The Wondering Prince

SEVEN

It was almost two years since the death of Cromwell, yet the people of England showed no sign of recalling Charles Stuart to his throne, having installed Oliver’s son Richard as Protector.

The excitement at the news of Oliver’s death had still thrilled the King and his Court, who were then in Brussels, when Ann had arrived with the children.

Charles was silent for a few moments when he heard of Lucy’s death. He embraced Jemmy warmly and, when the little girl, Mary, waited with such expectancy, there was nothing he could do but embrace her also.

He laid his hand on Ann Hill’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Ann. Lucy was fortunate in you … more fortunate than in some others. Have no fear. We will do our best to see you settled.”

Ann fell on her knees before him and kissed his hand; she wept a little, and he turned away because the tears of all women distressed him.

Later he sent for Lord Crofts—a man whom he admired—and said to him: “My lord, you have this day acquired a son. I command you to take him into your household and bring him up as one of your own. I refer to my son James.”

Lord Crofts bowed his head.

“I thank you with all my heart,” said the King. “I know I cannot leave Jemmy in safer hands. Henceforth it would be better for him to be known as James Crofts.”

“I shall obey Your Majesty’s commands to the best of my ability,” said Lord Crofts.

And so Jemmy was handed over to Lord Crofts to be brought up as a member of his family and to be taught all that a gentleman of high quality should know.

There still remained Mary.

“God’s Body!” cried the King. “That child is no responsibility of mine.”

He sent for Henry Bennet.

“Your daughter is at Court. What do you propose to do about her?” he demanded.

“Alas, Sire, I know of no such daughter.”

“Come,” said the King, “she is Lucy’s girl. You knew Lucy well, did you not?”

“Even as did Your Majesty.”

“I have placed my son in a household where he will be brought up in accordance with his rank. You should do the same for your daughter.”

“Ah, the boy is lucky. It is a simple matter for a King to command others to care for his bastard. It is not so simple for a humble knight.”

“It should not be a task beyond the strength of such as you, Henry.”

“Poor little Mary! They have been brought up together, those two. It is a sad thing that one should have a future of bright promise and the other …”

“What do you mean, Henry? They’re both bastards.”

“But one is known to be the King’s bastard. The other, bastard of a humble knight. A King’s bastard is equal to any man’s son born in wedlock. It is not such a bad fate to be a King’s bastard. Poor Mary! And, for all we know, she might have been … she might have been …”

“She could not have been! I have a good alibi, Henry. I know I am far from impotent, but I am not omnipotent. My children are as the children of other parents. They grow as other children … before and after birth.”

“Many have thought her to be your child, Sire. You can be sure Jemmy boasted that he had a King for a father.”

“Are you suggesting that I should take upon myself the responsibility of fathering the child?”

“Sire, you have had children already, and there will be many more, I doubt not. Can one little girl make such a difference?”

“You’re insolent, fellow! You would shift your responsibilities on to me, when it is a King’s privilege to shift his responsibilities on to others. Did you not know that?”

“’Tis so, Sire!” sighed Henry. “Alas, poor Mary! The poppet has set her heart on having a King for a father. Your Majesty has charmed her as you charm all others. She is, after all, a woman.”

Charles said: “Oh … put the girl with a good family then. Give her a chance such as Jemmy will have.”

“In Your Majesty’s name, Sire? Mary will bless you all her days. She’s Jemmy’s sister, remember. You know how you love to please the ladies, and this little lady will be but one more.”

“You may get you gone from my presence,” said the King with a laugh. “First you steal my mistress when my back is turned; and not content with that you cajole me into fathering your daughter!”

He strode away laughing. He had been enchanted with little Mary; he wished she were in truth his child. But as Henry said: What did one more matter? The children would be well cared for, well nurtured; and Lucy—poor Lucy—could rest in peace.

He had thought at that time that his chances of regaining his throne had improved; alas, he had hoped too soon.

He went to Holland, where, on the strength of his hopes, the Dowager Princess of Holland smiled on his betrothal to Henriette of Orange. She was a charming girl, and Charles found it easy to fall lightly in love with her. But the romance was upset for two reasons: Most important, the Dowager Princess realized that Charles was not to be recalled and would doubtless remain an exile; and secondly, even while courting Henriette he had become involved in a scandal with Beatrix de Cantecroix, a very beautiful and experienced woman who was the mistress of the Duke of Lorraine.

Charles left Holland for Boulogne where he planned to journey to Wales and Cornwall, there to gather an army and fight for his throne.

But his plans were discovered by the enemy, and once again they came to nothing.

He decided then to see Mazarin and ask for France’s help in regaining his crown.

Mazarin was already in negotiation for a peace with Spain, and Charles was treated with the utmost coldness.

And so it seemed that, nearly two years after Cromwell’s death, his position was as hopeless as it had ever been.

The French Court travelled south. In the eyes of Mazarin this journey was very necessary. There had been rioting in some southern towns, and a great deal of dissatisfaction had followed the arrest of certain men, some of whom had been hanged, others sent to the galleys.

Mazarin believed that a sight of the handsome King, together with his most gracious and benign manners, would rouse new feelings of loyalty in rebellious Frenchmen.

But that was not the only reason why the Cardinal so favored this tour.

He was considering a peace treaty with Spain, and his experience had always taught him that the best cement for securing peace was a marriage between the members of the two countries concerned.

Philip IV of Spain had a daughter—Marie Thérèse—and she would be a fitting bride for Louis.

Louis knew of this, and realized the importance of such a match. For two years there had been war between France and Spain; and unless real peace could be made between the two countries, doubtless ere long there would be war again. Marriage was one of a King’s first duties, providing it was the right kind of marriage; and Louis was ever conscious of his duty.

When Marie Mancini had been sent away from the Court he had turned to her elder sister Olympia who had married the Count of Soissons. He was soon deep in romantic love again, and gave balls in honor of the lady when he was not gambling in her house until three in the morning.

The Queen and Mazarin watched this friendship. “There is nothing to fear,” said Anne to the Cardinal. “She is married, and he is safe with her. It is the romantic attachments to unmarried ladies which bother me. My Louis is so noble; he loves like a boy of sixteen still.”

The Cardinal nodded; he was eager to reach the Pyrenean frontier.

Philippe was pleased because his favorite, the Comte de Guiche, travelled with the royal party.

The Comte was an extremely handsome young man with bold dark eyes and a dashing manner; Philippe had admired him from his earliest days and had commanded that the Comte should be his special companion. De Guiche was clever, witty and very sure of himself. Moreover, being a married man, he seemed knowledgeable in the eyes of Philippe. The young Comte had married—most reluctantly—when he was very young indeed, a child who was heiress to the great house of Sully; he had never had the slightest affection for his young wife, avoided her as much as possible, and was content to be the bel ami of the King’s brother.

He was of the noblest family—that of the de Gramonts. His father was the Maréchal who enjoyed the affection as well as the respect of the royal family. The young Comte had grace of person; he excelled in social activities such as the ballet, which Louis had made so popular; he knew exactly how to please Philippe, and Philippe declared that he simply could not exist without his dear friend.

De Guiche had quickly discovered that one of Philippe’s chief wishes was to be told that he was in reality as attractive as Louis. It was clear to the sly young Comte that Philippe had suffered much through his proximity to his royal brother. Louis was tall; Philippe was short. Louis was handsome in a masculine mold; Philippe was almost pretty in a girlish way; he had beautiful dark eyes, long lashed; he was graceful, almost dainty, and he accentuated his good points by means of jewels and cosmetics. Philippe must be constantly assured that he, in his way, was as attractive as Louis, and de Guiche’s task was to assure him of this without saying anything which could be construed as disrespectful to the King. This was not easy, and there were occasions when de Guiche grew bold in his confidences with the young Prince.

As they journeyed through Marseilles—that turbulent town which had been more rebellious than most—and the people looked on their young King, those who had been ready to condemn the royal house experienced a quick change of mind. How could they do anything but express their love and loyalty to this handsome Apollo who rode among them, bowing and smiling, telling them that he was their “Papa Louis,” that he was their King who loved them?

Philippe, watching his brother’s triumph, scowled. The people did not cheer him as they did Louis; they did not admire him as they did the King. He fancied some of them tittered at his appearance. That was intolerable.

De Guiche knew that his royal friend was in special need of comfort and he wondered how best to give this.

It was a few evenings later, when they had rested at one of the châteaux on their road, that the two walked together in the grounds, and Philippe had his arm about de Guiche’s shoulders.

“This journey is not so much in order to soothe these people by Louis’ magnificent presence,” said Philippe with a touch of anger as he referred to his brother, “as that there may be conferences between the ministers of Spain and our own.”

“Monsieur is right as usual,” said de Guiche. “It is Louis’ marriage which is under consideration.”

“I wonder if he will like Marie-Thérèse.”

“I have heard rumors that she is very small and far from well favored,” said de Guiche, to please his master.

Philippe laughed. “He’ll not like that. He likes big plump women—matrons—with some experience to help him along.”

De Guiche joined in Philippe’s laughter, and Philippe went on: “Louis is the most innocent King that ever sat upon the throne of France.”

“He has not Monsieur’s quick mind,” said de Guiche. “That has kept him innocent.”

“You flatter, dearest Comte.”

