The Loves of Charles II (22 page)

It was a great honor that she should condescend to call at the lodging of her exiled sister-in-law. Henrietta Maria’s heart leaped with hope in contemplating the cause.

They embraced—the Queen-Mother of France and the exiled Queen of England. The ready tears came to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.

“Such an honor … such an honor,” she murmured. “Dearest Majesty, you make me forget I am an exile depending on your bounty.”

Anne smiled. She was generous by nature and she loved to do little kindnesses if they did not involve taking too much trouble. She spent all the morning in bed and after that she prayed in her oratory for hours. She liked
to be there alone, while her thoughts flitted lightly from one subject to another. What delicacies would her cooks have prepared for her that day? What new gossip was there in the Court? What new plays were being prepared for her? What was her darling doing at this moment? She must ask him to come to see her.
Ask
now—not command anymore. The beloved creature was no longer to be commanded. She could lie back in the sanctity of her oratory and think about his many perfections—her beautiful, beautiful son, of whom she never tired of thinking, whose handsome looks were a delight to her whenever her eyes fell upon him. Every queen in the world envied her her Louis. Any queen who had produced such a one had justified her existence, was entitled to give up her days to idling, gambling, watching plays, gossip …

She was doubly pleased with herself, for not only had she produced Louis, but Philippe. She laughed to herself sometimes when she thought of her late husband, now no longer here to plague her. Not that she thought of him often; he had been dead for nearly ten years. She was not one to brood on the past. She lightly skimmed over the years of marriage, his dislike for her, the urgent need for a child, which had forced Cardinal Richelieu to bring them together for a brief spell, and themselves to conform to his wishes; and the miracle, the birth of Louis—Louis Dieudonné—and later that of Philippe.

But why think of that other Louis—her husband—the cold, ugly misogynist who, after the first delights of fatherhood, had been irritated by the boisterous manners of his heir. Anne could smile at the memory of the little Prince’s distaste when he had first seen his father in his nightcap. He had roared his dislike so that the King had turned furiously on his wife, accusing her of influencing the child against him, and he had even threatened to take the child from her.

Not that he had succeeded in doing that. He had been old; he was enfeebled; it had been clear that he was not long for this world.

It had seemed prophetic when, on the occasion of little Louis’ christening at the age of two, his father had taken him on his knee when the ceremony was over and asked him: “Now what is your name, my child?” and the boy had answered boldly: “I am Louis XIV, Father.” Then had the bitter mouth curled; then had the ugly eyes narrowed and a faint smile had touched the sallow face. “Not yet, Louis XIV,” he had said. “Louis XIII is not dead yet. Aye, but mayhap you speak only a little too soon.”

It was not long after that that the boy was indeed Louis XIV, and new power had come to Anne as Regent. Not that she had ever wished to alter her way of life. Politics bored her and she had her dear Mazarin to do for her what Richelieu had done in a previous reign. She was more concerned with the trivialities of life.

“Dismiss the attendants,” she said now to Henrietta Maria. “Let us have a sisterly talk.”

“This is an honor and a pleasure,” said Henrietta Maria.

“Ah,” said Anne, when they were alone, “it is good to be back in Paris. It is good to know that the troubles are over.”

“And to see your son, His Majesty, gives me no less pleasure than it does yourself, I assure you, dear sister,” said Henrietta Maria. “He grows in beauty. A short while ago it would not have seemed possible for any to be more handsome. But it was so. Louis of today is more beautiful than Louis of yesterday.”

If there was one thing Anne liked better than lying abed, gossiping or having her hair combed, displaying her beautiful hands for admiration, partaking of the savory dishes and sweetmeats prepared for her approval, it was listening to praises of her son.

“You speak truth,” she said now. “I confess his many perfections amaze me.” She added condescendingly: “And your little daughter is not without her charm.”

“My little Henriette! I have done my best. It has not been easy. These terrible years … I have devoted much time to her education. She is clever. She has also read much and she takes a delight in music. She can sing well; she plays, not only the harpsichord, but the guitar. Her brother, the King, adores her and declares he delights in her company far more than that of many ladies noted for their wit and beauty.”

“He is a good brother to little Henriette. Poor child! Hers has been a hard life. When I think of her fate and compare it with that of my own two darlings …”

“Fortune has smiled on you, sister. There are some of us …” The ready tears sprang to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.

But Anne, who did not care for exhibitions of grief, said quickly: “Well, the child is here with her family and, now that we have restored peace and order to the land, there will be changes at Court. It is of these matters that I have come to speak to you now. My sons take great pleasure in fêtes and balls … and particularly in the ballet. They excel in dancing. Now why should not their little cousin join them in these sports and pleasures? Mademoiselle …” Anne’s flaccid mouth had hardened a little … “will be staying in the country for a while.”

Henrietta Maria could not hide her satisfaction.

“She was clever at devising these entertainments,” went on Anne, “but as she will not be here … mayhap your daughter could be of some use.”

“This
is
a great pleasure to me. Henriette will be delighted.”

“She may come to the Louvre to help my sons plan an entertainment they wish to give. I am sure she will be very helpful.”

Henrietta Maria almost forgot to be discreet; she wanted to draw her chair closer to that of the Queen-Mother of France; she wanted to chat—as mother to mother—about the charms and achievements of their offspring; she wanted to make delightful plans for linking Henriette and Louis. But her ambition came to her aid and for once she suppressed her impetuosity.

