It was the evening of Portsmouth’s long-awaited bal masquÉ. Music filled her palace with rhythmic sound. In the gardens, its mellowing strains died away among the shrubs and over-hanging boughs. In every nook and corner wandered at will the nobility–the richest–the greatest–in the land.

None entertain like the French; and the Duchess had, indeed, exhausted French art in turning the grand old place into a land of ravishing enchantment, with its many lights, its flowers, its works of art. Her abode was truly an enlivening scene, with its variety of maskers, bright dominoes and vizards.

The King was there and took a merry part in all the sport, although, beneath his swaggering abandon, there lurked a vein of sadness. He laughed heartily, he danced gaily, he jested with one and all; but his manner was assumed. The shrewdest woman’s eye could not have seen it; though she might have felt it. Brother James too enjoyed the dance, despite his piety; and Buckingham, Rochester and a score of courtiers beloved by the King entered mirthfully into the scene, applauding the Duchess’s entertainment heartily.

As the evening wore apace, the merry maskers grew merrier and merrier. In a drawing-room adjoining the great ball-room, a robber-band, none other than several gallants, whose identity was concealed by silken vizards, created huge amusement by endeavouring to steal a kiss from Lady Hamilton. She feigned shyness, then haughtiness, then anger; then she ran. They were after her and about her in an instant. There were cries of “A kiss!” “A kiss!” “This way!” “Make a circle or she’ll escape us!”

A dozen kisses so were stolen by the eager gallants before my lady broke away, stamping her foot in indignation, as she exclaimed:“Nay, I am very angry, very–”

“That there were no more, wench!” laughed Buckingham. “Marry, ’tis a merry night when Portsmouth reigns. Long live the Duchess in the King’s heart!”

“So you may capture its fairer favourite, friend Buckingham?” suggested the King, softly; and there was no hidden meaning in his speech, for the King suspected that Buckingham’s heart as well was not at Portsmouth’s and Buckingham knew that the King suspected it.

Buckingham was the prince of courtiers; he bowed low and, saying much without saying anything, replied respectfully:

“So I may console her, Sire, that she is out-beautied by France to-night.”

“Out-beautied! Not bidden, thou mean’st,” exclaimed the King, his thoughts roving toward Nelly’s terrace. Ah, how he longed to be there! “The room is close,” he fretted. “Come, gallants, to the promenade!”

He was dressed in white and gold; and a princely prince he looked, indeed, as the courtiers separated for him to pass out between them.

All followed save Buckingham, whom Portsmouth’s eye detained.

She broke into a joyous laugh as she turned from the tapestry-curtains, through which she could see his Majesty–the centre of a mirthful scene without.

“What say you now, my lord?” she asked, triumphantly, of Buckingham. “I am half avenged already, and the articles half signed. The King is here despite his Madame Gwyn, and in a playful mood that may be tuned to love.”

Buckingham’s ardour did not kindle as she hoped.

“Merriment is oft but Sadness’s mask, Louise,” he replied, thoughtfully.

“What meanest thou?” she asked, in her nervous, Gallic way, and as quickly, her mind anticipating, answered: “This trifle of the gossips that Charles advances the player’s whim to found a hospital at Chelsea, for broken-down old soldiers? Ce n’est rien!”She broke into a mocking laugh.

“Aye!” replied Buckingham, quietly but significantly. “The orders are issued for its building and the people are cheering Nell throughout the realm.”

“Ma foi!” came from the Duchess’s contemptuous lips. “And what say the rabble of Portsmouth?”

“That she is Louis’s pensioner sent here from France–a spy!” he answered, quickly and forcefully too. “The hawkers cry it in the streets.”

“Fools! Fools!” she mused. Then, making sure that no arras had ears, she continued: “Before the night is done, thou shalt hear that Luxembourg has fallen to the French–Mark!–Luxembourg! Feed the rabble on that, my lord. Heaven preserve King Louis!”

The Duke started incredulously. When had Portsmouth seen the King? and by what arts had she won the royal consent? A score of questions trembled on his lips–and yet were checked before the utterance. Not an intimation before of her success had reached his ear, though he had advised with the Duchess almost daily since their accidental meeting below Nell’s terrace. Indeed, in his heart, he had never believed that she would be able so to dupe the King. The shadow from the axe which fell upon Charles I. still cast its warning gloom athwart the walls of Whitehall; and, in the face of the temper of the English people and of well-known treaties, the acquiescence of Charles II. in Louis’s project would be but madness. Luxembourg was the key strategetically to the Netherlands and the states beyond. Its fall meant the augmentation of the Empire of Louis, the personal ignominy of Charles!

“Luxembourg!” He repeated the word cautiously. “King Charles did not consent–”

“Nay,” replied the Duchess, in her sweetest way, “but I knew he would; and so I sent the message in advance.”

“Forgery! ’Twas boldly done, Louise,” cried Buckingham, in tones of admiration mixed with fear.

“I knew my power, my lord,” she said confidently; and her eyes glistened with womanly pride as she added: “The consent will come.”

Buckingham’s eyes–usually so frank–fell; and, for some seconds, he stood seemingly lost in abstraction over the revelations made by the Duchess. He was, however, playing a deeper game than he appeared to play. Apparently in thoughtlessness, he began to toy with a ring which hung upon a ribbon about his neck and which till then had been cautiously concealed.

