The Wondering Prince

TEN

A year had passed since the imprisonment of de Vardes and the banishment of de Guiche.

Louis was often in the company of Henriette. Always he was deeply affectionate, although at times she was aware of those suspicions which would return to his mind, and they always concerned her brother Charles.

Now that Louis was coming into his kingdom, now that he had made himself true ruler of France, he began to realize that he could use Henriette’s influence with her brother in negotiations between the two countries. Moreover, Henriette’s quick mind was as good as that of any statesman he possessed; and Louis was shrewd enough to know that a woman who was in love with him would make a better servant than anyone who worked for his own fame and glory.

There was only one doubt which arose now and then in his mind: Did the affection of Henriette for her brother exceed that which she had for himself?

He could not be entirely sure. It was a matter of great fascination and importance to him. This love between himself and Henriette was of greater interest to him than the more easily understood passions which he felt for La Vallière and her new rival, Madame de Montespan.

His mother, Queen Anne, was very ill, and he was aware that she could not live long. As he danced with Henriette, La Vallière or Montespan, his thoughts went often to his mother. He was fond of her, although lately she had interfered too much in his affairs, and she could not forget that he was her child, and continued to look upon him as such.

“Poor Mama!” he often murmured. “How she loves me! But she never understood me.”

In the Palais-Royal, the great gallery of which was hung with mirrors and brilliant with torches, the new play by Molière, Médecin Malgré Lui, was performed for the first time, after the banquet.

Louis, with Henriette beside him, laughed loudly at the wit of his favorite playwright, and forgot his mother.

He was happy. He enjoyed such occasions. It was good to have a quiet little wife who adored him. She was not here tonight to admire him in his suit of purple velvet covered in diamonds and pearls, because she was in mourning for her father. He was glad she was absent, for the sight of his mistresses always distressed her, and La Vallière was pregnant again. It was good to have such a meek and tender mistress as La Vallière and such a bold and witty one as Madame de Montespan. And all the time he was enjoying a love affair on a higher plane with his elegant and clever Henriette. He enjoyed the pathos of their relationship; he did not see why it should not endure forever. Tonight she had arranged this entertainment for him; all the most brilliant fêtes, masks and ballets were arranged by Henriette for the pleasure of her King. If only he could have been entirely sure that her affection for him obsessed her completely, he would have been content.

But he was forever conscious of the dark witty man on the other side of the water, in whose capital city men were now falling like flies, stricken by the deadly plague.

About the bedside of the dying Queen Mother of France were her children, Louis and Philippe, and with them stood their wives, Marie-Thérèse and Henriette.

All four were in tears. Anne had suffered deeply, and her death was by no means unexpected. The beautiful hands, now gaunt and yellow, plucked at the sheets, and her eyes, sunken with pain, turned again and again to the best loved of them all.

Louis was deeply moved; he was on his knees recalling that great affection which she had always given him.

Philippe was also moved. She had loved him too in her way, but, being a simple woman, she had not been able to disguise from him the fact that almost all the affection she had to give must go to her glorious firstborn.

Philippe took the hot hand and kissed it.

“Be good, my children,” murmured Anne.

Henriette turned away because she could no longer bear to look on such suffering. She wished that she had not flouted Anne’s advice; she wished that there were time to tell the dying Queen that she now understood how foolish she had been in pursuing gaiety, and so giving rise to scandals such as those concerning de Guiche and de Vardes. But it was too late.

“Louis … beloved …” whispered the Queen.

“My dearest Mother.”

“Louis … be kind to the Queen. Do not … humiliate her with your mistresses. It is sad for a little Queen … so young …”

Marie-Thérèse, who was kneeling by the bed, covered her face with her hands, but Louis had placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I ask your forgiveness,” he said, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I ask both of you to forgive me …”

“Remember me when I am gone,” said Anne. “Remember, my dearest, how I lived for you alone. Remember me …”

“Dearest Mama … dearest Mama …” murmured the King.

And all four about the bed were weeping as Anne of Austria ceased to breathe.

Very soon after Anne’s death, gaiety was resumed at Court. Louis was now free from all restraint. He planned a great carnival; it was to be more magnificent than anything that had gone before.

Henriette arranged the ballet.

The Queen came to her at the Palais-Royal, and when they were alone together she wept bitterly and told her sister-in-law how galling it was for her to see La Vallière and Montespan at Court.

“La Vallière is at least quiet,” said Marie-Thérèse. “She always seems rather ashamed of her position. It is a different matter with Montespan. I believe she deliberately scorns me.”

“Have no fear,” soothed Henriette. “Remember the deathbed of the Queen Mother. Louis has promised to reform his ways. There will certainly be a part for you in the ballet.”

“I am no good at dancing.”

There will be little dancing for you. You will be seated on a throne, magnificently attired to receive homage.” “It sounds delightful.”

“And La Vallière and Montespan will find that there are no parts for them.”

“You are my good friend,” said Marie-Thérèse. “I am glad of that, for you are a good friend of the King’s, I know.”

They embraced, and Henriette looked forward to her new friendship.

Through the window at which she sat with Marie-Thérèse she could see Philippe in the garden with his friend the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was a younger brother of Monsieur d’Armagnac. Lorraine was very handsome and Philippe was enchanted with him. They strolled through the grounds, their arms about each other, laughing and chatting as they went.

