Touched upon the string of his humour, Charles was ever easily appeased. The very impudence of his grave constable’s proposal tickled him. It was not the first time that they had found themselves opposed in rivalry, though scarcely ever before so avowedly. On the last occasion (the King remembered this pleasantly) Rockhurst, for all his _beaux yeux_, had been notoriously displaced; and this, doubtless, was a little stroke of revenge. That was Rockhurst’s way. “Beware of boasting, my lord Constable!” he exclaimed banteringly. They were on the threshold of the apartment. Rockhurst made a deep _congé_. “I never boast, as your Majesty knows. But your Majesty was wont to love a fair wager.” Charles’s smile widened. He nodded assent, and Rockhurst pursued after a moment’s reflection:— “Will your Majesty stake the payment of all the arrears due to my yeomen’s company that the linnet’s first song will not be for me? I would wager in return their immediate settlement, out of my own estate, unless your Majesty would impose on me any other stake.” “Admirable!” said the King. “Yet we would have a more immediate, a more personal, token of victory—if we succeed against your _beaux yeux_,” he put in with a little mockery, “and that is, in addition to the paltry coin, a view of the contents of that locket, my merry Rockhurst.” Rockhurst hesitated, then bowed. “So be it, sire,” said he. And hereupon Charles retired, laughing, in cynical anticipation of a good stroke of business. That ever-present question of arrears of pay was a persistent annoyance to the royal conscience. II WHITEHALL STAIRS “Little Satan”—bestowed from lips royal in terms of favour, the nickname cleaved congenially to Enguerrand—entered, into the rôle of King’s Mercury with all the _verve_ expected of him. But he was considerably surprised at the manner in which his embassy was received. To place the most unworthy motives invariably foremost was, he flattered himself, to display a thorough knowledge of woman. He had yet to learn the thousand sensibilities that distinguish even the frail of that elusive sex from the unscrupulous gallant. As he paused on his announcement, fully expecting to descry in the new recipient of the royal favour at least as much gratification as he himself experienced in being singled out as confidential messenger, he was met by a sudden pouncing movement, expressive only of wrath, by a dark look, actually by a flush. Had Jeanne de Mantes ever blushed? It might be a matter of doubt. But she could colour high with displeasure; and very becoming it was. “What, sir?” she cried. “I cannot have understood aright. Is this the Vidame de Joncelles, the French gentilhomme, the servant of Madame Henriette de France—is this my compatriot, my own brother, who comes to make me such a proposition?—It is really not to credit one’s ears!…”