The Wondering Prince

EIGHT

Henriette began to be happy as she had never been happy before.

Louis loved her; he sought every opportunity of being with her. She was to reign over the Court with him; he reproached himself a hundred times a day because he might have married her, but had been a blind fool; he realized that he had never been indifferent to her, that those stirrings of pity which she had aroused in him had, in fact, been true love. He saw himself as a simpleton, a man who had never thought for himself because there had been others to think for him, a man who had never explored his own mind, because there were so many to tell him he was perfect, more god than man. He had never been given to self-analysis. Why should he? He had been told he was perfect. He had been taught to vault and ride, to show off his physical perfections rather than to study and use his brains.

He saw himself for the first time as a man who had been duped by his own simplicity. Beside him, loving him, had been the perfect companion, and he had failed to see in her more than a sad little cousin, worthy of his pity.

If Henriette had changed, so had Louis. He was no longer the puppet King. Mazarin was dead, and he intended to be the true King of France. He had grown up through the realization of his love for Henriette; he was a simple boy no longer; he was a man who would also be a King.

Now he began to show his mother that she could no longer lead him. He, Louis, would decide.

He seemed to increase his stature. He was at least three inches taller than most men at Court, but he seemed more than that in his high heels and his wig of stiff frizzed hair which rose straight up from his brow adorned with the broad-brimmed plumed hat. He was a magnificent figure, the leader of the Court, as he had never been before.

In those weeks it was enough for Louis—as it was for Henriette—to know themselves loved by the loved one. Their relationship seemed to them the more perfect because, as they saw it at this time, it could never reach its natural climax. It was romantic love which seemed to gain beauty from the fact that it could not reach that climax and therefore would go on forever at the same high level. Both Louis and Henriette were too well-versed in the etiquette of the Court to believe that Henriette could ever be his mistress—not only because of their marriage vows, but because of the close relationship which Henriette’s marriage with Philippe had brought about.

Fontainebleau made a perfect setting for their romance. There in the gilded salons, Louis whispered to Henriette that he loved her; he told her the same thing as they wandered through the gardens. He enjoyed establishing an unceremonious rule at his beloved Fontainebleau, at this time his favorite palace. He would be there with Henriette, the Queen of his intimate Court; he would walk among his friends, joining their games of billiards and piquet when the fancy took him. Always Henriette was beside him, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his candid eyes alight with affection; they would discuss together the rebuilding of Versailles, planning the long gallery with its border of orange trees to be set in boxes of silver and to be lighted by candles in rock crystal lusters. Through the shrubberies and groves they wandered when they wished to be alone; under trees and past bushes which they planned to take from these woods of Fontainebleau to beautify the gardens of Versailles and make a charming setting for its statues and its waterworks.

And most vivid of all, it seemed, were the figures who moved about in this perfect setting. Jewels flashed; silks and satins rustled; blue, green and scarlet feathers drooped over shoulders and the air was filled with perfume. Fans were of brilliant colors and exquisite design; gloves were elaborately embroidered; swords were diamond hilted; spurs were of gold. In the center of all this magnificence were the royal lovers—Henriette, so different from others because she was frail and slender, yet vivacious and gay as she had never been before. She was able now to give expression to her natural elegance and good taste in clothes, and it was she who set the fashion. Louis, in cloth of gold, with black lace, in silks; velvets and satins, jewels adorning his handsome person, diamonds flashing in his hat, towered above them all—a fitting King of this paradise.

He could not honor Henriette enough. He must make up for all the years of neglect. He would have her take the Queen’s place on Maundy Thursday in the hall of the Louvre at the ceremony of washing the feet of the poor. At the grand fêtes, he would open the ball with Henriette. “Where the King is,” said the Court, “there is Madame.”

She was just seventeen; she was romantically in love. Louis, in all his manly beauty and with his new authority, was all that she would ask in a lover. She did not seek sexual satisfaction; her experiences with Philippe had not made her desire to extend her knowledge in such matters. This was the perfect love; romantic, idealistic, untouched by the sordid needs of daily life.

She had a great influence over him. At her instigation he was turning to more intellectual pursuits. They wrote verses together and often read them aloud, when they were vociferously applauded by the courtiers.

Sometimes Henriette and her women would drive out to bathe in a stream in the forest; the King would ride through the trees to greet her returning from her bath that she might have an escort back to the palace. She was more beautiful than she had ever been; and she had always looked well on a horse, in her gold-laced habit with the brilliantly colored plumes in her hat shading her face. At the head of the retinue she and Louis would ride side by side.

Often there were picnics under the trees. She had inspired in him an appreciation of the arts, and sometimes musicians would play to them as they went along the river in a gondola decorated with purple velvet and cloth of gold. They would plan the entertainments for the next day as they sat side by side or rode through the forest. For Henriette that was an enchanted summer. Hunting was continued into the night, and Henriette and the King often went for long walks through the moonlight alone through the forest. If they did not meet each other every day they would write notes.

She had introduced to his notice many of the artistic personalities of the day. Lulli, the musician, must compose the music for his ballet; Molière must write the lyrics. Louis was reading the romances of Madeline de Scudèry and the dramatic pieces of her brother Georges. Because Henriette wished writers to be encouraged, Louis followed her lead, and, much to his delight, he found that a new world full of interest was opening to him.