“It is no flattery. Is it not clear? See how he worships Madame de Soissons. She clearly loves the King because he is the King. And Monsieur de Soissons is so blind because his wife’s lover is the King. But Louis thinks it is pure good chance that Soissons should not be in her apartment when he visits her. Louis is so romantic!”

Mayhap he will not feel so romantic when he is married to Marie-Thérèse. She is very thin; she is very plain. Why are all the girls whom princes may marry, thin and plain? Marguerite; Henriette; and now Marie-Thérèse.

“Henriette?” said de Guiche sharply.

“My cousin … the Princess of England.”

“She is thin, yes,” said de Guiche slowly; “but she has a charm.”

“A charm! But she is so very thin … nothing but a bag of bones! And so quiet.”

“There are some who are quiet because their discourse would be too profound to interest most of those who are at hand to hear it.”

“But … Henriette … profound!”

“She has a quality,” said de Guiche. “It is as yet hidden. She is not fifteen, your little cousin. Wait, Monsieur … ah, wait!”

“This is amusing. I think you but seek to make me laugh, dear Comte.”

“No. I speak with great seriousness. She is a child yet, but she is clever. There is one thing: I have seen a certain sparkle in her eyes. She is sad because her life is sad. She has always lived in exile … like a plant in the shade. Ah, if the sun would shine on her! If she could let loose her natural gaiety! But she cannot. She is plagued all the time. She is an exile … a beggar at Court. Mademoiselle de Montpensier continually seeks to take precedence. Henriette’s brothers wander the Continent; she never knows when they will meet their death. She is humiliated at every turn and, being so clever—so full of imagination—she is sensitive; so she remains in her corner, quiet and pale, and to those who have not the eyes to see, so plain. Do not underestimate Henriette, Monsieur. Your brother is not insensible to her charm.”

“Louis!”

“Ah, Louis knows it not yet. Louis sees her as you do. Poor plain little cousin. ‘Nothing but bones,’ he said, and he thinks of his plump matrons. But Louis is romantic. He is a boy in heart and mind. You, Monsieur—forgive me; this sounds like treason, but between ourselves, eh?—you are so much cleverer than the King. You see more clearly. I’ll wager this: One day Louis will not be insensible to the charms of little Henriette. Let her brother regain his throne; let her come out of her corner; let her dazzle us with her beautiful clothes, her jewels. Then we shall see her beauty shine. Do you remember that, in the ballets, it is she who often says: ‘Wear this … it will so become you.’ And how often is she right! Have you seen her, animated in the ballet, playing a part? Then she forgets she is the exiled Princess, the little beggar girl who may be snubbed at any moment. The true Henriette peeps out for a while to look at us; and, by the saints, there you have the most charming lady of the Court!”

“You speak with fervor, de Guiche. Are you in love with my cousin?”

“I? What good would that do me? I do not love women, as you well know. They married me too young, and so I lost any taste I might have had for them. I was merely telling you that the King is not insensible to the charms of his cousin.”

“But he has refused to marry her; you know that.”

“Yes. And she knows it. It has made her quieter than ever in his presence. But you have noticed the softness in the King’s eyes when he speaks of her? Poor Henriette! he says to himself. He is sorry for her. He does not understand. He gambols with his plump matrons. He is like a child learning love … for he is far younger than his brother. He has spent his time in youthful sports; he is a boy yet. He has now acquired a certain taste for love, but at the moment he likes the sweet and simple flavors. Wait … wait until he demands something more subtle.”

“Then you think …”

“He will one day greatly regret that he turned away from the Princess Henriette.”

“I cannot believe that, Comte.”

But Philippe was thoughtful; and his mind was filled with memories of Henriette.

During the journey of the French Court to the Spanish border, Henrietta Maria and her daughter remained in Paris. Charles took advantage of the absence of the Court to visit his sister.

He came riding to Colombes where they were residing at that time. Unceremoniously he found his sister, and Henriette, giving a little cry of joy, ran into his arms.

She was laughing and crying, looking eagerly into his face, noting the changes, the fresh lines about the eyes and mouth which did not detract from his charm.

“Charles! Charles!” she cried. “What magic have you? That which makes others ugly merely adds to your charm.”

“I was born ugly,” said the King. “Those who love me, love me in spite of my face. Therefore they are apt to find something to love in my ill-favored countenance and they call it charm … to please me.”

“Dearest brother, will you stay long?”

“Never long in one place, sister. I merely pay a flying visit while the coast is clear.”

“It is wonderful to see you. Mam will be delighted.”

Charles grimaced. “We are not the best of friends, remember. She cannot forgive me for taking Henry’s side against her, and for not being a Papist. I cannot forgive her for the way she treated the boy.”

“You must forgive her. There must not be these quarrels.”

“It was to see you I came.”

“But you will see her while you are here. To please me, Charles?”

“Dearest, can it please you to displease us both?”

“You would go away happier if you mended your quarrels with Mam. Charles, she is most unhappy. She grieves continually. She thinks still of our father.”

“She nurses her grief. She nourishes it. She tends it with care. I am not surprised that it flourishes.”

“Try to understand her, Charles. Try … because I ask it.”

“Thus you make it impossible for me to refuse.”

So he did his best to mend the quarrel between himself and his mother. He could not love her; he could not tolerate cruelty, and when he remembered Henry’s sorrow he was still shocked. But they did not discuss his brother, and he was able to spend many superficially pleasant hours in his mother’s company.

It was not long after his arrival at Colombes that he betrayed to Henriette a secret excitement.

“I will tell you, sister,” he said, “because if this should fail—as most projects have failed—I should not mind your knowing. Have you ever heard of General George Monk?”

“No, Charles.”

“He was one of Cromwell’s supporters, but I do not think my lord Protector ever entirely trusted him. I have heard that once when George Monk was in Scotland, Oliver wrote to him: ‘ ’Tis said there is a cunning fellow called George Monk who lies in wait to serve Charles Stuart. Pray use your diligence to take him and send him to me.’ You see, Oliver was not without some humor.”

“You speak as though you could even forgive Oliver.”

“Forgive Oliver!” Charles laughed. “I thank God I shall never be asked to. He has passed beyond my forgiveness. I was never very skilled in judging and affixing blame. It is a matter of great relief to me that the judging of Oliver has passed into other hands. But more of Monk. He married his washerwoman—Mistress Anne Clarges; she must have a strong will as well as a strong arm for the tub, to induce the General to marry her. And do you know, Minette, Anne Clarges gives her support to me. She has a taste, not only for Generals, it seems, but for Kings; and I doubt not that she has urged her lord to favor me, with the same urgency as she once pressed him into marriage.”

“Do you mean, Charles, that there is a General in England who would be ready to help you regain your kingdom?”

“I do, Minette. Aye, and do not speak of him as a General. He is the foremost General. He is a man who served the Protector well, but who, since the death of Oliver, has become disgusted with the Parliamentarians’ rule. He has come to the conclusion that kings are slightly more attractive than protectors.”

“What is happening? What is General Monk doing?”

“He has drunk in the presence of others to ‘His Black Boy.’ That is his name for me. He is reputed to have said that he is tired of the bickering in high places and that, if he had an opportunity of doing so, he would serve me with his life.”

“Oh, Charles! If only it would come true!”

“If only, Minette! There have been so many ‘if onlys’ in my life. The sign of many failures, alas!”

“I shall hope and pray that Your Majesty soon comes to his kingdom. I shall pray that all health and happiness may attend Your Majesty.”

“Come, come, do not treat me with so much ceremony. There should not be so many ‘Your Majesty’s between us two; there should be nothing but affection.”

She clung to him, her eyes shining. Surely there must be some good fortune waiting for him at last! Surely the exile must soon be restored to his kingdom!

Mademoiselle de Montpensier was faintly alarmed.

She had lost all hope of the exalted marriage for which she had longed. It was now common knowledge that Louis was to marry Marie-Thérèse, the daughter of the King of Spain. Negotiations were going ahead. Louis was reconciled to the fact that as a king he must do his duty. It would not be many months before the marriage would take place.

So I shall never be Queen of France! thought Mademoiselle.

There were other offers for her hand. She was still a granddaughter of France if not a daughter, she reminded herself, and she was the richest heiress in the world. A grand marriage was still possible for her. She was fascinated by Charles Stuart, but she certainly would not marry a roaming exile, and she had no wish to leave France. France was her home, and to have lived for years at the Court of France was to know that other Courts could never satisfy. No! Mademoiselle knew definitely what she wanted. She wanted to remain in France, and she wanted to make a brilliant marriage. There was only one other man worthy of her, in her opinion, now that she could not have Louis. A second best it was true, but it would still be a royal marriage—Philippe.

She and Philippe were good friends. They had been brought up together. She was thirteen years older than he was, but that was not an insurmountable difficulty. She had bullied him in childhood because it was Mademoiselle’s habit to bully, but Philippe had accepted her domineering ways and even admired her for them. In the recent dispute over the right of precedence, Philippe had immediately placed himself on her side and demanded to know why people who depended on them for their bread should walk before them.

Mademoiselle was certain that she only had to make her wishes known to Philippe and he would be eager for their marriage.

It was strange how serving women seemed to know more of what was going on at Court than their masters and mistresses.

