THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
The night progressed. Came next the country dances—invented upon a time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce to the court some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but the sibilance of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed them of much of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color heightened, held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress Stewart and my lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige, called their recalcitrant admirers to account. His grace of Dorset, somewhat red and breathless, could contain himself no longer. “By my faith!” he said, “Castlemaine and Hamilton had better look to their laurels. Nay, she has a wit as pretty as that of my lord of Rochester.”
“But cleaner,” put in Jermyn, dryly.
In the meanwhile Monsieur Mornay had received a packet.
“In God’s name, what have you done?” (it ran). “You juggle too lightly with the affairs of nations, Monsieur Mornay. ’Tis a serious offense for you, and means death, or the Bastile
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