Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

FOUR

Then Louise de Kéroualle came to England with Charles’ sister, Henriette, Duchess d’Orléans, she was already twenty years old. She looked much younger; this was due not only to her round babyish face but to her manners. These looks and manners were no indication of the real Louise, who was shrewd and practical in the extreme.

As the daughter of Guillaume de Penancoët, the Sieur de Kéroualle, a gentleman of noble lineage, she could not hope for a brilliant marriage, since her family had fallen into poverty and could not provide her with an adequate dowry. Louise, ever conscious of her lineage, was never tired of reminding those who seemed likely to forget it that, through her mother, she was connected with the family of de Rieux. Her position was an unfortunate one—so proud and yet so poor. Louise was older than her sister Henriette by some years, so her problem was the more immediate. She had one brother, Sebastian, who was serving abroad with the King’s armies.

Men could distinguish themselves in the service of their Kings, mused Louise; there was only one way open to women: marriage. Or so she had thought.

She had remained at the convent, where she had received her education, so long that she had thought she would never leave it. She had had visions of herself growing old, past a marriageable age, perhaps taking the veil. For what was there left for noble women, who could not marry with their equals, but the veil?

And then, suddenly had come the summons to return to her parents’ Breton home.

She would never forget the day she arrived at the great mansion, where all the family lived since none of them could afford to go to Court. She had wondered whether Sebastian had distinguished himself, whether the King had honored him, and their fortunes were changed, whether some miracle had happened and a man of wealth and family had asked for the elder daughter’s hand in marriage.

It was none of these things, but it concerned herself.

Her parents received her ceremoniously. Never did her father forget that he was Sieur de Kéroualle, and ceremony in his house was as closely observed as it was at Versailles.

She curtsied before them both and received their embrace. Her father had waved his hand to dismiss the servants, and then he had turned his face to her and, smiling, said: “My daughter, a place has been found for you at Court.”

“At Court!” she had cried, in her excitement forgetting that she should not show her surprise but accept all that was suggested, with the utmost decorum.

“My dear child,” said her mother, “the Duchess d’Orléans is to take you into her suite.”

“And …” Louise looked from one to the other, “this can be done?”

“Indeed it can be done,” said her father. “Wherefore did you think we had sent for you if it could not be so?”

“I … I merely thought it might prove too costly.”

“But it is a great opportunity, and one which we could not miss. I shall sell some land and make it possible for you to go to Court.”

“And we hope that you will be worthy of the sacrifice,” murmured her mother.

“I will,” said Louise. “Indeed I will.”

“In the service of Madame you will meet the very highest in the land. His Majesty himself is often in Madame’s house. They are great friends. I hope you will find favor in the King’s sight, daughter. Much good could come to our family if he found one of its members worthy of his regard.”

“I see, Father.”

They dismissed her then, for they said she was tired from her journey. She went to her room, and her mother followed her there. She made her lie down, and had food brought for her.

While she ate, her mother looked at her earnestly. She stroked the fine curling chestnut hair.

“Such pretty hair,” she said. “And you are pretty, my dear Louise. Very pretty. Different from the Court ladies, I know; but sometimes it is a good thing to be different.”

When her mother left her, Louise had lain staring at the canopy of her bed.

She was to go to Court; she was to do her utmost to please the King. There was something her parents were trying to tell her. What was it?

She quickly discovered.

They talked constantly of the King. The most handsome man in all France, they said; and what a pleasure it was to have a young King on the throne, a King who looked as a King should look. They recalled his magnificence at his coronation; what a fine sight it had been to see him in the ceremonial cloak of purple velvet embroidered with the golden lilies of France, and the great crown of Charlemagne on his noble head. All who had watched in the great Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Rheims had said that this was more than a King; it was a god come among them. He was pink and white and gold, this King of theirs; and he had a nature to match his face—benign and beautiful. It was a pleasure for all to serve him—man and woman alike.

They recalled his love for Marie Mancini, how idealistically he had wanted to marry her; and he would have done so too, had not his mother and Cardinal Mazarin set themselves against the marriage. Of course it would have been quite impossible for the King of France to marry a woman who was not of royal birth, but did it not show what a kindly, what a charming nature he had, to think of the marriage?

What did the King look like? Anyone who wanted to know that only had to read the romances of the day. It was said that, when she described her heroes, Mademoiselle de Scudéry used Louis XIV as her model.

“He is married now, our King,” said Louise regretfully; for she had begun to picture herself in the place of Marie Mancini, and she believed that had she been that young woman she would have married the King in spite of his mother, the unpopular Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin who was equally unpopular. She and Louis would have conspired together to bring about that marriage.

Marriage with a King! It was foolish to dream such dreams.

“He is married now, yes,” said her mother. “He is married to the dumpy little Spanish Princess, Marie Thérèse. She looked well enough in her wedding garments. But divested of them! Oh, I shudder for our beloved King, he who is such a connoisseur of beauty. There will be others.” Her mother lifted her shoulders and smiled tenderly. “How could it be otherwise? I have heard that, when he was very young, he loved Madame de Beauvais.” She laughed aloud. “Madame de Beauvais! Years older than he was—a fat woman—and I have heard that she has but one eye. Yet … he has never forgotten her. He has shown her great favor. There is an indication of the kind of King we have. A King who never forgets to reward those who have pleased him … even if it was only for a short time and long ago.”

Now Louise began to understand. She could not make a brilliant marriage because she had no suitable dot; but if she could become the good friend of the King, all sorts of honors might fall to her; and there were many men who then might wish to share her fortunes. How much more desirable was a royal mistress—even a discarded one—than a penniless virgin!

So to Court came Louise. She was pretty enough, but this prettiness was due to her youthful appearance. Her hair was lovely, so was her complexion, unpitted by the pox and unmarked by any blemish. Her round plump face gave her an innocent expression rare at this time, and this was appealing. Her eyes were rather closely set, and there was a suggestion at times of a cast in one of them. However, she was accounted a pretty young girl; and, because her appearance was not one of conventional beauty, this brought her some attention.

She had been thoroughly schooled in social etiquette, both in her home and in the convent, and as a result of her training was possessed of a natural grace. Her education had not been neglected and she was considered to be a cultured young woman, though lacking in the imagination which would have made her an outstandingly clever one. Louise then, when she came to the Court, was a well-bred, well-educated girl with some pretensions to good looks, certain graceful charm, and shrewd ideas, beneath that calm and babyish brow, of making a comfortable existence for Mademoiselle de Kéroualle.

Louise was a born spy. Her poverty and pressing need had nourished this quality in her. She told herself that it was a matter of great urgency that she must understand all that was going on about her; she had no time to spare. She was already twenty, no longer very young; a place at Court might not remain open to her. Therefore she quickly grasped the state of affairs at St. Cloud.

Henriette d’Orléans, the wife of the King’s brother, and sister to the King of England, was a charming woman—quick-witted, clever, and though no conventional beauty, one of the most attractive women in the Court of le Roi Soleil. Here, thought Louise, was a good model for herself. She studied Henriette and, watching her closely, being her intimate companion, she began to probe her secrets.

Not that Monsieur—Henriette’s husband—made any secret of the life they led together. Monsieur had his mignons, his dear friends who meant more to him than any woman could. Monsieur was the most conceited man in France and Louise discovered that his wife pleased him very much in one respect. There were occasions when he felt proud of her.

Louise understood the meaning of this one day when Louis himself paid a visit to St. Cloud.

This was the first time Louise had seen him. She was prepared. She was looking younger than ever; she kept close to her mistress. Here was her first chance to shine before His Majesty. She wore the most youthful of her gowns and her magnificent hair was elaborately dressed but falling in curls over her shoulders, as a young girl would wear it. She was sure she did not look more than fifteen.

The King came into the apartment, tall and as handsome as he had been made out to be, dressed in cloth of gold trimmed with black lace, diamonds flashing in his hat; he strode to Henriette.

She would have knelt, but he would not allow her to do so. He was agitated, Louise guessed.

He said: “No ceremony, dear sister.”

“Your Majesty has urgent business with me,” said Henriette. “I had hoped to present my new maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle.”