It was Clotilde, her maid, who first made her aware of the mistake she might be making concerning Philippe.

As she combed Mademoiselle’s hair, she said: “Do you think Monsieur is serious in his attentions to the English Princess, Mademoiselle?”

“What is this? Monsieur … serious?”

“Oh yes, Mademoiselle. He is paying court to the Princess, it is said. He rides over to Colombes very often and … he is continually at the Palais-Royal.”

“This is nonsense.”

“It is, Mademoiselle?” Clotilde was silent. None dared contradict Mademoiselle.

“Well?” said Mademoiselle impatiently. “What else have you heard?”

Clotilde wished she had not spoken. She stammered: “Oh, ‘twas a rumor, I dare swear, Your Highness. It is said that he is enamored of the Princess Henriette and is spending much time with her.”

Mademoiselle’s face was scarlet with mortification. She did not believe it. She would not believe it.

But she was uneasy.

Later, in the ballroom, when she was dancing with the King, she could not refrain from mentioning the matter to him. “Your Majesty is setting the fashion for marriage, I hear. Is it true?”

Louis raised his eyebrows. “Is what true?”

“Philippe, Your Majesty. I hear rumors. I wondered if they were true. I have heard that he has become enamored of that little bag of bones, Henriette.”

Louis smiled. “Have you then? I doubt not that he will get her. Our aunt has tried in vain for the Grand Duke of Tuscany and the Duke of Savoy. They’ll have none of our poor Henriette. I am sorry for that girl. A hard life she has had. If Philippe wants to marry her he is sure to do so … for no one else will have her, I fear.”

“But … Your Majesty has heard these rumors?”

“Philippe has been thoughtful of late, and that is a sign of love. He rides often to Colombes, I hear; and Henriette is at Colombes.”

“Your Majesty would give your consent to such a marriage?”

Louis hesitated. He would do nothing, Mademoiselle knew, without the agreement of his mother and Mazarin. Louis, for all his magnificence, was a boy in the hands of those two. He now said uncertainly: “I would her brother could regain his kingdom. If so … it would be an excellent match … an excellent match.”

“There is little chance of that. And would Your Majesty allow your brother—Monsieur of France—to marry with the sister of an exile?”

“It would be hard to refuse,” said Louis. “If they were really in love … I should find it hard to refuse.”

Mademoiselle wished she could have slapped the sympathetic smile from the handsome face. It was all she could do to prevent herself doing so.

She was enraged. It would be intolerable if she lost not only Louis but Philippe.

All Paris was en fête.

This was an occasion beloved by all, for on this hot August day the King was bringing his bride to the capital.

It might have been said that this year, 1660, was one when the stars of kings shone brightly.

Across the water there had been another great day—an even greater one for England than this was for France.

In London, a few weeks before, the streets had been decked with flowers and tapestries, fountains had run with wine, the citizens had shouted derisive farewells to the old régime; the life of pleasure and revelry was back, and there should be, all declared, more merriment than there had ever been before. The Black Boy was back; the Merry Monarch had returned; and his restoration was due to the will of his people—all except a few miserable Puritans.

Such rejoicing there had been that Charles, while he yet reveled in it, while he rejoiced to be home again and to be received with such wild enthusiasm, had stroked his lined face and remarked with a slightly cynical smile that it must have been his own fault he had not returned before, since every man and woman he met now assured him with tears and protestations of loyalty that they had always wished for the King’s restoration.

So the exile was an exile no longer. He was back in Whitehall, full of gaiety and charm, delighting all who saw him—from the highest nobleman to the lowest fishwife.

The King had come home.

And what a difference the restoration made to his family abroad! No longer were Henrietta Maria and her daughter poor, exiled beggars depending on the hospitality of their relations. They were the mother and sister of the reigning King of England.

Now they sat beneath the canopy of crimson velvet on the balcony outside the Hotel de Beauvais, one on either side of Queen Anne. From other windows watched the ladies of the Court. Cardinal Mazarin also was at a window.

The procession passed along the streets—the gilded coaches; the mules with their silver bells; the magistrates in their red gowns; the musketeers in blue velvet with silver crosses; the company of light-horse in scarlet; the heralds carrying emblems the grand equerry who held aloft the royal sword with its scabbard of blue velvet and golden fleurs-de-lis. But all the brilliant color was eclipsed by the glory of Louis himself. Looking more handsome than even he had ever looked before, he rode his bay horse under a canopy of brocade. His face was benign as he moved forward, and the people roared in expression of their love and loyalty. Here was a King who was indeed a King. He was dressed in silver lace decorated with pearls and pink ribbons; his hat was kept on his head by means of an enormous diamond brooch, and the magnificent white plumes fell over his shoulders.

Behind him rode Philippe in a costume of silver embroidery; and behind Philippe came the Princes of the royal houses led by Condé.

Then came the bride—little Marie-Thérèse—in her coach, which was covered with gold lace. She was dressed in gold-colored cloth and was ablaze with jewels, so that eyes were dazzled as they looked at her. In those gorgeous garments, framed by the gold of her coach, she seemed like a fairy princess to the people of Paris; they cheered and exclaimed at her beauty.

Following her coach, Mademoiselle de Montpensier led the Princesses of France. Mademoiselle was trying to smile and to hide her bitter resentment. She should have been the Queen in that gilded coach. This should have been her day of triumph. She could smile—a little spitefully—to think of Marie-Thérèse, stripped of her finery. That was how Louis would have to know her, a silly little girl without that charm and wisdom which was an accomplishment acquired by those brought up in the Court of France.

A grand marriage with Spain! Let Louis enjoy it if he could.

Now the King had reached the royal balcony in which sat the two Queens and the Princess Henriette. Louis drew up his horse that he might salute the Queens and the Princess.

Henriette, her eyes dazzled with his beauty, suddenly understood her feelings for this man. She had grown up in that instant. She, a girl of sixteen, knew that she loved this man of twenty-two. Now she understood why she had wept so often after she had been in his company, why she had been hurt by his pity. It was not pity she had wanted from him.

Charles was now King of England; if he had been King of England last year … But Louis had never loved her; Louis would never have married her. But did he love little Marie-Thérèse?

Louis was looking into her eyes now. He saw the tears there and a faint flicker of surprise crossed his face. Why were there tears? he wondered. She had little to weep about now. Her brother was restored to the throne and it was very likely that Philippe would marry her; and what a suitable match this would be between the brother of the King of France and the sister of the King of England!

How pretty she was! He had never seen her dressed in such a grand fashion. He could realize now why Philippe was falling in love with her. Her beauty was not obvious as was that of Madame de Soissons … and others; but she had a certain charm, that little Henriette.

Louis was no longer sorry for her, and his pity had been replaced by another emotion which he did not fully understand, and as he rode on to receive the ceremonial congratulations of the Parliament on his marriage, it was not of Marie-Thérèse he was thinking, but of Henriette.

Philippe was giving a ball at Saint-Cloud. He was pleased with himself. Saint-Cloud was a beautiful mansion, which Louis had recently brought from Harvard, his Controller of Finances, and presented to his brother. Moreover, Philippe’s uncle Gaston had died that year, and on his death the duchies of Orléans, Valois and Chartres as well as Villers-Cotterets and Montargis, had fallen to Philippe.

He was young and handsome; he was rich; he was the brother of the King; it was his lot to be courted and flattered. Had he but been born a few years earlier, he would have been completely content.

But he was smiling to himself as, with his special friends about him, he was preparing himself for the ball. His valets loudly proclaimed that they had never served a more handsome master; some of his friends—far bolder—whispered to him that there was no one, simply no one, to equal him in beauty. They did not admire those pink-and-gold men who excelled at vaulting and the like; they preferred the subtler kind of masculine beauty—agility of mind, rather than body.

Philippe laughed. It was pleasant to be assured that not everyone found Louis more charming than his brother.

His head on one side, he criticized the set of his dalmatica. Was the sapphire brooch quite right? Would his dear Monsieur de Guiche decide whether ruby ornaments would be better? He thought after all that he would wear more emeralds.

Tonight was important. He would open the ball by leading the Princess Henriette out to dance. Henriette! He looked slyly at de Guiche. De Guiche was the cleverest man he knew. He saw further than did ordinary men. Henriette was charming. He realized that now. Occasionally he would be treated to those quick flashes of wit; he would see the sudden sparkle in her eyes. The restoration of her brother had acted as a tonic. She was no longer the plain little sit-in-a-corner. She had been too sensitive of her position; that was all that had been wrong with little Henriette.

And when he compared her with Marie-Thérèse he could laugh aloud. Marie-Thérèse might be the daughter of the King of Spain, but Henriette was the daughter of a King of England and now sister to the reigning King. There was no difference between the two girls in rank; but there were other differences. And what delight Philippe would enjoy when Louis became aware of the charms of Henriette!

“Come!” he said. “It is time I was greeting my guests. Do not forget that this is my ball. Tonight I am the host to His Majesty my brother, to his Queen and … the Princess Henriette.”

Henrietta Maria was in a flutter of excitement. She dismissed all their attendants and was alone with her daughter.

“My dearest,” she said, “what joy is this! Sometimes I find it difficult to assure myself that I am not dreaming. Can this be true? Your brother has regained his crown! Oh, would I had been there to see him riding through the streets of London. What joy! If only his father had been there to see him proclaimed their King!”

