by Jean Plaidy
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 w
ept.
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?”