Henriette did not like Lorraine; she knew that he was determined to make mischief. He was insolent to her and it was clear that he wished to remind her that as Monsieur’s bel ami he was more important to him than his wife. He was also the lover of one of her maids of honor, Mademoiselle de Fiennes, and scandalously he used this girl to make Philippe jealous. It was an unpleasant state of affairs.

Sometimes, thought Henriette, I feel I am married to the worst man on earth. What is the use of saying: If only I had married Louis, how different, how happy and dignified my life would have been!

Louis himself called at the Palais-Royal next day.

He was angry and did not bother to command a private audience. He came straight to her.

“I see, Madame,” he said, “that there are no parts in the ballet for Mademoiselle de la Vallière and Madame de Montespan.”

“That is so, Sire,” answered Henriette.

“But you know our wish that these talented ladies should have parts.”

“I understood from your promise to the Queen, your mother, that you had decided no longer to receive them at Court.”

“Then you misunderstood my intentions, Madame.”

Henriette looked at him sadly. “Then there is no alternative but to rearrange the ballet,” she said quickly.

“Thank you, sister. That is what I would have you do.”

“Mademoiselle de la Vallière is now scarcely in a condition to appear in the ballet, Sire.”

“Let her take a part where she may sit down, and wear such a costume that shall disguise her condition.”

“There is the Queen’s part …”

“Yes, the Queen’s part. Let that be given to Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

“But the Queen?”

Louis looked at her testily. “The Queen has no great love of the ballet.”

Henriette’s thoughts went to the sad little Queen who had wept so much because she must stand aside for the King’s mistresses. She thought, too, of poor little La Vallière, who would soon be outshone by the more dazzling Montespan; it would be no use hiding in a convent then, for, if she did, Louis would not hasten to find her.

There he stood—magnificent even when peevish. Woe to those who love the Sun King! she told herself soberly.

Louis was saying: “There is another matter of which I would speak to you. It concerns my son.”

“The Dauphin?”

“No. Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s son. I would have him brought up at Court … perhaps here at the Palais-Royal or at the Tuileries. He should not live in obscurity since he is my son. He should enjoy royal honors. It is my wish that he should do so.”

Henriette bowed her head. “I will do all that you command for him,” she answered.

She saw now that the Queen’s death was having its effect, even as had that of Mazarin.

Louis was in complete control now. La Vallière, large with child, should be in attendance on the Queen. La Montespan, brazen in her accession to the King’s regard, would become Queen of the Court.

Henriette was anxious. Charles was at war with Flanders, and relations between her brother and brother-in-law she knew to be very strained.

The Hollanders were holding out tempting promises to Louis; she, who was in his confidence in these matters, knew that a state of war between France and England was threatening.

Henrietta Maria, who had returned to France at the time of the great plague, was, with her daughter, horrified at the idea of hostilities between France and England.

The Queen and her daughter spent many hours together talking of state matters, and it seemed possible that Henriette’s anxiety brought about her miscarriage.

The Queen nursed her daughter through her illness; she herself was ageing fast and suffered from a weak heart and sleeplessness. She was scarcely the most cheerful of companions, talking as she did continually of the old days and how her stay in England had revived her memories.

The news grew worse. Louis decided that Charles was no longer his friend, and French troops were sent into Holland against England’s ally, Christian Bernard von Galen, Bishop of Münster.

Never in her life had Henriette been so wretched.

Her brother, whom she loved dearly, and the man whom she had longed to marry, were enemies, and each was expecting her to be his friend.

“Now,” said Louis, “you have to decide between us. Which is it, Henriette?”

She looked into his handsome face. She said: “He is my brother, and nothing could make me do anything but love him. But I love you also, and you are my King.”

Louis was well pleased with that answer. She would be useful when he made peace with England.

These warlike conditions between the two countries did not long persist, and by the May of that year both Kings were ready for peace. Henriette and her mother had done much to bring about this state of affairs.

“I hope and pray,” said Henriette, “that I shall never see you two at war again.”

Louis kissed her hand. “You will be loyal to me always, Henriette. That is so, is it not? You will remember our love, which is beyond earthly love, the noblest affection that was ever between two people.”

“I will remember,” she told him firmly.

She wished that she could have stayed at Colombes with her mother, and that there was no need to go back to Philippe.

Sitting on a raised dais, Henriette, exquisitely dressed, her white and tan spaniel, Mimi, in her arms, was the central figure in the Ballets des Muses. She listened to the chanting of verses written by Molière; she watched the graceful dancing; and, as usual, her eyes rested on one figure, taller, more magnificent than all others—Louis, gorgeous and aglitter with jewels, his velvet dalmatica sewn with pearls, his high heels accentuating his height so that he stood above all, the Sun King, the Sun God, beautiful as Apollo himself.

She looked about and saw Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was no longer Mademoiselle of the Court now that Philippe had a daughter to assume that title. Poor Mademoiselle! She was less proud now than she had been in her youth. None of those glorious marriages, whose worthiness she had doubted, had come her way. Now it was rumored that she was passionately in love with Lauzan, the dashing military commander, but a marriage between them would never be permitted.

Surely Mademoiselle was feeling sorry for herself, and yet perhaps even more sorry for Henriette. She had said that she would rather have no husband at all than one such as Philippe.