Louis’ eyes flickered lightly over Louise.

She came forward and fell to her knees.

He said: “Welcome to the Court, my dear. Welcome.”

She lifted her eyes to his face; this was the moment for which she had longed and hoped. But he was looking at the Duchesse.

“You wish to speak to me alone?” asked Henriette.

“I do wish that,” said the King.

It was the signal for attendants to retire.

One of her companions put her arms about Louise’s shoulders. “Don’t be hurt, my child,” she said. “It is always thus. When he comes, he has no eyes for anyone but Madame. Moreover if you would have pleased him you should not have seemed such a very little girl. His Majesty once liked matrons—now he likes no one but Madame.”

After that she began to understand a good deal.

Here was intrigue which interested Louise, not only because it was of vital importance to her, but because intrigue in any form fascinated her.

When her mistress danced in such a sprightly way, when she joked so readily, when she appeared to be gay, she was really full of sadness; and it was due to the fact that she had married the wrong man—Monsieur—when she loved the King himself.

Louise did not give up hope of attracting the King.

There was a great deal of gossip concerning Louis and his sister-in-law. Louise discovered that both the King’s mother, Anne of Austria, and Henriette’s mother, Queen Henrietta Maria, had pointed this out to the lovers.

It was at this time that the King began to show a little interest in that foolish and perfectly unworthy creature, Louise de la Vallière.

How could he look at the silly creature, Louise de Kéroualle wondered; then she began to understand. It was Madame who had decided that he should pay attention to La Vallière, Madame who had selected the girl. Louise de la Vallière was just the sort whom a woman who was in love would choose, if choose she must. Madame could feel confident that the King would never fall in love with the silly creature.

If only she had chosen me! thought Louise. How different it would have been then!

She thought of her family in their Breton home. They would hear the rumors from the Court. Such rumors always travelled fast. They would shake their heads and perhaps have to sell more of their possessions. Would they say: “Is it worth the expense of keeping Louise at Court?”

One day Madame called Louise to her and said: “Louise, would you like to accompany me to England?”

“To England, Madame?” answered Louise. “Indeed I would!”

“It will be but a short visit.” Henriette had turned away. There was, had she known it, no need for her to curb her tongue; she could have said all that was in her mind, because Louise knew it already.

Louise knew that she longed to get away from her husband, that she longed to see her brother who wrote to her so often and so lovingly. Louise was fully aware of the great affection between her mistress and the King of England. She had heard Monsieur, in one of his wild quarrels with Madame, declare that the love between his wife and her brother was more than that which it was meet and proper for two of such a relationship to share. She knew that, white-faced and horrified, Henriette had cried out to him that he was a liar, and that at that moment her self-control had broken.

Louise knew these things. She had a good pair of ears, and saw no reason why they should not be pressed into service. Those shrewd little eyes too were sharp. Louise trained them to miss nothing.

So if Henriette had decided to break free from that iron control which she kept on her feelings, and blurt out the truth to little Louise de Kéroualle, it would not have mattered. She would have told Louise very little that she did not already know.

“We shall stay no longer than two weeks,” said Henriette. “My brothers will meet me at Dover. I doubt I shall have time to visit the Capital.”

“Monsieur will not part with you for longer than that, Madame,” said Louise.

Henriette looked at her quickly, but there was no trace of malice in the babyish face. She is a child, thought Henriette, who was unaware that she was twenty years old—not so very much younger than herself, Louise, looking so unconcernedly youthful, conveyed such an appearance of innocence. I must try to make a match for her before she loses that innocence which is so charming, thought the kindly Madame. May it be a happier one than my own, and may she preserve that faith in life for as long as it shall exist.

“My brother is most eager for the visit,” said Henriette, and her face softened. “It is years since I have seen him.”

“I have heard, Madame, that a great affection exists between you and the King of England.”

“’Tis true, Louise. My childhood was lived in such uncertain times. I saw so little of him. I was with my mother, a beggar almost at the Court of France, and my brother, the King of England, but a wandering exile. We saw little of each other, but how we treasured those meetings! And we have kept our love for one another alive in our letters. Hardly a week passes without our hearing one from the other. I think one of the most unhappy periods of my life was when France and England were not good friends.”

“All France, and I doubt not all England, knows of your love for your brother, Madame. And all is well between England and France at this present time.”

Henriette nodded. “And I hope to make that bond of friendship stronger, Louise.”

Louise knew. She had been present on those occasions when King Louis had visited Henriette. Sometimes they forgot she was present. If they saw her they would think: Oh, it is but the little Louise de Kéroualle—a sweet child but a baby, a little simpleton. She will not understand what we talk of.

So it was that often they disclosed certain secret matters in her presence; often they betrayed themselves.

They loved, those two. Louis would have married Henriette had he not married dull Marie Thérèse before Charles Stuart regained his kingdom. Louise had heard it said that, before that time, Madame had been a shy girl who had not shown to advantage against the plump pink and white beauties so admired by the King of France. But when her brother regained his throne, Henriette’s gaucheries had dropped from her and she emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, it was said—brilliant, exquisite, the most graceful, charming, amusing, and clever woman at the Court. Then Louis had realized too late what he had missed; now he contented himself with the shyness of La Vallière and the flamboyant beauty of Montespan, in an effort to make up for all he had lost in Madame.

This interested Louise and she rejoiced therefore when she was chosen to accompany her mistress into England.

So she travelled with Madame to Dover, and all the pomp of a royal visit accompanied them.

She realized that Henriette was uneasy; and she guessed that it was due to the treaty which she was to induce her brother to sign.

Louis had prevailed upon Henriette to do this, and Louise surmised that the treaty, which would be signed at Dover, was one to which the King of France was very eager to have the King of England’s signature. Henriette was uncertain. Louise knew by her abstracted air that she was torn between her love for her brother and the King of France; and Louise knew that the King of France had won. For all her professed love for Charles of England, Henriette was working for the King of France whom she regarded in the light of a lover.

There was one thing to learn from this: emotions should never become involved when it was a question of one’s position in society. For all her cleverness, for all her wit, Henriette of Orléans was nothing but a weak woman, torn by her love for two men.

And so they came to Dover and were greeted, not only by the tall dark King of England, but by his brother, the Duke of York, and his natural son, the Duke of Monmouth.

There were banquets and dancing. The treaty was signed and dispatched to France. The days sped by. Henriette seemed to be indulging in frantic gaiety.

She loved her brother undoubtedly; yet, wondered Louise, how far had she sacrificed him to Louis?

She longed to know. The thought of such plots and counterplots was highly fascinating.

There came the time when they were due to leave the shores of England. Louise would never forget that occasion. It was a moment full of significance in her life, for it was then that new avenues of adventure were opened to her.

The King of England was looking at her with the approval which she had sought in vain to arouse in the King of France. He was referring to her as a brighter jewel than any in the casket which his sister was offering him. Those dark eyes, passionate and slumberous, were fixed upon her. Louise realized then that the King desired her.

This in itself was no unusual thing. The King of England desired many women, and it was rarely that his desires went unfulfilled. Yet Louise, the daughter of a poor Breton gentleman, had already deeply considered what the admiration of a King could mean.

She was blushing now, because the King was asking that she might stay behind in England, and her mistress was telling him that she had her duty to the child’s parents.

Child! They seemed unaware that she was twenty years old.

Louise, considering her age, was filled with sudden panic. What if she failed to fulfill her parents’ hopes? Would she have to return to the convent; perhaps make a marriage which would not lift her from the poverty from which she had determined to escape?

The admiration of kings could do a great deal for a woman. Her thoughts went to Louise de la Vallière—but all were aware that La Vallière was a simpleton who knew not how to exploit her lover. If ever the time came for Louise de Kéroualle to exploit such a lover, she would know full well how to do this to the best advantage to herself.

There was little time left, but she determined to do all in her power to see that the King of England did not forget her. She kept near her mistress because she knew that where Henriette was, there would Charles be.

And then there was that last encounter when she had stood before him.

Louis might like matrons, but Charles was clearly attracted by more youthful charms.

