Charles laughed. “That is characteristic of the old man.”
“And so to me came the Palais Mazarin. You remember it—in the Rue de Richelieu—and with it came the Hôtel Tuboeuf and the picture and sculpture galleries, those which had been built by Mazard, as well as the property in the Rue des Petits Champs.”
“Such treasures! They must have been as good as anything Louis had in the Louvre.”
“Indeed yes. Pictures by the greatest artists. Statues, priceless books, furniture … It all came to me.”
“And he—your husband—sold it and so frittered away your inheritance?”
“He sold some. He thought it was wrong for a woman to adorn herself with jewels. He was verging on madness from the very beginning. I remember how I first came upon him before a great masterpiece, a brush in his hand. I said to him: ‘Armand, what are you doing? Are you imagining that you are a great painter?’ And he stood up, pointing the brush at the painting, his eyes blazing with what I can only believe was madness. He said: ‘These pictures are indecent. No one should look on such nakedness. All the servants here will be corrupted.’ And I looked closer and saw that he had been painting over the nudes. There were his crude additions, ruining masterpieces. That was not all. He took a hammer and smashed many of the statues. I dare not think how much he has wantonly destroyed.”
“And you lived with that man for seven years!”
“Seven years! I thought it my duty to do so. Oh, he was a madman. He forbade the maidservants to milk the cows, for he said this might put indecent thoughts into their heads. He wanted to extract our daughter’s front teeth because they were well-formed and he feared they might give rise to vanity. He wrote to Louis, telling him that he had had instructions from the Angel Gabriel to warn the King that disaster would overtake him if he did not immediately give up Louise de la Vallière. You see he was mad—quite mad. But I was glad later that he had written to Louis thus, for when I ran away from him he asked Louis to insist on my returning to him, and Louis’ answer was that he was sure Armand’s good friend the Angel Gabriel, with whom he seemed to be on such excellent terms, could help him more in this matter than could the King of France.”
Charles laughed. “Ah, you did well to leave such a madman. The only complaint I would make is that you waited so long before coming to England.”
“Oh, I was in and out of convents. And believe me, Charles, in some of these convents the life is rigorous indeed. I would as lief be a prisoner in the Bastille as in some of them. I was in the Convent of the Daughters of Mary, in Paris, and I was right glad to leave it.”
“You were meant to grace a Court, never a convent,” said Charles.
She sighed. “I feel as though I may have come home. This is a country strange to me, but I have good friends here. My little cousin, Mary Beatrice, the wife of your own brother, is here. How I long to see her! And there is you, my dear Charles, the friend of my childhood. How fares Mary Beatrice?”
“She grows reconciled to her aged husband. I have become her friend. That was inevitable because, from the first, she reminded me of you.”
She smiled lazily. “Then of course there is my old friend, St. Evremond. He has long been urging me to come to England.”
“Good St. Evremond! I always liked the fellow. He has settled happily here; I like his wit.”
“So you have made him Master of your ducks, I hear.”
“A task well suited to his talents,” said Charles, “for there is nothing he need do but watch the creatures and now and then throw them something to eat; but to perform this task he must saunter in the Park and converse while he stands beside the lake. It is a pleasure to saunter and converse with him.”
“I wonder does he grow homesick for France? Does he wish he had not been so indiscreet as to criticize my uncle at the time of the Treaty of the Pyrenees?”
“Does he tell you?”
“He tells me that he would never wish to leave England if I were there.”
“So he has helped to bring you. I must reward my keeper of the ducks.”
“He but spoke like a courtier, I doubt not.”
“All men would speak like courtiers to you, Hortense.”
“As they do to all women.”
“With you they would mean the fulsome things they say.”
She laughed. “I will call my blackamoor to make coffee for Your Majesty. You will never have tasted coffee such as he can brew.”
“And while we talk, we will arrange for you to move to Whitehall.”
“Nay, I would not do so. I would prefer a house … nearby. I do not think Her Grace of Portsmouth would wish me to have my quarters in Whitehall Palace.”
“It is spacious. I have made improvements, and it is not the rambling mass of buildings it was when’ I came back to England.”
“Nevertheless, I would prefer to be nearby, you understand, but not too near.”
Charles was thinking quickly. He was determined to lose no time in making this exciting addition to his seraglio.
With amusement he accepted coffee from Hortense’s little slave, and as he sipped it he said: “Lord Windsor, who is Master of Horse to the Duchess of York, would most gladly vacate his house for you. It faces St. James’ Park and would suit you very happily, I doubt not.”
“It seems as though Your Majesty is ready to make me very happy in England.”
“I shall set about that task with all my heart and soul,” said Charles, taking her hand and kissing it.
It was some months before Hortense moved to Whitehall. The question of money was a delicate one. Charles had placed himself in Danby’s hands, for Danby had proved his worth in matters of finance.
Danby had summed up the character of the beautiful Hortense: Sensual, but by no means vicious; cultured, but by no means shrewd. She would let great opportunities elude her, not because she did not see them, but because she was too indolent to seize them.
He did not believe that she would long hold the King’s undivided attention. She was more beautiful than any of the King’s ladies, it was true, but Charles nowadays wanted more than beauty. Hortense desired a large pension because she needed it to live in the state to which she was accustomed. She had no wish to store up for herself great wealth as Louise did. She would not ask for honors, titles; she did not wish to reign as a queen in the Court. She wanted to be lazily content with good food, good wine, a lover capable of satisfying her. She would never intrigue.
Danby had decided that he would be well advised to support Louise. Therefore he held the King back from supplying the large income which Hortense demanded.
Hortense was, he knew, hoping that her husband would give her a bigger allowance than the four hundred pounds a year which was all he would allow her out of the vast fortune she had brought him. Danby believed that if Hortense received what she wanted she would accept Charles as a lover whether he supplied the income or not. That was Hortense’s nature. She now asked £4,000 a year from Charles. But, as Danby pointed out, that would not be all she would ask.
Hortense was extravagant by nature. She had told Charles of how, one day shortly before her uncle’s death, she had thrown three hundred pistoles out of the window of the Palais Mazarin because she liked to see the servants scramble for them and fight each other.
“Uncle was such a careful man,” Hortense had said. “Some say my action shortened his life. But it did not prevent his leaving me his fortune.”
Oh yes, Danby pointed out, if the King wished to keep his exchequer in order, they must be careful of such a woman.