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Hannah Stuart
God and The King
God and The King
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"Un prince profond dans ses vues; habile à former des ligues et à reunir les esprits; plus heureux à exciter les guerres qu'à combattre; plus à craindre encore dans le secret du cabinet, qu'à la tête des armées; un ennemi que la haine du nom Français avoit rendu capable d'imaginer de grandes chose et de les exécuter; un de ces génies qui semblent être nes pour mouvoir à leur gré les peuples et les souverains—un grand homme...."—MASSILLON, Oraison Funèbre de M. le Dauthin.
CHAPTER I
THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 30th, 1688
"There is no managing an unreasonable people. By Heaven, my lord, they do not deserve my care."
The speaker was standing by an open window that looked on to one of the courts of Whitehall Palace, listening to the unusual and tumultuous noises that filled the sweet summer air—noises of bells, of shouting, the crack of fireworks, and the report of joyous mock artillery.
It was late afternoon, and the small apartment was already left by the departing daylight and obscured with a dusky shade, but no candles were lit.
There was one other person in the room, a gentleman seated opposite the window at a tall black cabinet decorated with gold lacquer Chinese figures, that showed vivid even in the twilight. He was watching his companion with a gentle expression of judgment, and twirling in his slim fingers a half-blown white rose.
"Un prince profond dans ses vues; habile à former des ligues et à reunir les esprits; plus heureux à exciter les guerres qu'à combattre; plus à craindre encore dans le secret du cabinet, qu'à la tête des armées; un ennemi que la haine du nom Français avoit rendu capable d'imaginer de grandes chose et de les exécuter; un de ces génies qui semblent être nes pour mouvoir à leur gré les peuples et les souverains—un grand homme...."—MASSILLON, Oraison Funèbre de M. le Dauthin.
CHAPTER I
THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 30th, 1688
"There is no managing an unreasonable people. By Heaven, my lord, they do not deserve my care."
The speaker was standing by an open window that looked on to one of the courts of Whitehall Palace, listening to the unusual and tumultuous noises that filled the sweet summer air—noises of bells, of shouting, the crack of fireworks, and the report of joyous mock artillery.
It was late afternoon, and the small apartment was already left by the departing daylight and obscured with a dusky shade, but no candles were lit.
There was one other person in the room, a gentleman seated opposite the window at a tall black cabinet decorated with gold lacquer Chinese figures, that showed vivid even in the twilight. He was watching his companion with a gentle expression of judgment, and twirling in his slim fingers a half-blown white rose.
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