by Jean Plaidy
“Poor Mama!” he often murmured. “How she loves me! But she never understood me.”
In the Palais-Royal, the great gallery of which was hung with mirrors and brilliant with torches, the new play by Molière, Médecin Malgré Lui, was performed for the first time, after the banquet.
Louis, with Henriette beside him, laughed loudly at the wit of his favorite playwright, and forgot his mother.
He was happy. He enjoyed such occasions. It was good to have a quiet little wife who adored him. She was not here tonight to admire him in his suit of purple velvet covered in diamonds and pearls, because she was in mourning for her father. He was glad she was absent, for the sight of his mistresses always distressed her, and La Vallière was pregnant again. It was good to have such a meek and tender mistress as La Vallière and such a bold and witty one as Madame de Montespan. And all the time he was enjoying a love affair on a higher plane with his elegant and clever Henriette. He enjoyed the pathos of their relationship; he did not see why it should not endure forever. Tonight she had arranged this entertainment for him; all the most brilliant fêtes, masks and ballets were arranged by Henriette for the pleasure of her King. If only he could have been entirely sure that her affection for him obsessed her completely, he would have been content.
But he was forever conscious of the dark witty man on the other side of the water, in whose capital city men were now falling like flies, stricken by the deadly plague.
About the bedside of the dying Queen Mother of France were her children, Louis and Philippe, and with them stood their wives, Marie-Thérèse and Henriette.
All four were in tears. Anne had suffered deeply, and her death was by no means unexpected. The beautiful hands, now gaunt and yellow, plucked at the sheets, and her eyes, sunken with pain, turned again and again to the best loved of them all.
Louis was deeply moved; he was on his knees recalling that great affection which she had always given him.
Philippe was also moved. She had loved him too in her way, but, being a simple woman, she had not been able to disguise from him the fact that almost all the affection she had to give must go to her glorious firstborn.
Philippe took the hot hand and kissed it.
“Be good, my children,” murmured Anne.
Henriette turned away because she could no longer bear to look on such suffering. She wished that she had not flouted Anne’s advice; she wished that there were time to tell the dying Queen that she now understood how foolish she had been in pursuing gaiety, and so giving rise to scandals such as those concerning de Guiche and de Vardes. But it was too late.
“Louis … beloved …” whispered the Queen.
“My dearest Mother.”
“Louis … be kind to the Queen. Do not … humiliate her with your mistresses. It is sad for a little Queen … so young …”
Marie-Thérèse, who was kneeling by the bed, covered her face with her hands, but Louis had placed his hand on her shoulder.
“I ask your forgiveness,” he said, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I ask both of you to forgive me …”
“Remember me when I am gone,” said Anne. “Remember, my dearest, how I lived for you alone. Remember me …”
“Dearest Mama … dearest Mama …” murmured the King.
And all four about the bed were weeping as Anne of Austria ceased to breathe.
Very soon after Anne’s death, gaiety was resumed at Court. Louis was now free from all restraint. He planned a great carnival; it was to be more magnificent than anything that had gone before.
Henriette arranged the ballet.
The Queen came to her at the Palais-Royal, and when they were alone together she wept bitterly and told her sister-in-law how galling it was for her to see La Vallière and Montespan at Court.
“La Vallière is at least quiet,” said Marie-Thérèse. “She always seems rather ashamed of her position. It is a different matter with Montespan. I believe she deliberately scorns me.”
“Have no fear,” soothed Henriette. “Remember the deathbed of the Queen Mother. Louis has promised to reform his ways. There will certainly be a part for you in the ballet.”
“I am no good at dancing.”
There will be little dancing for you. You will be seated on a throne, magnificently attired to receive homage.” “It sounds delightful.”
“And La Vallière and Montespan will find that there are no parts for them.”
“You are my good friend,” said Marie-Thérèse. “I am glad of that, for you are a good friend of the King’s, I know.”
They embraced, and Henriette looked forward to her new friendship.
Through the window at which she sat with Marie-Thérèse she could see Philippe in the garden with his friend the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was a younger brother of Monsieur d’Armagnac. Lorraine was very handsome and Philippe was enchanted with him. They strolled through the grounds, their arms about each other, laughing and chatting as they went.
Henriette did not like Lorraine; she knew that he was determined to make mischief. He was insolent to her and it was clear that he wished to remind her that as Monsieur’s bel ami he was more important to him than his wife. He was also the lover of one of her maids of honor, Mademoiselle de Fiennes, and scandalously he used this girl to make Philippe jealous. It was an unpleasant state of affairs.
Sometimes, thought Henriette, I feel I am married to the worst man on earth. What is the use of saying: If only I had married Louis, how different, how happy and dignified my life would have been!
Louis himself called at the Palais-Royal next day.
He was angry and did not bother to command a private audience. He came straight to her.
“I see, Madame,” he said, “that there are no parts in the ballet for Mademoiselle de la Vallière and Madame de Montespan.”
“That is so, Sire,” answered Henriette.