“Then it would not have been Charles who was their King, Mam. Oh, I beg of you do not weep. This is too happy a time.”

“Tears of joy, dearest daughter. Tears of joy. I must go to Chaillot and thank God and the saints for this happiness which has come to me. And, dearest, I wish to go to England. Charles wishes us to go. He wants us all to be together for a little while at least. It is his wish. It is his command—as we must say now.”

“Oh, Mam! To go to London. That would be wonderful.”

“To be received in London as a Queen, and to remember how I fled from England all those years ago!”

“Mam … I beg of you, look forward, not back.”

“Yes, I must look forward. Dearest, you are the sister of a King who is indeed a King. You know that there has been talk of your marriage?”

“Yes,” said Henriette, and her eyes as well as her voice were expressionless.

“It fills me with pleasure. It is a wonderful match. Few could be better.”

“Philippe …” said Henriette slowly.

“Yes, dearest Philippe. The little playmate of your childhood. Oh, how happy you will be! Think, dearest. You will spend the rest of your life here … in great honor. You will be ‘Madame’ of the Court. You do not realize the extent of your good fortune. Your face tells me that. Do you know that there is no Court in the world to equal that of France … for elegance, for culture, for luxury? I can think of none other at which I would care to live except …”

“Except at home … at Charles’ Court,” said Henriette.

“Foolish child! How could you live at your brother’s Court unless you remain unmarried? That you surely would not wish to do.”

“Mam, I think I should like to live my life as Charles’ sister.”

“Holy Mother of God! What nonsense you talk! You should love your brother, it is true, but verily I believe you and he would carry to excess this affection you bear each other. Charles himself is delighted with the prospect of your marriage. I have heard from him on this matter.”

“What … said he?”

Henrietta Maria came closer to her daughter. “He says he knows that if you marry Monsieur he will always have a friend at the French Court, one who will never forget the interests of England—and the interests of England are Charles’ interests. He says it will be as though his other self is at the Court of France while he is in England. He says he will always love a country of which his dear sister is the Madame. He says he sees peace between France and England through a union which he would rather have for you than any.”

“So he says all that?”

“He does indeed. And he is right. What an opportune moment this is! What glory! Why, had they kept him out of his kingdom another ten years, what would have become of us? What sort of a marriage would you have been able to make? Philippe is the most desirable parti in France. There is only one I would have rather seen you marry. And, mark you, if your brother had regained his kingdom a little earlier, who knows …”

“Mam … Mam … please do not speak of that.”

“Why not, foolish one? We are alone. Moreover it is clear to any who give the matter a thought. Everyone knows that, while it is a good thing to be the wife of the King’s brother, it would have been more desirable to have been the King’s.”

Henriette turned away.

Her mother must not see that she was too emotional to speak. How could she explain to Henrietta Maria that she longed to be Queen of France, not for the glory of that title, not for the honors she would enjoy, but because as Queen of France she would also have been Louis’ wife.

Louis was conscious of his brother and Henriette. They were an attractive pair, he murmured to his wife.

She did not understand, of course. Her knowledge of the French language was limited.

He was smiling at everyone in his usual friendly manner; he accepted the congratulations on his marriage; he showed the utmost deference to his bride, and he would not admit, even to himself, that he was miserably disappointed in her. Louis was not given to frequent analyses of his feelings. Marie-Thérèse was his wife; she was the daughter of the King of Spain; his marriage was highly desirable. Mazarin considered that he had achieved a diplomatic feat of great importance to France by bringing it about; his mother had assured him that one of her dearest wishes was fulfilled. Louis must be pleased with his bride.

But how rigid was Spanish etiquette! And what a scrap of a thing was Marie-Thérèse, divested of her robes of state—small and brown and, it must be admitted, far from beautiful. Louis, who had enjoyed the luscious charms of more desirable and desiring ladies in his pursuit of the doux scavoir, could find little to attract him in his politically admirable match.

Marie-Thérèse never put ceremony aside, even in the bedchamber. During the day she seemed to wish to do nothing but eat, play cards and go to church. She was very greedy. In spite of her rigid adherence to etiquette, her table manners disgusted him. He would see those little black eyes watching the food; and when her own plate was filled she would still have her eyes on some favorite morsel in the dish, terrified lest someone else should be given it before she could announce her preference for it. There was another thing which was worrying Louis; shy and reluctant as she had been during the first night of their nuptials, she was fast overcoming her shyness and with it her reluctance. Often he would find her eyes fixed on him as though he were a dainty morsel in the dish.

She was going to fall in love with him and, as she did so, he was going to find her more and more repulsive.

But at present Louis would not admit this.

The Spanish marriage had been a good thing for France; therefore it was an admirable marriage. And the next marriage in the family should be between England and France. Two brilliant marriages—and so good for the state policy of Mazarin.

Philippe … and Henriette!

She had changed since her brother had regained his throne, and Louis was glad of it. She was less shy. Silly little Henriette, to have cared so deeply because of the humiliation she had suffered! He remembered the occasion when he had not wished to dance with her; he now reproached himself bitterly for that crude behavior.

Dancing in her blue gown, which was decorated with pearls, she was a charming sight. Philippe looked handsome too—and how ardent he was! Philippe ardent … and for a woman! It seemed incredible, but it was true.

He glanced at his bride. She looked well enough in her cloth of silver and multicolored jewels. He tried not to gaze in Henriette’s direction; but his mother, sitting beside him, had noticed his interest in his cousin.

“Philippe and Henriette!” she said. “What a good match!”

“The best Philippe could make,” replied the King.

“So he can be sure of Your Majesty’s consent?”

Mazarin and his mother had already given it, Louis knew; but he kept up the pretence that he himself made all the decisions affecting the policy of France.

“I see no reason why such a marriage, so advantageous to France, should not take place.”

“Philippe was afraid he might not have your consent,” said Anne.

“He need not have been,” snapped Louis, and his sudden rush of anger astonished him. “He’ll get Henriette. Why, no one else would have her.”

“That was before her brother’s triumphant return. She is a more desirable partie now, my beloved.”

“She … she has changed in more than her status.”

“It has made a great difference to her and her mother, and I rejoice to see it. I never thought Henriette so charming before. She seems almost beautiful; and she is so frail, with such a look of innocence. Quite charming. Philippe is eager for the marriage, and it is small wonder.”

Louis said in a mood of unaccustomed ill-temper: “Philippe should not worry. He shall marry the bones of the Holy Innocents.”

Anne looked at him in amazement, but he was smiling fondly at Marie-Thérèse.

Mademoiselle was furious.

The King was married; Philippe was to marry Henriette, and she had always thought that, if she lose Louis, Philippe would be hers for the taking.

What had come over her young cousin? This passion for Henriette had sprung up so suddenly. It was only a little while ago that he was taking sides against her.

Mademoiselle was no longer young. She was past the time for marriage. If she were not the granddaughter of France and its richest heiress she would be alarmed.

She must marry, and her marriage must be one which would not bring shame to her proud spirit.

There was one marriage which would please her more than any—except perhaps with Louis. Yet when she compared the two marriages she thought she would prefer the one still open to her. She would have wished to be Queen of France beyond anything, she supposed, because France was her native land and the Court well known to her; it would have been completely satisfying to spend the rest of her days in France. But to be the Queen of England—married to that fascinating rake, Charles Stuart—would be an exciting adventure.

Had she known he was to come into his kingdom, she would have married him ere this. But it was not yet too late, for he was still unmarried.

She went to his mother and, after kissing her hand, asked permission to sit beside her. Henrietta Maria graciously gave that permission.

No longer an exile! thought Mademoiselle. She is almost condescending to me now. I shall have to let these Stuarts know that I consider it my privilege to walk before their daughter, for the girl is not yet Madame of France.

Henrietta Maria’s fond eyes were on Henriette now.

“A triumphant day for your daughter, Madame,” said Mademoiselle.

“I rejoice to see her so happy.”

“Is she happy? She does not seem entirely so. Do you think she is as eager for this marriage as … others?”

“She will be. She is but a child. Philippe is eager … very eager.” Henrietta Maria stole a malicious look at her niece. “He is as eager to marry her as others are to marry him.”

“Let us hope she will be happy.”

“Who could fail to be happy in such a match, Mademoiselle?”

“There will be matches in plenty in your family now, I doubt not.”

“I doubt not,” said Henrietta Maria. “My son, the King, will not hesitate now.”

“She will be a happy woman whom he chooses.”

“There was a time, Mademoiselle, when you did not consider his wife would ever be in such a happy position.”

“Nor would she have been had he remained in exile.”

“He will remember the days of his exile, I doubt not. He will remember his friends of those days … and those who were not so friendly.”

“Here at the French Court there have always been many to offer him sympathy and friendship.”

“He owes much to his sister Mary.”

“A charming princess. She reminded me of Charles.”

“So you found Charles charming then?”

“Who does not?”

“Many did not during the days of his exile. But I doubt not that the charm of a king—to some—is more obvious than that of a wandering beggar.”

Mademoiselle was growing angrier. Was the Queen suggesting she was too late? Had she forgotten the vast fortune which Mademoiselle would bring to her husband! She had heard that the King of England still suffered from a lack of money.