The Court was changing; it was becoming more intellectual, and so more elegant than it had been for many years. “We are returning to the days of François Premier,” it was said. “He loved writers more than any other men. He also loved his sister!”

It was impossible for this new relationship to pass unnoticed. There were sly glances and shaking of heads when the King was not present.

“So Madame is his newest mistress?” ran the murmurings. “What a situation! And, Monsieur! What does he think of his honeymoon’s being interrupted?”

Philippe was more quickly aware of the sly looks, the whispered comments. All had worked out as he had been told it would. De Guiche had been right in his hints. Louis was in love with Henriette and had been for a long time, only he had been too simple to know it. The King of France envied his brother. That was quite satisfactory to Philippe. But it was not turning out quite as he had wished. Louis was not tormented by jealousy; Louis was indulging in a romantic love affair, and, it seemed, was content with life. Therefore Philippe was dissatisfied.

He walked in the gardens of Saint-Cloud with his dear friend de Guiche. He should have been contented. This palace was delightful, especially since those excellent architects, Lepante and Girard, had improved it that it might be ready for Philippe on his wedding. The beautiful parks and gardens had been designed by Le Notre himself, and the fountains, which equaled those of Fontainebleau, were the work of Mansart. From the terraces could be seen the river winding its way to Paris. Clipped yew hedges, arbors, palisades and parterres planted with orange trees and embellished with statues of Greek gods and nymphs, were an added glory. Saint-Cloud was indeed beautiful, and he was proud to possess it. Madame could spend as much time with the King as she liked—so he had thought—he would not object. He had his own friends to amuse and flatter him, and—constant gratification—Louis envied him his wife and compared her with the plain Spanish woman.

But it was not quite as he had planned.

“You were right,” he said to his friend. “Louis was certainly in love with her. He needed her marriage to me to show him that.”

“She has changed, has she not?” said de Guiche quietly. “Who would recognize her as the little Princess she was before her marriage? Now … she shows great charm. She has her brother’s wit, I am glad to say, but not his looks—I am equally pleased to add. She is the natural friend of the most intellectual people at the Court. She has shown the Court that there is more to beauty than layers of fat. Henriette happy, is not only the most elegant, she is the most desirable woman at Court; and to be elegant and desirable—those are higher attributes than mere beauty.”

“You speak as though you yourself are in love with my wife. If I did not know you so well, I should say you were. But it is not as I wished it to be—this love my brother has for my wife. They revel in it. She is changing him; she is ruling the Court. Now we do honor to those artists of hers. That fellow Molière would seem to be an intimate of the King … because Madame wishes it. Those de Scudèrys … this fellow he has taken from his band of violins … what is his name … Lulli? Old Corneille is made much of; and this young fellow, Racine … They surround the King; they swamp the King; he spends much time listening to their verses and their music. And it is at the command of my wife! It would seem to me that in marrying Henriette, I have made her Queen of France.”

“A worthy Queen!” said de Guiche.

“I shall have to remind my brother that Henriette is Madame—not Queen—of France.”

“You will dare do that?”

“I shall speak to my mother. She never cared for scandal which touched her own family—much as she loves it concerning others. She will make my brother see that there must be an end to these amorous talks tête-à-tête, these moonlight rambles, these dainty perfumed notes they send each other. I shall bring Madame back here to Saint-Cloud. She must be made to understand that she is not—although she and my brother may wish she were—the Queen of France.”

“Alas! Madame makes an enchanting Queen!”

Philippe looked sharply at his friend.

If I did not know him so well, and that he does not love women, I should say he was in love with Henriette, thought Philippe.

But he did not entirely know his friend.

Anne of Austria asked that she might see her son alone.

“Louis,” she said, “my beloved, this is a delicate matter of which I must speak to you. Forgive me, I know that it is merely idle gossip which I repeat, but there must not be gossip concerning our great King.”

“Gossip!” cried Louis. “What is this?”

“It concerns you and Madame.”

“Who speaks this gossip? I will have him brought before me. I …”

“You cannot punish the whole Court, dearest. You will, I know, be your wonderful, reasonable self and, although there is no cause for this gossip, you will remove all excuse for it.”

“What has been said of me … and Madame?”

“Merely that you are always together, that you treat her as your Queen, that you neglect the real Queen, that you write notes to each other if you are parted from her for a few hours at a time; in short, that you love your cousin who is the wife of your brother.”

“This … this is monstrous!”

“Is it true that you spend much time in her company?”

“And shall continue to do so. Tell me who brought this news to you!”

“It was not one. I heard it from many. I beg of you be discreet. Do not give rise to such rumors. Have a mistress if you want one. Why should you not? And particularly while the Queen is indisposed. But let it not be your brother’s wife. Philippe is jealous.”

“Philippe! Let him return to his boys!”

“Henriette is his wife. It is the future we must think of, dearest. If she had a child … and it was believed to be yours …”

“This is foul!” cried Louis. “This is scandalous! That any should dare talk thus of Henriette!”

