by Jean Plaidy
“I shall not come.”
“Madame, you will come. The King does not wish an open break between us. And have you forgotten our need for a son?”
Henriette turned and left the apartment. She shut herself in her bedchamber and paced up and down.
What had she done, she asked herself, to deserve the worst husband in the world?
Solitude was the happiest state she could hope for at Villers-Cotteret. Often she wept bitterly during the night.
If she had a son she would insist on breaking away from Philippe; she would no longer live with such a man. She wept afresh for the loss of her little boy.
It was fortunate that Philippe and Lorraine were soon tired of the solitude of Villers-Cotteret, and they returned to Court.
It was Christmastime and a round of festivities was being planned. Now she was able to find new pleasure, for there came into her presence one day a tall, handsome young man who brought a note from her brother. It ran:
“I believe you may easily guess that I am something concerned for this bearer, James, and therefore I put him in your hands to be directed by you in all things, and pray use that authority over him as you ought to do in kindness to me….”
Henriette looked up into the dark eyes so like Charles’, and embraced the young man.
James, Duke of Monmouth, had been sent by her brother to visit her. Charles was proud of his son; perhaps, could Lucy Water see her Jemmy now, she too would be proud.
Henriette knew that Charles had received him at the London Court, that he had given him a dukedom and that he loved him dearly; but this was the first time she had set eyes on him.
Now she became gay again; it was the best way of forgetting those humiliating days at Villers-Cotteret; and how easy it was to be gay with Charles’ son!
In some ways he reminded her of Charles, but he lacked her brother’s wisdom, that gay cynicism, and perhaps that underlying kindness. How could she have expected it to be otherwise? There was only one Charles in the world.
“James,” she cried, “you must tell me about my brother. You must give me news of him. You must tell me every little detail: What time he rises … how he spends his days … Please, all these little humdrum things that take no account of state affairs. Talk to me … talk to me of my dearly beloved brother.”
So James talked, and Henriette often drew him aside to hear the news of her brother’s Court. She would have him show her the dances prevailing there, those quaint folk dances which seemed so strange to the French; but best of all she liked to hear news of Charles.
Lorraine seemed to grudge her even this pleasure.
“They talk in English,” he pointed out to Philippe. “She is half in love with this handsome nephew of hers.”
“Nonsense!” said Philippe. “He is but the son of the brother she loves so well.”
“She loved the brother too well, some say. Now she loves the brother’s son. These are the ways of the Stuarts … all know that.”
So Philippe taunted his wife, and their life together became more intolerable than ever. Even the Duke of Monmouth’s visit was spoiled for Henriette.
In the June of that year Marie-Thérèse gave birth to a son. There was general rejoicing throughout the country. The Dauphin, though sickly, still lived.
Henriette was expecting a child in two months’ time. She prayed for a son. If she had a boy she was determined to leave Philippe. She would speak of these matters to the King, once her child was born; and surely Louis would understand that no woman of her birth could endure to be treated as she was.
She was worried about her mother, who had aged considerably since her return from England. She had become ill through her anxiety when there had been trouble between England and France, and had spent many sleepless nights wondering about the future relationship between her son and nephew.
Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter at Saint-Cloud because at this time the birth of Henriette’s child was imminent, and she herself could pay no visits. They did not speak of the state of friction between the two countries, nor of their private affairs; these subjects were too unhappy to be talked of. Henrietta Maria knew of her daughter’s treatment at the hands of her husband—indeed the whole Court knew. So they talked of the child who would soon be born, of their hopes for a boy, and the Queen’s malady.
“I do not know what it is that ails me,” said Henrietta Maria. “But perhaps it is not a good thing to complain. I have always thought that to complain of illness did little good, and I do not care to be like some ladies who lament for a cut finger or pain in the head. But how I wish I could sleep! I lie awake and brood on the past. It parades before me. I fancy your father speaks to me … warns me … that I must curb the levity of Charles.”
“Charles is popular, Mam. I should not worry about him. It may be that subjects like their Kings to be gay. It may be that they wish for these things. They grew tired of Cromwell’s England.”
“But the women at his Court! It is not that he has a mistress … or two. It is a seraglio.”
“Mam, Charles will always be Charles, whatever is said of him.”
“And no son to follow him! Only James Crofts … or Monmouth, as he now is.”
“A charming boy,” said Henriette.
“And likely to become as profligate as his father and mother.”
“Lucy Water!” pondered Henriette. “I saw her once. A handsome girl … but with little character, I felt. Well, Charles loved her and he has kept his word to care for her son; and the little girl is well looked after, although many say that Charles is not her father.”
“He is ready to accept all who come to him and accuse him of being their father.”
“Dearest Charles! He was always too good-natured. Mam, I beg of you, cease to worry. I will send my physicians to you to prescribe something for your sleeplessness.”
“My child, may the saints bless you. May they bring you through your troubles to happiness. May you have a happier life than your poor mother.”
“I always remember that you had a good husband who was faithful to you, Mam. It would seem to me that that made up for so much.”