There was no doubt that he was attracted by her. He took her hands, and he spoke to her in her native French. He kissed her with a mingled passion and tenderness, and he told her he would not forget her and that he hoped one day she would come again to England, and that he would teach her the customs of the English.

She railed against the ill fortune which had brought her face-to-face with Charles such a short time before she was due to leave.

She longed to tell him that her parents would have no objection to her staying at the Court of England; that they had hoped she would become the mistress of the King of France, so they would not wish to refuse her to the King of England.

But how could she say these things? She could only stand on the ship, waving farewell and standing close to her mistress, so that the last Charles saw of the departing company was his dear sister and her maid of honor who had so charmed him.

Louis welcomed them back with great rejoicing. He was delighted with his dear Duchesse. At all the balls and masques he was at her side.

On one of these occasions, Henriette turned to the girl beside her and said to Louis: “Louise greatly impressed my brother.”

“Was that so?” said Louis.

“Indeed yes. He begged me to leave her with him in England.”

Louis looked with amusement at Louise, who had cast down her eyes.

“And did you wish to stay, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle?” he asked.

“If Madame had stayed, I should have wished to, Sire,” said Louise. “My wish is to serve Madame.”

“That is as it should be,” said Louis. “Serve her well. She deserves good service.”

His gaze was kind and doting. His mother was dead now; so was Madame’s mother, and he and Madame could not be reproved because they were so much together. None would dare reprove Louis now.

Louis laughed suddenly. “The King of England is governed by women, they say. I could tell you tales of the King of England, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, but I would not do so before Madame who loves him dearly, nor would I wish to bring the blushes to your cheeks.”

“Your Majesty is gracious,” murmured Louise.

Louise was in her own apartments. She was stunned by the news. There had been a most unexpected turn of events, which she knew must affect the course of her life. Madame was dead.

It had happened so suddenly, though Madame had been frail for a long time. She had been dining with her women and, during the meal, they had thought how ill she looked; when it was over she had risen from the table and lain on some cushions; she felt exhausted, she had said. Then she had asked for a drink and, when Madame de Gourdon had brought her a glass of iced chicory water, she was in sudden and acute pain.

She had cried out that she was poisoned, and her eyes had turned accusingly to Monsieur who had come into the apartment. Everyone present had thought: Monsieur has poisoned Madame.

Louise, in extreme panic, had hurried out of the apartment to bring help. It was imperative that Madame be treated at once, for she looked close to death, and if she died what would become of Louise?

The doctors had come. The King had come. Louise witnessed the strange sight of the magnificent Louis kneeling by Madame, his handsome face distorted with grief; she had heard the sobs in his throat, and his muttered endearments.

But Louis could not save her; nor could the doctors. A few short weeks after her return from her brother’s Court Henriette d’Orléans was dead.

And now, thought Louise, what will become of me?

She waited for the summons to return to her father’s estate. She had failed. There was no place for her at Court; she realized that now.

Each day she expected the summons to come.

There was a summons; but not from her home.

Madame de Gourdon came to her one day. Poor Madame de Gourdon! She was a most unhappy woman. She was not allowed to forget that it was she who had brought the glass of iced chicory water to Madame. Rumor ran wild throughout the Court. Madame was poisoned, it was whispered. Monsieur had done this; and his partner in crime was the Chevalier de Lorraine, his latest friend. But who had administered the draught? One of Madame’s women. Why, it was Madame de Gourdon. In vain did Madame de Gourdon sob out her devotion to Madame. People looked at her with suspicion.

Now she spoke listlessly: “Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, the King wishes you to attend him immediately.”

“His Majesty!” cried Louise, springing to her feet and smoothing down the folds of her dress.

“I will take you to him,” said Madame de Gourdon. “He is ready to receive you now.”

The King had come to St. Cloud to see her! It was incredible. She could think of only one thing it could mean. He had noticed her after all.

If he had come to see her all would soon know it. They would talk of her as they talked of La Vallière and Montespan. And why not? She was as good-looking as La Vallière surely. She touched her chestnut hair. The soft curls reassured her, gave her courage.

“I will go and prepare myself,” she said.

“You cannot do that. His Majesty is waiting.”

He was striding up and down the small apartment when Madame de Gourdon conducted her thither.

Madame de Gourdon curtsied and left Louise alone with the King.

Louise went hurriedly forward and knelt as though in confusion, but a confusion which was charming. She had practiced this often enough.

“Rise, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle,” said the King. “I have something to say to you.”

“Yes, Sire?” she said, and she could not keep the breathless note from her voice.

He did not look at her. He was staring at the tapestry which covered the walls of this small chamber, as though to find inspiration there. Louise took a quick glance at his face and saw that he was trying to compose it. What could this emotion of the King mean?

She was prepared to register the utmost surprise when he should tell her he had noticed her. She would be confused, overcome with astonishment and modesty. She would stammer out her gratitude and her fear. She believed that was what Louis would expect. She had the shining example of La Vallière to follow.

The King began to speak slowly: “Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, I have just suffered one of the greatest griefs of my life.”

Louise did not speak; she merely bowed her head; the handsome eyes were turned upon her, and there were tears in them.

“And I know,” went on Louis, “that you too have suffered. Any who had lived near her must feel her loss deeply.”

“Sire …” murmured Louise.

The King raised his hand. “You have no need to tell me; I know. Madame’s death is a great loss to our Court, and none in that Court suffers as I do. Madame was my own dear sister and my friend.” He paused. “There is one other who suffers … almost as deeply as I. That is Madame’s brother—the King of England.”

“Indeed yes, Your Majesty.”

“The King of England is prostrate with grief. I have heard from him. He writes harshly. He has heard evil rumors, and he is insisting that if it be true that Madame was hurried to her death those who are her murderers should be discovered and dealt with. But, as I am sure you will have heard, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, at the autopsy which I insisted should be immediately performed, no poison was found in Madame’s body. She had been in bad health for some time, and the very chicory water of which she drank was drunk by others, and these suffered not at all. We know that it was Madame’s own ill health which resulted in her death, and no one here was in the least to blame. But the King of England bitterly mourns his sister whom he loved so well, and I fear we shall find it difficult to convince him. Now, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, you are a very charming young lady.”

Louise drew a deep breath. Her heart was beating so fast that she could scarcely follow what the King was saying.

“And,” went on Louis, “I wish my brother of England to understand that my grief is as great as his own. I wish someone to convey my sympathy to him.”

“Sire,” said Louise, “you … you would entrust me with this mission?”

Louis’ large eyes were benign. He laid a white, heavily ringed hand on her shoulder. “Even so, my dear,” he said. “Madame herself has told me of a little incident which occurred while you were in England. King Charles was attracted by you; and, my dear Mademoiselle, it does not surprise me. It does not surprise me at all. You are most … most personable. I am going to send you to my brother in England to convey my sympathy and to assure him that Madame his sister has always been treated with the utmost tenderness in this land.”

“Oh … Sire!” Louise’s eyes were shining.

She fell to her knees.

“Rise, my dear Mademoiselle,” said Louis. “I see you are sensible of the honor I would do you. I want you to prepare for your journey to England. I will acquaint King Charles of your coming. Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, you are the daughter of one of our noblest houses.”

Louise drew herself up to her full height. There was pride in her eyes. So the King himself recognized the standing of her family. It was only money that it lacked.

“And,” continued the King, “it is from our noblest families that we expect and receive the utmost loyalty. I believe, Mademoiselle, that you loved your mistress dearly. But as in all good subjects of our beloved country there is one love which is above all others. That is love of France.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“I knew it. That is why I am going to entrust you with a great mission. To the King of England you will take comfort; but you will always serve France.”

“Your Majesty means that during my stay in England I shall work for my country?”

“My ambassador across the water will be your very good friend. He will help you when you need help. Before you leave for England you will be further instructed. I have lost, in Madame, not only a very dear friend but one who, in view of her relationship to the King of England, was able to bring about great understanding between us two. Mademoiselle, I believe that such a charming and intelligent young lady as you so evidently are—and as one who has already attracted the attention of His Majesty of England—can, in some measure, give me … and your country … something of that which we have lost in Madame.”

The King paused. Louise sought for words and could find none.

