Louis, who treated her with cruelty and neglect for other women. She was anxious for a divorce and to live in England, but Charles would not hear of what was so hostile to his interests. The unfortunate duchess returned to Paris, and within three weeks she was a corpse, though only twenty-six years of age. There was every reason to believe that she was poisoned, though the doctors, on a post mortem examination, declared there were no signs of poison; but what was the value of the testimony of medical men given at the risk of their heads? On her deathbed, when questioned by Montague, the ambassador, as to her belief on that point though warned by her confessor to accuse nobody, she would not say that she had no suspicions, but only shrugged her shoulders, a significant expression of her internal conviction.
The duchess left behind her one of her maids, a Mademoiselle Querouaille, or as the English came to call her, Madam Carwell, whom Louis had selected as a spy and agent, feeling assured that she would soon captivate this amorous king, which she did at once, and was in his usual way made at the same time his mistress and maid of honour to the queen. She was soon advanced to the title of duchess of Portsmouth, and so well did she serve the purposes of Louis, that in 1673 he gave her also a French title and estate. It was now thought by Charles and James that they could venture to put down the liberties, and, as James earnestly advocated, the religion of the nation. It was proposed to fortify Portsmouth, Hull, and Plymouth, by which places French soldiers might be introduced, and James having the command of the fleet, no interruption to their transit could take place. When parliament met in October, Charles observed that both Holland and France were increasing their navies—he could have told them really why—and on pretence of necessary caution, he demanded large supplies to place our own navy on a proper footing. There were complaints of prodigality and hints of popery thrown out, but a stun of no less than two million five hundred thousand pounds was voted, by taxes on land, on stock, on law proceedings, and on salaries—in fact, an income and property tax. There was a proposal to tax theatres, and when it was objected that the theatres contributed to his majesty's pleasure. Sir John Coventry asked sarcastically, "whether his majesty's pleasure lay amongst the men or the women players?"
For this remark Sir John was made to pay severely. The king and the whole court were furious at his hard hit against the Moll Davises and Nell Gwynnes. The king declared that he would send a detachment of the guards to watch in the street where Sir John Coventry lived, and set a mark upon him. The duke of York in vain endeavoured to dissuade the king; the duke of Monmouth, who was living on terms of great professed friendship with Coventry, yet undertook the execution of the business. He sent Sandys, his lieutenant, and O'Brien, the son of lord Inchiquin, with thirteen soldiers, who waited for Sir John as he returned from the parliament house on the evening of the 21st of December, and, encountering him in the Haymarket, assaulted him. Sir John placed his back to the wall, snatched the flambeau from the hands of his servant, and with that in one hand be so well plied his sword with the other, that he wounded several of the soldiers, and got more credit by his gallantry than for any action in his life. But he was overpowered by numbers in the end, beaten to the ground, and then had him nose cut to the bone with a penknife, to make a mark for life, to teach him respect for the king. They then went back to the duke of Monmouth's, where O'Brien, who was wounded in the arm, had it dressed. Coventry had his nose so well sewed up, that the trace of the outrage was scarcely discernible; but the house of commons, even such a house, resented tins dastardly attempt on one of its members, and it passed an act making it felony without benefit of clergy to cut or maim the person, and banishing for life the four principal offenders unless they surrendered before a certain day, as well as incapable of pardon even by act of parliament. But Monmouth and his assistants got out of the way, and the parliament never had the virtue to enforce its own act. In a very few weeks, Monmouth and a set of his drunken companions—young Monk, now duke of Albemarle, and eight others—attacked the watch, and killed the beadle of the ward, though he prayed earnestly that they would spare his life. Charles granted a pardon to the whole crew of murderers, to the great indignation of the public. The only visible effect on the court was that a ball at Whitehall, which was to have taken place that night, was put off. It was thus referred to by Andrew Marvell in his satires:—
See what mishaps dare e'en invade Whitehall,
The silly fellow's death puts off the ball!
And disappoints the queen, poor little chuck.
Who doubtless would have danced it like a duck.
*****
Yet shall Whitehall, the innocent, the good,
See those men dance all daubed with lace and blood.
The year 1670 was not destined to end without another extraordinary event. The duke of Ormond was returning on the 6th of December from a dinner in the city given to the young prince of Orange, and as he passed through St. James's Street, his carriage was stopped, he was dragged out, and mounted behind a man on horseback. There were five ruffians concerned, but having bound the duke behind their companion, the rest rode on to Tyburn to prepare the gallows, for hanging him upon it. But when they were gone, the duke threw himself forcibly from the horse, dragging his keeper with him. As they lay struggling on the ground footsteps were heard approaching. The duke's servants had given the alarm, and people were hurrying to the rescue. On this the villain loosened the belt which bound him to the duke, discharged two pistols at him, and made off. Fortunately the duke was not wounded except by the fall and the scuffle. The house of lords instituted an inquiry into this occurrence; the king offered one thousand pounds reward to any one giving information of the assassins, with pardon to the informant if one concerned. Nothing, however, could be traced till another affair, quite as extraordinary, took place in May of the next year.
A person habited as a clergyman, in the spring of 1671, introduced himself to Edwards, the keeper of the regalia in the Tower. He informed him of the attachment of his nephew to the keeper's daughter, and proposed a marriage between them. An acquaintance was thus commenced, and on the 9th of May the pretended clergyman brought two