La Vallière was at Court again, recently delivered of a daughter, not entirely happy. She was very jealous of Montespan and greatly feared her rival. In protest she had retired from Court and gone into a convent; this time the King sent for her but did not go after her in person. Poor La Vallière! It seemed possible that her days as King’s favorite were numbered.

And as Henriette sat there with the dancers circulating about her she did not see them. She was thinking of Charles and the terrible fire which, following the plague of last year, had ravaged his capital.

There was a great deal of misery in the world.

She stroked Mimi’s silky ears. Even Mimi suffered; she had her jealousies and could not bear to see her mistress’s attention turned to anyone or anything else. She would run away and hide out of very pique, if Henriette as much as picked up a book.

Roused from her reveries, Henriette noticed that one of the women was trying to catch her eye. Something was wrong.

She was glad when the ballet was over and she was free to listen to the woman.

“Madame, it is the little Duc de Valois. He has had a relapse.”

So she left the ball and drove with all speed to Saint-Cloud where her children were lodged.

The little boy’s eyes lighted up when he saw his mother, but his appearance shocked her. She sank down by his bed and gathered him into her arms. In the service of the King, with the continual entertainments and ballets, she saw less of her children than she could have wished.

It was obvious that the little boy had a high fever and she turned appealingly to those about the bed.

“But his teeth came through quite well. I was told there was no longer need to worry. How did this happen? Why was I not informed?”

“Madame, the fever came on suddenly. The little Duc de Valois was playing yesterday with his sister. Then … suddenly he was in the grip of fever. The doctors have bled him continually. Everything has been done.”

She was not listening. She was holding the precious child against her, rocking him to and fro.

I am weary of this life, she mused. I have had enough of balls and masques. I will nurse him myself. I will cease to be the slave of Louis. I will live differently … quietly. When I have nursed my boy back to health I will spend long hours with my children. I am tired. Each day I grow more quickly weary.”

But while she thought thus the child’s breathing grew more difficult and he did not recognize his mother.

Later she was aware of gentle hands that took the dead boy from her.

After that there arose the need to have another son. There was a return to the hateful life with a Philippe who was becoming more and more dominated by that vilest of men, the Chevalier de Lorraine.

There was continual friction between Henriette and Philippe. Philippe seemed to be filled with hatred for his wife. To him it was a matter of great annoyance and envy that Louis should discuss with her those secret matters of state which concerned England.

Often he would cry: “You would have secrets from me? Is that the way in which to treat a husband? Tell me what passed between you and my brother.”

“If he wished you to know he would tell you,” Henriette would reply. “Why do you not ask him?”

“Is it meet that my wife should spend long hours closeted with my brother?”

“If the King wishes to command that it should be so, it is right.”

“What is happening between our country and England? Should these matters be kept from me, yet imparted to my wife?”

“That is for the King to decide.”

Philippe would fling away from her in a passion and seek out his dear friend Lorraine, who would console him and tell him that he was unfortunate indeed to be married to such a wife.

At Saint-Cloud a new situation had arisen. One day Henriette asked for Mademoiselle de Fiennes, whom she had noticed was not amongst her attendants. She was told that the woman had gone away.

“Gone away? By whose permission?”

The answer was: “At Monsieur’s orders. She did not wish to go, but Monsieur drove her from the house.”

Henriette went to her husband’s apartments. The Chevalier de Lorraine was sprawled insolently on his master’s bed. Philippe sat in a window seat.

Neither rose when she entered. Lorraine was polishing a magnificent diamond on his finger—one of his latest presents from Philippe.

She was angry, but with admirable courage restrained herself from as much as glancing at her husband’s favorite.

“Why have you sent Mademoiselle de Fiennes away?” she asked Philippe. “I found the girl useful.”

“So did I, Madame,” said Lorraine with a laugh.

“Monsieur de Lorraine, I know you are completely without the social graces of a gentleman in your position, but, I beg of you, do not address me until I speak to you.”

“If I am to be treated in this way I shall leave,” said Lorraine.

“I am glad you have given me an indication of how I may rid this place of your presence.”

“But it is the house of Monsieur, Madame. Have you forgotten that?”

“Philippe!” cried Henriette. “Why do you sit there and allow this creature to behave thus to me?”

“It was you who were unpleasant to him in the first place,” said Philippe sullenly.

“You may pamper the creature. I shall ignore him. I repeat: Why did you send Mademoiselle de Fiennes away?”

“I will tell you,” cried Lorraine. “Yes, Philippe, I insist. I did not wish the girl to go. I liked her. I like women at times, and she was a pretty girl. It was Monsieur who sent her away. Monsieur could not endure her. It was because he thought I liked her too well.” The Chevalier de Lorraine burst into loud laughter, and Philippe scowled.

“Do you expect me to endure this state of affairs?” demanded Henriette.

“You have no choice in the matter,” answered Philippe. “And I will tell you this now, We leave for Villers-Cotteret tomorrow.”

“We leave?”

“You, I and Monsieur de Lorraine.”

“You mean you will carry me there by force?”

“You will find that you must obey your husband. I am weary of your spying servants. Our daughter’s governess dared go to the King and complain about Lorraine and me, saying that we did not treat you in a becoming manner.”

“At least she spoke the truth.”

“And my brother has dared to ask me to mend my ways. And this, Madame, is brought about through your servants. Therefore we shall go where we shall not be spied on.”