“I have taken you by surprise,” said the King. “Go now and think about this.”

Louise again fell to her knees and said in clear tones: “Your Majesty, I rejoice in this opportunity to serve my King and my country.”

When she stood up, Louis placed his hands on her shoulders; then inclining his head with the utmost graciousness he kissed her lightly on both cheeks.

“I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear,” he said. “France will be proud of you.”

Louise left the apartment in a state of exaltation.

How often had she dreamed of being sent for by the King! At last it had happened.

The result was surprising, but no less promising for all that.

George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, presented himself at the French Court.

He had come to sponsor a treaty between his master and the King of France.

As several members of the Cabal were ignorant of the real Treaty of Dover, it had been necessary for Charles to devise another with which he might dupe them. This he had done, and Buckingham was selected to take it to St. Germain and at the same time to represent the King at the funeral of Madame. With Buckingham went Buckhurst and Sedley, and the Duke’s chaplain, Thomas Sprat.

Buckingham had been chosen—as a prominent Protestant—because the King and those who were in the secret feared that the news of the King’s promising to adopt the Catholic Faith might have leaked out. Since Buckingham was commissioned to sign the treaty in France, this would silence such rumors, as it would be generally believed that anything to which Buckingham would give his signature could not possibly concern the King’s becoming a Catholic.

There was another matter with which he was entrusted. He was to escort to England the late Henriette’s maid of honor who had attracted Charles when she had come to England in his sister’s train.

This was a task after the Duke’s own heart. It had been clear to him that his cousin Barbara was losing her hold over the King. Barbara’s beauty, which had once been incomparable, was fading. None could live the life Barbara lived and keep fresh. Any but Charles would have turned her away long ago, tiresome virago that she was. It was true that in the heyday of her youth no one could compare with Barbara for beauty and for sensuality; the King had found her—tantrums and all—irresistible. But Barbara was ageing, and even with an easygoing man such as Charles she could not continue to hold the title of mistress-in-chief. Sooner or later Barbara must be replaced.

The King had his women—many of them. The chief mistress at the moment was Moll Davies, and Nell Gwyn was a close runner-up. But these were play-actresses, and Moll, aping the nobility, showed her origins as clearly as Nell who made no secret of her beginnings.

The mistress-in-chief should be a lady of high degree. She should feel at home at Court; and although Barbara’s manners were atrocious, she was a noble Villiers and there could at times be no doubt of this.

But with Barbara fading from favor, someone else would soon be called upon to take her place. This Frenchwoman was surely the one to be selected for that task.

Louise de Kéroualle was a lady of noble birth. She had been educated and coached for a life at Court. She was not exactly beautiful. When Buckingham remembered what Barbara had been at her age he could call the new woman positively plain. But Louise had that which Barbara lacked— poise, gracious manners, and a quiet charm. At this time he believed that Louise was destined to become the most important of the King’s mistresses.

It was great good fortune that he had been sent to bring her to England, for it gave him a great advantage over all those who would later seek to reach the King’s ear through his mistress. Buckingham would ingratiate himself with the woman and so establish himself as her friend.

The King of France was delighted to receive Buckingham. He had Madame’s own apartments made ready for him at St. Germain. It seemed meet and fitting that Buckingham should be in France at that time for, ten years before when Henriette had visited her brother in England at the time of the Restoration, the Duke had professed to be deeply in love with her. He had, in fact, made something of an exhibition of these feelings which had been an embarrassment not only to Henriette herself but to others; Monsieur had declared himself jealous of the Duke, with the result that it had been necessary to recall Buckingham to London. Who, therefore, was better suited to attend the funeral of Madame as her brother’s representative, than the Duke of Buckingham who had once loved her so madly?

Louis—anxious to show in what great esteem he had held Madame, and eager that the King of England should banish from his mind all thought that his sister had met her death by poison—greeted Buckingham warmly. He gave him one of the royal coaches and with it the service of eight royal footmen. All the expenses Buckingham incurred while in France were to be met from the King’s exchequer.

Louis—being French—believed firmly in the power of a man’s mistresses, and realizing Buckingham’s infatuation for Anna, Lady Shrewsbury, offered to pay that lady a pension of four hundred pounds a year, because his ambassador in England had already warned him that the lady had said that she, for such recognition, would make sure that Buckingham complied with Louis’ desires in all things. Louis also sent a bribe for Lady Castlemaine as, although the lady was no longer enjoying the favor she once had, it was clear that she would continue to wield certain influence as long as she lived.

Louis was fully aware of the power of these women. They were both deeply sensual; they had both enjoyed numerous lovers; therefore Louis believed that they were skilled in the arts of lovemaking. Each was a strong-minded woman. Barbara Castlemaine had proved this again and again. As for Anna Shrewsbury, she too had shown the world that she could be formidable—a good ally, a bad enemy.

Louis had heard of the duel which had been fought between Lord Shrewsbury and the Duke of Buckingham and which had resulted in Shrewsbury’s death; he had heard rumors of how Anna Shrewsbury had been a witness of the duel; how, some said, she had acted as page to her lover so that she might be present; and how later, unable to forgo the immediate satisfaction of their lust, Buckingham and Anna had forthwith slept together, Buckingham still in the shirt spattered with her husband’s blood.

There was another rumor concerning this woman. Harry Killigrew had been one of her numerous lovers, and there had been a notorious scene in the Duke of York’s playhouse when Buckingham and Killigrew had fought together; as a result of that, Killigrew had been sent into exile, from which he had returned sullen and determined to be revenged on the Duke and his mistress. He had declared in many public places that Anna Shrewsbury would still be his mistress if he wished it, and that indeed she was any man’s who cared to take her. She was like a bitch in season—only Anna Shrewsbury’s season was every hour of the day or night.

Anna set out in her coach one dark night to see performed a certain deed which she had arranged. It happened near Turnham Green when Harry Killigrew was on his way to his house there. Harry Killigrew was set upon, his servant killed, and, only by a miracle it seemed, Killigrew escaped the same fate.

Yes, the King of France was certain that Anna Shrewsbury was worth a pension of four hundred pounds a year.

He was sure too that Buckingham was worth cultivating, even though the King had seen fit to keep him ignorant of the real Treaty of Dover.

So he arranged great treats for the Duke. Special banquets were prepared for him. He was presented not only with the coach, footmen, and living expenses, but with other costly gifts.

He was able to fit himself into the formal ceremony of Louis’ magnificent Court. Handsome and witty, he was in his element. Mock sea fights on the Seine were arranged for his benefit and he was introduced to the splendors of Versailles.

The Comte de Lauzun—a man of diminutive stature and a great friend of the King of France—asked him to a supper party. A splendid banquet was prepared, and next to his host, in the place of honor, sat the Duke. Beside him was Louise de Kéroualle, formal and distant; but, the Duke assured himself, he would soon win her regard. She was a cold creature, he decided; not what he would have expected from the French, nor the sort he would have thought would find favor in his master’s eyes. However, it was his task to ingratiate himself with her, and this he would do—all in good time. At the moment he was too busy being the guest of honor.

During that banquet three masked figures entered the banqueting hall. One was a man, tall and richly clad; the others were ladies. They came graciously to the table and bowed to Lauzun and Buckingham. The musicians, who had been playing in the gallery, changed their tune to a stately ballet, and the three began to dance with such grace and charm that all at the table held their breath—or pretended to—since all had guessed the identity of the masked cavalier.

There were murmurs of “Perfection!” “But who could dance with such exquisite grace?” “I know of only one I have seen to equal that dancer—His Majesty himself.” “We must have the fellow perform before Louis. Nothing will content him but to see such perfection.”

Now the ladies were miming charmingly. They had pointed to a sword which the masked man wore. All saw that its hilt was studded with brilliant diamonds. One of the masked ladies danced to Buckingham’s side and implied, by her gestures, that the cavalier should bestow the sword upon their country’s most honored guest. The cavalier retreated, clung to his sword, his gestures indicating that the sword was his dearest possession. The ladies continued to persuade; the cavalier continued to hold back.

The music stopped.

“Unmask! Unmask!” cried Lauzun.

