into her ear.
“What! The bastard of that profligate Strafford! Jesu, to what a pass this Christian Court has come!”
“Madam,” said Frances with frigid dignity, “you misname me. I have the honour to be Lord Strafford’s lawful daughter, acknowledged by him as such in presence of his Majesty the King.”
“’T is true, ’t is true,” murmured Charles, visibly quailing before the increasing wrath of his wife, adding in piteous appeal, “God’s wounds, have I not enough to bear without the quarreling of women.”
“The quarreling of women! Dare you couple me in the same breath with such as she? Is there none in my train to whip forth this impudent wench into the wretched rabble that has spewed her into our presence. The quarreling of women! A slattern that wishes to divert, from her reputed father’s head to yours, the anger of the gutter. Listen to it, my lord, listen to it.”
All this was shrieked forth with gestures so rapid and amazing that the eye could scarce follow the motion of her hands. Now she flew to the window and fumbled with its fastening, too greatly excited to succeed with the opening. Several of the French gallants stumbled over each other in their haste to aid her, but the lady’s impatience could not wait for them. She lifted her clenched hand and smote the diamond panes, which went shivering down beneath the fierce impact of the blow. Glass or lead or both cut the imperious hand and wrist, and the blood trickled down the fair rounded arm. The breach she made was like the letting in of waters; the roar outside became instantly articulate, and waves of meaning flooded the great apartment.
“To the block with Strafford. Death to the people’s oppressor!” was the cry, and the tortured King shrank from it as from the lash of a whip.
“Harken to the wolves!” shrieked the Queen. “It is your blood or Strafford’s! Which, which, which?”
Then, perhaps because of the hurt which she scarcely seemed to feel, her mood changed as quickly as her anger had risen, and she melted into tears, glided to her husband, and threw her arms about his neck.