He strode from his mother’s apartments and went to his own. He paced up and down, waving away all attendants. So they were talking about his devotion to Henriette! They were whispering sly things! They were besmirching his beautiful romance! It would never again be quite the same for him.

Henrietta Maria tapped her foot and looked at her daughter.

“You must be more discreet. What an unfortunate thing this is! If Louis had but felt towards you a short time ago as he does today, what a wonderful thing that would have been! What glory! My son King of England; my daughter Queen of France! But this will not do. They are calling you the King’s mistress.”

“It is not true,” said Henriette.

“Of course it is not true!” Henrietta Maria’s arms were about her daughter, and Henriette received one of those suffocating embraces. “My daughter … so to forget herself … no! It is not true. But there must be no scandal. You and the King! Your husband’s brother! You can see what scandal there could be! What if you were to have a child? We shall have them saying it is the King’s! That would be intolerable.”

Henriette said coldly: “These rumors are false. The King has never been anything but a good brother to me.”

“Then I beg of you curb your affection for one another. You are too ostentatiously affectionate. You are too often in each other’s company.”

“I am tired,” said Henriette. “I can listen to no more. I will do my best, I assure you, to see that you suffer no anxiety on my account.”

She went to her apartment and asked her women to draw the curtains about her bed, shutting her in.

So … they were watching her and Louis! They were spying on their love.

It was true that she was going to have a child—Philippe’s child. If only it had been Louis’!

Now she knew that she had passed the summit of her happiness. She knew the romantic idyll was less bright than it had been. She had been aware that it could not last forever. She buried her face in the silken cushions and wept.

Louis sought her out. They did not always have to be asked to be left alone; discreet attendants withdrew. That was a sign, they both realized now, of the construction which was being put on their relationship.

He said: “Dearest, they are talking. There is scandal concerning us.”

“I know it, Louis,” she answered.

“My mother has warned me.”

“Mine has warned me.”

“What must we do?”

“We must never be alone together; we must give up our moonlight rambles. You must select a favorite and spend much time with her. You must treat me more as a sister.”

“I could not do it, Henriette. Loving you as I do, I could not pretend not to do so.”

“Yet it must be done.”

“How I hate myself! We should have been free to make the most perfect marriage ever made by King and Queen … if I had been less of a fool!”

“Do not speak of yourself thus, Louis. If you were not exactly as you are, how could I love you? To me you are as perfect as your courtiers tell you you are—not because I think you are the wisest man in France, not because I think you write better verses than Moliere and Racine, but because I love you. I love you as you are, and would not have one little part of you changed.”

He kissed her with passion. In future there must be no opportunities for such displays of feeling. They were both a little afraid of where such displays might lead them; they had both been brought up in the French Court by two mothers who had never failed to impress upon them the importance of their royalty. Etiquette was second nature to them and neither of them could act without being conscious of their royalty.

He released her and cried: “What are we going to do, Henriette? What shall we do, my love?”

It was to her that he had always turned for suggestions.

“There is only one thing we can do,” she said. “We must make everyone believe that the affection we have for each other is pure … as pure as we know it to be. We must see each other rarely and never without others present.”

“That I’ll not agree to!”

“Then, Louis, you must come to see me, but it must appear that you are not interested in me, but in someone else.”

“Would anyone believe that?”

“I have some pretty maids of honor.”

He laughed at the suggestion and, taking her hands, kissed them fervently. “Henriette,” he demanded, “why should we care? What should our positions matter to us? Has there ever been love such as ours? Why should we not ignore all those about us! Why should we not follow our inclinations! Life has cheated us.”

“Nay, Louis,” she answered sadly, “we have cheated ourselves.”

“The fault is mine.”

She stroked his face gently as though she longed to remember every detail of it. “I’ll not have you blame yourself. The fault was mine. I was too proud. I was too conscious of my beggary. I hid myself away; I was shy and gauche.”

“And I was blind.”

“Nay, Louis, it is not true. I was there, but I was not awake then. I was only a child—a shy, proud child. I was not the person I am today. Nor are you. You, too, have changed.

“We have grown up, dearest. We have left childhood behind us. Why should we not be happy together?”

“I am trying to think of a means whereby we might continue our happiness. At the ball tonight we shall present the Ballet des Saisons. All the most beautiful women of the Court will either be among the spectators or taking part in the ballet. You must pretend to be mightily interested in one of them. There is a charming girl, Frances Stuart, one of the loveliest girls I ever saw.”

“She will not seem lovely to me. I shall not see her.”

“Dear Louis, you must see her … or one of them. There is young Marie-Anne, the youngest Mancini girl. She is charming.”

“I shall dislike her. She will remind me how foolish I was with her sisters.”

“There is a quiet little girl—only just sixteen. She is very shy, but she seems quite pretty at times. She would be enchanted if you but smiled at her. She will be carrying your Diana’s train.”

“I shall have eyes only for Diana.”

“Please spare a glance for little Louise de la Vallière. She will be overcome with delight at the honor; and if you pay some attention to her, it will be said that Madame no longer draws to herself all the King’s attention.”

Then he held her against him and she clung to him. She had a feeling that there would be so few opportunities in the future.

