Round other tables sat men and women, old and young, playing away
estate and fortune and honour at tick-tack or ombre or basset. One
noble lord was so old that he could not see to game, and must needs
have his valet by to tell him how the dice came up. On the walls hung
the works of Vandyke and Correggio and Raphael and Rubens; but the pure
faces of art's creation looked down on statesmen bending low to the
beck of adventuresses, old men pawning a noble name for the leer of a
Portsmouth, and women vying for the glance of a jaded king.

At the far end of the apartment was a page-boy dressed as Cupid,
singing love-songs. In the group of listeners lolled the languid king.
Portsmouth sat near, fanning the passion of a poor young fool, who hung
about her like a moth; but Charles was not a lover to be spurred. As
Portsmouth played her ruse the more openly a contemptuous smile flitted
over the proud, dark face of the king, and he only fondled his lap-dog
with indifferent heed for all those flatterers and foot-lickers and
curry-favours hovering round royalty.

Barillon, the French ambassador, pricked up his ears, I can tell you,
when Chaffinch, the king's man, came back with word that His Majesty
was ready to hear M. Radisson.

"Now, lad, move about and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut!"
whispers M. Radisson as he left me.

Barillon would have followed to the king's group, but His Majesty
looked up with a quiet insolence that sent the ambassador to another
circle. Then a page-boy touched my arm.