Henrietta Maria was remembering it. She wondered what Charles would feel about marrying this woman. She must curb her impetuosity; it would not do to offend one who might become her daughter-in-law.

She turned her gaze on Henriette, and was soothed. There was one who was to make the best marriage possible—since Louis was married.

Mademoiselle followed her aunt’s gaze, and her anger was turned to something like panic.

Too late for Louis; too late for Philippe. Could it be that she was too late for Charles?

Henriette and her mother were ready to leave France on their journey to England. Henriette was longing to see her brother; but she was bewildered. Too much had happened to her in too short a time. The step from girlhood to womanhood had been too sudden. The thought of marriage alarmed her although as a princess she had been prepared for it, and she had been long aware that love played little part in the marriages of royal persons.

She liked Philippe; she continually told herself that. There had been one or two quarrels when they were children, but was not that inevitable? He had not always been kind to her; but he had been only a boy, and all that would be changed now that he was in love with her. She could not doubt his love; he made it so evident. His eyes scarcely left her and he was obviously proud of her. It was touching to see the way in which he looked at his brother as though he were comparing Henriette with Marie-Thérèse, to the disadvantage of the Queen. How ridiculous of Philippe! And yet she found it to be rather charming and very pleasant, after all the humiliations she had received, to be so loved by such an important person.

She would not wonder whether Louis was happy in his marriage; she would not think of Louis. Happily she was going to England and there it might be possible to talk with Charles, to tell him all that was in her mind and ask his advice.

She sought her mother, but when she reached the Queen’s apartments she found Henrietta Maria lying on her bed, weeping bitterly.

“What is wrong?” cried Henriette in great alarm. Her thoughts had gone at once to Charles. Had he lost the kingdom he had so recently regained?

“Leave me with the Queen,” said Henriette, and the women obeyed.

The Princess knelt by the bed and looked into her mother’s face. The small dark eyes were almost hidden behind their swollen lids, but Henriette knew at once that her mother’s grief was caused more by anger than sorrow.

“Can you guess what is happening in England?” she demanded.

“Tell me quickly, Mam. I cannot endure the suspense.”

“There is danger of that woman’s being received at Court.”

“What woman?”

“That harlot … Anne Hyde!”

“You mean … Anne … Clarendon’s daughter?”

“Yes, I do mean that rogue’s daughter. That fool James has married her. Your brother has dared … without my consent … without the consent of his brother, the King, to marry her in secret!”

“He … he loves her.”

“Loves her! She has tricked him, as she would well know how to do. He married her just in time to allow her bastard to be born in wedlock. And he … poor simpleton … poor fool … acknowledged the child to be his.”

“Mam, it may well be that the child is his.”

“My son … to marry with a low-born harlot!”

“Marriage with James will make her Duchess of York, Mam.”

“If you try to soothe me I shall box your ears! I’ll not be soothed. Thank God we can go to England to prevent further disaster. Can you believe what I have heard! Your brother Charles is inclined to be lenient over the affair and will receive the woman at Court as James’ wife!”

“Yes,” said Henriette, “I can believe it. It is what he would do.”

“Charles is soft. There will always be rogues to get the better of him.”

“No, Mam. He is kind. He says: ‘They love each other; they are married; they have a child. So … let us all be merry together!’”

“For the love of the Virgin, daughter, let me not hear such nonsense from you. I thank the saints that we shall soon be in England and that I may be able to stop this folly.”

“Mam, if Charles wishes to receive James’ wife at his Court …”

“He must be made to see his folly. Does he want to lose that which he has just gained?”

Henriette shook her head sadly. How could she say to her mother: Nay. It was you with your bad temper, with your insistence on having your way, who lost your crown. Charles’ kindness will make him popular with the people.

One did not say such things to Henrietta Maria. One let her rave and rant, and if one were like Charles, one avoided her as much as possible.

How regrettable this was! It seemed as though the visit to England would be spoiled. There would be trouble with James; and Henriette had been wondering what would happen when her mother and her brother Henry met again.

“Ah, it is high time I was at your brother’s Court,” continued Henrietta Maria. “I have had this news from your sister Mary. She and I see eye to eye in this. She is incensed that that Hyde girl … her maid of honor … should have dared marry your brother. She blames herself. She remembers that she brought the girl with her when she visited us. She remembers that it was in her retinue that your brother first set eyes upon her. She knew they were meeting; but she—considering the girl’s lack of rank—thought her to be but the mistress of a few weeks. But to marry the girl … to legitimize her bastard!”

“Please, Mam, do not speak of them. Let us wait and see what Charles has to say. It is his Court after all. He will finally decide what has to be done.”

Henrietta Maria’s eyes narrowed. “He was never one to listen to his mother’s advice.”

“Mam,” said Henriette, “I have been thinking of my brother Henry.”

Henrietta Maria’s face grew darker still. “You may consider you have a brother of that name. I have no son called Henry.”

“But, Mam, you cannot at such a time continue to turn your face from him.”

“I swore that I would not look at his face again while he persisted in his heresy. I have no reason to believe that he has discarded it.”

“Please, Mam … he is but a boy. He swore to our father the day before he died, that he would not change his religion. You must receive him. You must love him. You must remember that he is young and eager for the love of his family … and in particular he would wish his mother to love him.”

“Then he knows what to do.”

“He was separated from you for so long. He looked forward so eagerly to be with you and then …”

“You make me angry, Henriette. I do not want to be disappointed in all my children. Would you have me break my vow?”

“Would you have him break his vow to his father? God would forgive you, Mam, if you broke your vow in order to make him happy.”

“You horrify me, daughter. Have my nuns of Chaillot … have Père Cyprien and the Abbé Montague not taught you better than that?”

“Are we not told by God to love one another?”

“You think strange thoughts, child. Listen to me. I have sworn I will never look on Henry’s face until he changes his religion. I shall keep my word.”

Henriette turned away. Was the stay in England going to be so happy after all?

She need not have worried about the future of her brother Henry. They were on their journey to Calais when a message concerning him was brought to them.

Henry, Duke of Gloucester, had died the day before. He had been ill with the smallpox and had seemed to take the sickness lightly, so that all had hoped for a speedy recovery. He had been in the care of the King’s doctors, who did all they could for him; he had been profusely bled and assiduously attended; but in spite of their efforts—or perhaps because of them—his illness had ended in death.

Henriette went to her mother, who was staring blankly, before her.

This is terrible for her, thought Henriette, for she will be unable to forget the last time she saw Henry.

She threw herself into her mother’s arms and they mingled their bitter tears.

“Mam, you must not grieve,” cried Henriette. “What you did you did for your Faith. You believed you were right, and perhaps we cannot be blamed for doing what we believe to be right.”

Henrietta Maria did not seem to hear her. “So …” she said slowly, “I have lost my son. My daughter Elizabeth … my son Henry … They are both lost to me, and they both died heretics.”

Then she burst into bitter weeping, moaning that she was indeed La Reine Malheureuse.

It may be, thought Henriette, that her regrets will make her lenient with James.

But this was not so. Henrietta Maria could not regret that she would never now have an opportunity of breaking her vow; she saw her action as the right one, the only one a good Catholic could take. All human emotions were subdued in her quest for converts. Now she wept, not because her son had died, but because he had died a heretic.

James met them at Calais with a squadron of ships—the first outward sign of the glories which awaited them. Henriette anxiously watched her mother’s greeting with her son, but it was formal and affectionate. The Queen had no quarrel with James; providing he would repudiate Anne Hyde she was ready enough to forgive him.

James was a good seaman, but in spite of his prowess they spent two days in crossing the Straits on account of the calm; and when they arrived at Dover, Charles, with a brilliant retinue, was waiting to receive them.

Henriette looked into his face and saw the difference which the restoration of his kingdom had made to him. He was jauntier than ever; but the cynicism with which the years of exile had endowed him would be with him forever; he was very affectionate with his dearest Minette, warning her that, even as a King returned to his throne, he would not tolerate too many “Your Majesty”s from her.

To his mother he was graciously polite and showed all that affection which was demanded of him. The people, who had gathered to watch the royal meeting, were a little cool in their reception of Henrietta Maria; the population of Dover was largely composed of Puritans and Quakers, and they looked with distrust on the King’s Catholic mother; but the young Princess they thought charming, and they cheered her loudly, much to the delight of Charles.

“You see how my people wish to please me in all things,” he whispered to her. “It seems they know that their appreciation of you pleases me far more than that which they have for any other.”

He led his mother and sister into Dover Castle, where a great banquet was prepared for them. Charles placed his mother on one side of him, his sister on the other.

“This gives me great happiness,” he whispered to Henriette. “Soon Mary will join us and then we shall all be together.”

Later Henriette expressed the wish that Henry could have been with them.

“If he were here,” said Charles, “we should have Mam turning her back on him.”

“How did he die, Charles?” she asked. “Was he heartbroken? Did he long to speak to Mam before he died?”

“I was with him, Minette. I persuaded him not to grieve. You see, I am a profane man, and I said to him: ‘If you side with Mam, you break your word to our father; if you do not break your word you are banished from our mother’s favor. Side with yourself, brother. Do nothing that can offend yourself, and then, surely, in God’s eyes, you have taken the right side.’”

“You are a good man, Charles—the best in the world.”

