The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  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 l
ike 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. Th
ey 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.”