by Jean Plaidy
“Please, Mam, don’t do that. I eat very well, but it does not make me fat. It only makes me tall.”
“Louis is tall. Louis is so handsome that all who see him gasp at his beauty. A King ten years … and only fourteen now. It is said that he is not mortal, that no one could be as perfect as this boy, and be human.”
“And is he so perfect, Mam?”
“Of course he is. More beautiful than all other boys; taller, more full of health, high spirits and good nature. They say he is the son, not of his father, but of a god.”
Henriette’s eyes glistened; she clasped her hands together and listened ecstatically.
The Queen of England caught the child to her and kissed her fiercely. “No! You must forget you are eight years old. You must conduct yourself as a lady. You must never … never forget that, though exiled, you are the daughter of the King of England … and that only a daughter of kings would be worthy to mate with such as Louis. Our dear Mademoiselle is not quite that, eh? For all her airs and so-called beauty … for all her wealth … she is not quite that. She is the King’s cousin, as you are, my little one, but there is a difference. Ah! There is a difference. You are the daughter of the King of England, and your mother is as royal as Louis’ own father, for their father was one and the same—the great and glorious Henri Quatre of great fame.”
Henriette shifted from one foot to the other; she had heard all this before.
“Now tomorrow His Majesty will ride into his capital, and you will be there to greet him. Beside him will ride your own brother—two young kings side by side.”
“Charles!” cried Henriette gleefully.
Henrietta Maria frowned at her daughter. “Yes, yes, brother make you forget your homage to the King of France. It is all very well to love your brother … but it will be necessary for you one day to love another more than you love Charles.”
Henriette did not tell her mother—for it would have made her angry—that never as long as she lived could she love another as she loved her brother Charles.
“You are eight years old,” repeated the Queen. “Old enough to put away childish things. Time enough for a princess to think of her future.”
Eight years old! Often Henriette thought of that time as the end of her childhood.
The next day the King of France rode into his capital. Along the route from Saint-Cloud to Paris the crowd waited to cheer him. It was a year since he had left Paris, and the people did not forget that, although they had rebelled against the Court, they had never felt any resentment towards this beautiful boy—so tall, so physically perfect, so charming to behold that he only had to show himself to win their applause.
Everywhere was pageantry and color; the city guards in red-and-blue velvet led the procession, and following them rode the King, glorious in purple velvet embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his plumed hat well back from his handsome face, his brown eyes alight with triumph and loving kindness towards his people; his beautifully shaped features looked as if they had been carved by a Greek sculptor out of stone, because of their very perfection; yet his clear, bright complexion showed him to be of healthy flesh and blood. Beside him, such an excellent foil to such celestial beauty, was the tall lean figure of the King of England, his dark, saturnine face alight with humor; he seemed ugly in comparison with that pink and white boy, and yet many women in the crowd could not take their eyes from him to look at the beautiful boy-King of France.
From the churches bells pealed forth. The war of the Fronde was over; there was peace in France; and men and women wept and told each other that this handsome King was a gift from Heaven and that he would lead France to prosperity. At the windows groups shouted and cheered; silken streamers hung from those windows; people climbed to roofs to get a better view of their monarch. One woman—ragged and dirty—pushed her way through the crowds that she might kiss the royal foot. The guards tried to prevent her, but the King merely smiled that smile which made the women cry “God bless him!,” and all began to cheer the beggar woman with their King.
Behind the King rode the great Dukes of France—the Duc de Vendôme and Duc de Guise; then followed the Marshal; and after them the Lords in glittering apparel, followed by more guards on horseback.
The Swiss Guards followed just ahead of the Queen’s coach. In this Anne of Austria sat back plump and arrogant, displaying her beautiful hands, jewel-covered; the crowds had few cheers for her; they had never liked her and they blamed her—not handsome Louis—for the troubles from which the country had just emerged. With her rode her second son, Philippe—known as Monsieur—who was twelve years old and a little sulky now because of all the fuss which was being made of his brother. It was difficult for a younger son not to resent the fate which had decreed that he should be born after his brother. Philippe lacked the striking beauty of Louis, but he knew himself to be of a sharper intellect, and it was sad to have to take second place on every occasion.
His mother, watching him, reminded him that it was necessary to smile and bow to the people. Did he want them to think he was a sullen fellow, so different from his brother? So Monsieur smiled and bowed and hid his feelings; and the people murmured together that it was a marvelous thing that after twenty-two years God had blessed the union of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria with two such boys.
Now the guns of the Bastille and the salvos from the Place de Grève roared forth; lamps shone in the windows and bonfires were lighted in the streets of Paris.
The war of the Fronde was over; Louis was back in his Louvre. Now there would be a return of pageantry and gaiety such as the French loved.
So Paris rejoiced.
In the great hall of the Louvre the King welcomed his guests.
Henrietta Maria was present with her daughter. Anne of Austria smiled on her sister-in-law, and Henrietta Maria had reason to believe that she was not averse to a match between their children.
That made Henrietta Maria’s eyes sparkle; that made her almost happy.
