The King entered the room with his historic stride. His brow was clouded; but it was all humorous pretence, for trifles were not wont to weigh heavily upon his Majesty. With him came Portsmouth.

“Can you forgive me, Sire?” she asked. “I had promised the dance to Beau Adair. I did not know you, Sire; you masked so cleverly.”

“’Sdeath, fair flatterer!” replied the King. “I have lived too long to worry o’er the freaks of women.”

“The youth knew not to whom he spoke,” still pleaded Portsmouth. “His introduction here bespeaks his pardon, Sire.”

The King looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring.

“He is too pretty to kill,” he declared, dramatically. “We’ll forgive him for your sake. And now good night.”

“So soon?” asked Portsmouth, anxiously.

“It is late,” he replied.

“Not while the King is here,” she sighed. “Night comes only when he departs.”

“Your words are sweet,” said Charles, thoughtfully observing her.

She sighed again.

“My thoughts stumble in your speech,” she said. “I regret I have not English blood within my veins.”

“And why?”

“The King would trust and love me then. He does not now. I am French and powerless to do him good.”

There was a touch of honest sadness in her speech which awakened the King’s sympathy.

“Nay,” he said hastily, to comfort her; “’tis thy fancy. Thy entertainment hath made me grateful–to Louis and Louise.”

“Think not of Louis and Louise,” she said, sadly and reproachfully, “but of thy dear self and England’s glory. For shame! Ah, Sire, my childhood-dreams were of sunny France, where I was born; at Versailles–at Fontainebleau among the monarch trees–my early womanhood sighed for love. France gave me all but that. It came not till I saw the English King!”

The siren of the Nile never looked more bewitchingly beautiful than this siren of France as she half reclined upon the couch, playing upon the King’s heart with a bit of memory. His great nature realized her sorrow and encompassed it.

“And am I not good to thee, child?” he asked. He took her hand and responded to her eyes, though not with the tenderness of love–the tenderness for which she sought.

“You are good to none,” she replied, bitterly; “for you are not good to Charles.”

“You speak enigmas,” he said, curious.

“Have you forgotten your promise?” she asked, naÏvely.

“Nay; the passport, pretty one?” he answered, amused at the woman’s wiles. “All this subterfuge of words for that! There; rest in peace. Thy friend hath a path to France at will.”

He smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to her and turned to take his leave.

“My thanks are yours. Stay, Sire,” she said, hastily; for her mission was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. “Passports are trifles. Will you not leave the Dutch to Louis and his army? Think!”

She placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes.

“But,” he replied, kindly, “my people demand that I intervene and stay my brother Louis’s aggressive hand.”

“Are the people king?” she asked, with coy insinuation. “Do they know best for England’s good? Nay, Sire, for your good and theirs, I beseech, no more royal sympathy for Holland. I speak to avoid entanglements for King Charles and to make his reign the greater. I love you, Sire.” She fell upon her knee. “I speak for the glory of England.”

His Majesty was influenced by her beauty and her arts,–what man would not be?–but more by the sense of what she said.

“For the glory of England?” he asked himself. “True, my people are wrong. ’Tis better we remain aloof. No wars!”

He took the seat by the table, which the Duchess offered him, and scanned casually the parchment which she handed to him.

Nell peered between the curtains. Strings was close behind her.

“Bouillon’s signature for France,” mused the King. “’Tis well! No more sympathy for the Dutch, Louise, until Holland sends a beauty to our court to outshine France’s ambassador.”

He looked at Portsmouth, smiled and signed the instrument, which had been prepared, as he thought, in accordance with his wishes and directions. He then carelessly tossed the sand over the signature to blot it.

The fair Duchess’s eyes revealed all the things which all the adjectives of all the lands ever meant.“Holland may outshine in beauty, Sire,” she said, kneeling by the King’s side, “but not in sacrifice and love.” She kissed his hand fervently.

He sat complacently looking into her eyes, scarce mindful of her insinuating arts of love. He was fascinated with her, it is true; but it was with her beauty, flattery and sophistry, not her heart.

“I believe thou dost love England and her people’s good,” he said, finally. “Thy words art wise.”

Portsmouth leaned fondly over his shoulder.

“One more request,” she said, with modest mien, “a very little one, Sire.”

The King laughed buoyantly.

“Nay, an I stay here,” he said, “thy beauty will win my kingdom! What is thy little wish, sweet sovereign?”

“No more Parliaments in England, Sire,” she said, softly.

“What, woman!” he exclaimed, rising, half-aghast, half-humorous, at the suggestion; for he too had an opinion of Parliament.“To cross the sway of thy great royal state-craft,” she continued, quickly following up the advantage which her woman’s wit taught her she had gained. “The people’s sufferings from taxation spring from Parliament only, Sire.”

“’Tis true,” agreed Charles, decisively.

Portsmouth half embraced him.

“For the people’s good, Sire,” she urged, “for my sweetest kiss.”

“You are mad,” said Charles, yet three-fourths convinced; “my people–”

“Will be richer for my kiss,” the Duchess interrupted, wooingly, “and their King, by divine right and heritage, will rule untrammelled by country clowns, court knaves and foolish lords, who now make up a silly Parliament. With such a King, England will be better with no Parliament to hinder. Think, Sire, think!”

“I have thought of this before,” said Charles, who had often found Parliament troublesome and, therefore, useless. “The taxes will be less and contention saved.”

“Why hesitate then?” she asked. “This hour’s as good for a good deed as any.”

“For England’s sake?” reflected Charles, inquiringly, as he took the second parchment from her hands. “Heaven direct my judgment for my people’s good. I sign.”

The treaties which Louis XIV. of France had sent the artful beauty to procure lay signed upon her desk.

Nell almost pulled the portiÈres from their hangings in her excitement.

“I must see those papers,” she thought. “There’s no good brewing.”

Portsmouth threw her arms about the King and kissed him passionately.

“Now, indeed, has England a great King,” she said, adding to herself: “And that King Louis’s slave!”

Charles smiled and took his leave. As he passed through the portal, he wiped his lips, good-humouredly muttering: “Portsmouth’s kisses and Nell’s do not mix well.”

Portsmouth listened for a moment to his departing footsteps, then dropped into the chair by the table and hastily folded and addressed the papers.

Her mission was ended!