With seeming reluctance the ladies did so first, and there was loud applause when one of these proved to be Madame de Montespan herself, the King’s flamboyant and beautiful mistress.

Now Madame de Montespan turned to the cavalier. She removed his mask, and there were exposed the handsome features so well known throughout the country.

All rose; men bowed and women curtsied; and the handsome young Louis stood there smiling happily and benignly on them all.

“Our secret is out,” said Louis. “We are unmasked.”

“I could not believe that any but Your Majesty could dance with such grace,” said Lauzun.

Now Madame de Montespan had taken the sword from the King and carried it to the guest of honor.

Buckingham stared down at the flashing diamonds, calculating its cost; then rising, fell on his knees before the King of France and thanked him, almost in tears, for his magnificent gift and all the honor which had been done to his master through him.

The King and his mistress took their places at the table; and the King talked to Buckingham of his love for the King of England, of his grief in Madame’s death; nor did he forget to pay some attention to little Louise. Louise understood. He would have my lord Buckingham know that Mademoiselle de Kéroualle was to be treated with the same respect in England as in France.

How different had been her position when Madame was alive! Then she had been Madame’s maid of honor—an insignificant post. Now she was the spy of the King of France, and that was indeed important.

“We have prepared many entertainments for you, my lord Duke,” said the King. “There shall be masques and the ballet—we in France are devoted to the ballet.”

“Your Majesty is the ballet’s shining light,” said Louise.

The King smiled, well pleased. “And we must show you our operas and comedies. They shall be acted in illuminated grottoes.”

“I am overwhelmed by all the honor Your Majesty does unto me,” said the Duke.

The King momentarily laid his hand over that of Louise. “And when you take this little subject of mine into England, you will give her the benefit of your care?”

“With all my heart,” said Buckingham.

Later he made plans with Louise.

“I would have you know, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle,” he said, “that from henceforth I serve you with all my heart.”

Louise accepted this outward profession of service with graceful thanks but she attached little importance to it. Since she was to act as French spy in England it had been necessary to acquaint her with certain political aspects of the state of affairs between the two countries. She knew that, although the Duke held a high position in his country’s government and was a member of the famous Cabal, he was ignorant of his master’s true plans.

He was quite unaware that the King of France was planning war with Holland in the spring of next year, and in this war the King of England would be his ally; and that as soon as it was satisfactorily concluded Charles was to declare his conversion to Catholicism.

Therefore she had little faith in Buckingham. Herself calm and rarely losing control of her emotions, she thought the Duke a tempestuous man who, clever though he might be, could be driven into great folly by his uncontrolled passions.

He was, he told her, although he had been so flatteringly received in France, looking forward to returning to his own country.

He talked of Anna Shrewsbury in glowing terms; he was indeed deeply infatuated with the woman. Louise listened and said little. He began to think her a little simpleton, one who would never hold his King’s affection. He compared her with Anna, with Barbara, with Moll Davies and Nell Gwyn. Those four were possessed of beauty—outstanding beauty which would have marked them for notice anywhere. It seemed to Buckingham that Louise de Kéroualle lacked even that first essential. Why, there were indeed times when the woman positively squinted. And she was always so formal; he thought of Anna and Barbara in their rages, of Nell’s wit and high spirits. It was true Moll Davies never raged, was never witty and rarely showed any spirits, but she was an extremely lovely woman. Nay, the more he pondered the matter, the more certain he became that Louise de Kéroualle would not hold the King’s attention for long.

He was wondering whether he was not wasting his time in ingratiating himself with her. He was longing to be back with Anna.

He said to her: “There are certain matters to which I have to attend in Paris. My master, the King of England, is growing impatient to receive you. I think much time would be saved if you travelled to Dieppe in company which I will arrange for you and set out at once. I will conduct with all speed my business in Paris, arrange for a yacht to carry you to England, and I’ll swear I’ll be at Dieppe before you arrive there. Then I can have the great honor of conducting you to England.”

“I consider that an excellent arrangement,” said Louise, who was longing to set out on her journey and fearful, with every passing day, that the King of England might change his mind and, realizing that a young woman who came from Louis’ Court might have been schooled in the arts of espionage, decide that he would be wise to content himself with the ladies of his own Court.

“Then let it be so,” cried Buckingham. “I will inform His Majesty of my plans.”

So it was arranged. Louise travelled to Dieppe; Buckingham lingered in Paris. He wanted to buy clothes, not only for himself, but for Anna.

Paris was always a step ahead of London with the fashions, and Anna would be delighted with what he would bring her.

When Louise arrived in Dieppe—and the journey there from St. Germain had taken two whole weeks—it was to find that Buckingham had not yet arrived.

No one there had heard anything of the yacht which Buckingham had promised to have ready for her. Louise was weary after the journey from St. Germain and at first was not sorry to rest awhile—but not for long. She was fully aware of the importance of the task which lay before her. She had discovered all she could concerning the King of England, and she knew that, once she arrived in England, she would be well received. What terrified her was that, before she had an opportunity of being with the King, he might suggest that she did not cross the Channel.

She knew that Lady Castlemaine would do all in her power to prevent her arrival, and Lady Castlemaine still wielded some power.

So when the days began to pass she grew really alarmed.

Two days—three—a whole week, and there was still no sign of the Duke.

With the coming of the next week she grew frantic. She sent a messenger to Ralph Montague, the ambassador in Paris, and begged to know what she should do.

She waited most anxiously for news. Each time a messenger arrived at her lodgings she would start up in a sweat of trepidation. During those two anxious weeks in Dieppe the continual threat of failure was before her; she imagined herself being sent back to her parents’ home in Finisterre, an ignoble failure, knowing that if she did not go to England there would now be no place for her at the French Court.

She watched the sea, which was rough and choppy, for a sight of the yacht which would come to take her away. Mayhap the weather was too rough for Buckingham to reach her. She clutched at any explanation.

And while she waited there, one of her maids came to tell her that a traveller had arrived from Calais and, hearing that she was awaiting the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham, had news for her if she would care to hear it.

The man was brought in.

“Mademoiselle de Kéroualle,” he began, “I have heard that you are awaiting the arrival of the English Duke. He left Calais more than a week ago.”

“Left Calais! For where?”

“For England.”

“But that is impossible.”

“’Tis true, Mademoiselle.”

“But did he say nothing of calling at Dieppe?”

“He said he was sailing for England. He filled the yacht with presents, which had been given him, and goods which he had bought. He said he hoped to arrive in England very soon as the tide was favorable.”

Louise dismissed the man. She could bear no more. She shut herself into her room, lay on her bed, and pulled the curtains about it.

She knew that she had been deserted. She felt certain now that the King of England had changed his mind, that he had not been serious when he had asked for her to be sent to his Court, that he recognized her coming as the coming of a spy, and had commanded Buckingham to return to England without her.

It was all over—her wonderful dream which was to have saved her from an ignoble future. She should have known; it had been too wonderful, too easy. It was like something that happens only in a dream: To have gone to the Court in the hope that she would be chosen as the mistress of Louis Quatorze, and to have qualified for the same post at the Court of the King of England!

How long could she stay here in this desolate little seaport? Only until her parents sent for her or came to take her home.

There was someone to see her.

She allowed her maid to comb back her hair from her hot face. She did not ask who the visitor was. She did not want to know. She guessed it was her father or someone from him, come to take her to her home, for they would know that the Duke of Buckingham had left without her.

Waiting for her was Ralph Montague, Charles’ ambassador, whom she had often seen in Paris.

He came towards her, took her hand, and kissed it with great ceremony.

“I came with all speed on receiving your message,” he said.

“It was good of you, my lord.”

“Nay,” he said, “’twas my duty. My master would never have forgiven me had I not come in person to offer my assistance.”

“My lord Buckingham did not arrive,” she said. “I have been waiting here for two weeks. I hear now that he left Calais some time ago.”

“Buckingham!” Ralph Montague’s lips curled with disgust. “I offer humble apologies for my countryman, Mademoiselle. I trust you will not judge us all by this one. The Duke is feckless and unreliable. My master will be incensed when he returns without you.”

Louise did not say that his master would doubtless know of his return by now and had done nothing about arranging for her journey.