“You joke, Minette. I am the world’s biggest rake—or one of them. I doubt whether there is a man living who could compete with me. Now were my grandfather alive …”

“You are the world’s kindest man, and it seems to me that kindness is one of the greatest virtues.”

“If I am kind it is due to my laziness. That can scarcely be called a virtue. Nay, I beg of you, sister, do not see me as a better man than I am, for one day there may be disillusionment. Love me for my faults; for that is the only way in which a man such as I may be loved.”

“What of James’ trouble?”

“Trouble? James is in love, and his wife loves him. Can that be called trouble?”

“Mam will make trouble of it.”

Charles groaned.

“She always hated Chancellor Hyde,” went on Henriette. “She says if his daughter enters Whitehall by one door, she will leave by another.”

“Poor Mam!” said Charles. “So she is bent on making trouble. Does she never learn? Have the years of exile taught her nothing then?”

It seemed not, for while they were at Dover—in that Puritan stronghold—she insisted that High Mass be celebrated in the great hall by Père Cyprien de Gamaches, whom she had brought with her.

Charles was in a dilemma. To forbid it would mean trouble; to allow it would be to offend the people.

Henrietta Maria, that diminutive virago, opposed to the Puritans of Dover! He smiled wryly. He feared his mother more, and hoped that in the excitement of the royal visit, in the pageantry so new to them after the years of Puritan rule, the people would overlook his mother’s tactlessness. So he decided that it would be wiser to risk offending the people of Dover than to cross his mother, who must somehow be reconciled to James’ marriage.

In spite of the death of Henry, which cast a shadow over her pleasure, in spite of the apprehensive fears of the marriage which lay before her, this period seemed to Henriette the happiest of her life. In the grand entertainments which her brother had prepared for her she endeavored to forget the past and shut out thoughts of the future.

She discovered that she was like Charles; she could banish unpleasantness from her mind. She was very sorry for the Duchess of York, whose father was keeping her a prisoner in his house because the King’s mother had been so furiously enraged every time her name was mentioned. But she was able to forget her in the joy she found in her brother’s company.

Mary, the Princess of Orange, had arrived in England, and there were special balls and fêtes to honor her. She was almost as fierce in her denunciation of Anne Hyde as Henrietta Maria was; and Charles, although his sympathies lay with his brother, was too lazy to enter into long arguments with his strong-minded mother and sister. It was easier to shelve for a while the matter of the Duchess’s banishment and give himself and his family the pleasure he had always promised this reunion should bring them.

Scandal spread about the Court concerning the Duchess. She was a harlot, it was said; the Duke was not the father of her child; it seemed there was nothing too bad that could be said of the Duchess. Henriette shuddered; but she did not know that there was scandalous gossip concerning herself and Charles. She had no idea that sly gossips were asking each other: “What is the nature of this affection between the King and his sister? Is it not a little too fond to be natural?”

There would always be scandals where there were Stuarts to provoke them.

If the King knew of these rumors he did nothing to refute them. He was too lazy for one thing, too wise for another. He often said that one could not alter people’s thoughts, and to protest too strongly was often construed as evidence of guilt.

Henriette was fast passing out of childhood. One of those who hastened her steps in that direction was George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. Almost as profligate as the King, he declared his infatuation for the young Princess and did all in his power to seduce her. He was sixteen years her senior, well versed in the art of seduction—having had plenty of practice—as cynical as his master, though lacking his lazy tolerance. Buckingham immediately recognized in the Princess that which had attracted de Guiche and so guided the attention of Philippe towards her.

She was not plump like most Court beauties, who looked so much alike, who were ready with the catchwords of the moment; she was ethereal, dainty and slender; her laughter was gay yet innocent; her wit was growing sharp. All the Stuart charm, which had been latent, was suddenly apparent. She danced with enthusiasm; she was as gay as any; she had grown vivacious and amusing. This was a new Henriette.

“By God’s Body!” declared Buckingham. “She is incomparable, this little Princess. Having seen her, I find it difficult to see perfection in other women.”

But all his practiced gallantry, all his polished charm, failed to move Henriette. She saw him as a rake and a libertine; Charles was as bad, she knew; but Charles was her beloved brother, and nothing she discovered about him could alter her love for him. But she was not ready to fall in love with a pale shadow of her brother. In love she demanded different qualities. There was one who possessed all that she would demand in a lover. He must be good to look upon, but he must be of high integrity; he need not be supremely witty, but he must be good-natured and kind at heart. She had met such a one, but she must not think of him, for he was not for her.

So she amused herself by listening to Buckingham’s protestations of affection, flirting with him while making it perfectly clear that his desires concerning her would never be fulfilled.

“‘Od’s Fish!” said her brother in high amusement. “You are leading poor old George Villiers a merry dance.”

“Then it will do him much good to dance, as he has doubtless made others dance.”

“I am sorry for poor George.”

“I am sorry for his wife.”

“I doubt not that Mary Fairfax can look after herself.”

“To think it is only three years since she married him! How sad she must be to see him pursuing other women!”

“Three years!” cried Charles. “It is an eternity … in marriage.”

“Would you not ask for three years’ fidelity in a wife?”

“Dear Minette, I would not cry for the moon!”

“You are all very cynical here, and you, Charles, set the pace.”

“That may well be. But don’t fret for Fairfax’s daughter. She was promised to Chesterfield, you know, and after the banns were published she eloped with Buckingham. We might say ‘Poor Chesterfield!’ There were those to say it once. Nay! Do not waste pity on others in this game of love, Minette. Only take care that there is none to say ‘Poor Henriette!’”

“Charles, I am reminded that I must marry soon.”

“It is a good match, Minette. There is none I would rather see you marry, now that you cannot have Louis.”

“I am unsure.”

“We are all unsure at such times, dearest.”

“I cannot understand why Philippe so suddenly should want to marry me.”

“You are very attractive, Minette, as well as being the sister of a King—one who has now a throne. You are a worthy match for Philippe, as he is for you.”

“I wish I could love Philippe.”

“Some would say ‘That will come.’ But we do not allow fictions to exist between us, do we, Minette? No. You should not think of love in conjunction with husbands. I do not, in connection with wives.”

“You are being cynical again, Charles.”

“There are some who turn from the truth when it is not pleasant and call it cynicism. Do not let us be of their number, Minette. Face the truth and you will find that if you study it well you may discover that there is some part of it which is not as unpleasant as you thought it.”

“Must I marry Philippe, Charles?”

“It would be unwise not to.”

“But could I not wait awhile? I am young yet.”

“Mademoiselle de Montpensier told herself she was young yet, and now she is … not so young.”

“She would give much to marry you now, Charles.”

“And you see she comes too late. Do not follow Mademoiselle in that, Minette. Marry Philippe. We shall not be far apart then. We shall visit each other often. It is the best marriage you could make.”

“Is it what you wish?”

“I dearly wish it.”

“Then I will marry Philippe.”

“And I will give you a handsome dowry—40,000 jacobuses and 20,000 pounds, that you may not be a beggar when you come to your husband. I wish all the world to know that, though I am the most inconstant man in the world, there is one to whom I am constant forever—my sweet Minette.”

“Thank you, Charles. But, I pray you, let us talk no more of my marriage. Let us be gay and happy while we are together.”

So she danced and was happy; she forgot Henry; she forgot the Duchess of York; she forgot that soon she must return to France where she must marry one royal brother while she loved the other.

The King insisted that his mother and sister should not leave England until after the Christmas festivities. Christmas was celebrated with more gusto in England than in any other country, and this year’s celebrations promised to be more exciting than ever, for under the rule of the Protector such revelries had been considered a sin. All Englishmen were going to make England merry once more; they were determined on it, and during that December there was high excitement in the streets of the capital.

The Princess Mary had thrown herself into the preparations with enthusiasm. There were to be ballets and masques.

“We must not fail Charles,” she said to Henriette, “for he wishes his Court to rival that of Louis. We can help him achieve this, I am sure, although the English do not dance with the grace of the French.”

Henriette agreed. She began feverishly planning the ballet. There would not be Louis to dance so gracefully, to enchant the spectators with his commanding presence; but she fancied they could give the English Court something it had never seen before.

As she and Mary sat together talking of the costumes they would wear, and the dances they would arrange, the verses which would have to be compiled, Mary said suddenly: “You look sad, sister.”

And Henriette said in a rush of confidence: “It is this talk of the ballet. It reminds me of others. It reminds me that soon I must go back to France, and that …”

“Is it your marriage of which your are apprehensive?”

“Yes, Mary.”

“We all are when our time comes. Our marriages are arranged for us, and we have nothing to do but obey. Oh, Henriette, you are more fortunate than many. At least you will not go to a stranger.”

“Mary, sometimes I think that Philippe is almost a stranger.”

“But you have known him from childhood.”

“Yes. But it seems I knew a different Philippe.”

“It is because he seemed then but a boy to you, and now he is the man who is to be your husband. I remember my own marriage. I was very young, but in time I came to love my husband.”

Henriette turned to look at her sister. “It is such a comfort to have a family,” she said. “I often think what a wonderful life ours might have been if everything had gone well for our father, and we had all been brought up together … Charles, James, you, Elizabeth, Henry and myself. I never knew Elizabeth. I saw very little of Henry … and now they are both dead.”