“I will hear no more.”

“Hear this though. We leave tomorrow.”

“I shall not come.”

“Madame, you will come. The King does not wish an open break between us. And have you forgotten our need for a son?”

Henriette turned and left the apartment. She shut herself in her bedchamber and paced up and down.

What had she done, she asked herself, to deserve the worst husband in the world?

Solitude was the happiest state she could hope for at Villers-Cotteret. Often she wept bitterly during the night.

If she had a son she would insist on breaking away from Philippe; she would no longer live with such a man. She wept afresh for the loss of her little boy.

It was fortunate that Philippe and Lorraine were soon tired of the solitude of Villers-Cotteret, and they returned to Court.

It was Christmastime and a round of festivities was being planned. Now she was able to find new pleasure, for there came into her presence one day a tall, handsome young man who brought a note from her brother. It ran:

“I believe you may easily guess that I am something concerned for this bearer, James, and therefore I put him in your hands to be directed by you in all things, and pray use that authority over him as you ought to do in kindness to me….”

Henriette looked up into the dark eyes so like Charles’, and embraced the young man.

James, Duke of Monmouth, had been sent by her brother to visit her. Charles was proud of his son; perhaps, could Lucy Water see her Jemmy now, she too would be proud.

Henriette knew that Charles had received him at the London Court, that he had given him a dukedom and that he loved him dearly; but this was the first time she had set eyes on him.

Now she became gay again; it was the best way of forgetting those humiliating days at Villers-Cotteret; and how easy it was to be gay with Charles’ son!

In some ways he reminded her of Charles, but he lacked her brother’s wisdom, that gay cynicism, and perhaps that underlying kindness. How could she have expected it to be otherwise? There was only one Charles in the world.

“James,” she cried, “you must tell me about my brother. You must give me news of him. You must tell me every little detail: What time he rises … how he spends his days … Please, all these little humdrum things that take no account of state affairs. Talk to me … talk to me of my dearly beloved brother.”

So James talked, and Henriette often drew him aside to hear the news of her brother’s Court. She would have him show her the dances prevailing there, those quaint folk dances which seemed so strange to the French; but best of all she liked to hear news of Charles.

Lorraine seemed to grudge her even this pleasure.

“They talk in English,” he pointed out to Philippe. “She is half in love with this handsome nephew of hers.”

“Nonsense!” said Philippe. “He is but the son of the brother she loves so well.”

“She loved the brother too well, some say. Now she loves the brother’s son. These are the ways of the Stuarts … all know that.”

So Philippe taunted his wife, and their life together became more intolerable than ever. Even the Duke of Monmouth’s visit was spoiled for Henriette.

In the June of that year Marie-Thérèse gave birth to a son. There was general rejoicing throughout the country. The Dauphin, though sickly, still lived.

Henriette was expecting a child in two months’ time. She prayed for a son. If she had a boy she was determined to leave Philippe. She would speak of these matters to the King, once her child was born; and surely Louis would understand that no woman of her birth could endure to be treated as she was.

She was worried about her mother, who had aged considerably since her return from England. She had become ill through her anxiety when there had been trouble between England and France, and had spent many sleepless nights wondering about the future relationship between her son and nephew.

Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter at Saint-Cloud because at this time the birth of Henriette’s child was imminent, and she herself could pay no visits. They did not speak of the state of friction between the two countries, nor of their private affairs; these subjects were too unhappy to be talked of. Henrietta Maria knew of her daughter’s treatment at the hands of her husband—indeed the whole Court knew. So they talked of the child who would soon be born, of their hopes for a boy, and the Queen’s malady.

“I do not know what it is that ails me,” said Henrietta Maria. “But perhaps it is not a good thing to complain. I have always thought that to complain of illness did little good, and I do not care to be like some ladies who lament for a cut finger or pain in the head. But how I wish I could sleep! I lie awake and brood on the past. It parades before me. I fancy your father speaks to me … warns me … that I must curb the levity of Charles.”

“Charles is popular, Mam. I should not worry about him. It may be that subjects like their Kings to be gay. It may be that they wish for these things. They grew tired of Cromwell’s England.”

“But the women at his Court! It is not that he has a mistress … or two. It is a seraglio.”

“Mam, Charles will always be Charles, whatever is said of him.”

“And no son to follow him! Only James Crofts … or Monmouth, as he now is.”

“A charming boy,” said Henriette.

“And likely to become as profligate as his father and mother.”

“Lucy Water!” pondered Henriette. “I saw her once. A handsome girl … but with little character, I felt. Well, Charles loved her and he has kept his word to care for her son; and the little girl is well looked after, although many say that Charles is not her father.”

“He is ready to accept all who come to him and accuse him of being their father.”

“Dearest Charles! He was always too good-natured. Mam, I beg of you, cease to worry. I will send my physicians to you to prescribe something for your sleeplessness.”

“My child, may the saints bless you. May they bring you through your troubles to happiness. May you have a happier life than your poor mother.”

“I always remember that you had a good husband who was faithful to you, Mam. It would seem to me that that made up for so much.”

“Ah, but to have such a one … and to lose him … to lose him as I did!”

Mother and daughter fell into silence, and after a while Henrietta Maria left for Colombes.