“Ah, but to have such a one … and to lose him … to lose him as I did!”
Mother and daughter fell into silence, and after a while Henrietta Maria left for Colombes.
Four days later Henriette’s daughter was born. Her mother did not come to see her; by that time she was feeling too ill to leave Colombes.
Henrietta Maria lay in her bed while the physicians sent by her daughter ranged themselves around her.
“It is sleep Your Majesty requires,” said Monsieur Valot. “If you could rest you would regain your strength. We shall give you something to ease your pain, Madame.”
Henrietta Maria nodded her assent. She, who had complained bitterly of her unhappy life, bore pain stoically.
Monsieur Valot whispered to one of the doctors: “Add three grains to the liquid. That will send Her Majesty to sleep.”
Henrietta Maria, hearing the talk of grains, raised herself on her elbow. She said: “Monsieur Valot, my physician in England, Dr Mayerne, has told me I should never take opium. I heard you mention grains. Are those grains you spoke of, grains of opium?”
“Your Majesty,” explained Valot, “it is imperative that you sleep. These three grains will ensure that you do. My colleagues here all agree that you must take this sleeping draught, for you cannot hope to recover without sleep.”
“But I have been strictly warned against opium on account of the condition of my heart.”
“This dose is so small, and I beg of Your Majesty to accept the considered opinion of us all.”
“You are the doctors,” said Henrietta Maria.
“I shall then instruct the lady in attendance on Your Majesty to give you this dose at eleven o’clock.”
Henrietta Maria felt a little better that day. She was able to eat a little, and soon after supper her women helped her to bed.
“I feel tired,” she said. “I am sure that, with the aid of my sleeping draught, I shall sleep well.”
“There are two hours yet before you should take it, Your Majesty,” said her ladies.
“Then I shall lie and wait for it in the comfort that a good night’s rest is assured me.”
Her ladies left her, and two hours later one of them brought in the draught. The Queen was then sleeping peacefully.
“Madame,” said the woman, “you must wake and drink this. The doctor’s orders, Your Majesty will remember.”
Half awake Henrietta Maria raised herself and drank. She was too sleepy to question the wisdom of waking a sleeping person to administer a sleeping draught.
When her attendants came to wake her in the morning, she was dead.
Henriette held her child in her arms. Another daughter. Did this mean she must resume marital relations with Philippe? It was too much to ask. She would not do it. She hated Philippe.
Her woman came to tell her that Mademoiselle de Montpensier was on her way to visit her.
When Mademoiselle came in there were traces of tears on her face; she embraced Henriette and burst into tears.
“I come from Colombes,” she said.
Henriette tried in vain to speak. Mam … ill! she thought. But she has been ill so long. Mam … dead! Mam … gone from me!
“She died in her sleep,” said Mademoiselle. “It was a peaceful end. She had not been able to sleep; the doctors gave her medicine to cure her wakefulness, which it has done so effectively that she will never wake again.”
Still Henriette did not speak.
Louis came to Saint-Cloud. He was full of tenderness, as he could always be when those for whom he felt affection were in trouble.
“This is a great blow to you, my darling,” he said. “I know how you suffer. My brother’s conduct is monstrous. I have remonstrated with him … and yet he does nothing to mend his ways.”
“Your Majesty is good to me.”
“I feel I can never be good enough to you, Henriette. You see, I love you. When I am with you, I am conscious of great regret. I have a wife … and there are others … but you, Henriette, are apart from all others.”
“It warms my heart to hear you say so.”
“You and I are close, my dearest … closer than any two people in the world.”
He embraced her tenderly. She was frailer than ever.
“I know you love me,” went on the King. And then: “Your brother is asking that you may visit him.”
She smiled, and jealousy pierced Louis’ heart, sharp and cold as a sword thrust.
“He says that it is long since he saw you. He says that the grief you have both suffered makes you long to be together for a short while.”
“If only I might go!”
“I have spoken to Philippe. He is against your going.”
“And you, Sire?”
“Philippe is your husband. His consent would be necessary. It might be that we could force him to give it. Henriette, I wish to speak to you of secret matters. I know I can trust you to work for me … for me exclusively.”
“I am your subject, Louis.”
“You are also an Englishwoman.”
“But France is my country. I have lived all my life here. You are my King.”
“And more than your King?”
“Yes, Louis. You are my King and my love.”
He sighed. “I wish to make a treaty with your brother. It is a very secret treaty. I think he may need … a certain amount of persuasion to make him agree to this treaty.”
Henriette’s heart was beating fast.
“There is none who could persuade him … as you could,” Louis went on.
“What is this treaty, Louis?”
“I could only disclose it if I thought that you were entirely mine. There are few who know of its contents, and I trust you, Henriette. I trust you completely.” He was looking into her eyes. She saw that his were brilliant—as brilliant as when they rested on one of his potential mistresses. But what was happening now was seduction of a different kind—mental seduction. He was as jealous as a lover, but he was jealous of her love for her brother; he was demanding her complete surrender, not to be his mistress but his slave—his spy.