“Dearest Louis,” she said, “do not be jealous if you see me showing some civility to a friend of Philippe’s, for I shall have to play my part. The Comte de Guiche will be to me as little Louise is to you; and you need not feel any jealousy, for he is one of Philippe’s friends, and you know they have no interest in women.”

“So … we must disguise our love. We must pretend to care more for others….”

“It is the only way, Louis. You may trust me with de Guiche, and I shall trust you with the little Vallière.”

It was the most elaborate of all the fêtes, and the ballet, most appropriately, took place out of doors. The stage had been set on the lawn near the lake, and torches lighted in the avenues of trees.

The Queens Anne and Henrietta Maria were seated in state, surrounded by those members of the Court who were not taking part in the ballet.

First came beautiful nymphs, scattering roses on the grass as they sang and danced, and their songs were eulogies of the qualities of Diana the huntress. Then the curtain was drawn to show Henriette. A gasp of delight came from the spectators at the sight of her. She was clad in fine draperies and her hair hung loose about her shoulders; the silver crescent was on her brow and in her arms were the bow and quiver.

About her were green-clad beauties, and two of these were young girls whom Henriette had recommended to Louis: Frances Stuart who, it was clear, in spite of her youth, would be a great beauty, and the much less noticeable brown-haired girl, Louise de la Vallière.

The seasons of the year entered to pay tribute to Diana, and, dressed as Spring, in green and gold and ablaze with diamonds, came the King himself. He knelt before Henriette and lifted his eyes to her face. The chorus was singing verses in praise of Spring with such passion and verve that, if any had failed to recognize Louis in his verdant robes, it would have been known that Spring could only be the King.

Louis was not listening to the verses. He was looking at the young girl who stood with downcast eyes, not daring to glance his way.

Louise de la Vallière was very shy, and obviously in agony because she feared she would forget her words. Now came her cue to join Diana’s handmaidens in a song, and Louise missed it.

She looked at the King and the King was looking at her; she blushed hotly and a wave of tenderness swept over Louis. Poor child! She was shy because she was taking part in a ballet with him, and he himself had seen that she was not so clever at the acting and singing as some of the girls.

He smiled, and he saw that it was all she could do to prevent herself falling on her knees before him. He raised his eyebrows. His lips formed the words: “I am not now the King; I am merely Spring.” They seemed like part of the ballet. La Vallière smiled, tremulous and adoring; and Louis, accustomed as he was to admiration, was well-pleased.

They walked about the gardens of Fontainebleau, the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. Henriette had changed Diana’s draperies for a gown of cloth of silver and scarlet. Until today the King would have been beside her. With feelings of mingling relief and regret she saw that he was with a group which included La Vallière. It was as they had planned, but how she wished he had refused to carry out their plan! She imagined his coming to her and saying: “I care not for their gossip. I wish to be with you, and with you I shall be.”

Armand, the Comte de Guiche, was beside her. “Madame,” he said fervently, “may I congratulate you on a wonderful performance?”

“You are kind, Monsieur le Comte.”

“It is you who are kind, Madame, to allow me to speak thus with you.”

“Oh come, monsieur, we do not stand on ceremony on such occasions. Those are the King’s orders. See how he himself mingles with his guests.”

“It has been so difficult to speak with Madame,” said de Guiche. “Usually the King is at her side. I am delighted to have this opportunity.”

“The part you played in the ballet was considerable, Comte. You were a great success.”

“I shall treasure such praise, coming whence it does.”

“You have an air of melancholy. You have not quarreled with Monsieur, have you?”

“No, Madame.”

“Then is anything amiss?”

“Amiss, Madame? I am the victim of a hopeless passion. I love a lady, the most delightful in the Court, and I have no hope that my passion will ever be returned.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I did not know you cared for ladies.”

“I never did until I saw this one.”

“I am sorry she will have none of you. Have you courted her long?”

“I have seen her often, but there has been little opportunity for courtship. She is far above me. She is elegant; she is slender; and she is quite different from the plump beauties of the Court.”

Henriette smiled. “Then I can only wish you the good fortune of falling out of love, since you cannot win this woman. Now, Monsieur le Comte, will you conduct me to the King? I wish to hear whether he himself is satisfied with our entertainment.”

She was thinking: I cannot bear to be away from him. He has shown the arranged interest in La Vallière, and I mine in de Guiche; we have done our duty for this night, and we must not break away too suddenly.

She noticed how Louis’ face lighted as she approached, and in that moment Fontainebleau was a very happy place for Henriette.

Philippe faced his friend and demanded an explanation of his conduct. “You … flirting with Madame! What means this?”

“You have been misinformed.”

“My eyes do not misinform me. I saw you. You were mincing along beside her, complimenting her like a young fop bent on seduction!”

“Does Monsieur think Madame would look my way?”

“It appears that she did.”

“Only because …”

“Never mind why she smiled on you! Why did you smile on her?”

“She is enchanting.”

“Armand!”

“Of what use to deny it?” said the Comte. “Of course I am in love with Madame. I was in love with her before anyone else saw how delightful she really was. I have always watched her; I have always understood her … known more of her than anyone….”

“How dare you stand there and tell me you love my wife … you who are my friend!”