Four days later Henriette’s daughter was born. Her mother did not come to see her; by that time she was feeling too ill to leave Colombes.

Henrietta Maria lay in her bed while the physicians sent by her daughter ranged themselves around her.

“It is sleep Your Majesty requires,” said Monsieur Valot. “If you could rest you would regain your strength. We shall give you something to ease your pain, Madame.”

Henrietta Maria nodded her assent. She, who had complained bitterly of her unhappy life, bore pain stoically.

Monsieur Valot whispered to one of the doctors: “Add three grains to the liquid. That will send Her Majesty to sleep.”

Henrietta Maria, hearing the talk of grains, raised herself on her elbow. She said: “Monsieur Valot, my physician in England, Dr Mayerne, has told me I should never take opium. I heard you mention grains. Are those grains you spoke of, grains of opium?”

“Your Majesty,” explained Valot, “it is imperative that you sleep. These three grains will ensure that you do. My colleagues here all agree that you must take this sleeping draught, for you cannot hope to recover without sleep.”

“But I have been strictly warned against opium on account of the condition of my heart.”

“This dose is so small, and I beg of Your Majesty to accept the considered opinion of us all.”

“You are the doctors,” said Henrietta Maria.

“I shall then instruct the lady in attendance on Your Majesty to give you this dose at eleven o’clock.”

Henrietta Maria felt a little better that day. She was able to eat a little, and soon after supper her women helped her to bed.

“I feel tired,” she said. “I am sure that, with the aid of my sleeping draught, I shall sleep well.”

“There are two hours yet before you should take it, Your Majesty,” said her ladies.

“Then I shall lie and wait for it in the comfort that a good night’s rest is assured me.”

Her ladies left her, and two hours later one of them brought in the draught. The Queen was then sleeping peacefully.

“Madame,” said the woman, “you must wake and drink this. The doctor’s orders, Your Majesty will remember.”

Half awake Henrietta Maria raised herself and drank. She was too sleepy to question the wisdom of waking a sleeping person to administer a sleeping draught.

When her attendants came to wake her in the morning, she was dead.

Henriette held her child in her arms. Another daughter. Did this mean she must resume marital relations with Philippe? It was too much to ask. She would not do it. She hated Philippe.

Her woman came to tell her that Mademoiselle de Montpensier was on her way to visit her.

When Mademoiselle came in there were traces of tears on her face; she embraced Henriette and burst into tears.

“I come from Colombes,” she said.

Henriette tried in vain to speak. Mam … ill! she thought. But she has been ill so long. Mam … dead! Mam … gone from me!

“She died in her sleep,” said Mademoiselle. “It was a peaceful end. She had not been able to sleep; the doctors gave her medicine to cure her wakefulness, which it has done so effectively that she will never wake again.”

Still Henriette did not speak.

Louis came to Saint-Cloud. He was full of tenderness, as he could always be when those for whom he felt affection were in trouble.

“This is a great blow to you, my darling,” he said. “I know how you suffer. My brother’s conduct is monstrous. I have remonstrated with him … and yet he does nothing to mend his ways.”

“Your Majesty is good to me.”

“I feel I can never be good enough to you, Henriette. You see, I love you. When I am with you, I am conscious of great regret. I have a wife … and there are others … but you, Henriette, are apart from all others.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so.”

“You and I are close, my dearest … closer than any two people in the world.”

He embraced her tenderly. She was frailer than ever.

“I know you love me,” went on the King. And then: “Your brother is asking that you may visit him.”

She smiled, and jealousy pierced Louis’ heart, sharp and cold as a sword thrust.

“He says that it is long since he saw you. He says that the grief you have both suffered makes you long to be together for a short while.”

“If only I might go!”

“I have spoken to Philippe. He is against your going.”

“And you, Sire?”

“Philippe is your husband. His consent would be necessary. It might be that we could force him to give it. Henriette, I wish to speak to you of secret matters. I know I can trust you to work for me … for me exclusively.”

“I am your subject, Louis.”

“You are also an Englishwoman.”

“But France is my country. I have lived all my life here. You are my King.”

“And more than your King?”

“Yes, Louis. You are my King and my love.”

He sighed. “I wish to make a treaty with your brother. It is a very secret treaty. I think he may need … a certain amount of persuasion to make him agree to this treaty.”

Henriette’s heart was beating fast.

“There is none who could persuade him … as you could,” Louis went on.

“What is this treaty, Louis?”

“I could only disclose it if I thought that you were entirely mine. There are few who know of its contents, and I trust you, Henriette. I trust you completely.” He was looking into her eyes. She saw that his were brilliant—as brilliant as when they rested on one of his potential mistresses. But what was happening now was seduction of a different kind—mental seduction. He was as jealous as a lover, but he was jealous of her love for her brother; he was demanding her complete surrender, not to be his mistress but his slave—his spy.

She was overcome by her love for him; the love of years seemed to envelop and overwhelm her.

She knew that if she failed him now, she had lost him; she knew that, if she gave herself to him in this way, they would be bound together forever, that what he felt for his mistresses would indeed be light compared with what he felt for her, that what they could give would be as nothing, compared with her service. She had something which she alone could give: her influence with her brother. He was demanding now to know the extent of her affection for him, how great it was compared with that which she had for Charles.

She felt as though she were swooning. She heard herself say, “Louis … I am yours … all yours.”