“The rest of us must be good friends … always,” declared Mary.

“And be happy together,” said Henriette. “James is not very happy now, is he, Mary?”

Mary had put her hand to her head. She said: “I feel too tired to talk further, sister. I think I should like to rest awhile.”

Henriette felt saddened, suspecting Mary was making excuses. Mary was as obstinate as their mother, over the affair of Anne Hyde.

Mary stood up. She swayed slightly and it occurred to Henriette that she really was feeling ill, so she helped her sister to bed and told her attendants that their mistress wished to rest.

“You have had too much excitement, Mary,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

But in the morning Mary was not better; and the news spread through Whitehall. The Princess of Orange was smitten with the smallpox, that dreaded disease which, so recently, had carried off her brother.

Henrietta Maria was beside herself with anxiety. Henry dead. Mary ill. Smallpox in the Palace. Frantically she commanded her daughter to prepare to leave at once.

“Who will nurse Mary?” asked Henriette.

“Not you! You are to leave Whitehall at once. That is the King’s command. I shall send you to St. James Palace, and there you must remain.”

The King himself joined them. His face was grave. He took Henriette into his arms and kissed her solemnly.

“It is as if there is a blight on our family,” he said. “First Henry … now Mary. Minette, I want you to leave Whitehall at once.”

“I think Mary would wish to have some of her family about her.”

“Mary is too ill to recognize her family, and you, my dearest, shall certainly not come within range of contagion.”

“You are to leave at once,” commanded Henrietta Maria. “I have arranged for you to leave in twenty minutes.”

“And you, Mam,” said the King, “must go with her.”

“My place is at my daughter’s bedside, Charles.”

“Your daughter is sick. This is not the time for your conversions.”

“A sickbed, Charles, is the place for conversions.”

“Mary is very weak. She has been bled many times. Several of my doctors are with her. She is in no state to listen to your religious advice.”

Henrietta Maria looked sternly at her son, but she knew him well enough to recognize the obstinate line of his mouth. Here was the little boy who had refused to take his physic. He was slack; he was easygoing; but suddenly he could make up his mind to stand firm, and then none could be firmer.

For a few seconds they glared at each other, and she gave way.

He was too good-hearted to make his victory obvious. He said: “Stay and look after Henriette, Mam. We should never forgive ourselves if aught happened to her.”

“It may be you are right,” agreed the Queen.

And she was thinking: Later, when Mary is a little better, I will talk to her; I will make her see the truth.

She left with Henriette and in the Palace of St. James eagerly they awaited the news.

It came. The Princess of Orange was improving. The doctors believed that the bleeding had proved efficacious.

Henrietta Maria made her youngest daughter kneel with her.

“Let us thank the Blessed Virgin and the saints for this recovery. It is a miracle that she is now on the road to good health. My prayers have been answered. I said: ‘Holy Mother, I cannot lose two children … and so soon. I cannot lose them both in so short a time, and both to die heretics.’ And, Henriette my child, my prayers have been answered. ‘Give me my Mary’s life,’ I said, ‘and I will give you her soul!’ When she is well enough … a little later on, I will go to her and tell her that her life has been saved through prayer, and that she owes her soul to God.”

Henriette, kneeling with her mother, was not listening to the Queen’s words. The tears ran slowly down her cheeks.

“Thank God,” she murmured. “Thank God we have not lost Mary too!”

The King was at Mary’s bedside. She had asked for a cordial that she might have the strength to receive the sacrament.

Charles could not keep back his tears. He knew that Mary was dying.

Only yesterday they had believed her condition to be improved, but they realized now that they had been too quick to hope.

“Charles,” said Mary. “Are you there, Charles?”

“I am here, Mary.”

“You should not be. It is dangerous.”

“I am a tough fellow, Mary.”

“Oh, Charles … my favorite brother …”

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Keep your strength to fight for your life.”

“It is too late. The fight is over. You are weeping, Charles. Pray do not. We are an unlucky lot, we Stuarts. We don’t live long, do we? Elizabeth, Henry, and now Mary. Only three left now. Three and poor Mam. Father went … long ago.”

“Mary, I beg of you, save your breath.”

“I’m not afraid of death, Charles. I regret dying only because of my boy. Charles, be a father to him.”

“I will, to the best of my ability.”

“My little Dutch William. He is a solemn boy.”

“Have no fear. All shall go well with him.”

She lay breathless on her pillows. Her glazed eyes looked up at him. “Charles … Charles … you should not be here. And you the King!”

“I have seen so little of you, Mary. I cannot leave you now.”

“There will not be long for us to be together. I was cruel to James’ wife, Charles.”

“Do not think of that now.”

“I cannot help it. I wish so much that I had been kind. She was my maid of honor. She was a good girl and I … in my pride, Charles …”

“I know. I know. You thought no one good enough for royal Stuarts.” “You are fond of her father, Charles.”

“Aye! A good friend he has been. I am fond of his daughter too.”

“You will have her recognized. Charles … you will make our mother understand how I feel now. Any day her time may come too. Don’t let her feel as I do now. It is a terrible thing to have wronged someone and to come to your deathbed without setting that wrong right.”

“I’ll set it right, Mary. Think no more of it. I shall speak to Mam. I’ll set that matter right. And Anne Hyde shall know that at the end you were her friend.”

“Thank you, Charles. Thank you, my favorite brother.”

He could not bear to look at her. He dashed the tears from his cheeks. They were giving her the sacrament, and she took it eagerly.

Afterwards she lay back on her pillows and quietly she died.

That Christmas at Whitehall was a sad one, and arrangements were made for the return to France of Henrietta Maria and her daughter, for Philippe was urgently requesting that his marriage should be delayed no longer.

The King sought his mother in private audience soon after Mary’s death; his face was stern, and Henrietta Maria was quick to notice the lines of obstinacy about his mouth.

“Mam,” he said without preliminary ceremony. “I have come to ask you to accept James’ wife as your daughter-in-law.”

The Queen set her lips firmly together. “That is something I find it hard to do.”

“Nevertheless you will do it,” said the King.

She looked at him, remembering the stubborn boy who had taken his wooden billet to bed and refused to part with it, not with tears of rage, as most children might have done, but with that solemn determination which made him hold the piece of wood firmly in his small hands and look at those who would take it from him as though he was reminding them that he would be their King one day. He was looking at her like that when he said: “Nevertheless you will do it.” She remembered that he had settled her yearly allowance and that she depended upon him for much. She knew that she would have to give way.

He was ready, as ever, not to humiliate her unduly. He did not want acknowledgment of his triumph. He merely wanted peace in his family. He said: “The rumors concerning poor Anne have been proved to be false. James loves her. They have a child whom I have proclaimed heir-presumptive to the crown. There remains one thing; you must receive her.”

Henrietta Maria still did not speak.

“In view of all that has gone before,” Charles continued, “it will be necessary for you to make public recognition of her. We are too unlucky a family not to be happy when we can be together. Fate deals us enough blows without our dealing them to each other. Mary realized that. On her deathbed she wept bitterly for the hurt she had done Anne Hyde. There will be a farewell audience at Whitehall before you leave, and during it James shall bring his wife to you. You will receive her, and do so graciously. I would have it seem that there has never been ill feeling between you.”

Henrietta Maria bowed her head; she was defeated.

But she knew how to accept defeat graciously—in public at least, and when Anne Hyde was brought to her, she took her into her arms and kissed her warmly, so that it was as though there had never been aught amiss between them.

The next day they left for France. As their ship tossed on the stormy seas, Henriette grew frightened—not of the death which the roaring winds and the angry waves seemed to promise, but of marriage with the Philippe who had become a stranger to her.

The visit to England had been a connecting bridge between childhood and womanhood. She had known it, and she was afraid of what was waiting for her.

Tossing in her cabin, she felt that her body was covered in sweat as she lay there, and suddenly it seemed to her that she was not in a boat at all. It seemed that she was flitting from one scene to another, and always beside her were the two brothers, Louis and Philippe. Philippe was embracing her, laughing slyly at her because she had believed he loved her; and Louis was turning away from her, looking with eager eyes at Madame de Soissons, Madame de Beauvais, Olympia and Marie Mancini—and dozens of others, all beautiful, all voluptuous. He was turning away from her, refusing to dance, and she was afraid because Philippe was waiting to seize her.

“Charles!” she cried. “Charles, save me, and let me stay with you.”

Charles was somewhere near, but she could not see him, and her cries for help could not reach him.

Her mother was calling to her. “Henriette, my dearest. They have turned the ship. Thank God we have come safely in. You had a nightmare. We are back in England now. The Captain dared not continue the journey. My child, are you ill?”

Henriette closed her eyes and was only vaguely aware of being carried ashore. For fourteen days she lay at Portsmouth close to death.

But she did not die. She refused to be bled as her brother and sister had been, and her malady proved not to be the fatal smallpox but only measles.

As she grew well she seemed to come to terms with life. She must marry. All royal persons must marry, and Philippe was a good match. The real Philippe was quite unlike the creature of her nightmare.

As soon as she was well enough to travel, they crossed the sea on a calm day, and on the way to Paris they were met by a royal party, at the head of which rode Philippe.

Henriette was received in Louis’ welcoming embrace without betraying her feelings. She knew that her visit to England had not changed her love for him; growing up had but strengthened that.

