Castlemaine had faded into France; Portsmouth watched from behind a cloud; even the irrepressible Nell had prophesied the splendor of the Mancini’s conquest. Hortense had landed at Torbay, and, like the exquisite romanticist that she was, had ridden up to London in man’s attire with seven servants, a maid, and a black boy in attendance. What was of more significance, she had ridden at a canter into the august heart of Whitehall. The palace of St. James had held her for a season, till the Duke of York, with commendable brotherly discretion, had purchased Lord Windsor’s house for her in the park, that such a brilliant might shine upon them from a fitting setting.
There was a fascination in the fact that Cardinal Mazarin should have possessed such a sheaf of adventurous nieces. They were all beautiful, all romantically rebellious, all deliciously feminine. It was impossible not to fall in love with them, and often impossible not to forget the intoxication, for none of the Cardinal’s kinswomen were mere sentimental fools. As for Hortense, she was a woman for whom a man might gamble away his soul, simply because she looked at him with those black, roguish, yet shrewd eyes of hers and made him feel that she was a desire beyond his reach.
The incarnation of all womanly mystery, her beauty seemed to have stolen some singular inspiration from twenty different types. A Greek symmetry softened by a sensuous suppleness; the look of the gazelle, and yet of the falcon; the stateliness of the great lady torn aside on occasions by the nude audacity of a laughing Bacchic girl. Her sumptuousness made a man’s glance drop instinctively to her bosom and watch the drawing of her breath. There was sheer magic about her, fire in the blood, color in the mind. When she entered a room the men looked at her, simply because they could not help but look.
As my Lord Gore had said, “there was a merry heavenly devil in Hortense.” She loved youth and all the glamour of its irresponsible vitality, and would rather have seen some buffooning trick played upon a bishop than have listened to the most eloquent of sermons. For she herself was vital, magnetic, filled with all genius of sex. A mere glance at her enriched the consciousness with visions, the flush of sunsets, the heart of a rose, the redness of wine, the white curve of a woman’s throat, moonlight and music, bridal casements opening upon foam.
My Lord of Gore heard the laughter in the great salon, even while the Mancini’s footman in red and gold was taking his cane and hat. There was nothing autumnal in Hortense’s house. Old men left their gout and their growls behind them on the staircase, for the exquisite art of fooling was a thing to be cherished and enjoyed.
The great salon had the brilliancy of color of a rose-garden in June. The brown floor reflected everything like a pool of woodland water that turns noonday into something vague and mystical. It caught the gleam of a satin slipper and threw it back with the imitative rendering of the gliding body of a fish. Like the villas of Pompeii, with its painted walls and ceilings, this salon enclosed sunny worldliness and picturesque realities. Its inmates were all sufficiently happy to be able to forget to analyze the nature of their sensations.
“Ready—ready all. Go!”
My lord paused in the doorway to watch an improvised chariot-race that offered any gentleman the chance of laying a wager. Three gallants had been harnessed with sashes to as many chairs, and in each chair sat a lady. Twice up and down the polished floor, with a turn at each end, and a forfeit for upsetting. It was much like a great Christmas romping-party for children.
A youth in blue satin with a fair-haired girl driving him came in an easy first. The other two chariots had collided at the last turn, with some slight damage to the furniture, and to the delight of the spectators. She who had driven the blue boy to victory frisked out joyfully, and performed a pas seul in the middle of the room.
“Bravo! bravo!”