them adoration as to God Himself—ay, greater than to God—how could it be otherwise? Not so strange that this proud, pampered woman, from her cradle accustomed to such slavish obedience, should verily believe it but her due.
“Their rights?” she continued, with a satirical laugh. “An absurd notion they’ve got into their Saxon skulls. Ah! mon mari, were I you for a month—for a week—I’d have it out—stamp it out—I would.”
And to give emphasis to her speech, she stamped her foot upon the ground.
A pretty foot it was, and still a handsome woman she, this daughter of the Medicis, notwithstanding her being now somewhat passé. Ambitious as Catherine herself—“that mother of a race of kings”—intriguing, notoriously dissolute, not the less did Charles love her. Perhaps the more, for the cuckoo’s cry is a wonderful incentive to passion, as to jealousy. He doted upon her with foolish fondness—would have done anything she commanded, even murder. And to more than this was she now instigating him; for it was to stifle, trample out the liberties of a nation, no matter at what cost in life or blood.
Wicked as were her counsels, he would have followed them and willingly, could he have seen his way clear to success. Men still talk of his kindly nature—in face of the fact, proved by irresistible evidence, that he rejoiced at the massacre of the Protestants in Ireland, to say naught of many other instances of inhumanity brought home to this so-called “Martyr King.” He may not have been—was not—either a Nero or a Theebaw; and with his favourites and familiars no doubt behaved amicably enough; at the same time readily sacrificing them when danger threatened himself. To his wife his fidelity and devotion were such as to have earned for him the epithet “uxorious,” a title which can be more readily conceded. But in his affection for her—whether upheld by respect or not—there was a spice of fear. He knew all about the scandals relating to her mother, Marie of France, with Richelieu, and his own and father’s favourite, the assassinated Buckingham, now sleeping in his grave. Charles more than suspected, as did all the world besides, that this same Queen-mother had sent her husband—king as himself—to an untimely tomb by a “cup of cold poison.” And oft as the dark Italian eyes of her daughter flashed upon him in anger, he felt secret fear she might some day serve him as had her mother the ill-fated monarch of France. She was of a race and a land whence such danger might be reasonably expected and dreaded. Lucrezia Borgia and Tophana were not the only great female poisoners Italy has produced.
“If you’ve no care for yourself, then,” she went on with untiring persistence, “think of our children. Think of him,” and she nodded towards a gaudily-dressed stripling of some ten or twelve, seen coming towards them. It was he who, twenty years after, under the seemingly innocent soubriquet of “Merry Monarch,” made sadness in many a family circle, smouching England’s escutcheon all over with shame, scarce equalled in the annals of France.
“Pauvre enfant!” she exclaimed, as he came up, passing her jewelled fingers through the curls of his hair; “your father would leave you bereft of your birthright; some day to be a king with a worthless crown.”
The “pauvre enfant,” a sly young wretch, smiled in return for her caresses, looking dark at his father. Young as he was, he knew what was meant, and took sides with his mother. She had already well indoctrinated him with the ideas of Divine Right, as understood by a Medici.
“Peste!” exclaimed the King, looking vexed, possibly at the allusion to a successor; “were I to follow your counsels, Madam, it might result in my leaving him no crown at all.”
“Then leave him none!” she said in quick return, and with an air of jaunty indifference. “Perhaps better so. I, his mother, would rather see him a peasant than prince, with such a future as you are laying out for him.”
“Sire, the Earl of Strafford craves audience of your Majesty.”
This was said by a youth in the official costume of the Court, who had approached from the Palace, and stood with head bent before the King.
A remarkably handsome young fellow he was, and the Queen, as she turned her eyes on him, seemed to recover sweetness of temper.
“I suppose my company will be de trop now,” she said. Then facing towards the youth, and bestowing upon him one of her syren smiles—slyly though—she added, “Here, Eustace; bring this to my boudoir,” and she handed him a large book, a portfeuille of pictures, she had been all the while carrying.
Whether the King caught sight of that smile, and read something wrong in it, or not, he certainly seemed irritated, hastily interposing—
“No, Henriette, I’d rather have you stay.”
“Con tout plaisir.” A slight cloud upon her brow told the contrary. “Charles, too?”
“No; he can go. Yes, Trevor. Conduct the Lord Strafford hither.”
Eustace Trevor, as the handsome youth was called, bowing, turned and went off, the Prince with him. Then said the King—
“I wish you to hear what Strafford has to say on the subject we’ve been talking of.”
“Just what I wish myself,” she rejoined, resuming her air of braverie. “If you won’t listen to me, a weak woman, perhaps you will to him, a man—one of courage.”
Charles writhed under her speech, the last words of it. Even without the emphasis on them, they were more than an insinuation that he himself lacked that quality men are so proud of, and women so much admire. Almost a direct imputation, as if she had called him “coward!” But there was no time for him to make retort, angry or otherwise, even had he dared. The man seeking audience was already in the garden, and within earshot. So, swallowing his chagrin as he best could, and putting on the semblance of placidity, the King in silence awaited his coming up.
With an air of confident familiarity, and as much nonchalance as though they had been but ordinary people, Strafford approached the royal pair. The Queen had bestowed smiles on him too; he knew he had her friendship—moreover that she was the King’s master. He had poured flattery into her ears, as another Minister courtier of later time into those of another queen—perhaps the only point of resemblance between the two men, otherwise unlike as Hyperion to the Satyr. With all his sins, Wentworth had redeeming qualities; he was at least a brave man and somewhat of a gentleman.
“What do you say to this, my lord?” asked the Queen, as he came up. “I’ve been giving the King some counsel; advising him to dissolve the Parliament, or at least do something to stop them in their wicked courses. Favour us with your opinion, my lord.”
“My opinion,” answered the Minister, making his bow, “corresponds with that of your Majesty. Certes, half-hand measures will no longer avail in dealing with these seditious gabblers. There’s a dozen of them deserve having their heads chopped off.”
“Just what I’ve been saying!” triumphantly exclaimed the Queen. “You hear that, mon mari?”
Charles but nodded assent, waiting for his Minister to speak further.
“At the pace they’re going now, Sire,” the latter continued, “they’ll soon strip you of all prerogative—leave you of Royalty but the rags.”
“Ciel, yes!” interposed the Queen. “And our poor children! What’s to become of them?”
“I’ve just been over to the House,” proceeded