“Monsieur … Philippe … I am sorry. I love you. I have loved you since we were boys. This is different. It should not come between us. You, as her husband, should understand that.”

“What has that to do with you and me?”

“You know her … how charming she is. I feel that I have helped to make her what she is today. I have helped to tear away that shyness, that gaucherie … but to me, even that was charming.”

“Armand! I will not have you talk thus before me. Do not imagine that my favor is for you alone. There are others who would be only too ready to take your place in my affections. You may go away for all I care. And, in fact, if you are thinking of making love to Henriette, go you certainly shall! Do not imagine you can make me jealous by preferring my wife!”

De Guiche threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. “I see this is an impossible situation. I shall leave the Court, I shall go to the country. I cannot stay here any longer.”

“Then go!” cried Philippe. “I have other friends to fill your place.”

So Armand de Guiche retired to the country, and all the Court whispered that he did so because Monsieur had discovered his love for Madame.

Louis had kept his part of the bargain. He had sought out the little Vallière. He enjoyed being kind to her because she was such a frightened little thing and overawed to have the attention of the King focused upon herself. She could not understand why, until other maids of honor told her that he was falling in love with her.

“It is impossible!” cried the little Vallière. “The King would never fall in love with me, when there are so many beauties of the Court all sighing for him.”

But Louis continued to seek her out. He would be by her side when the Court rode together; he would join in the dance with her, for she was present at those informal occasions at Fontainbleau; he would say: “Come, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, come and watch the piquet.”

Sometimes he himself would play, and when everything he did was applauded, La Vallière would clasp her hands together and her big brown eyes would be wide with adoration.

Louis thought: Poor child! She seeks too much to please. Oh, Henriette, if we could but be together! If only you were with me now!

The Queen was near her time. She spent much of the day lying in bed playing cards, in which she took great delight, still eating a great deal—far too much, it was said, for the good of the child.

Louis visited her as rarely as he could without calling attention to the fact that she bored him.

His mother was delighted because he was no longer constantly in the company of Henriette. She did not appear in public as frequently as before; she was content to leave state matters to Louis and his ministers. Like her daughter-in-law, her chief interest was in food and cards, although she had a love of the theater; she was content to keep certain ladies with her to gossip in her ruelle every night and bring her the latest scandals.

It was evening, and Louis was strolling through the grounds of Versailles with a little party of noblemen and ladies. Among the group was La Vallière.

The conversation was by no means profound; there were no literary allusions as there would doubtless have been had Henriette been present. The jokes were trivial and obvious, and everything the King said was greeted with hilarious laughter. He felt a longing to have Henriette beside him, to be free of these empty-headed sycophants.

Then he looked into the face of La Vallière who was close beside him. He knew that she was in love with him, and he was moved because of the sincerity of this young girl who could not hide her devotion; she was like a young fawn, fascinated yet apprehensive.

Louis realized that he had been faithful to Henriette ever since he had discovered that he loved her. He had had no mistress since then, and from those days when Madame de Beauvais had initiated him into the pleasure of the doux scavoir such delights had been a frequent need. He felt sexual desire upon him then like thirst in the desert or hunger after a long fast. It came to him as he stood there in the scented gardens with La Vallière beside him.

He looked at the girl, and felt pity for her. Pity! He had first felt that for Henriette, and in some ways this girl reminded him of Henriette—not as she was now, not Madame, but the shy Princess Henriette with whom he had once refused to dance.

He was unaware of the silence which had fallen about him, his large eyes had become a little glazed, and he was still looking at La Vallière.

He said, and although his voice sounded normal to him, it seemed to those about him—accustomed as they were to anticipating his moods—that it held a note of high-pitched excitement: “Mademoiselle de la Vallière, have you seen the new summer house I have had built near the ornamental grotto?”

La Vallière stammered, as she always did when directly addressed by the King: “N-no, Sire. Why … yes … I believe I have, Sire.” “Then let us go and make sure that you have.”

By the time they reached the grotto the party which had accompanied them had lingered here and there, and there was none left but La Vallière and her King. They went through into the new summer house where were set out gilded chairs and a velvet-covered couch—scarlet, and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis.

“So … you see it now,” he said, and taking her hands he drew her to him and kissed her.

La Vallière trembled. The frightened fawn … the eager fawn … thought Louis. It is Henriette whom I love, but she is my brother’s wife, and this timid little Vallière is so eager to be loved.

Armand de Guiche soon returned to the Court. He found that his longing to see Henriette forced him to return. So he asked Philippe’s pardon, which was graciously accorded him, and he became again the close friend of Henriette’s husband in order that he might not be banished from Henriette’s presence.

Henriette had an opportunity to speak a few words in private with the King while they danced together.

She said: “So we have produced the desired effect. There is talk of you and the little Vallière.”

“Is that so?” said Louis.

“And I have heard my name is mentioned with that of de Guiche.”

“I like that not,” said Louis.

“Nor do I like to hear it said that you are in love with La Vallière.”

“You could not believe that I would love anyone now … that I ever could, after I came to love you!”

“I hope not, Louis. I hope your love for me is like mine for you.”