There were quarrels at Saint-Cloud. Philippe was furious with his wife.

The King had had the Chevalier de Lorraine arrested and sent to the Bastille. He had insulted Madame, and that, in the King’s eyes, was a sufficient reason.

Madame was the King’s favorite now. It was as it had been in the old days. Where Louis was, there was Henriette. They walked through the groves and alleys of Fontainebleau and Versailles, Louis’ arm through that of Madame. They spent hours together with one or two of the King’s ministers. Madame was not only the King’s dear friend, it seemed; she was his political adviser.

Philippe came upon them once, poring over a document, which was put aside as he entered. His rage was boundless.

“What does the King talk of with you?” he wanted to know. “Answer me! Answer me! Do you think I will allow myself—the King’s brother—to be pushed aside!”

She replied coldly: “You must ask the King. He will tell you what he wishes you to know.”

“Holy Mother! You are now such a minister of state that you shall ask for the release of Lorraine.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“You will … you will! It is to please you that he has put my dear friend away. And the only way you shall live with me, Madame, is to live with him as well. We will be together—the three of us—and if you do not like that, you shall endure it!”

“I will endure no such thing. The King has not yet released him, remember.”

“If you do not have him released, I will not allow you to go to England.”

“The King wishes me to go to England.”

“You shall not stay long, though.”

She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

“I shall divorce you!” he cried.

“That is the best news I have heard for a long time.”

“Then I shall not divorce you. I shall make you live in hell … a hell upon Earth.”

“You have already done that. Nothing you do to me in the future can be worse than you have done in the past.”

“You are ill. Anyone can see that. You are nothing but a bag of bones.”

“I know I cannot hope to compete in your eyes with your dear little friends, Monsieur de Marsan and the Chevalier de Beuvron.”

“It is true you cannot.”

“Then I hope they console you for the loss of your dear Lorraine!”

Philippe flung out of the room. His rage had brought him near to tears. It had always been the same, Louis always in the ascendant. The same story now, as it had been in their childhood! He wished he had not married Henriette.

Henriette could not sleep.

Now she knew the terms of the treaty. She knew that for Louis’ sake she must persuade her brother to do something which she knew it was wrong for him to do.

Sometimes she would whisper to herself: “I cannot do it.” She recalled her father’s terrible end. He had gone against the wishes of his people. Was Louis asking Charles to do the same?

She repeated the terms over to herself. Charles was to join Louis in the invasion of Holland. The French were not popular in England, and that would be a difficult thing for him to arrange; but it was not that clause which gave her the greatest anxiety.

Charles was to make a public confession of his conversion to the Roman Catholic faith. Louis would pay him a large sum of money on his signing the treaty, and would give him men and ammunition to fight his fellow countrymen, should they object to their King’s decision.

Louis had said: “I hold that only with a Catholic England can we have a true alliance.”

“But if the English will not accept a Catholic King?”

“We must see that they do.”

“This could make tragedy in England.”

“My dearest, we are concerned with France. Your brother was brought up to be more French than English. He is half French, and it is more natural for him to follow our faith. I have heard that he—as well as your brother James—has a fancy for it.”

“But the people of England …”

“As I said, we must think of France first, England second, eh? Your brother will know how this may be arranged. We do not ask him to proclaim his conversion at once. He may do so at his own leisure. The time to announce it will be for him to decide. There will be great advantages for him.”

But still she did not sleep.

“I love them both,” she whispered. “I love France; I love England. I love Louis; I love Charles.”

But she knew she was placing the safety of England in jeopardy for the sake of France, for she was going to beg Charles, whom she loved, to risk his crown for the sake of Louis, whom she loved even more.

So with great pomp she arrived at Dover. There was one young girl in her suite whose freshness and beauty delighted Henriette. She kept the girl beside her, for it was pleasant to see her childish delight in all the sights and ceremonies. She was the daughter of a poor Breton gentleman, and her name was Louise de Kéroualle.

It was a wonderful moment for Henriette when her brother and Mon-mouth came on deck to welcome her to England.

She was held fast in Charles’ arms, and she saw the tears in his eyes.

“Minette … it has been so long. And how frail you are, my dearest, my darling!”

After the ceremonial greetings, the banquet given in her honor, she found herself alone with him. He told her he was grieved to see her so frail. He had heard of her suffering, and that her married life was by no means a felicitous one. He had heard the rumors concerning Lorraine. He would like to lay his hands on that gentleman, he said.

How close they were in those hours!

He learned the terms of the secret treaty. She watched his lean, dark, clever face. Charles understood her anxiety; he understood everything; she might have known that she could keep nothing from him.

Moreover, he was aware that she understood what she was asking him to do in signing this treaty; he knew, therefore, that she was working not for him, but for Louis. It was characteristic of him that he should understand this. His mind was alert. He had said that if he were less lazy he would be a good statesman, and if he could feel as enthusiastic about state matters as he could about a woman’s charms, he would be a better King but a far inferior lover.

So it was clear to him that Louis had sent Henriette on this mission because Henriette loved Louis.

Charles was momentarily angry. This was not because she had failed in her love for him—he was but her brother and there was certain to be another whom she must love more—but because of what she had suffered in France. He knew her proud spirit; he knew of the humiliations she had endured at the hands of Philippe. He knew that she must soon leave him and go back to France. There, her position would only be tolerable if she were the King’s favorite. Charles loved her; he loved her far more than she loved him. A poor statesman, I! he thought. But a good lover.