“I wondered whether he was acting on the King’s instructions.”

“The King is eagerly awaiting your arrival, Mademoiselle.”

“I was led to believe that was so,” said Louise. “But I doubt it now.”

“And still is. Mademoiselle, I have already arranged for a yacht to call here in a few hours’ time. It shall be my pleasure to make these arrangements. My friend, Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, will be waiting to receive you when you arrive in England. He and his family will look after you until you are presented to His Majesty. I trust you will give me this great pleasure in arranging your safe conduct.”

The relief was so great that Louise, calm as she habitually was, was almost ready to break into hysterical tears.

She managed to say: “You are very good.”

Montague said: “I will remain here in Dieppe and see you aboard if I have your permission to do so.”

“I shall not forget this kindness,” she replied. And she thought: Nor the churlish behavior of Buckingham. “My lord, have they offered you refreshment?”

“I came straight to you,” said Montague. “I thought my first need was to impress upon you that all Englishmen are not so ungallant.”

“Then will you take some refreshment with me, my lord?”

“It would give me the greatest pleasure,” said Montague.

Montague, as he took refreshment with Louise, was congratulating himself on the folly of Buckingham. What could have possessed the Duke to sail away from France, leaving the King’s potential mistress in the lurch?

Surely Buckingham realized that, if ever Louise came to power, she would never forgive the insult.

He thought he understood, on consideration. His friend Arlington, with Clifford, was inclined towards Catholicism. Buckingham was staunchly Protestant. Buckingham would assess the influence the Catholic Frenchwoman would have on Charles, and mayhap had decided to do all in his power to prevent her arrival in England; so he had left her at Dieppe, hoping that careless Charles would forget her, as indeed it seemed he had. But Arlington, whose protégé Montague was, would hope to benefit from a Catholic mistress’s influence over the King. Therefore it was Montague’s duty to see that Charles had no chance to forget his interest in Catholic Louise.

He watched her as he took refreshment.

He admired her, this Frenchwoman, for her poise and calm. She looked almost a child with her plump, babyish face, and yet, in spite of the days of anxiety through which she had passed, she was completely controlled.

She was no beauty. At times it seemed as though she squinted slightly. Yet her figure was shapely, her hair and complexion lovely. Her charm was in her graceful manners; that complete air of the grande dame which the King would appreciate and would have missed in other mistresses.

Montague felt that if Louise de Kéroualle conducted herself with care she might find great favor with the King.

So while they waited for his yacht to arrive at Dieppe, he frequently talked to her. He told her of the King’s character, that most easygoing nature, that love of peace.

“He has had little of that from those he loves,” said Montague. “Even his Queen, a gentle, docile lady, was far from calm when His Majesty wished her to receive Lady Castlemaine into her bedchamber. It is my belief—and that of others—that, had the Queen been tolerant of the King’s desire on this occasion, she would have won great love from him and kept it.”

Louise nodded. This was friendly advice, and she took it to heart. It meant, Never be out of temper with the King. Give him peace, and he will be grateful.

“His Majesty greatly loved Mrs. Stuart before her marriage to the Duke of Richmond. He would have married her if he had been free to do so. But he was not free, and she held out until he was well-nigh maddened in his desire for her and would have offered anything, I verily believe, for her surrender.”

“So many,” said Louise, “must be ready to give the King all he asks, that it is small wonder that, when he finds one who holds back, he is astonished.”

“And enamored … deeply enamored. If the Queen had died, many people believe, he would have married Mrs. Frances Stuart. And indeed that was the bait which was held out to him when …” He paused.

“When?” prompted Louise gently.

“It was my lord Buckingham with his wild schemes. He wished the King to divorce his wife and marry again.”

“My lord Buckingham, it seems, would wish to run the affairs of his King’s country,” said Louise smoothly.

“A foolish man!” said Montague. “But he had his reasons. He did not like the Catholic marriage; he is a Protestant. Moreover, he was eager for the King to have an heir. One of his greatest enemies is the Duke of York.”

Louise thought: From this moment he has a greater.

“And,” went on Montague, “if the King does not get an heir, James, Duke of York, will one day be King of England. My lord Buckingham sought to replace the Queen with a fruitful woman who would provide the King with an heir and so ruin the Duke’s chance of ascending the throne.”

“It does not then seem that he is so foolish.”

“He has moments of lucidity, superseded by moments of great folly. That is my lord Duke.”

Louise was silent, looking into the future.

It was not long after that when the yacht which had been chartered by Ralph Montague arrived at Dieppe. As the tide was favorable, Louise left France for England, and when she arrived there, was greeted so warmly by Arlington and his friends that she no longer had need to complain of neglect.

Now she had two projects in view. The first and most important was to enslave the King; the second was revenge on the careless Duke who had given her so many hours of anxiety.

But, born spy that she was, cold by nature, calculating and in complete control, her eyes were now fixed on that distant goal which, she had suddenly made up her mind, should be marriage with the King of England. For if he had been prepared to marry Frances Stuart, why should he not marry Louise de Kéroualle?

In the Palace of Whitehall Louise came face-to-face with the King.

When she would have knelt before him he raised her in his arms and there were tears in his eyes.

“Welcome,” he said, “doubly welcome, my dear Mademoiselle de Kéroualle. It does my heart good to see you at Whitehall. But I cannot forget the last time we met, and I am deeply affected because I remember one who was with us then.”

Louise turned away as though to hide her own tears. There was none; of course there was none; how could she regret the death of Henriette when it had given her a chance to reach such heights of glory as even her parents had not hoped for her?

The King was smiling at her now, his eyes alight with admiration. She was exquisitely gowned and wore fewer jewels than Castlemaine would have affected on such an occasion. Louise had the air of a queen, and Charles was reminded of Frances Stuart who had been brought up in France.

He was excited by the French girl, and he determined to make her his mistress with as little delay as possible.

He said: “The Queen will receive you into her bedchamber.”

Louise murmured her thanks graciously; but she knew, of course, that Barbara Castlemaine had been a lady of his wife’s bedchamber. Louise had no intention of going the way Barbara had gone.

She met the Queen; she met the courtiers; she met the Duke of Buckingham, and she betrayed not even by a gesture that she was in the least angered by his treatment of her; none watching her would believe that her anger rose so high that she feared that, if in that moment she attempted to speak, the effort might choke her.

She could content herself with waiting. The first task was the capture of the King; then she could proceed to annihilate the Duke.

The King had her sit beside him at the banquet which was held in her honor; he talked of his dear brother Louis and the French Court. All about them were saying, This will be the King’s newest mistress.

The King himself believed it. But Louise, smiling so charmingly, looking so young and innocent, had other plans. Before her there was the shining example of Frances Stuart, the girl who had so plagued the King with refusals to surrender that, had he been able, he would have married her. She had seen the Queen—and it occurred to Louise that the Queen did not look over-healthy.

The King deceived himself if he thought he could make Louise de Kéroualle his mistress as easily as a play-actress from his theater.

He said to her: “So eagerly have I awaited your coming that I gave myself the pleasure of preparing your apartments for you.”

She smiled into that charming face, knowing full well that his eagerness for her arrival was feigned. He had doubtless been so sportive with his play-actresses—and perhaps Madame Castlemaine too was by no means the discarded mistress she had been led to believe—that he had omitted to ask my lord Buckingham, when he arrived in England, what he had done with the lady whom he was supposed to be escorting.

“Your Majesty is good to me,” she said with a smile.

He came closer; his eyes were on her plump bosom; his hands caressed her arm.

“I am prepared to be very kind,” he murmured. “I have given you apartments near my own.”

“That is indeed good of Your Majesty.”

“They overlook the privy garden. I am proud of my privy garden. I trust you will like it. You can look down on the sixteen plots of grass and the statues. It is a mighty pretty view, I do believe. I long to show you these apartments. I have had them furnished with French tapestries, because I wished you to feel at home. No homesickness, you understand.”

“I can see Your Majesty is determined to be kind to me.”

“Would you wish me to dismiss these people, that you might be alone and … rest?”

“Your Majesty is so good to me that I crave a favor.”