“Nay, what have you there?” questioned Portsmouth.

Buckingham’s face assumed an expression of surprise. He pretended not to comprehend the import of her words.

She pointed to the ring.

He glanced at it as though he regretted it had been seen, then added carelessly, apparently to appease but really to whet the Duchess’s curiosity:

“Merely a ring the King gave Nell.”

There was more than curiosity now in Portsmouth’s eyes.“I borrowed it to show it you,” continued Buckingham, indifferently, then asked, with tantalizing calmness: “Is your mission quite complete?”

With difficulty, the Duchess mastered herself. Without replying, she walked slowly toward the table, in troubled thought. The mask of crime revealed itself in her beautiful features, as she said, half to herself:

“I have a potion I brought from France.”

She was of the Latin race and poison was a heritage.

Buckingham caught the words not meant for him, and realized too well their sinister meaning. Poison Nell! His eyes swept the room fearfully and he shuddered. He hastened to Portsmouth’s side, and in cold whispers importuned her:

“For Heaven’s mercy, woman, as you love yourself and me–poison is an unhealthy diet to administer in England.”

The Duchess turned upon him impatiently. The black lines faded slowly from her face; but they still were there, beneath the beauty-lines.

“My servants have watched her house without avail,” she sneered. “Your plan is useless; my plan will work.”

“Stay!” pleaded Buckingham, still fearful. “We can ourselves entice some adventurous spirit up Nell’s terrace, then trap him. So our end is reached.”

“Aye,” replied the Duchess, in milder mood, realizing that she had been over-hasty at least in speech, “the minx presumes to love the King, and so is honest! But of her later. The treaties! He shall sign to-night–to-night, I say.”

With a triumphant air, she pointed to the quills and sand upon a table in readiness for his signing.

Buckingham smiled approvingly; and in his smile lurked flattery so adroit that it pleased the Duchess despite herself.

“Lord Hyde, St. Albans and the rest,” said he, “are here to aid the cause.”

“Bah!” answered Portsmouth, with a shrug. “In the field, men; at court, women! This girl has outwitted you all. I must accomplish my mission alone. Charles must be Louis’s pensioner in full; England the slave of France! My fortune–Le Grand Roi’s regard–hang upon it.”

Buckingham cautioned her with a startled gesture.

“Nay,” smiled Portsmouth, complacently, “I may speak frankly, my lord; for your head is on the same block still with mine.”

“And my heart, Louise,” he said, in admiration. “Back to the King! Do nothing rash. We will banish thy rival, dear hostess.”

He did not add, save in thought, that Nell’s banishment, if left to him, would be to his own country estate.

There was almost a touch of affection in the Duchess’s voice as she prepared to join the King.

“Leave all to me, my lord,” she said, then courtesied low.

“Yea, all but Nell!” reflected his lordship, as he watched her depart. “With this ring, I’ll keep thee wedded to jealous interest, and so enrich my purse and power. Thou art a great woman, fair France; I half love thee myself. But thou knowest only a moiety of my purpose. The other half is Nell!”

He stood absorbed in his own thoughts.

The draperies at the further doorway, on which was worked in Gobelin tapestry a forest with its grand, imposing oaks, were pushed nervously aside. Jack Hart entered, mask in hand, and scanned the room with skeptic eye.

“A happy meeting,” mused Buckingham, reflecting upon Hart’s one-time ardour for Mistress Nell and upon the possibility that that ardour, if directed by himself, might yet compromise Nell in the King’s eyes and lead to the realization of his own fond dreams of greater wealth and power and, still more sweet, to the possession of his choice among all the beauties of the realm.

“It is a sad hour,” thought Hart, glancing at the merry dancers through the arch, “when all the world, like players, wear masks.”Buckingham assumed an air of bonhomie.

“Whither away, Master Hart?” he called after the player, who started perceptibly at his voice. “Let not thy fancy play truant to this gay assemblage, to mope in St. James’s Park.”

“My lord!” exclaimed Hart, hotly. The fire, however, was gone in an instant; and he added, evidently under strong constraint: “Pardon; but we prefer to change the subject.”

“The drift’s the same,” chuckled the shrewd Buckingham; “we may turn it to advantage.” He approached the player in a friendly manner. “Be not angry,” he exclaimed soothingly; “for there’s a rift even in the clouds of love. Brighter, man; for King Charles was seeking your wits but now.”

“He’d have me play court-fool for him?” asked the melancholy mime, who had in his nature somewhat of the cynicism of Jaques, without his grand imaginings of soul. “There are many off the stage, my lord, in better practice.” “True, most true,” acquiesced Buckingham; “I could point them out.”

He would have continued in this vein but beyond the door, whence Hart had just appeared, leading by a stair-way of cupids to the entrance to the palace, arose the sound of many voices in noisy altercation.

“Hark ye, hark!” he exclaimed, in an alarmed tone. “What is’t? Confusion in the great hallway below. We’ll see to’t.”

He had assumed a certain supervision of the palace for the night. With the player as a body-guard, he accordingly made a hasty exit.