If only one other could be here to see this day! she thought, and the tears gushed to her eyes. None must see them; they were all impatient of her grief, as people always are of the grief of others too long preserved.
If Charles could have the fortune of Mademoiselle, he could begin campaigning for the return of his kingdom. If Anne of Austria would agree to a match between Louis and the little Henriette …
All these were dreams; but surely not impossible of fulfilment?
Young Louis had an arrogant air. Would he obey his mother? He was surrounded by sycophants who told him he had been sent by Heaven to govern France; he had been a king from the nursery; none had ever dared deny him what he asked; the most sweet-tempered person in the world could not emerge without a little arrogance from an upbringing such as that which had befallen the boy-King of France. No! He would make his own choice within reason; and was it not likely that he would choose her little Henriette?
Henriette herself felt bewildered by all the pageantry; she had lived so quietly during the war of the Fronde when the Court was not in Paris; she had never in all her life been in such glittering company.
She was excited by it; she loved to see the flashing jewels and the brilliant garments of the men and women. And Charles was here, in a place of honor beside the King of France. That gave her great pleasure. It was wonderful to see the honor paid to him and to remind herself that he was, after all, her dearest brother whose hair she pulled, who tossed her in his arms and was never too much the King to remember that he was Minette’s brother.
Now she must go forward and kneel to the King of France. She thought how handsome he was; he was all that she had been led to expect he would be.
She knelt and kissed his hand as she had been told to do.
“My little cousin,” he said, “it makes me happy to see you here.”
But his gaze flickered over her lightly and, looking up, she caught the eyes of his brother Philippe on her. Philippe studied her languidly and without great interest
.
She thought in that moment of her mother’s words; she remembered that she had to make this King love her and that she had to love him for the sake of La Reine Malheureuse who had suffered so much and must therefore not be allowed to suffer more.
How can I make this magnificent young man love me! she thought in panic, and she felt so forlorn and frightened that she hesitated for a moment when she should have passed on.
She was aware of the shocked silence about her. Etiquette was of the utmost importance at the Court of France. She could not think what she must do now. She began to tremble.
Then she turned her eyes to that beloved face; she knew that she could rely on him.
The eyes crinkled up into that well-loved smile; the corners of the mouth turned up. She was appealing mutely to him for help, and, of course, she did not appeal in vain.
He was beside her, dispensing with etiquette, knowing that a breach on the part of the King of England was negligible compared with that of a little girl.
He laid his hand on her shoulder and drew her to one side, that the person who was waiting to kneel before the King of France might proceed.
“This is my own little sister,” he said lightly. “I hope you will like her well, Louis, for I love her dearly.”
Her hand curled round his finger. She felt safe and comforted. He kept her standing beside him, defiant of raised eyebrows.
I am growing up, thought Henriette, and growing up is frightening. I need not be afraid though … if Charles is near.
Charles’ eyes sought those of his mother; his glinted with amusement. She was not displeased, and he was glad of that for Minette’s sake.
She was thinking: Let all the Court be reminded that this little girl is the beloved sister of the King of England. Let the Queen-Mother also be reminded. Yes … it is a not unhappy little incident.
God’s Body! thought the King of England. Mam is already trying to marry the child to the King of France. So Minette is leaving childhood behind her. My little sister is growing up.
FIVE
The carriage of the Queen-Mother of France was turning in at the Palais-Royal. Henrietta Maria was waiting impatiently to receive her, curbing the natural impatience which this flaccid-minded woman inspired in her, cautioning herself to remember that she was dependent on her sister-in-law’s hospitality, on her sister-in-law’s goodwill, if that for which she longed above all things was to come to pass.
Into the great reception room swept Anne of Austria, accompanied by her women. Poor creatures! thought Henrietta Maria. They looked worn out—worn out with having to listen to her inanities, having to adjust their minds to hers—quite a feat, for many of them were not only well-born but well-educated women. How relieved they must be at the end of the day after the Queen’s coucher when they must chatter lightly to her until she had fallen asleep, for then they could escape from their bondage!
It was a great honor that she should condescend to call at the lodging of her exiled sister-in-law. Henrietta Maria’s heart leaped with hope in contemplating the cause.
They embraced—the Queen-Mother of France and the exiled Queen of England. The ready tears came to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.
“Such an honor … such an honor,” she murmured. “Dearest Majesty, you make me forget I am an exile depending on your bounty.”