“Mine is infinite,” declared the King; but he avoided meeting her eyes. He wished that he had not fallen into temptation with La Vallière. He wished that he did not keep remembering her little fluttering hands, her cries of protest and pleasure.

It should not happen again; he had promised himself that. He had not meant it to happen that second or third time, but it had been almost impossible to avoid it; she was so ready, so shy, so adoring. It would have been churlish not to. It was not love he had for the little one, he assured himself; it was pity … and the desire to honor her.

Henriette said: “Armand de Guiche came to my rooms this day, disguised as a fortune-teller. He is very bold. I had forbidden him to come near me. I thought there had been enough scandal, and I had no wish for more. Montalais, one of my maids of honor, came to me and said there was a teller of fortunes without, who had great things to tell me; and when I had him brought in I discovered it was de Guiche. I recognized him when he raised those mournful eyes to my face. I sent him off at once. I was thankful that none of the others present knew who my fortune-teller was.”

“The insolent fellow!” exclaimed the King.

“Do not be hard on him, Louis. We chose to make use of him, remember.”

Louis, heavy with the guilt of his affair with La Vallière, found that he was feigning anger against de Guiche which was greater than he felt. But Henriette was smiling tenderly; she felt it was wonderful to know that Louis could love her so much.

In the streets they were singing songs about the amours of the Court. Madame was loved by Monsieur’s bel ami; the King was neglecting his wife for one of Madame’s maids of honor.

Mademoiselle Montalais, who loved to make mischief and knew more of her mistress’s affairs than Henriette realized, whispered to her one day, “La Vallière is absentminded these days … They say it is her preoccupation with the King. She is afraid because she has surrendered her chastity to the King and, like all the pious, she seeks to justify her actions and tells herself that it would have been worse to have been a disloyal subject and refused him than to offend the laws of the church by lying with him in the summer-house.”

“There is always gossip,” said Henriette.

“There is some truth in this, I’ll warrant,” said Montalais. “I have heard La Vallière saying her prayers. She asks for courage to resist when the next time comes, and then in the same breath she seems to be asking that the next time may come soon … I could never endure pious harlots.”

“I cannot believe this of … La Vallière!”

“Madame, it is true. The whole Court knows it. Though doubtless it is kept from you on account of your friendship with His Majesty.”

Henriette dismissed the woman. Could it be true? Little La Vallière … the last person worthy of him, and yet her very timidity might make an appeal to Louis! She, Henriette, who loved him, knew him well.

Henriette hesitated to face the truth, yet she could not bear to remain in ignorance. She sent for La Vallière, and when the girl stood trembling before her, she said: “Mademoiselle de la Vallière, I have heard gossip concerning you. I do not want to believe that it is true. In fact I find it hard to believe, but I must ask you to tell me the truth. You are—as one of my maids of honor—in my care, and I should not wish to think that you had behaved wantonly while in my household.”

Before the girl was able to speak she had revealed the truth to Henriette. First a wild anger possessed her—anger against Louis, against this girl, against herself for being such a fool as to recommend the girl to his notice, against Fate, which had been so cruel to her.

She stood trembling, her face pale, her hands clenched together; she could not look at the girl.

La Vallière had thrown herself at Henriette’s feet and was sobbing out her confession.

“Madame, I did not mean it to happen. I could not believe that His Majesty would ever care for me. I know that I have done wrong … but His Majesty insisted and … I could not refuse.”

“You could not refuse!” cried Henriette, pushing the girl from her. “You lie! You … you lured him with your seeming innocence. You feigned shyness … modesty … reluctance …”

“His Majesty is so…so handsome,” stammered La Vallière. “Madame, I tried hard, but I could not resist him. No one could resist him once he had made up his mind. Even you … you yourself … could not have resisted him … had you been in my position.”

Henriette cried in anguished fury: “Be silent, you wretched girl! You lying, hypocritical wanton, be silent!”

“Madame, I implore you. If you will speak to the king. If you could ask him to explain how it happened …”

Henriette laughed. “I … speak to the King … about you! You are of no importance to His Majesty. You are one of many … many!”

Henriette was trying to shut out of her mind pictures of Louis and this girl together; she could not. They would not be shut out. She saw Louis—passionate, eager, refusing to be denied.

Oh God, she thought, I cannot bear this. I could kill this silly girl who has had that for which I so longed. I hate her … I hate Louis for deceiving me. I hate myself for my folly. What a fool I have been! I gave him to her.

But she must be calm. All her life she had had to be calm. No one must know how she suffered. She must not be the laughingstock of the Court.

She said coldly: “Get up, Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Go to your apartment. Prepare to leave. I will not allow you to remain another night in my household. Not another night, I tell you. Do you think I shall let you stay here, corrupting others! You … with your sham humility! Prepare to leave at once.”

La Vallière raised her tear-filled eyes to Henriette’s face. “Madame, where shall I go? I have nowhere to go. Please Madame, let me stay here until I can see the King. Please see His Majesty yourself. He will tell you how he insisted …”

Henriette turned away; she was afraid that the girl would see the anguish in her face. “I have said Go!” she told her. “I never want to see your face again.”

La Vallière rose, curtsied and hurried from the room.