She overheard him mention to his mother that poor Henriette was thinner than ever.

To her he said: “Now that you are in Paris, we shall soon have you strong, Henriette. We have some royal entertainments ready for you. I have a new ballet which I myself prepared for your return. Would you like to know the title?”

He was like a boy, she thought—youthful, eager to be appreciated, hoping that on which he had spent so much pains, would give her the enjoyment he had intended it should.

“Your Majesty is gracious to me,” she told him with tears in her eyes.

“Well, you will be my sister in a few short weeks. It is fitting that I should welcome my sister on her return. The ballet is about lovers who have been separated too long and yearn for reunion. I have called it L’Impatience des Amoureuxl.”

“I am sure it will be very entertaining,” said Henriette.

And the King was satisfied.

The dispensation had arrived from the Pope; the wedding was arranged; but there was a postponement because of the death of Mazarin. Louis and his mother insisted on two weeks’ Court mourning, during which time it was impossible for a Court wedding to take place. Buckingham, who had accompanied the Princess and her mother from England, was too obvious in his attentions to Henriette, and Philippe showed his jealousy. The Court was amused; so was Louis. It was amazing to see Philippe in love with a woman, and that woman his future wife.

Philippe insisted on Buckingham’s being recalled to England, and Charles complied with his request. And all the time Henriette seemed to be in a dream, hoping that something would happen again to postpone the wedding.

But this time all went smoothly, and at the end of March the contracts were signed at the Louvre, and later that day at the Palais-Royal the betrothal took place before the King and Queens Anne and Henrietta Maria. All the nobility of France was present and, although owing to the recent deaths of the bride’s brother and sister and the bereavement the royal family of France had suffered in the loss of Cardinal Mazarin, there were no balls and pageants such as were usually given to celebrate a royal wedding, the country showed itself delighted with the union, for all felt sure that it would bring peace between England and France, and moreover, the little Princess with her romantic story had always been a favorite in the land. La Fontaine wrote verses in which he told the story of her escape from England and the years of exile which had culminated in this brilliant marriage.

Charles was delighted; so was Louis. Philippe seemed completely happy; only the bride was filled with foreboding.

So she was married. She was no longer the Princesse d’Angleterre, a shy young girl to be ignored and humiliated; she was Madame of the French Court and, after the little Queen Marie-Thérèse and Anne, the Queen Mother, she was the most important lady of France.

Terror had seized her when it was necessary for her to leave her mother and go with Philippe to the Tuileries.

He had been tender and by no means a demanding lover. She believed she had to be grateful to Philippe. He was kind during those weeks of the honeymoon; he had begged her not to be afraid of him. Did he not love her?

She reminded herself that all royal princes and princesses must face marriage. It was a duty they were called upon to perform. If there were love in their marriages they were indeed fortunate; it did not happen to many.

Philippe, she sometimes thought, was more in love with himself than with her. He liked her to admire his clothes and jewels. She believed it would not be difficult to live with Philippe. He was not very much older than she was, and she began to think she had been childish to feel so fearful.

Sometimes she would find his eyes upon her—alert, watchful, as though he were searching for something, as though he found her fascinating in a way he could not understand.

Once he said: “My lovely Henriette, you are charming. But yours is a beauty which is not apparent to all. They must look for it. They must seek it out. And then they find how very charming it is, because it is so different, so enchanting that the voluptuous beauties of the Court seem merely fat and vulgar when compared with you.”

She said: “You are fond of me, Philippe, and thus you see perfection where others see what is imperfect.”

He smiled secretly and after a while he said: “Now that all these perfections are mine, I should like others to see them and envy me my possessions.”

She grew gay during those days of her honeymoon. She felt she had made an important discovery. There was nothing to fear from Philippe; he was kind and not excessive in his demands for a love she could not give him. It was as though, like herself, he accepted their intimacy for the sake of the children they must beget. She was no longer to suffer humiliation. He talked of the entertainments they would give as Monsieur and Madame of France; and she found herself waiting eagerly to begin the round of gaiety he was proposing.

“You were meant to be gay, Henriette,” he told her. “You have suffered through living in the shade. Now that the sun will shine upon you, you will open like a flower. You will see; others will see.” He went on, “We should not stay here in solitude too long. We must not forget that we are Monsieur and Madame, and there is one whom we must entertain before all others. I refer, of course, to my brother. Let us plan a grand ball and decide on whom we shall invite. The list will not include the Queen. Poor Marie-Thérèse! Her condition is just what the country would wish it to be, but I’ll swear she looks plainer than ever. We’ll have to provide another lady for Louis. That should not be difficult. Who shall it be? Madame de Soissons? Perhaps … But enough of Louis. This is your first appearance as Madame, and I wish it to be remembered by all who see it. Your gown … what shall it be? The color of parchment, I think. That will show your dark eyes. And there shall be slashes of scarlet on it … again for the sake of your beaux yeux. And in your hair there shall be jewels. Remember, Henriette, you are no longer an exile. You are Madame … Madame of the Court, the first lady of the ball; for my mother will not come, nor will yours; and poor little Marie-Thérèse must lie abed nursing the heir of France within her!”

“Philippe, I have rarely seen you so excited.”

“I think of your triumph. How proud I shall be! Henriette, make me proud. Make all men envy me.”

She laughed and threw herself gleefully into the preparations. There should be a dazzling ballet for the King’s enjoyment. She and Philippe would dance together. Their first entertainment for the King should surpass all that had gone before.

She was gay. She wrote verses; she practiced the singing of them; she practiced the dance; her gown would be the most becoming she had ever possessed. For life had taken a new turn, and she was going to assume that gaiety which was her birthright and which had lain slumbering too long.

Philippe watched her, smiling, clapping his hands, kissing her lightly.

“All men will envy me this night!” he declared. “All men!”

Animated, and vivacious as none had seen her before, she greeted Louis on his arrival, gracefully curtsying as he extended his hand for her to kiss.

He had said good night to his wife before he had left for the Tuileries; and he had thought how plain and sallow she was.

She was lying back in bed playing cards with her women, her greedy eyes turned from the dish of sweetmeats which were on the bed. She looked at him as though he were one of the sweetmeats, the biggest and the most succulent; and he had felt sick and angry because the daughter of the King of Spain did not look like Madame de Soissons.

Now Henriette stood before him. Such radiance! Such beauty! He had never before seen her thus. All his pity for his poor little cousin was swept aside and there remained feelings which he did not understand.

He said: “It shall be my privilege to open the ball with you, cousin … nay, you are my sister now.”

He took Henriette’s hand.

She thought how handsome he was, and she was momentarily wretched because it was his brother and not himself who was her husband. But now he was looking at her as he had never looked before, when the violins began to play and the dancers fell in behind them.

“You have changed,” said Louis.

“Is that so, Your Majesty?”

“Marriage has changed you.”

“Your Majesty knew me for a long time as the sister of an exiled King. Now Your Majesty sees me as the sister of a reigning King and … your brother’s wife.”

“Henriette,” he whispered, “I’m glad you are my sister.”

Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and he saw them.

Then suddenly understanding came to him. So many women had loved him; here was another.

He was silent as they continued the dance, but she was no longer silent. She was beautiful and vivacious tonight, and she knew that this was the beginning of a new life for her. She knew that all in the vast room watched her and marveled at the change in her. She could almost hear their voices, see the question on their lips: Is this little Henriette, the quiet little Princess who was so shy, so thin, so ready to hide herself in a corner? Has marriage done this? So all that charm and gaiety was hidden beneath those quiet looks!

Louis was enchanted. He did not notice Madame de Soissons. He could not bring himself to leave Henriette’s side; and she felt recklessness sweep over her. She had been unhappy so long because he had failed to find her attractive.

Now she was happy; she could live in the moment. At last Louis had looked at her and found the sight a pleasing one.

He said to her: “Now that the Queen is indisposed, there is much you can do to help me. We shall need a lady to lead the Court. My mother has felt the Cardinal’s death sorely, my wife is indisposed …”

“I shall do my best to prove a good substitute,” she murmured.

“Substitute!” said Louis. “Oh … Henriette!”

“Your Majesty finds me changed. Have I changed so much? I am still thin.”

“You are as slender as a willow wand.”

“Still the bones of the Holy Innocents! Do you remember?”

“You shame me,” cried Louis. “I am thinking what a fool I was. Henriette, what a blind, stupid fool!”

“Your Majesty …”

“I think of what might have been mine, and what is. I might have been in Philippe’s place. I might …”

She broke in: “Your Majesty, what would I not have given to see you look at me thus a year ago!”

“So you …”

“Do you doubt that any who look upon you could fail to love you?”

“What can we do?” said the King. “What a tragedy is this! You and I … and to know this … too late!”

She said: “We are princes, and we have our duty. But that will not prevent our being friends. It is enough for me to be near you and see you often.”

“Yes, often. It shall be so. Henriette … you are the most perfect being of my Court, and you are … Philippe’s wife!”

So they were together and Madame was gay that night.

This is the happiest time of my life, she told herself.

Philippe watched his wife and his brother with immense satisfaction, for at last he had that which Louis coveted. Here was his revenge for all the boyhood slights.

Louis wanted Henriette, and Henriette was Philippe’s wife.