She was overcome by her love for him; the love of years seemed to envelop and overwhelm her.
She knew that if she failed him now, she had lost him; she knew that, if she gave herself to him in this way, they would be bound together forever, that what he felt for his mistresses would indeed be light compared with what he felt for her, that what they could give would be as nothing, compared with her service. She had something which she alone could give: her influence with her brother. He was demanding now to know the extent of her affection for him, how great it was compared with that which she had for Charles.
She felt as though she were swooning. She heard herself say, “Louis … I am yours … all yours.”
There were quarrels at Saint-Cloud. Philippe was furious with his wife.
The King had had the Chevalier de Lorraine arrested and sent to the Bastille. He had insulted Madame, and that, in the King’s eyes, was a sufficient reason.
Madame was the King’s favorite now. It was as it had been in the old days. Where Louis was, there was Henriette. They walked through the groves and alleys of Fontainebleau and Versailles, Louis’ arm through that of Madame. They spent hours together with one or two of the King’s ministers. Madame was not only the King’s dear friend, it seemed; she was his political adviser.
Philippe came upon them once, poring over a document, which was put aside as he entered. His rage was boundless.
“What does the King talk of with you?” he wanted to know. “Answer me! Answer me! Do you think I will allow myself—the King’s brother—to be pushed aside!”
She replied coldly: “You must ask the King. He will tell you what he wishes you to know.”
“Holy Mother! You are now such a minister of state that you shall ask for the release of Lorraine.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“You will … you will! It is to please you that he has put my dear friend away. And the only way you shall live with me, Madame, is to live with him as well. We will be together—the three of us—and if you do not like that, you shall endure it!”
“I will endure no such thing. The King has not yet released him, remember.”
“If you do not have him released, I will not allow you to go to England.”
“The King wishes me to go to England.”
“You shall not stay long, though.”
She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
“I shall divorce you!” he cried.
“That is the best news I have heard for a long time.”
“Then I shall not divorce you. I shall make you live in hell … a hell upon Earth.”
“You have already done that. Nothing you do to me in the future can be worse than you have done in the past.”
“You are ill. Anyone can see that. You are nothing but a bag of bones.”
“I know I cannot hope to compete in your eyes with your dear little friends, Monsieur de Marsan and the Chevalier de Beuvron.”
“It is true you cannot.”
“Then I hope they console you for the loss of your dear Lorraine!”
Philippe flung out of the room. His rage had brought him near to tears. It had always been the same, Louis always in the ascendant. The same story now, as it had been in their childhood! He wished he had not married Henriette.
Henriette could not sleep.
Now she knew the terms of the treaty. She knew that for Louis’ sake she must persuade her brother to do something which she knew it was wrong for him to do.
Sometimes she would whisper to herself: “I cannot do it.” She recalled her father’s terrible end. He had gone against the wishes of his people. Was Louis asking Charles to do the same?
She repeated the terms over to herself. Charles w
as to join Louis in the invasion of Holland. The French were not popular in England, and that would be a difficult thing for him to arrange; but it was not that clause which gave her the greatest anxiety.
Charles was to make a public confession of his conversion to the Roman Catholic faith. Louis would pay him a large sum of money on his signing the treaty, and would give him men and ammunition to fight his fellow countrymen, should they object to their King’s decision.
Louis had said: “I hold that only with a Catholic England can we have a true alliance.”
“But if the English will not accept a Catholic King?”
“We must see that they do.”
“This could make tragedy in England.”
“My dearest, we are concerned with France. Your brother was brought up to be more French than English. He is half French, and it is more natural for him to follow our faith. I have heard that he—as well as your brother James—has a fancy for it.”
“But the people of England …”
“As I said, we must think of France first, England second, eh? Your brother will know how this may be arranged. We do not ask him to proclaim his conversion at once. He may do so at his own leisure. The time to announce it will be for him to decide. There will be great advantages for him.”
But still she did not sleep.
“I love them both,” she whispered. “I love France; I love England. I love Louis; I love Charles.”
But she knew she was placing the safety of England in jeopardy for the sake of France, for she was going to beg Charles, whom she loved, to risk his crown for the sake of Louis, whom she loved even more.
So with great pomp she arrived at Dover. There was one young girl in her suite whose freshness and beauty delighted Henriette. She kept the girl beside her, for it was pleasant to see her childish delight in all the sights and ceremonies. She was the daughter of a poor Breton gentleman, and her name was Louise de Kéroualle.
It was a wonderful moment for Henriette when her brother and Mon-mouth came on deck to welcome her to England.
She was held fast in Charles’ arms, and she saw the tears in his eyes.
“Minette … it has been so long. And how frail you are, my dearest, my darling!”
After the ceremonial greetings, the banquet given in her honor, she found herself alone with him. He told her he was grieved to see her so frail. He had heard of her suffering, and that her married life was by no means a felicitous one. He had heard the rumors concerning Lorraine. He would like to lay his hands on that gentleman, he said.