When she had gone, Henriette threw herself onto a couch. She did not weep; she had no tears. There was no happiness left for her in the world. She had been brutal to La Vallière but her jealous fury had commanded her to be so. She hated herself and the world. She understood that Louis could not maintain their rarified devotion; he was not made for such idealism; he was young and lusty; he needed physical satisfaction. It was wrong to blame La Vallière, but how could she bear to see the girl daily!

“I wish I were dead!” she murmured. “I can see that life has nothing to offer me.”

Her restless fingers plucked at the golden lilies embroidered on the velvet of the couch, but she did not see them; she saw nothing but Louis and La Vallière, locked in a lovers’ embrace.

Montalais brought her the news.

“The King is distracted, Madame. He has heard of the flight of La Vallière. He has himself gone in pursuit of her. Who would have thought that His Majesty would have cared so much for our silly little Vallière!”

“So,” said Henriette, “he has gone in pursuit of her!”

“He is determined to find her,” continued Montalais. “He is urging all his friends to join in the search. There will be rewards for those who uncover the hiding place of His Majesty’s little inamorata.”

“His Majesty has not mentioned the girl’s flight to me.”

“Has he not, Madame?” said Montalais, not without a trace of malice. “That is indeed strange. One would have thought you might have been able to tell him something of the girl’s possible whereabouts, considering she was in your service.”

Henriette said: “Doubtless the matter slipped his memory when he was with me.”

“Doubtless, Madame,” said Montalais.

They know! decided Henriette. They all know of my love for the King. They know he has turned from me to my maid of honor!

A calèche drew up outside the Tuileries. From it alighted a man in a long concealing cloak and hood, and with him was a shrinking girl. The man demanded audience of Madame.

There were some who wanted to know how he dared storm the Tuileries at such an hour and peremptorily demand to see Madame d’Orléans.

But when the man threw back his hood and revealed his features, those who had asked the question fell on to their knees before him. They hastened to Madame’s apartment to tell her that the King was on his way to see her.

Louis was already there, and Henriette saw that the shrinking creature who accompanied him was La Vallière.

Louis waved aside ceremony as Henriette would have knelt. He took her hand, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I have found little Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” he said. “She was in a convent near Saint-Cloud whither she had taken refuge. Poor child! She was in a state of great distress. I know you will help me, Henriette.”

“I … help Your Majesty!”

“I ask you to take her back into your service, to look after her, as your maid of honor. I want it to be as though she has never run away.”

He turned to La Vallière, and Henriette felt as though her heart was breaking as she saw the tender looks he bestowed upon the frightened girl. Louis was so frank; he was incapable of deceit; he could not hide from her the fact that he was in love with this girl.

This is too much to be borne! thought Henriette. It is more than I can endure. Can it be that he has no understanding? Can he be as obtuse as he seems?

“Your Majesty,” she said, steeling herself to speak calmly, “I cannot take this girl back. She admits that she has been guilty of an intrigue with a gentleman in a high place at Court.”

“It was no fault of hers,” said Louis.

“Your Majesty, I did not understand that she was the victim of rape.”

Louis’ eyes were full of anguish. He loved Henriette; she was the perfect woman, he told himself. If she could have been his wife he would have asked nothing more of life. But she was the wife of his brother; and between them there could never be the kind of love which was so necessary to him. His eyes pleaded with her: Understand me, Henriette. I love you. Ours is an ideal relationship. It is unique. You are my love. And the affair with this girl … it is nothing. It happens today and is forgotten tomorrow. But I am fond of her. She is so small and helpless. I have seduced her, and I cannot desert her now.

Poor Louis! He was so simple, so full of the wish to do right.

Help me, Henriette, said his pleading eyes. I beg of you show me the greatness of your love for me by helping me now. Surely love that exists between us is beyond the pettiness of an affair like this.

How I love him! thought Henriette. I love him for his simplicity. He has not yet grown up. Our great Sun God is but a child.

“Louis …” she murmured brokenly. “Louis …”

He laid his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed her cheek. Then he turned and, drawing La Vallière towards him, put an arm about her.

“Have no fear, my little one,” he said. “You should not run away. Do you think you could hide from the King?”

Even as he looked at her, his desire was apparent.

What can she give him that I cannot? Henriette asked herself. The answer was clear: All that is so necessary to a man of his appetites.

“Madame is the kindest and greatest lady in the world,” Louis was saying. “I give you into her care. She will love you and cherish you … for my sake.”

Henriette said: “It is my one desire to serve Your Majesty.” And she thought: I can do this for him … even this … so much do I love him.

She did not sleep; she could eat very little. A great melancholy filled her.

Her mother visited her and was shocked by her appearance.

“What has happened?” she demanded. “You look so tired, and you are thinner than ever. And what is this I hear about your refusing to eat? This will not do, my child. I see that you need your mother to look after you.”

Henrietta Maria was seriously disturbed. She could not forget that in a comparatively short time she had lost three of her children. “You are coughing too much!” she cried. “How long have you coughed thus?”

Henriette wearily shook her head, but the sight of her angry mother, the quick rebukes, the tapping of the little foot, the bright darting eyes, had the effect of unnerving her. She, who had not shed a tear during all the weeks of jealous heartbreak, now burst into bitter weeping.

