The Loves of Charles II (23 page)

He turned to his brother who was scowling at him for leaving him to explain to the little girl who, of course, would know nothing of ballets and such things, having just come from the nursery—or so it seemed from the look of her.

But Henriette’s face had flushed a little and, listening to the King, she caught his enthusiasm. “Your Majesty should appear as Apollo in the masque,” she ventured.

“Apollo!” cried the King with interest.

“Yes, Sire. The Sun God. It would be the most enchanting role in the ballet. You would be dressed in gold … and about your head could be a halo from which light radiated so that all would know that you were the Sun God as soon as they set eyes on you.”

“The Sun God!” murmured Louis. “You are cleverer than I thought, cousin.”

“I have lived so quietly, Sire, that so much of my time has been spent in study.”

“That is why you are so thin,” said Louis. “You should have spent more time out of doors. Then you would enjoy more glowing health. Though I’ll grant you you would not be so useful in arranging ballets.”

Philippe had come over to them. “What part is there for me?” he asked. “I should like the part of a lady. I like wearing ladies’ costumes … jewels in my ears and patches on my face.”

He minced about in a manner which was quite feminine and which made the King laugh. Henriette, taking her cue from him, laughed also. “You would make a lovely shepherdess, cousin,” she said.

“A shepherdess! While my brother is the Sun God!”

“Ah, but a shepherdess in silver tissue with ribands the color of roses … scented ribands mayhap, and a hat of black-and-white velvet with sweeping plumes, blue, the color of the sky on hot summer days. You could carry a gilded crook.”

“I like the costume, but I do not care to be a shepherdess, cousin.”

“Then be a goddess. Be the goddess of love.”

“She has ideas, this cousin of ours,” said Philippe.

“Yes,” admitted Louis, “that is true.” He looked a little wistful. They were educating her—those old nuns of Chaillot—while he and his brother were allowed to do whatever they wished. This little girl, six years younger than he was, four years younger than Philippe, might be shy and ignorant of great ceremonies, but she had in a few years assimilated more booklearning than he and Philippe had.

“Can you dance, cousin?” asked Louis.

“A little, Sire.”

“Then you shall show us. Dance, Philippe.”

Philippe turned haughtily away. “I am in no mood to dance, Louis,” he said. “Why do you not dance with our cousin, the better to test her prowess?”

Louis shook his head impatiently. He was not going to demean himself by dancing with such a thin little girl.

His eyes narrowed slightly as they met his brother’s, and Philippe felt waves of resentment rising within him. He was born only two years later
and the King was his brother, yet, because of those two years’ seniority, he must obey Louis even in their games. His mother had said so. Mazarin had said so.

For a few seconds the two brothers stood glaring at each other. Philippe thought of quarrels they had had. They did not often quarrel, but when they did he had always been the one who must take the blame. He remembered an occasion when the Court was on a journey and Louis had insisted that they share a bedroom. It was such a small room, quite different from those which they usually occupied, and in the morning, on awakening and finding his brother’s bed so close to his own, the King had spat on it. Philippe, ever ready to take offense, had immediately spat on Louis’ bed; this had enraged the King who immediately spat in his brother’s face. Philippe had then jumped on his brother’s bed and wetted it. Incensed, the King had repeated this action on his brother’s bed. When their attendants rushed in a battle was in progress; the brothers were flinging pillows about and trying to smother each other with the sheets, and it was all poor de Villeroi could do to stop them. Only La Porte had dared separate them and call upon them to realize what little savages they had become; at which Philippe flew into a rage, biting and kicking; but he, Philippe, had been ready to forget the incident in a few hours. Not so Louis. He could not forget. He blamed himself and suffered great remorse because he had conducted himself in a manner disgraceful to a King of France.

He had borne no resentment towards Philippe; he remembered that he had begun the quarrel by spitting on his brother’s bed. Within a week, when he was to continue the journey while Philippe stayed behind, he was melancholy at the separation, and during his absence had written notes to Philippe, begging for news of him and reminding him that he was his affectionate and kind little Papa Louis.

But it had not ended there, that quarrel in the bedroom; it was not Louis who had wounded Philippe’s
amour propre.
It was his mother and the Cardinal who had blamed the younger boy for the scene, who had impressed on him that he must never again expose his brother to indignity; if Louis spat on his bed he must remember that he did so with royal spittle, and it was not for Philippe to object.

Philippe was sullen; but he could not, of course, blame Louis; he could only be envious of Louis.

Now he remembered this and sullenly took the hand of the little girl, while Louis called to a musician to come and play music that his brother and cousin might dance.

Little Henriette danced with grace, and Louis watched with mild pleasure.
The Sun God! he was thinking, and he smiled at the picture of himself. The ballet would be devised to show his perfections; he would have the central part and, when it was over, everyone would fawn on him and tell him that he was no human; he was too perfect; he was divine.

But he would remember La Porte and try not to be too pleased with himself.

Philippe and Henriette had finished their dancing.

“Well done!” said Louis. “You shall have a part in the ballet, cousin.”

Philippe had languidly dropped his cousin’s hand. He said: “Louis, let us call in the others. Let us call de la Châtre, and the Coslin boys and du Plessis-Praslin … and de Guiche.”

“Yes,” said Louis, “have them brought. We will devise our ballet of the Sun God; and, cousin, I have promised you a part.”

“Thank you, Sire,” said Henriette shyly.