“My dear Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, you have given me the great gift of your presence here. Anything you might ask of me would be but small in comparison with what you have given me. And were it not, I have no doubt that I should grant it.”

“I have had a long journey,” said Louise.

“And you are weary. It was thoughtless of me to have given such a banquet so soon. But I wished to make you sure of your welcome.”

“I am indeed grateful for the honor you have shown me, but my lord Arlington and Lady Arlington, who have been so good to me, have placed apartments in their house at my disposal.”

“I am glad my lord Arlington and his lady have been so hospitable,” said Charles a little wryly.

“I am very weary, and I fear that the etiquette of the Court, in my present state, would overtax my strength,” said Louise.

Charles’ glance was ironic. He understood. Louise was jealous of her dignity. She was not to be sent for like any play-actress. She had to be wooed.

Inwardly he grimaced. But he said with the utmost charm: “I understand full well. Go to the Arlingtons. His lady will make you very comfortable. And I trust that ere long you will be ready to exchange Lord Arlington’s house for my palace of Whitehall.”

Louise thanked him charmingly.

She believed she had won the first round. The King was eager for her; but he was realizing that a grand lady such as Louise de Kéroualle must be courted before she was won.

Louise stayed with the Arlingtons. The King visited her frequently, but she did not become his mistress. Charles was often exasperated, but Louise attracted him with her perfect manners and babyish looks. There was in her attitude a certain promise which indicated that, once the formalities had been observed, he would find the waiting well worthwhile. Louise remembered other ladies from the past who, by careful tactics, had won high places for themselves. Elizabeth Woodville in her dealings with Edward IV. Anne Boleyn with Henry VIII. The latter was not a very happy example, but Louise would not be guilty of that Queen’s follies; nor did Charles resemble in any way the Tudor King. The poverty of Louise’s youth, the knowledge, which was always before her, that she must make her own way for herself had fired her with great ambition, so that no sooner did one goal appear in sight than she must immediately aim at another. King’s mistress had been the first goal. She could achieve that at any moment. Now she was trying for another: King’s wife. It might seem fantastic and wild. But there was the example of Frances Stuart. Moreover the Queen was ailing, and she could not produce an heir. These were the exact circumstances which had helped to put Anne Boleyn on the throne. Anne had had the good sense to withhold herself for a long time from an enamored monarch, but after marriage she had lost that good sense. Louise would never lose hers.

So she held back. She reminded the King by a hundred gestures that she was a great lady; she hinted that she found him very attractive but, because she was not only a great lady but a virtuous one, the fact that he was married prevented her from yielding to his desires.

Charles hid his growing exasperation under great charm of manner. He was ready to play her game, for he knew she would eventually surrender. Why else should she have come to England? And while he waited, he amused himself with others. Occasionally he visited Barbara, Moll, and Nell; Chaffinch continued to bring certain ladies up to his apartments by way of the privy stairs. Thus he could enjoy the game of waiting which he must play with Louise.

Apartments were furnished for her at Whitehall; beautiful French tapestries adorned the walls; there was furniture decorated with the new marqueterie; there were exquisite carpets, cabinets from Japan, vases of china and silver, tables of marble, the newest kind of clocks with pendulums, silver candelabra and everything that was exquisite.

Louise moved into these apartments, but she made it clear to the King that such a great and virtuous lady as herself could only receive him at one time of the day. This was nine o’clock in the morning.

Colbert de Croissy, the French ambassador, watched uneasily. He even remonstrated with her. He greatly feared that she would try the King’s patience too far.

Louise was determined.

She would serve, not only the cause of France, but her own ambition.

Those three women who had been the King’s leading mistresses watched the newcomer with apprehension. They knew that they owed the King’s occasional company to the continued reserve of the Frenchwoman. They knew that, once she decided to surrender, the King’s interest in them would wane. And what would be the effect of that waning? Barbara knew that she was fast losing her hold on the King. Her beauty was no longer fresh and appealing; her rages did not diminish with her beauty; she had taken so many lovers that she had become notorious on that account. Her adventures with Charles Hart and a rope-dancer named Jacob Hall had created the greatest scandal, because, it was said, she had chosen these men as lovers in retaliation for the King’s preoccupation with Moll Davies and Nell Gwyn. Barbara still clung to her waning influence with the King, knowing that he would still be prepared to give way in some respect, if not for love of her, for love of peace.

Moll Davies was rarely visited now. She had her fine house and her pension, but the King was growing tired of her gentle qualities. It was due to his habit of “not discarding” that she remained his mistress.

As for Nell, her baby took up a great deal of her time, but her preoccupation with the little boy made her thoughts turn often to his father. The King must not tire of her; she must cease to be as frivolous-minded as she had previously been. There was the boy to think of.

“I’ll get a fine title for you, my little man,” she would whisper to the child. “You shall be a Duke, no less.” She would laugh into the big wondering eyes which watched her so intently. “You … a Duke … that slut Nelly’s brat—a royal Duke. Who would have believed it?”

But dukedoms were not easily come by.

The King was delighted with the child. Those were pleasant days when he came to visit Nell and took the boy in his arms.

“There is no doubt,” cried Nell, leaning over him like any proud wife and mother, “that this boy is a Stuart. See that nose! Those eyes!”

“Then God have mercy on him!” said the King.

“Come, my little one,” said Nell. “Smile for Papa.”

The child surveyed the King with solemn eyes.

“Not yet, eh, Sir!” murmured Charles. “First wait and see what manner of man this is who has fathered you.”

“The best in the world,” said Nell lightly.

The King turned and looked at her.

“Od’s Fish!” he cried. “I believe you mean that, Nelly.”

“Nay!” cried Nell, ashamed of her own emotion. “I am sowing the first seeds which will flower into a dukedom for our boy.”

“And strawberry leaves for yourself! Oh, Nell, you go the way of all the others.”

Nell snatched the child from his father’s arms and began dancing round the apartment with him.

“What do I want for you, my son? A coronet, a great title, all that belongs by right to a King’s bastard. Already, my son, you have the King’s nose, the King’s eyes, and the King’s name. Od’s Fish! I trust His Majesty will not think you adequately endowed with these, for they will make little story in the world, I suspect.”

Then she laid him in his cradle and bent and kissed him. The King came to her and put his arms about her shoulders.

He thought in that moment that, although Louise de Kéroualle was becoming an obsession with him, he would be loath to part with little Nell.

Rose came to see Nell in her new house.

It was a small one at the east end of Pall Mall, not far from the grand mansion in Suffolk Street where another of the King’s mistresses—Moll Davies—had her residence.

Nell’s house was a poor place compared with that of Moll. Moll liked to ride past Nell’s in her carriage and lean forward to look at it as she passed, smiling complacently, flashing her £700 ring on her finger.

“Keep your house, keep your ring, Moll!” called Nell from her house. “The King has given me something better still.”

Then Nell would snatch up her child from one of the servants and hold him aloft.

“You’ve never got the King’s bastard yet, Moll!” screeched Nell.

Moll bade her coachman drive on. She thought Nell a fool. She had had every chance to escape from her environment, and yet she seemed to cling to it as though she were reluctant to let it go.

“What a low wench!” murmured Moll in her newly acquired refined voice. “Why His Majesty should spend an hour in her company is past my comprehension.”

Moll smiled complacently. Her house was so grand; Nell’s was such a poor place. Did it not show that the King appreciated the difference between them? Nell went into the house where Rose was waiting for her.

Rose took the baby from Nell and crooned over him.

“To think that he is the King’s son,” said Rose. “’Tis past understanding.”

“Indeed it is not,” cried Nell. “He made his appearance through all the usual channels.”

“Oh, Nell, why did you move from your good apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to this little house? The other was far grander.”

“It is nearer Whitehall, Rose. I have one good friend in the world, and I want to be as near him as possible.”

“He acknowledges little Charlie as his own?”

“Indeed he does. And could you mistake it? Look! The way he sucks his finger is royal, bless him.”

“It makes me wonder whether I ought to drop a curtsy to him when I pick him up.”

“Mayhap you will have to one day,” said Nell, dreaming.

Rose kissed the child.