Anne smiled. She was generous by nature and she loved to do little kindnesses if they did not involve taking too much trouble. She spent all the morning in bed and after that she prayed in her oratory for hours. She liked to be there alone, while her thoughts flitted lightly from one subject to another. What delicacies would her cooks have prepared for her that day? What new gossip was there in the Court? What new plays were being prepared for her? What was her darling doing at this moment? She must ask him to come to see her. Ask now—not command anymore. The beloved creature was no longer to be commanded. She could lie back in the sanctity of her oratory and think about his many perfections—her beautiful, beautiful son, of whom she never tired of thinking, whose handsome looks were a delight to her whenever her eyes fell upon him. Every queen in the world envied her her Louis. Any queen who had produced such a one had justified her existence, was entitled to give up her days to idling, gambling, watching plays, gossip …
She was doubly pleased with herself, for not only had she produced Louis, but Philippe. She laughed to herself sometimes when she thought of her late husband, now no longer here to plague her. Not that she thought of him often; he had been dead for nearly ten years. She was not one to brood on the past. She lightly skimmed over the years of marriage, his dislike for her, the urgent need for a child, which had forced Cardinal Richelieu to bring them together for a brief spell, and themselves to conform to his wishes; and the miracle, the birth of Louis—Louis Dieudonné—and later that of Philippe.
But why think of that other Louis—her husband—the cold, ugly misogynist who, after the first delights of fatherhood, had been irritated by the boisterous manners of his heir. Anne could smile at the memory of the little Prince’s distaste when he had first seen his father in his nightcap. He had roared his dislike so that the King had turned furiously on his wife, accusing her of influencing the child against him, and he had even threatened to take the child from her.
Not that he had succeeded in doing that. He had been old; he was enfeebled; it had been clear that he was not long for this world.
It had seemed prophetic when, on the occasion of little Louis’ christening at the age of two, his father had taken him on his knee when the ceremony was over and asked him: “Now what is your name, my child?” and the boy had answered boldly: “I am Louis XIV, Father.” Then had the bitter mouth curled; then had the ugly eyes narrowed and a faint smile had touched the sallow face. “Not yet, Louis XIV,” he had said. “Louis XIII is not dead yet. Aye, but mayhap you speak only a little too soon.”
It was not long after that that the boy was indeed Louis XIV, and new power had come to Anne as Regent. Not that she had ever wished to alter her way of life. Politics bored her and she had her dear Mazarin to do for her what Richelieu had done in a previous reign. She was more concerned with the trivialities of life.
“Dismiss the attendants,” she said now to Henrietta Maria. “Let us have a sisterly talk.”
“This is an honor and a pleasure,” said Henrietta Maria.
“Ah,” said Anne, when they were alone, “it is good to be back in Paris. It is good to know that the troubles are over.”
“And to see your son, His Majesty, gives me no less pleasure than it does yourself, I assure you, dear sister,” said Henrietta Maria. “He grows in beauty. A short while ago it would not have seemed possible for any to be more handsome. But it was so. Louis of today is more beautiful than Louis of yesterday.”
If there was one thing Anne liked better than lying abed, gossiping or having her hair combed, displaying her beautiful hands for admiration, partaking of the savory dishes and sweetmeats prepared for her approval, it was listening to praises of her son.
“You speak truth,” she said now. “I confess his many perfections amaze me.” She added condescendingly: “And your little daughter is not without her charm.”
“My little Henriette! I have done my best. It has not been easy. These terrible years … I have devoted much time to her education. She is clever. She has also read much and she takes a delight in music. She can sing well; she plays, not only the harpsichord, but the guitar. Her brother, the King, adores her and declares he delights in her company far more than that of many ladies noted for their wit and beauty.”
“He is a good brother to little Henriette. Poor child! Hers has been a hard life. When I think of her fate and compare it with that of my own two darlings …”
“Fortune has smiled on you, sister. There are some of us …” The ready tears sprang to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.
But Anne, who did not care for exhibitions of grief, said quickly: “Well, the child is here with her family and, now that
we have restored peace and order to the land, there will be changes at Court. It is of these matters that I have come to speak to you now. My sons take great pleasure in fêtes and balls … and particularly in the ballet. They excel in dancing. Now why should not their little cousin join them in these sports and pleasures? Mademoiselle …” Anne’s flaccid mouth had hardened a little … “will be staying in the country for a while.”
Henrietta Maria could not hide her satisfaction.
“She was clever at devising these entertainments,” went on Anne, “but as she will not be here … mayhap your daughter could be of some use.”
“This is a great pleasure to me. Henriette will be delighted.”
“She may come to the Louvre to help my sons plan an entertainment they wish to give. I am sure she will be very helpful.”
Henrietta Maria almost forgot to be discreet; she wanted to draw her chair closer to that of the Queen-Mother of France; she wanted to chat—as mother to mother—about the charms and achievements of their offspring; she wanted to make delightful plans for linking Henriette and Louis. But her ambition came to her aid and for once she suppressed her impetuosity.
She sat listening while Anne talked, and the talk was of Louis. Louis at seven being reprimanded for using oaths; Louis at eight, in pink satin trimmed with gold lace and pink ribbons, dancing perfectly, outshining all with his grace and his beauty; Louis with the fever on him, when for fourteen days his mother had done nothing but weep and pray; the sweetness and patience of the sick child; how he had appointed certain boys-in-waiting to share his games; how he had selected one of the serving girls, a country wench, to play with; how he loved her dearly and liked to make her act King while he became the serving maid; how in disputes between the brothers, she had always insisted that Philippe should obey Louis; how he must always be mindful of the great destiny which was his brother’s. And so on, until she rose to go.
