If Hortense failed to carry off from the Duchess of Portsmouth—­then the star of Whitehall—­the heart of Charles, she found, at all events, in St. Evremond, one of those French, platonic, life-long friends, who, as Chateaubriand worshipped Madame Recamier, adored to the last the exiled niece of Mazarin.  Every day, when in her old age and his, the warmth of love had subsided into the serener affection of pitying, and yet admiring friendship, St. Evremond was seen, a little old man in a black coif, carried along Pall Mall in a sedan chair, to the apartment of Madame Mazarin, in St. James’s.  He always took with him a pound of butter, made in his own little dairy, for her breakfast.  When De Grammont was installed at the court of Charles, Hortense was, however, in her prime.  Her house at Chelsea, then a country village, was famed for its society and its varied pleasures.  St. Evremond has so well described its attractions that his words should be literally given.  ’Freedom and discretion are equally to be found there.  Every one is made more at home than in his own house, and treated with more respect than at court.  It is true that there are frequent disputes there, but they are those of knowledge and not of anger.  There is play there, but it is inconsiderable, and only practised for its amusement.  You discover in no countenance the fear of losing, nor concern for what is lost.  Some are so disinterested that they are reproached for expressing joy when they lose, and regret when they win.  Play is followed by the most excellent repasts in the world.  There you will find whatever delicacy is brought from France, and whatever is curious from the Indies.  Even the commonest meats have the rarest relish imparted to them.  There is neither a plenty which gives a notion of extravagance, nor a frugality that discovers penury or meanness.’

What an assemblage it must have been!  Here lolls Charles, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards Lord Dorset, the laziest, in matters of business or court advancement—­the boldest, in point of frolic and pleasure, of all the wits and beaux of his time.  His youth had been full of adventure and of dissipation.  ‘I know not how it is,’ said Wilmot, Lord Rochester, ‘but my Lord Dorset can do anything, and is never to blame.’  He had, in truth, a heart; he could bear to hear others praised; he despised the arts of courtiers; he befriended the unhappy; he was the most engaging of men in manners, the most loveable and accomplished of human beings; at once poet, philanthropist, and wit; he was also possessed of chivalric notions, and of daring courage.