He took her face in his hands and kissed it.

“I am entirely yours, Minette,” he said.

His quick mind was working. If I sign, I shall receive Louis’ pension. That is a good thing. I may declare my conversion at any time I wish. Also a good thing.

My grandfather said Paris was worth a mass. Is not the happiness of my dear sister—she whom I believe I love beyond all things—worth a signature to a treaty?

Then he held her against him.

“My dearest Minette,” he said, “you must go back and enjoy your triumphs. Louis is your friend. You can never have a better friend in a country than that country’s King—providing he knows how to keep his crown. And you, my sister, have two who love you. When you return to France with my signature on that treaty, the King of France will indeed love you. But I do not think it can be said that he will love you more than does the King of England. Fortunate Minette, to be so loved by two Kings!”

He would not release her. He did not wish to see her tears, nor her to see his.

Minette now had what she had come for. As for Charles, he would find his way out of this awkward situation, as he had on other occasions.

The treaty was dispatched to France. Then the entertainments began. Charles was determined to show his sister that the Court of England was as full of wit and luxury as that of France. But the most wonderful thing in the world was, as he told her, for them to be together.

The days passed quickly and it was soon time for her to leave.

“I will give you a parting gift, Charles,” she said. “I will give you something which will remind you forever of this meeting of ours.”

She called to little Louise de Kéroualle to fetch her casket, that the King might select a jewel. But when the girl came, the King’s eyes were not on the casket but on her.

“Pray choose, brother,” said Henriette.

Charles laid his hand on the arm of the girl. “Give me this beautiful child,” he said. “Let her stay at my Court. She is the only jewel I covet.”

Louise’s beautiful eyes were opened wide; she was not insensible of his charm.

“Nay,” said Henriette. “I am responsible to her parents. I cannot leave her with you, Charles. Come … take this ruby.”

But Charles and Louise continued to exchange glances, and before Henriette left for France he had managed to kiss the girl.

“I shall not forget you,” he said. “One day you shall come to me.”

On a hot June day Henriette took her last farewell of Charles; and those about them wept to see their sorrow at this parting, for, never, it was said, had royal brother and sister loved each other as these two did.

Louis received her back in France with great warmth. She was his dear friend; now he would trust her forever; never again would he doubt to whom her love was given.

There should be balls, masques, fêtes, ballets; and the Queen of his Court should be his Henriette.

She was gay for a while—two short weeks. She enjoyed her triumphs; but at night she would think of the dark, clever face which she loved so well, and she knew that he—past master in the art of loving—had proved the better lover. He had signed for her sake, and for love of Louis she had made him sign. He understood, as he would always understand; as he would have said: “To love is not only a pleasure, it is a privilege.”

He had written in the verses he had shown her:

“… I think that no joys are above

The pleasures of love.”

Yet she had betrayed him, and because of that she knew she would never be happy again.

Now those about her noticed the effect of the sleepless nights. She was too thin, too fragile for a young woman barely twenty-seven years of age.

Philippe worried her continually. Her influence with the King was great, he reminded her; she must bring about the return of Lorraine; he would make her very sorry if she did not.

She turned wearily away from him. He forced her to go alone with him to Saint-Cloud where he continued to make her life miserable, and only the command of the King could induce him to bring her back to Versailles; but as soon as possible he forced her to return once more to Saint-Cloud.

There she must endure his company, his continual complaints, and this she suffered, together with the reproaches of her own conscience.

She was coughing a good deal, and there were times when she felt almost too weary to care what became of her.

One evening, only a few weeks after her return, she was dining with Philippe and her ladies when she felt a strange lassitude come over her. When the meal was over she lay down on some cushions because, she said, she felt unusually tired. The day had been hot and she now slept, and while she slept she dreamed. She dreamed she was sailing towards Dover, and her brother was holding out his arms to her, but that she was turning away and crying because she was ashamed to go to him.

Coming out of her dream she heard voices. “How ill Madame looks! Do you see?”

Then she heard Philippe: “I have never seen her look so ill.”

“It is the journey to England which has done this. She has not been well since she returned.”

“Ah, that journey to England!” said Philippe. “I was a fool to allow it.”

Henriette opened her eyes and said: “I want a drink.”

Madame de Gourdon, one of her ladies, hurried away to bring her a glass of iced chicory water, which she drank; but no sooner had she done so than she was seized with violent pains in her side.

She cried out in agony: “I have such pains! What was in that glass? I believe myself to have been poisoned.” As she spoke she fixed her eyes on Philippe, who had hurried to her side.

Her ladies unlaced her gown as she fell fainting onto her cushions.

She opened her eyes at length and murmured: “This … pain. I cannot endure it. Who has poisoned me?” Once more she turned to Philippe. He fell on his knees beside her.

“You must get well,” he said. “You will get well, Henriette.”

“You have ceased to love me, Philippe,” she said. “You never loved me.”

Philippe covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

One of the ladies sent for her confessor; another saved the chicory water that it might be examined.

“Madame,” murmured one of the women, “the doctors will soon be here.”

“I have greater need of my confessor,” she answered.

