by Jean Plaidy
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 daugh
ter 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.
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. H
e 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.
