Thus many happy weeks passed, Gasparini, the pedlar, selling few volumes, but reaping a rich harvest of stolen pleasure, and revelling in an adventure which added such a new zest to a life sated with more humdrum love-making.  But even the Duchess’s charms began to pall; the ladies he had left so disconsolate in Paris were inundating him with letters, begging him to return to them—­letters, all forwarded to him from his chateau at Richelieu, where he was supposed to be in retreat.  The lure was too strong for him; and, taking leave of the Duchess in floods of tears, he returned to his beloved Paris to fresh conquests.

And thus it was with the gay Duc until the century that followed that of his birth was drawing to its close; until its sun was beginning to set in the blood of that Revolution, which, if he had lived but one year longer, would surely have claimed him as one of its first victims.  Three wives he led to the altar—­the last when he had passed into the eighties—­but no marital duty was allowed to interfere with the amours which filled his life; and to the last no pity ever gave a pang to the “conscience” which allowed him to pick and fling away his flowers at will, and to trample, one after another, on the hearts that yielded to his love and trusted to his honour.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE INDISCRETIONS OF A PRINCESS

It was an ill fate that brought Caroline, Princess of Brunswick-Wolfenbuettel to England to be the bride of George, Prince of Wales, one April day in the year 1795; although probably no woman has ever set forth on her bridal journey with a lighter or prouder heart, for, as she said, “Am I not going to be the wife of the handsomest Prince in the world?” If she had any momentary doubt of this, a glance at the miniature she carried in her bosom reassured her; for the pictured face that smiled at her was handsome as that of an Apollo.

No wonder the Princess’s heart beat high with pride and pleasure during that last triumphal stage of her journey to her husband’s arms; for he was not only the handsomest man, with “the best shaped leg in Europe,” he was by common consent the “greatest gentleman” any Court could show.  Picture him as he made his first appearance at a Court ball.  “His coat,” we are told, “was of pink silk, with white cuffs; his waistcoat of white silk, embroidered with various-coloured foil and adorned with a profusion of French paste.  And his hat was ornamented with two rows of steel beads, five thousand in number, with a button and a loop of the same metal, and cocked in a new military style.”  See young “Florizel” as he makes his smiling and gracious progress through the avenues of courtiers; note the winsomeness of his smiles, the inimitable grace of his bows, his pleasant, courtly words of recognition, and say if ever Royalty assumed a form more agreeable to the eye and captivating to the senses.