The ladies were looking at her with concern. Henriette, through the haze in her mind, which was the result of pain, was aware of their suspicions of her husband. They were sure that she had been poisoned, and they suspected Philippe of murder.

A few hours passed. Philippe showed great distress, but Henriette was skeptical. She said to herself: “He has then tried to rid himself of me as he threatened he would. Did he plot this then … with Lorraine?”

“Madame … Madame … take this soup,” begged one of her ladies. “It will make you stronger.”

“Nothing will make me stronger now. I shall not be here by morning. I know it.”

She closed her eyes and thought: Nor do I want to be. I do not want to live continually to reproach myself.

After a while she said: “There is one who will be heartbroken when he hears the news of my death. Do you know who that is? Do you know who loves me more dearly than any? It is my brother of England.”

“Madame,” she was told, “the King is on his way to see you.”

When Louis came she was lying back exhausted, and he could scarcely recognize her; she looked so small in her nightdress which had been loosened at the neck to allow her to breathe. Her face was deathly pale, her beautiful eyes sunken; already she appeared to be more dead than alive.

She found it difficult to see him. He seemed to swim before her eyes—tall, commanding, the most handsome man in the world.

“Louis …” Her lips managed to form the words.

“Henriette … my dearest.”

“Louis … I am going … I am going fast.”

“Nay!” he cried; and she heard his sobs. “Nay, you will recover. You must recover.”

“The first thing you will hear in the morning is that I am dead.” “It shall not be. It must not be.”

“Oh Louis, you are the King and accustomed to command, but you cannot command death to stay away when he has made up his mind to come for me.”

Louis turned to the doctors. “Will you let her die without trying to save her?”

“Sire, there is nothing we can do.”

“Louis!” she cried. “Louis, come back to me. For the last time, hold my hand.”

His eyes were so blinded with tears that he could not see her. “Henriette,” he murmured, “Henriette, you cannot leave me. You cannot leave me.”

“I must leave you … both you and Charles … you two … whom I have loved so much. Louis, there will be many to comfort you … I grieve for Charles. I grieve for my brother. He is losing the person he loves best in the world. Louis, you will write to him. You will tell him of my end? Tell him how at the end I spoke of him. Tell him that … if in any way I wronged him … I loved him … I always loved him.”

“I shall send word to him. I shall send him comfort. I shall send him that Breton girl who was with you … You told me how he wished her to stay. She will comfort him … She will remind him of you. I shall send her to his Court with my wishes for his comfort.”

Henriette tried to shake her head. She understood the meaning behind those words. He would send the girl to do what she had done—spy for France.

“Louis …” she gasped. “No … no!”

“But you will get well,” persisted the King stubbornly. “I command you to get well. You cannot leave me. I’ll not allow it.”

The Curé of Saint-Cloud arrived, bringing the Host with him. She received the Viaticum and asked for Queen Anne’s crucifix to hold in her hand as she left this world.

All knew now that she could not live long.

Men and women, courtiers and servants, were crowding into the great hall, for the news that she was dying had spread through the Court.

And there at her bedside stood the King, the tears falling and great sobs racking his body.

“Kiss me, Sire, for the last time,” whispered Henriette. “Do not weep for me, or you will make me weep too. You are losing a good servant, Louis. I have ever feared the loss of your good graces more than anything on earth … more than death itself … and if I have done wrong … so often it has been that I might serve you. Louis … remember me …”

He kissed her tenderly. He knelt by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

Charles was stunned by the news. Henriette, who had been with him a few weeks before, dead!

Minette, his beloved sister, who had seemed to be ever present in her letters to him! Minette, whom he had loved beyond all others; for his passion for his mistresses was fleeting, whereas his love for his sister had endured all through his life. Minette … dead!

Rumors spread that she had been poisoned. Philippe and the Chevalier de Lorraine were suspected.

Charles, in indignant rage, demanded the satisfaction of an autopsy. Louis was only too glad to grant this.

“It is a sorrow we share,” he wrote to Charles. “If a foul deed has been done, I am as eager to find and punish her murderer as you are.”

The chicory water had been examined and even drunk by others, who suffered no ill effect; at the autopsy no poison was found in her body; it was remembered that it was long since she had enjoyed good health.

Were there not always rumors of poisoning when notable people died?

Charles was unable to control his grief. He could not bear to speak of her; he shut himself away from the pleasures of his Court.

Never has the King shown such grief, it was said.

Then there came to his Court one who, the King of France felt, would, while she reminded him of his sister, bring some comfort to Charles. She was the jewel he had coveted, said Louis, and it would have been Henriette’s wish that her brother should possess this coveted jewel. It was hoped that the King of England would show his sister’s maid of honor “a piece of tenderness” and cherish her at his Court.

In the lovely young Breton, Louise de Kéroualle, both Kings saw a substitute for Henriette.

Louis saw her as his spy at the court of England, who would serve him as Henriette had done. Charles delighted to see her again and, in his appreciation of her fresh young beauty, was able to subdue his grief. He would show her that “piece of tenderness,” and she would remind him of Henriette, even as Lucy’s boy—Monmouth—reminded him of Lucy.

There was pleasure in love, he had always said, and for him there always would be. There were many years ahead for him and for Louis, to indulge in the pleasures of love. There would be many women, the memory of whom would become as hazy as his hours with Lucy had now become; yet as long as he lived he would cherish the memory of his sweet Minette.