The Loves of Charles II (26 page)

Yesterday he had had an adventure. It was an adventure which had seemed to befall him by chance. It had happened last night, and the partner of his adventure had been Madame de Beauvais who had always fascinated him in some strange way: Now he knew why. He had been dancing with her. The night was warm, and something in her expression as she looked at him made him say: “Madame, I should like to know you better than I do.” She had laughed and moved closer to him and had said: “That is a command. Should I come to your apartments or you to mine, Sire?” Oddly enough he had stammered like a nervous boy—he the King! She had laughed, strange, throaty laughter, which made his heart beat faster. “I’ll come to you,” she said. “The King cannot move without attracting attention. I will be in the antechamber when the guards are sleeping tonight, when all have retired.”

He only vaguely understood; he was very innocent. His mother and Mazarin had determined to keep him so; they did not want him to give rise to scandalous rumors about himself, as his grandfather had done in his early teens. He was astonished that this should have happened. She was old; she was twenty or more; she was plump; she had only one eye; but she had such merry laughter—merry and kind. And the thought of what she might have to say to him made his heart beat quickly.

So he had cautiously joined her in the antechamber. Did any of the guards see him go? Perhaps. But if they opened one eye they would realize from his manner that he did not wish to be seen, and the wishes of Louis Quatorze were always obeyed.

He was remembering now; he had wondered what he would say to her, but there had been no need of words. She wore nothing but a loose robe which fell from her as she approached him. He gasped; this reminded him of the first time he had dived into deep water when learning to swim; he had been tremendously exhilarated and fearful on that occasion, as he was on this.

“So to me comes the honor of leading Your Majesty to the
doux scavoir
!”

He stammered: “Madame … Madame …”

And she had said: “But you are beautiful. I am to mate with a god. I never thought that I should be the one.”

He was bewildered, but she was not. She was the kindest, most tender person in the world.

And afterwards they lay side by side until the dawn came; and then he said he had better leave her, but they would meet again. So he had tiptoed back to his apartments and lain in his bed, mazed, bewildered and enchanted.

He was grown up; the boy-King had become a man.

All that day he had gone about in a dream—a dream of power and pleasure. He could not help knowing that any beautiful woman on whom he cast his eyes would, he dared swear, be ready to share with him such an adventure as he had enjoyed last night with Madame de Beauvais.

This was exciting knowledge.

These were his thoughts as he prepared himself for the dance in his mother’s apartments.

As he walked into the room all rose and fell to their knees, except the two Queens who sat side by side. He made his way to them and kissed, first his mother’s hand, and then that of his aunt.

“My beloved, how splendid you look!” said his mother. “These apartments seemed so dull a moment ago. Now you have entered and the sun shines on us all.”

“Your mother but voices the thoughts of everyone present, Sire,” added Henrietta Maria.

Her eyes were on her young daughter. Oh dear, she thought, if only the child would plump up! How thin, she thought, if only the child would plump up! How thin she is! I would we had more money that she might be ade-Court and that she is not here like a bird of paradise putting us all to shame.

She glanced at her sister-in-law, informal in her brocaded dressinggown and
cornette.
It was but an informal occasion. She doubted much whether she and Henriette would have been invited had it been a grand ball or a masque, since their favor was not high at Court.

Louis was gazing round the company. Now that he had arrived, the violins began to play, but no one would dance until the King led the way. According to etiquette he must dance with the lady of the highest rank, and since neither of the Queens would dance, Louis would be bound in duty to ask his little cousin to dance first.

But Louis seemed disinclined to dance. The violins played on. He stood there, smiling to himself. He thought: If
she
were here, I would go to her now and ask her to dance with me. I should not care that she is not of the highest rank; I care nothing for rank. That is what I would have her know. I care only for what we were to each other last night, and that is something I shall never forget as long as I live. I will give her estates when it is in my power to do so. I will give her titles … and all she can desire. For no one could have been so kind as she was, pretending not to notice my inexperience, making of a simple boy a man of experience in one night.

Oh, the ecstasy of that encounter! Again tonight? Why had he come to a stupid dance? He had no desire to dance. He wished only to lie with her in
the dark … in that antechamber. Had not that which he desired always been granted?

She was not there, his dear, dear Madame de Beauvais. Perhaps it was well that she was not, for he would not have been able to hide his grateful love. Now he knew—and fresh gratitude swept over him—that for this reason she had stayed away: She did not wish him to betray himself! She understood. She was wise as well as tender; she was modest as well as sweetly full of knowledge.

He looked round the assembly. No! He would not dance with that thin little cousin of his. He was in no mood to talk to a child tonight. His newly-found manhood made demands upon him. Tonight he was in love with women—all mature women who understood the delights of the
doux scavoir.
He offered his hand to the Duchesse de Mercoeur, who was the eldest niece of Cardinal Mazarin, a young and handsome matron.

Anne gasped. There was one thing which could always arouse her from her torpor—a breach of etiquette.

This was impossible! Louis had overlooked the Princess Henriette.

She rose and went to her son’s side. “My dearest,” she whispered, “you have forgotten … Your cousin Henriette is here …”

The King frowned; now he looked like the little boy who had played with the latch in the Carmelite convent. “Tonight,” he said, “I do not wish to dance with little girls.”

Henrietta Maria felt faint with anxiety. The King was slighting her daughter. He did not want to dance with a little girl! Well, Henriette was young yet, and she was so thin—bad, bad child; she would not eat enough! But later on he might grow fond of her. In the meantime this was disastrous. What could she do?