“To think I’ve kissed where the King has kissed!” said Rose.

“If that delights you,” Nell retorted, “you may kiss me any time—and anywhere—you wish.”

That made them both laugh.

“You’re just the same, Nell. You haven’t changed one little bit. You have fine clothes, and a house of your own, and the King’s bastard … and yet you’re still the same Nell. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. It’s about a man I met.”

“Why, Rosy, you’re in love!”

Rose admitted this was so. “It’s a man named John Cassels. I met him in one of the taverns. I want to marry him and settle down.”

“Then why not? Ma would like to have one respectable daughter in the family.”

“Respectable! Ma cares not for that. She’s prouder of you than she could ever have been of any respectably married daughter. She talks of you continually. ‘My Nelly, the King’s whore … and my grandson Charlie … the King’s little bastard….’ She talks of nothing else….”

Nell laughed. “Ma’s one dream was to make good whores of us both, Rosy. I fulfilled her dreams, but you—you’re a disgrace to the family. You’re thinking about respectable marriage.”

“The trouble with John is the way he gets his living.”

“What is that?”

“He’s a highwayman.”

“A perilous way of making a living.”

“So say I. He longs to be a soldier.”

“Like Will. How is cousin Will?”

“Speaking of you often and with pride, Nelly.”

“It seems that many are proud of the King’s whore.”

“We are all proud of you, Nell.”

Nell laughed and threw her curls off her face. “Marry your John, if you wish it and he wishes it, Rose. Mayhap he will be caught. But if he should end his days by falling from a platform while in conversation with a clergyman … at least you will have had your life together, and a widow is a mighty respectable thing to be. And Rose … if it should be possible to drop a word in the right quarter … who knows, I may get my chance to do it. I do not forget poor Will and his talk of being a soldier. I often think of it. One day Will shall be a soldier, and I will do what I can for your John Cassels. That’s if you love the man truly.”

“Nell, Nell, my sweet sister.”

“Nay,” said Nell, “who would not do all possible for a sister?”

And when Rose had gone she thought that it would be a comparatively easy thing to find places in the army for Will and John Cassels.

“But, my little lord,” she whispered, “it is going to be rather more difficult to fit a coronet onto that little head.”

Nell stayed on in her small house and the months passed. Louise had not surrendered to the King. Moll Davies still flaunted past Nell’s house in her carriage.

My lord Rochester visited Nell in her new house, and shook his head over what he called “Nell’s squalor.”

He sprawled on a couch, inspecting his immaculate boots, and glancing up at Nell with affection.

He gave advice. “The King does not treat you with the decencies he owes to a royal mistress, Nell,” he said. “That is clear.”

“While Madam Davies rides by in her coach to her fine house, flashing her diamond ring!” cried Nell.

“’Tis true. And poor Nelly is now a mother, and the infant’s face would proclaim him as the King’s son even if His Majesty had reason to suspect this might be otherwise.”

“His Majesty has no reason to suspect that.”

“Suspicion does not always need reason to support it, little Nell. But let us not discourse on such matters. Let us rather devote ourselves to this more urgent business: How to get Mrs. Nelly treated with the courtesy due to the King’s mistress. Barbara got what she wanted by screams, threats and violence. Moll by sweet, coy smiles. What have you, sweet Nell, to put in place of these things—your Cole-yard wit? Alas, alas, Cole-yard is at the root of all your troubles. His Majesty is in a quandary. He is fond of his little Nell; he dotes on his latest son; but little Charles is half royal, half Cole-yard. Remember that, Nell. There have been other little Charleses, to say nothing of Jemmies and Annes and Charlottes. Now all these have had mothers of gentle birth. Even our noble Jemmy Monmouth had a gentlewoman for his mother. But you, dear Nell—let’s face it—are from the gutter. His Majesty fears trouble if he bestows great titles on this Charles. The people accept the King’s lack of morals. They like to see him merry. They care not where he takes his pleasure. What they do care about, Nell, is to see one of themselves rise to greatness through the King’s bed. ‘Why,’ they say, ‘That might have happened to me … or my little Nell. But it did not. It happened to that little Nell.’ And they cannot forgive you that. Therefore, though you bear the King’s bastard, they do not wish that titles should be bestowed on him. They wish it to be remembered that his mother is but a Cole-yard wench.”

“’Tis so, I fear, my lord,” said Nell. “But it shall not stay so. This child is going to share in some of that which has been enjoyed by Barbara’s brats.”

“Noble Villiers on their mother’s side—those little bastards of Barbara’s, Nelly!”

“I care not. I care not. Who is to say they are the King’s children? Only Barbara.”

“Nay, not even Barbara. For how could even their mother be sure? Now listen to my advice, Nell. Be diplomatic in your attitude towards the King. When the Frenchwoman surrenders, as undoubtedly she will, there may be changes in His Majesty’s seraglio. The lady may say, ‘Remove that object. I ask it as the price of my surrender.’ And believe me, little Nell, that object—be she noble Villiers or orange-girl—may well be removed. Unless, of course, the object makes herself so important to His Majesty that he cannot dispense with her.”

“This Frenchwoman, it seems, would have great powers.”

“She uses great diplomacy, my dear. She holds out hopes to our most gracious King, and then withdraws. It is a game such women play—a dangerous game unless the woman has the skill. She is skilled, this French Louise. It is her manners and this game she plays which make her so desirable. For the love of God I cannot see what else. The woman sometimes seems to squint.”

“And so Squintabella will throw us all out of favor!” cried Nell wrathfully.

“Squintabella will, if she wishes to. Mayhap she will not consider a little onetime orange-girl from Cole-yard a worthy adversary. But listen to me, Nelly. For this time make no demands upon the King. Administer to his peace. Laugh for him. See that he laughs. He will come to you for refuge, as a ship comes into harbor. Squintabella will not rage and storm as Barbara raged and stormed, but yet I fancy he will have need of refuge.”

Nell was silent for a while. Then she looked at the handsome dissolute face of my lord Rochester and said: “I cannot understand, my lord, why you should be so good to me.”

Rochester yawned. He said: “Put it down, if you will, to my dislike of Squintabella, my desire for His Majesty’s peace and enjoyment of the most charming lady in London, and my pleasure in helping a fellow wit.”

“Whichever it should be,” said Nell, “I’ll follow your advice, my lord, as far as I’m able. But since the days when I sat on the cobbles in Cole-yard, I have never been in control of my tongue. And, as I know myself; I am certain I shall continue to ask favors for my young Charles until he is a noble duke.”

“Aye!” cried Rochester. “Go your own way, Nelly. There is one thing that’s certain. ’Twill be a way no other went before.”

So Nell continued at the eastern end of Pall Mall. The King came less frequently. Will Chaffinch regretted that his purse was not as deep as he would have liked, and Nell had developed extravagant tastes.

She would not dress young Charles in garments unsuited to his state. She had never been thrifty; debts began to mount.

One day she said to Rochester: “I cannot keep my little Charles, in the state to which I intend he shall become accustomed, on what I get from Chaffinch.”

“You could remind the King of his responsibilities,” suggested Rochester. “Remind him gently. Be not like Barbara with her demands.”

“I’ll not be like Barbara,” said Nell. “And my son shall not be dressed in worsted. Nothing but silk shall touch his skin. It’s going to be a duke’s skin before he dies, and I want to make it duke’s skin from the start. He was born high, and he’ll stay high.”

“Nell, I see plans in your eyes. What mad pranks do you plan?”

“Since what Chaffinch gives me is not enough, I must work for more.”

“You would take a lover?”

“Take a lover! Nay, one man at a time was ever my way. I have my friend the King, and we have our child. We are too poor, it seems, to keep him in the state due to him. Therefore I must work.”

“You … work!”

“Why not? I was once an actress, and it was said that many people crowded into the theater just to see me. Why should they not again?”

“But now you are known as the King’s mistress and the mother of his son. King’s mistresses do not work. They never have.”

“This one will set a fashion,” said Nell. “If his father is too poor to give young Charles his due, his mother shall not be.”

“Nay, Nell. It is unheard of.”

“From tomorrow it shall not be. For then I go back to the stage.”