“But you know our wish that these talented ladies should have parts.”
“I understood from your promise to the Queen, your mother, that you had decided no longer to receive them at Court.”
“Then you misunderstood my intentions, Madame.”
Henriette looked at him sadly. “Then there is no alternative but to rearrange the ballet,” she said quickly.
“Thank you, sister. That is what I would have you do.”
“Mademoiselle de la Vallière is now scarcely in a condition to appear in the ballet, Sire.”
“Let her take a part where she may sit down, and wear such a costume that shall disguise her condition.”
“There is the Queen’s part …”
“Yes, the Queen’s part. Let that be given to Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”
“But the Queen?”
Louis looked at her testily. “The Queen has no great love of the ballet.”
Henriette’s thoughts went to the sad little Queen who had wept so much because she must stand aside for the King’s mistresses. She thought, too, of poor little La Vallière, who would soon be outshone by the more dazzling Montespan; it would be no use hiding in a convent then, for, if she did, Louis would not hasten to find her.
There he stood—magnificent even when peevish. Woe to those who love the Sun King! she told herself soberly.
Louis was saying: “There is another matter of which I would speak to you. It concerns my son.”
“The Dauphin?”
“No. Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s son. I would have him brought up at Court … perhaps here at the Palais-Royal or at the Tuileries. He should not live in obscurity since he is my son. He should enjoy royal honors. It is my wish that he should do so.”
Henriette bowed her head. “I will do all that you command for him,” she answered.
She saw now that the Queen’s death was having its effect, even as had that of Mazarin.
Louis was in complete control now. La Vallière, large with child, should be in attendance on the Queen. La Montespan, brazen in her accession to the King’s regard, would beco
me Queen of the Court.
Henriette was anxious. Charles was at war with Flanders, and relations between her brother and brother-in-law she knew to be very strained.
The Hollanders were holding out tempting promises to Louis; she, who was in his confidence in these matters, knew that a state of war between France and England was threatening.
Henrietta Maria, who had returned to France at the time of the great plague, was, with her daughter, horrified at the idea of hostilities between France and England.
The Queen and her daughter spent many hours together talking of state matters, and it seemed possible that Henriette’s anxiety brought about her miscarriage.
The Queen nursed her daughter through her illness; she herself was ageing fast and suffered from a weak heart and sleeplessness. She was scarcely the most cheerful of companions, talking as she did continually of the old days and how her stay in England had revived her memories.
The news grew worse. Louis decided that Charles was no longer his friend, and French troops were sent into Holland against England’s ally, Christian Bernard von Galen, Bishop of Münster.
Never in her life had Henriette been so wretched.
Her brother, whom she loved dearly, and the man whom she had longed to marry, were enemies, and each was expecting her to be his friend.
“Now,” said Louis, “you have to decide between us. Which is it, Henriette?”
She looked into his handsome face. She said: “He is my brother, and nothing could make me do anything but love him. But I love you also, and you are my King.”
Louis was well pleased with that answer. She would be useful when he made peace with England.
These warlike conditions between the two countries did not long persist, and by the May of that year both Kings were ready for peace. Henriette and her mother had done much to bring about this state of affairs.
“I hope and pray,” said Henriette, “that I shall never see you two at war again.”
Louis kissed her hand. “You will be loyal to me always, Henriette. That is so, is it not? You will remember our love, which is beyond earthly love, the noblest affection that was ever between two people.”
“I will remember,” she told him firmly.
She wished that she could have stayed at Colombes with her mother, and that there was no need to go back to Philippe.
Sitting on a raised dais, Henriette, exquisitely dressed, her white and tan spaniel, Mimi, in her arms, was the central figure in the Ballets des Muses. She listened to the chanting of verses written by Molière; she watched the graceful dancing; and, as usual, her eyes rested on one figure, taller, more magnificent than all others—Louis, gorgeous and aglitter with jewels, his velvet dalmatica sewn with pearls, his high heels accentuating his height so that he stood above all, the Sun King, the Sun God, beautiful as Apollo himself.
She looked about and saw Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was no longer Mademoiselle of the Court now that Philippe had a daughter to assume that title. Poor Mademoiselle! She was less proud now than she had been in her youth. None of those glorious marriages, whose worthiness she had doubted, had come her way. Now it was rumored that she was passionately in love with Lauzan, the dashing military commander, but a marriage between them would never be permitted.
Surely Mademoiselle was feeling sorry for herself, and yet perhaps even more sorry for Henriette. She had said that she would rather have no husband at all than one such as Philippe.
La Vallière was at Court again, recently delivered of a daughter, not entirely happy. She was very jealous of Montespan and greatly feared her rival. In protest she had retired from Court and gone into a convent; this time the King sent for her but did not go after her in person. Poor La Vallière! It seemed possible that her days as King’s favorite were numbered.
And as Henriette sat there with the dancers circulating about her she did not see them. She was thinking of Charles and the terrible fire which, following the plague of last year, had ravaged his capital.
There was a great deal of misery in the world.
