D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 247: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

232 For the King. rather than a battle, sham or actual, my father was dis- pleased. He contemplated passing time on his estate or here, ‘but Heaven disposed. He died out there, in our country seat of Floriador, which you have so gallantly restored to me, free of liability. This house has three ways out into the thoroughfares.” “How convenient for sallying out—to love appoint- ments,” said Porthos. “To rush upon the enemy,” corrected the other mus- keteer. “There is a detached house in the grounds,” added he, without apparent meaning, “which would do admirably as an outwork.” “Oh, that is a summerhouse. It is remote both from the fish market and the church plaza—which are noisy on certain days. It was my mother’s buen retiro—you know, who speak Spanish with a talent scarce in the French, I think. It was originally the Moorish owner’s sultana’s, I conjecture; such a fairylike court with a marble fountain and stained glass making it always sun- shine inside. My tutor, the chaplain, used to read me the Chronicles of the Cid, and Arabian fairy tales there, with my sister by, when we were young and were free.” He sighed. “She always loved the resort.” “We have not the honor of seeing the lady,” said D’Artagnan with an emotion he was vexed that he could not subdue. But he rubbed his hands under the table, like a chess-player who had decoyed his antagonist into a series of moves by which he would gain. “Yes, Donna Jacinta,” sadly continued Don Jorge. “She never liked the convent—she always longed to be at the court—her father’s taste, while ‘her mother tired not of dissuading her from the vain glitter of that world. Jacinta took that pavilion to herself until, evil was the day, she went into the honorary service of the Duchess of Braganza—that intermeddler and plotter who will never rest until she has a queen’s coronet, or the fool’s cap, with which she should do penance on the horse- block.” ‘“Pillory a lady, a duchess,” protested Porthos, with his mouth full, which deteriorated from his indignation. “Why not? A traitor has no sex,” and Jorge de Mari- anda was sunprised sat his insensibility exciting criticism. 3 Gomicbooks (E(0) im