Once again she was held in her mother’s suffocating embrace. Of all her children, Henrietta Maria loved best her youngest daughter. Henriette had been her darling since she had been brought to France from England and had become a Catholic.

“Oh, Mam … Mam … I wish we could go away together … you and I … just the two of us … to be together as we used to be. Do you remember, when we were at the Louvre and I had to stay in bed because it was too cold to be up? Oh, Mam, I wish I was your little girl again!”

“There, my love, my dearest,” crooned the Queen. “You shall come with Mam. We will be together, and these hands shall nurse you, and this Queen, your mother, shall wait upon you. There has been too much gaiety … too many balls, and in your condition … ah, in your condition … But Mam will nurse you, my darling. You shall be with Mam and no one else. Not even Philippe, eh, my darling?”

“No, Mam. No one but you.”

So Henrietta Maria sent for a litter and had her daughter conveyed from Saint-Cloud to the Tuileries, and there she nursed her.

During those weeks Henrietta had no wish to see anyone but her mother. She thought often of Charles. Her other love! She called him to herself. Charles … Louis! How different they were, those two men whom she loved beyond all in the world. Charles so adult, Louis such a boy; Charles the ugliest, Louis the most handsome King in Christendom; Charles clever and subtle, Louis so often naïve for all his grandeur, a man with a boy’s mind, a man who had not yet grown up mentally.

There is only one thing which could make me happy now, she mused. To go to England … to be with Charles.

During her illness he wrote often. His letters were a source of great delight; he alone could make her laugh.

He wrote: “Do you suffer from a disease of sermons, as we do here? ‘Od’s Fish! What piety surrounds us! Dearest Minette, I hope you have the same convenience that the rest of the family has, of sleeping out most of the time, which is a great ease to those who are bound to hear them. But this sleeping has caused me some regret. South—he’s an outspoken fellow, that one—had occasion to reprove Lauderdale when preaching last Sunday’s sermon. Lauderdale’s a man who can snore to wake the dead, and South stopped in the middle of his sermon to rouse him. ‘My Lord,’ he cried in a voice of thunder, ‘you snore so loud you will wake the King!’”

Oh, to be with him! thought Henriette. Oh, to hear his voice again!

Her child—a daughter—was born prematurely. She had so longed for a son, and so had Philippe. Marie-Thérèse had borne a Dauphin; Philippe would be jealous now because Louis had a son while he had a daughter.

Perhaps, thought Henriette, my little daughter will one day marry Louis’ son. In the years ahead mayhap I shall find peace, and these turbulent years will seem of no importance then.

It was thinking of Charles that made her aware of the compensations life had to offer. She longed to be with him, to hear his merry laughter, to listen to his witty comments on life, to enjoy that cynicism which veiled the kindest heart in the world.

A few weeks after the birth of her child, Montalais came to Henriette to tell her that the Comte de Guiche was begging for an interview with her. His father, the Maréchal de Gramont, had arranged for him to be given command of the troops, and he was required to leave the Court at once.

Henriette, who had found the handsome young man a cultured companion, declared herself sorry that he was leaving, and received him.

He fell on his knees before her and kissed her hand.

He told her that he had been desolate when he had heard of her illness. He was saddened because he was ordered to leave the Court, and he knew this had been brought about by his enemies on account of his friendship with her. He would have her know that wherever he went he would carry with him the memory of her goodness and graciousness, and that he would never cease to love her beyond all others.

To Henriette such devotion came as balm in her humiliation. She was constantly hearing rumors of the growing passion of the King for La Vallière. It was even rumored that the shy maid of honor was with child by the King.

So Henriette could not help listening with sympathy and some pleasure to the declarations of the Comte.

He left her, protesting eternal devotion; but there were spies in Henriette’s household, and it was not long before Philippe came to tell her that he had heard from his mother that she was very angry with her daughter-in-law. “It has come to her ears that you are receiving young men in your apartment.”

“Young men!”

“De Guiche was seen leaving by a private staircase.”

“This is ridiculous, Philippe. De Guiche is a friend of yours.”

“But more of yours, it would seem.”

“That is not so. He merely sees in me the wife of his beloved friend.”

“So it is not true that you and de Guiche are lovers?”

“It most certainly is not true. Were I the wife of any but you, he would pay me no attention.”

“Has he said so?”

“I believe it to be so,” said Henriette.

Philippe smiled. “Poor de Guiche! To be banished from Court! He is desolate. Well, he will soon return, and it will be a lesson to him. Henriette, you are a very charming woman. I begin to think I am fortunate in my marriage. It is good to be a father. Though I would we had a son.”

“You do not care that Louis should have what you lack, Philippe?”

“Louis!” he said. “The Queen is a plain creature. He loathes her. And La Vallière … she is no beauty either! It may be that he turns to her because he desires one other whom he dare not attempt to make his mistress. He has a son … but mayhap one day soon … I shall have a son. I have the most charming wife at Court. Why should I not have a son also? Eh, Henriette?”

He smiled at her and she shrank from him.

She thought: Oh, Charles, my brother, if I could but be with you at Whitehall!