And, as Grisell afterwards learnt, this was
Isabel de Souza, Countess of Poitiers, a Portuguese lady who had come
over with her Infanta; and whose daughter produced Les Honneurs de la
Cour, the most wonderful of all descriptions of the formalities of
the Court.
Grisell remained kneeling on the steps of the dais, while the Duchess
addressed her in much more imperfect Flemish than she could by this
time speak herself.
"You are the lace weaver, maiden. Can you speak French?"
"Oui, si madame, son Altese le veut," replied Grisell, for her tongue
had likewise become accustomed to French in this city of many
tongues.
"This is English make," said the Duchess, not with a very good French
accent either, looking at the specimens handed by her lady. "Are you
English?"
"So please your Highness, I am."
"An exile?" the Princess added kindly.
"Yes, madame. All my family perished in our wars, and I owe shelter
to the good Apothecary, Master Lambert."
"Purveyor of drugs to the sisters. Yes, I have heard of him;" and
she then proceeded with her orders, desiring to see the first piece
Grisell should produce in the pattern she wished, which was to be of
roses in honour of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, whom the Peninsular
Isabels reckoned as their namesake and patroness.
It was a pattern which would require fresh pricking out, and much
skill; but Grisell thought she could accomplish it, and took her
leave, kissing the Duchess's hand--a great favour to be granted to
her--curtseying three times, and walking backwards, after the old
training that seemed to come back to her with the atmosphere.
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