Almost ashamed, he quickly lowered his eyes.
I know how much it means to you, he repeated to himself. How much it means—He made a fervent wish that it would always mean as much to her as it did now. He did not want her ever to know what it was to believe in nothing, to have faith in nothing. He looked up again. His eyes brooded over her, his dark face earnest and unsmiling.
“You’re thin, Minette.”
She seemed surprised. “Am I? Why—perhaps I am.” She looked down at herself and as she moved the spaniel gave a resentful little grunt, telling her to be still. “But I’ve never been plump, you know. You’ve always called me ‘Minette.’”
“Are you feeling well?”
“Why, yes, of course.” She spoke quickly, like one who hates to tell a lie. “Oh—perhaps a headache now and then. I may be a little tired from all the excitement. But that will soon pass.”
His face hardened slowly. “Are you happy?”
Now she looked as though he had trapped her. “Mon Dieu! What a question! What would you say if someone asked you, ‘Are you happy?’ I suppose I’m as happy as most people. No one is ever truly happy, do you think? If you get even half of what you want from life—” She gave a little shrug and gestured with one hand. “Why, that’s all one can hope for, isn’t it?”
“And have you got half of what you wanted from life?”
She glanced away from him, down at the ornate carved footboard of the bed; her fingers stroked through Mimi’s scented glossy coat. “Yes, I think I have. I have you—and I have France: I love you both—” She looked up with a sudden wistful little smile. “And I think that both of you love me.”
“I do love you, Minette. I love you more than anyone or anything on earth. I’ve never thought that many men are worth a friendship or many women worth a man’s love. But with you it’s different, Minette. You’re all that matters in the world to me—”
Her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “All that matters to you? Come now, you can’t really mean that when you have—”
He answered her almost roughly. “I’m not jesting. You’re all I have that matters to me—These other women—” He shrugged. “You know what they’re for.”
Minette shook her head gently. “Sometimes, my brother, I’m almost sorry for your mistresses.”
“You needn’t be. They love me as little as I love them. They get what they want, and most of them more than they’re worth. Tell me, Minette—how has Philippe treated you since the Chevalier’s banishment? Every Englishman who visits France brings back tales about his behaviour to you that make my blood run cold. I regret the day you married that malicious little ape.” His black eyes gleamed with cold loathing and as he set his teeth the muscles of his jaw flexed nervously.
Minette answered him softly and there was a look of almost maternal pity on her face. “Poor Philippe. You mustn’t judge him too hard. He really loved the Chevalier. When Louis sent him away I was afraid that Philippe would go out of his mind—and he thought that I was responsible for his banishment. To tell you the truth I’d be glad enough to have him back again—it would make my own life much more peaceful. And Philippe’s so jealous of me. He suffers agonies when someone even compliments a new gown I’m wearing. He was half wild when he learned I was to take this trip—you’ll never believe it but he slept with me every night, hoping I’d become pregnant and the trip would have to be postponed again.” She laughed a little at that, though it was a laugh without much mirth. “That’s how desperate he was. It’s strange,” she continued reflectively, “but before we were married he thought that he was in love with me. Now he says it turns his stomach to think of getting into bed with a woman. Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” she said swiftly, seeing how white he had become, so white that a queer almost grey pallor showed through the bronze tones of his skin. “I never meant to tell you these things. It doesn’t matter, really. There are so many other things in life that are delightful—”
Suddenly Charles’s face contorted with a painful spasm and he bent his head, covering his eyes with the heels of his two hands. Minette, alarmed, reached over to touch him.
“Sire,” she said softly. “Sire, please. Oh, forgive me for talking like a fool!” She flung the little spaniel aside and hastily got out of bed to stand beside him, her arms about his shoulders; then she knelt in front of him, but his face was hidden from her. “My dear—look at me, please—” She took hold of his wrists and though at first he resisted her, slowly she dragged his hands down. “My brother!” she cried then. “Don’t look like that!”
He gave a heavy sigh; all at once his face relaxed. “I’m sorry. But I swear I could kill him with my bare hands! He won’t treat you like that any more, Minette. Louis will see that his brother mends his ways, or I’ll tear that damned treaty into bits!”
In the little room, draperies of scarlet and gold embroidered with the emblem of the house of Stuart had been hung to cover the stone walls. Candelabra with masses of tapers were lighted, for though it was mid-afternoon it was dark indoors because there were no windows—only one or two narrow slits placed very high. A heavy stench of perfumes and stale sweat clogged the nostrils. Voices were low and respectfully murmurous, fans whispered in languid hands, half-a-dozen fiddlers played soft tender music.
Only Charles and Minette occupied chairs—most of the others stood, though some of the men sat on thick cushions scattered over the floor. Monmouth had taken one just at his aunt’s feet and he sat with his arms clasped about his knees, looking up at her with a face full of frank adoration. Everyone had fallen in love with Minette all over again, willing victims to her sweetness and charm, her ardent wish to be liked, the quality she had in common with her oldest brother which made people love her without knowing why.
“I want to give you something,” she was saying to Charles, “to remember me by.”
“My dear—” His mouth had a whimsical smile. “As though I’m likely to forget you.”
“But let me make you a little gift. Perhaps a little jewel—something you can put on sometimes that will make you think of me—” She turned her head and spoke to Louise de Kerouaille who was standing just at her shoulder. Louise was never far from Minette when the King was in the room. “My dear, will you bring me my jewel-box—it’s in the center drawer of that cabinet.”
Louise made a delicate little curtsy; all her movements were graceful and pretty. She had a kind of well-bred diffidence, a refinement and an easy elegance which Charles admired in women but seldom found combined in the gustier ladies of his own Court. She was Parisian to the last fibre of her body, the last thread of her gown. And though she had undeniably flirted with him she had never been brazen or tactless or bold—she was a woman who must be won before she might be possessed. Charles, quite thoroughly jaded, was piqued at the notion of being once more the pursuer, not the pursued.
As she stood now before Minette, holding the box in her two hands, he said: “Here’s the jewel I want—Let her stay in England, Minette.”
Louise blushed, very becomingly, and lowered her eyes. Several of the English ladies stiffened perceptibly. The Duchess of Ravenspur and the Countess of Castlemaine exchanged indignant glances—for all the English mistresses had been allied against Louise from the first moment they had seen her. Amused and subtle smiles appeared on the faces of the men. But Minette shook her head.
“I’m responsible to her parents, Sire. They trust me to bring her back.” And then, to smooth over the awkward moment, she added: “Here—whatever you like—whatever will make you think most often of me.”