She stroked Mimi’s silky ears. Even Mimi suffered; she had her jealousies and could not bear to see her mistress’s attention turned to anyone or anything else. She would run away and hide out of very pique, if Henriette as much as picked up a book.
Roused from her reveries, Henriette noticed that one of the women was trying to catch her eye. Something was wrong.
She was glad when the ballet was over and she was free to listen to the woman.
“Madame, it is the little Duc de Valois. He has had a relapse.”
So she left the ball and drove with all speed to Saint-Cloud where her children were lodged.
The little boy’s eyes lighted up when he saw his mother, but his appearance shocked her. She sank down by his bed and gathered him into her arms. In the service of the King, with the continual entertainments and ballets, she saw less of her children than she could have wished.
It was obvious that the little boy had a high fever and she turned appealingly to those about the bed.
“But his teeth came through quite well. I was told there was no longer need to worry. How did this happen? Why was I not informed?”
“Madame, the fever came on suddenly. The little Duc de Valois was playing yesterday with his sister. Then … suddenly he was in the grip of fever. The doctors have bled him continually. Everything has been done.”
She was not listening. She was holding the precious child against her, rocking him to and fro.
I am weary of this life, she mused. I have had enough of balls and masques. I will nurse him myself. I will cease to be the slave of Louis. I will live differently … quietly. When I have nursed my boy back to health I will spend long hours with my children. I am tired. Each day I grow more quickly weary.”
But while she thought thus the child’s breathing grew more difficult and he did not recognize his mother.
Later she was aware of gentle hands that took the dead boy from her.
After that there arose the need to have another son. There was a return to the hateful life with a Philippe who was becoming more and more dominated by that vilest of men, the Chevalier de Lorraine.
There was continual friction between Henriette and Philippe. Philippe seemed to be filled with hatred for his wife. To him it was a matter of great annoyance and envy that Louis should discuss with her those secret matters of state which concerned England.
Often he would cry: “You would have secrets from me? Is that the way in which to treat a husband? Tell me what passed between you and my brother.”
“If he wished you to know he would tell you,” Henriette would reply. “Why do you not ask him?”
“Is it meet that my wife should spend long hours closeted with my brother?”
“If the King wishes to command that it should be so, it is right.”
“What is happening between our country and England? Should these matters be kept from me, yet imparted to my wife?”
“That is for the King to decide.”
Philippe would fling away from her in a passion and seek out his dear friend Lorraine, who would console him and tell him that he was unfortunate indeed to be married to such a wife.
At Saint-Cloud a new situation had arisen. One day Henriette asked for Mademoiselle de Fiennes, whom she had noticed was not amongst her attendants. She was told that the woman had gone away.
“Gone away? By whose permission?”
The answer was: “At Monsieur’s orders. She did not wish to go, but Monsieur drove her from the house.”
Henriette went to her husband’s apartments. The Chevalier de Lorraine was sprawled insolently on his master’s bed. Philippe sat in a window seat.
Neither rose when she entered. Lorraine was polishing a magnificent diamond on his finger—one of his latest presents from Philippe.
She was angry, but with admirable courage restrained herself from as much as glancing at her husband’s favorite.
“Why have you
sent Mademoiselle de Fiennes away?” she asked Philippe. “I found the girl useful.”
“So did I, Madame,” said Lorraine with a laugh.
“Monsieur de Lorraine, I know you are completely without the social graces of a gentleman in your position, but, I beg of you, do not address me until I speak to you.”
“If I am to be treated in this way I shall leave,” said Lorraine.
“I am glad you have given me an indication of how I may rid this place of your presence.”
“But it is the house of Monsieur, Madame. Have you forgotten that?”
“Philippe!” cried Henriette. “Why do you sit there and allow this creature to behave thus to me?”
“It was you who were unpleasant to him in the first place,” said Philippe sullenly.
“You may pamper the creature. I shall ignore him. I repeat: Why did you send Mademoiselle de Fiennes away?”
“I will tell you,” cried Lorraine. “Yes, Philippe, I insist. I did not wish the girl to go. I liked her. I like women at times, and she was a pretty girl. It was Monsieur who sent her away. Monsieur could not endure her. It was because he thought I liked her too well.” The Chevalier de Lorraine burst into loud laughter, and Philippe scowled.
“Do you expect me to endure this state of affairs?” demanded Henriette.
“You have no choice in the matter,” answered Philippe. “And I will tell you this now, We leave for Villers-Cotteret tomorrow.”
“We leave?”
“You, I and Monsieur de Lorraine.”
“You mean you will carry me there by force?”
“You will find that you must obey your husband. I am weary of your spying servants. Our daughter’s governess dared go to the King and complain about Lorraine and me, saying that we did not treat you in a becoming manner.”
“At least she spoke the truth.”
“And my brother has dared to ask me to mend my ways. And this, Madame, is brought about through your servants. Therefore we shall go where we shall not be spied on.”
“I will hear no more.”
“Hear this though. We leave tomorrow.”