She sat listening while Anne talked, and the talk was of Louis. Louis at seven being reprimanded for using oaths; Louis at eight, in pink satin trimmed with gold lace and pink ribbons, dancing perfectly, outshining all with his grace and his beauty; Louis with the fever on him, when for fourteen days his mother had done nothing but weep and pray; the sweetness and patience of the sick child; how he had appointed certain boys-in-waiting to share his games; how he had selected one of the serving girls, a country wench, to play with; how he loved her dearly and liked to make her act King while he became the serving maid; how in disputes between the brothers, she had always insisted that Philippe should obey Louis; how he must always be mindful of the great destiny which was his brother’s. And so on, until she rose to go.

Then Henrietta Maria sent for her daughter; she embraced her warmly.

“Mam, Mam, what has happened to make you so happy? Is there news of Charles?”

“You think of your brother first on every occasion! There are other people who should concern you now and then. You are to visit the King and his brother; you are to go to the Louvre tomorrow to help them devise a ballet for our entertainment.”

“I … Mam!” Henriette shrank from her mother.

“No, no!” scolded the Queen. “You must not be foolish.” She pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Remember what I have said. Though you must always remember that you are a King’s daughter, you should not be insensible of this great honor which is done you. My little daughter, here is great news! Mademoiselle who would wish to marry Louis, is sent to the country in disgrace, and you, my little one, are to take her place in sharing the amusements of Louis and his brother. Now you must agree always with everything Louis says. You must take his side if there is a disagreement between the brothers. You must remember what I have told you.”

“Yes, Mam,” whispered Henriette.

She wished Charles were in Paris that she might tell him how uneasy she felt. He would understand; he would soothe her; but without Charles she was alone and there was no one to whom she could turn.

The two boys were waiting for their cousin. Louis was impatient.

“A little girl!” he said. “Here’s a pretty pass! So now we must play with little girls! Why should I be asked to play with little girls!”

“Because her brother is the King of England,” Philippe answered wryly.

“King of England! The English have a different tale to tell.”

“As the French might have had, brother … not so long ago.”

Louis shook his head in exasperation, but he was used to Philippe’s dry comments. Philippe was in a state of continual pique because he was two years younger than his brother and merely Monsieur, Duc d’Orléans, instead of King.

Louis’ annoyance did not last long. He was naturally sweet-tempered though often arrogant, for it would have been a miracle if he had been anything else. From the day he was five he had been told he was the most important person in the world. Only a short while ago his tutor had told him that God had given him something that even his illustrious grandfather Henri Quatre had not possessed—a handsome presence, a beauty that was almost unearthly in its perfection, a fine figure, a charm which delighted while it won respect. All through his life it had been the same. His tutors never forced him to learn anything, but allowed him to follow his inclinations; it was a wonder that he had acquired any knowledge at all, considering he loved sports so much. But with all his physical perfections there had been born in him a desire to do what was right, and occasionally this was uppermost. Then he would try to study for a while before his desire to play soldiers—his favorite game—came over him and he could not resist calling his army of young boys together for a mock battle. Alas, only a year ago his Company of Honor had been disbanded, for their exploits had become so realistic that his mother had grown terrified for his safety; and Mazarin had decided to risk the King’s displeasure and put an end to these warlike games. Then had Louis turned to dancing and, in particular, the ballet.

He excelled in these, but he never forgot that the praise which came his way might not be entirely genuine; Monsieur de Villeroi his governor, never reproved him; if Louis asked for something, de Villeroi always said: Yes, he might have it, before he even knew for what the boy asked. Yet Louis loved far better his valet, La Porte, who often crossed him and had even on occasion forbidden him to do what he wanted. The most Monsieur de Villeroi would say, if La Porte advised against doing something, was: “La Porte is right, Sire.” But his governor never actually reproved or forbade, even when the King had turned somersaults on his bed and had ended by falling and getting a most unpleasant bump on the head.

Louis had realized long ago that, surrounded by such sycophants, a great ruler of fourteen must be especially watchful.

“Those who are lenient concerning your faults,” La Porte told him once, “are not so on your account, but on their own, and their object is merely to make you like them, so that they may receive your favors and grow rich.”

Louis never forgot that warning.

He became very fond of La Porte; he still liked to have the valet read to him when he was in bed at night. The History of France sounded quite exciting when read by La Porte; and Louis always listened gravely to the valet’s comments and criticisms of other Kings of France.

But on this day he was by no means pleased that there had been sent to him a little girl, eight or nine years old, to help him and Philippe contrive a ballet.

She came and knelt before him. She was tall for her age and thin—very thin. Louis thought her rather ugly, for he was beginning to be very conscious of the looks of women.

He had grown accustomed to tender looks all his life, but there was one lady of his mother’s bedchamber who made him feel very extraordinary when his eyes rested on her. It was an odd sensation, for she had only one eye and was far from comely. She was years older than he was; he assumed she must be at least twenty years old; she was married, and she was fat; yet—he did not understand why—he could not stop himself looking her way.

“So you have come to help us with the ballet, cousin?” said Louis.

“Yes, Sire. On the orders of our mothers.”

“Then rise, and we will tell you what we plan. It is to be a grand ballet which we shall call The Nuptials of Thetis and Peleus.”

Henriette listened as he continued. Philippe, somewhat bored, had wandered away and was looking at himself in the great Venetian mirror, thinking how handsome he was, setting his curls so that they fell more to one side of his head; he was wishing that, instead of this quiet girl, they had asked some of the amusing young men to join them. Philippe smiled at the thought. De Guiche was
so
good looking and so understanding.