She rose uncertainly and went to Anne and Louis.

“I must tell Your Majesties,” she said, “that my daughter cannot dance tonight. She has a pain in her foot. It would be too painful for her to attempt to dance. I am sure that His Majesty was aware of this and for that reason asked the Duchesse to dance.”

Anne replied: “If the Princess is unfit to dance, the King should not dance tonight.”

The King’s natural good temper seemed to have deserted him. There was an ominous silence throughout the apartment. All eyes were on the royal party. Henrietta Maria thought quickly: A scene must be avoided at all costs. This might result in our being banished from Court.

She said firmly: “My daughter
shall
dance. Come, Henriette.”

Henriette, blushing and miserably unhappy, obeyed her mother.

For an instant the King did not move to take her hand. Why should
he—a man as well as a King—be told with whom to dance? Why should he not choose whom he pleased? He was no longer a boy. Madame de Beauvais understood that; all the Court … all the world must understand it too.

Then he looked at the little girl beside him. He saw her lips tremble and he noted the misery in her eyes. He realized her humiliation and he was ashamed suddenly. He was behaving more like a spoiled boy than the man he had become last night.

He took his cousin’s hand and began to dance. He did not speak to her. He saw that she was fighting back her tears, so he pressed her hand tightly. He wanted to say: it is not that I do not wish to dance with you, Henriette. It is just that I am in no mood for the company of children.

But he said nothing and the dance continued.

That night the Princess Henriette cried herself to sleep.

Henriette was with her mother in the great Cathedral of Notre Dame de Rheims. It was an honor to be here, she knew; her mother had impressed that upon her. They were participating in the Coronation of the King of France to which they had been invited, although it seemed that there was very little hope of the royal house of England’s ever reinstating itself.

Charles was wandering around Europe, never staying long in one place, now and then daring to hope that there might be a chance of a little help from some important monarch who had reason to dislike the Protector of England. Plans … plans … plans … which never seemed to materialize. Then he would return to his dicing and women. Rumor reached France that the profligacy of the roaming English Court was becoming notorious.

Henriette longed for news of him, longed to see his face again. Each day, she hoped, would bring some news of him. At least, when he idled with his profligate friends, he was not endangering his life.

Once she had found consolation for the loss of her brother in the exciting company of her magnificent royal cousin, but that had changed recently. She and her mother spent most of their time in seclusion now at the Palais-Royal, Chaillot or Colombes, this last being a pretty house on the Seine, which Henrietta Maria had acquired, and where it was pleasant to spend the hot summer months. Life was growing quieter. Henriette was studying a good deal; her education was opening out into a course hardly ever pursued by ladies of her rank. There was little to do but study. She was thinner than ever and growing too quickly. Already she was aware of a slight deformity in her spine. She dared not tell her mother of this. One could not add to the sorrows of
La Refine Malheureuse.
Henriette knew that her mother longed for her to grow plump, with rounded cheeks and limbs. She,
the daughter of an exiled family, would have nothing to recommend her as a wife but rank and beauty; and at this stage it seemed that the latter would never be hers.

Sometimes she worked in a frenzy that she might please her tutors and Père Cyprien; her knowledge increased and her wits sharpened; for recreation she played the lute and harpsichord and also practiced singing. She improved her dancing, practicing often, sometimes alone, sometimes with her women; she wished to excel at that because Louis set such store by it. Her slenderness gave her grace, and she learned to disguise her slight deformity by the dresses she wore, so that only her intimate attendants were aware of it.

She longed to be able to please her mother. She dreamed sometimes that she had become a
bel esprit
of the Court; she devised clever remarks; she imagined that Louis himself laughed heartily at her
bon mots.
It was pleasant dreaming.

Often she was at Chaillot with her mother, and there she was able to please the Queen by waiting at table on the Abbess and her Filles de Marie. They all declared that she was charming, graceful and modest.

And now there had come this invitation to attend the Coronation. Henrietta Maria was delighted.

“So we are not forgotten!” she cried. “On an occasion they realize, do they not, that it would be a great breach of etiquette to ignore such close relationships.”

It was not as her mother believed, Henriette was sure. Louis had wanted them to be present, for Louis—King though he was, haughty though he could be—was more sorry for them than anyone else at the Court. Henriette remembered how he had danced with her and that the frown on his face had meant that he was sorry he had slighted her. He was ashamed of what he had done. Therefore he would take great pains to be kind. That was the sort of boy Louis was. While he had strong desires, while the sycophants about him assured him that his conduct was as perfect as his person, he yet wished to do what was right in his own eyes.

He was sorry for his thin little cousin; therefore he made a point of graciously inviting her and her mother to his Coronation. That was all. Henriette kept reminding herself of this.

Now they were bringing Louis into the Cathedral.

At six o’clock that morning, two Bishops, preceded by the Canons of the Chapter, had gone to the Archbishop’s Palace—where Louis had had his lodging—and up to the King’s bedchamber. The Precentor had knocked on the door with his silver wand.

“What do you want?” the Grand Chamberlain had asked from within.

“We desire the King,” said the Bishops.

“The King sleeps.”

“We desire Louis, the XIV of that name, son of the great Louis XIII, whom God has given us to be our King.”

Then they entered the chamber where Louis had been lying in the state bed, pretending to be asleep. He wore a cambric shirt and red satin, gold-braid-trimmed tunic slit in certain places to allow him to be anointed with holy oil. Over this he wore a robe of cloth of silver, and on his head there was a black velvet cap decorated with feathers and diamonds.