The King’s playmates came into the apartment. Louis said: “I have thought of a ballet. I am to be the Sun God.”

Philippe took de Guiche into a corner where they arranged each other’s hair and giggled together. Louis’ admirers closed about him.

Henriette stood apart. No one was very interested in the thin little girl.

Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter. Henriette was faintly alarmed. She knew her mother so well that she guessed some fresh task was about to be given her.

“I have good news for you,
chérie.
Your brother is coming to France.”

“Charles …”

“No, no, no! Always it is of Charles you think. You have other brothers. I refer to your brother Henry.”

“Henry … my youngest brother. I have never seen Henry.”

“Then that shall be remedied. You shall see him ere long, for he is coming to Paris.”

“Oh, Mam, I am so pleased.”

“I shall have yet another of my children with me. That pleases me. He is thirteen. I remember well the hot day he came into the world. It was in the Palace of Oatlands and your father …”

“Mam, I pray you do not speak of those days. They but distress you, and you must be happy now because Henry is coming.”

“Yes; and there is something we have to do for Henry—you and I.”

“I, Mam?”

“Yes, indeed. You are a fortunate girl. Do you realize that? You came to
France when you were but two years old and heresy had scarcely touched you. Your brother has been less fortunate. I fear his immortal soul is in danger. We must save him, Henriette. And in this I shall allow you to help me. You must explain to him what Père Cyprien has taught you so well. Together we will save his soul.”

Henry arrived—a shy boy of thirteen, very happy to be reunited with his family. His mother was loud in her exclamations of pleasure. Her beloved child restored to her; this was one of the happiest days of her life. Then she burst into passionate weeping because Elizabeth could not be with them.

Henry wept with her, and his little sister took his hand and begged him not to cry.

“For you are here, Henry,” she said. “That is one matter for rejoicing. Let us think of that and nothing else.”

Henry was pleased to do this; he was a boy who had had too much sorrow.

When they were alone together Henriette sought to do what her mother had commanded. She made him tell her of his life with James and Elizabeth and how James had escaped during a game of hide-and-seek. Then he told her of that time when they had lived at Syon House; but he did not speak of that January day when he and his sister had been taken to Whitehall to see their father. Instead he told her of Carisbrooke Castle and how Mr. Lovel had been good to him and had been his main companion since the death of Elizabeth; he told her how he had longed above all things to be with his mother again.

“Brother,” said Henriette, “you are not of our faith—Mam’s and mine.”

“I am of the faith of my father.”

“Henry, Mam wishes you to be of our faith. Will you come with me and hear what Père Cyprien has to say tomorrow?”

The boy’s mouth grew stern. “I beg of you, Henriette, do not ask me to do that. I did not tell you, but when we were at Syon House, Elizabeth and I went to Whitehall one day. It was a cold day and the river was frozen. It was the saddest day of my life, Henriette; but I did not know it then. We went to see our father. It was the day before he died.”

“Do not speak of it, Henry,” said Henriette shrilly. “I pray you, do not speak of it.”

“I must speak of it because I must explain. Our father took me onto his knee and told me that I must remain in the faith in which I was baptized.”

“That is not Mam’s faith and mine.”

“No. But it is the faith of my father and my father’s country.”

“I see, Henry.”

“Oh, Henriette, tell no one of this, but Mr. Lovel has said to me that if our mother had been of our father’s faith, if she had not tried to turn him into a Catholic, and our country into a Catholic country, our dearest Papa might be alive today.”

“Is it true then, Henry? Can that be true?”

“It is what has been said … not only by Mr. Lovel, but by many. I could never turn to a faith which by its very existence was responsible for my father’s death.”

“But it is Mam’s faith, Henry.”

“I am of my father’s faith and I will never be of another. I promised him, Henriette. Oh, you never knew him. It is so long ago, but I cannot think of him without weeping, Henriette. I cannot … I cannot …”

Henriette dried her brother’s eyes with her kerchief.

“Dearest brother, I shall never again ask you to change your faith. I am afraid myself … I am afraid of a faith which could bring about our father’s death.”

“Perhaps I am wrong, Henriette. Perhaps it is not a faith that could do this. Perhaps it is the way in which people think of their faith. It is not a religion which brings heartbreak and bloodshed; it is something in men which says: ‘I think this way and I will kill and torture all those who think otherwise.’ That cannot be true religion, Henriette. That is pride … self-pride and perhaps … doubt. I do not know. But do not ask me to change my faith.”

“I will not,” declared Henriette emphatically. “I promise I never will again.”

Henriette had passed her tenth birthday. She was leading a gayer life now than ever before. The royal brothers of France, discovering that, though only a little girl, she could dance gracefully and play the lute, graciously allowed her to take part in the revels. At the ballet in which the King appeared, not only as the Sun God, Apollo, but also as Mars, taking as well the minor roles of dryad, fury and courtier to show his versatility, the Court appeared to grow restive when he was not to the fore. Little Henriette had played the part of Erato, the muse of love and poetry; crowned with myrtle and roses she had repeated verses which she had learned by heart. Such an enchanting figure did she present that the Court was loud in its applause, and Henrietta Maria told those about her that this was one of the happiest
moments of her life; she had one grief and it was a great one; her martyred husband could not be here to witness his daughter’s triumph. Even Anne of Austria, lolling in her chair, had taken her eyes off her Sun God for a brief moment to study the little girl.