The Loves of Charles II (34 page)

The excitement at the news of Oliver’s death had still thrilled the King and his Court, who were then in Brussels, when Ann had arrived with the children.

Charles was silent for a few moments when he heard of Lucy’s death. He embraced Jemmy warmly and, when the little girl, Mary, waited with such expectancy, there was nothing he could do but embrace her also.

He laid his hand on Ann Hill’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Ann. Lucy was fortunate in you … more fortunate than in some others. Have no fear. We will do our best to see you settled.”

Ann fell on her knees before him and kissed his hand; she wept a little, and he turned away because the tears of all women distressed him.

Later he sent for Lord Crofts—a man whom he admired—and said to him: “My lord, you have this day acquired a son. I command you to take him into your household and bring him up as one of your own. I refer to my son James.”

Lord Crofts bowed his head.

“I thank you with all my heart,” said the King. “I know I cannot leave Jemmy in safer hands. Henceforth it would be better for him to be known as James Crofts.”

“I shall obey Your Majesty’s commands to the best of my ability,” said Lord Crofts.

And so Jemmy was handed over to Lord Crofts to be brought up as a member of his family and to be taught all that a gentleman of high quality should know.

There still remained Mary.

“God’s Body!” cried the King. “That child is no responsibility of mine.”

He sent for Henry Bennet.

“Your daughter is at Court. What do you propose to do about her?” he demanded.

“Alas, Sire, I know of no such daughter.”

“Come,” said the King, “she is Lucy’s girl. You knew Lucy well, did you not?”

“Even as did Your Majesty.”

“I have placed my son in a household where he will be brought up in accordance with his rank. You should do the same for your daughter.”

“Ah, the boy is lucky. It is a simple matter for a King to command others to care for his bastard. It is not so simple for a humble knight.”

“It should not be a task beyond the strength of such as you, Henry.”

“Poor little Mary! They have been brought up together, those two. It is a sad thing that one should have a future of bright promise and the other …”

“What do you mean, Henry? They’re both bastards.”

“But one is known to be the King’s bastard. The other, bastard of a humble knight. A King’s bastard is equal to any man’s son born in wedlock. It is not such a bad fate to be a King’s bastard. Poor Mary! And, for all we know, she might have been … she might have been …”

“She could not have been! I have a good alibi, Henry. I know I am far from impotent, but I am not omnipotent. My children are as the children of other parents. They grow as other children … before and after birth.”

“Many have thought her to be your child, Sire. You can be sure Jemmy boasted that he had a King for a father.”

“Are you suggesting that I should take upon myself the responsibility of fathering the child?”

“Sire, you have had children already, and there will be many more, I doubt not. Can one little girl make such a difference?”

“You’re insolent, fellow! You would shift your responsibilities on to me, when it is a King’s privilege to shift his responsibilities on to others. Did you not know that?”

“’Tis so, Sire!” sighed Henry. “Alas, poor Mary! The poppet has set her heart on having a King for a father. Your Majesty has charmed her as you charm all others. She is, after all, a woman.”

Charles said: “Oh … put the girl with a good family then. Give her a chance such as Jemmy will have.”

“In Your Majesty’s name, Sire? Mary will bless you all her days. She’s Jemmy’s sister, remember. You know how you love to please the ladies, and this little lady will be but one more.”

“You may get you gone from my presence,” said the King with a laugh. “First you steal my mistress when my back is turned; and not content with that you cajole me into fathering your daughter!”

He strode away laughing. He had been enchanted with little Mary; he wished she were in truth his child. But as Henry said: What did one more matter? The children would be well cared for, well nurtured; and Lucy—poor Lucy—could rest in peace.

He had thought at that time that his chances of regaining his throne had improved; alas, he had hoped too soon.

He went to Holland, where, on the strength of his hopes, the Dowager Princess of Holland smiled on his betrothal to Henriette of Orange. She was a charming girl, and Charles found it easy to fall lightly in love with her. But the romance was upset for two reasons: Most important, the Dowager Princess realized that Charles was not to be recalled and would doubtless remain an exile; and secondly, even while courting Henriette he had become involved in a scandal with Beatrix de Cantecroix, a very beautiful and experienced woman who was the mistress of the Duke of Lorraine.

Charles left Holland for Boulogne where he planned to journey to Wales and Cornwall, there to gather an army and fight for his throne.

But his plans were discovered by the enemy, and once again they came to nothing.

He decided then to see Mazarin and ask for France’s help in regaining his crown.

Mazarin was already in negotiation for a peace with Spain, and Charles was treated with the utmost coldness.

And so it seemed that, nearly two years after Cromwell’s death, his position was as hopeless as it had ever been.

The French Court travelled south. In the eyes of Mazarin this journey was very necessary. There had been rioting in some southern towns, and a great deal of dissatisfaction had followed the arrest of certain men, some of whom had been hanged, others sent to the galleys.

Mazarin believed that a sight of the handsome King, together with his most gracious and benign manners, would rouse new feelings of loyalty in rebellious Frenchmen.

But that was not the only reason why the Cardinal so favored this tour.

He was considering a peace treaty with Spain, and his experience had always taught him that the best cement for securing peace was a marriage between the members of the two countries concerned.

Philip IV of Spain had a daughter—Marie Thérèse—and she would be a fitting bride for Louis.

Louis knew of this, and realized the importance of such a match. For two years there had been war between France and Spain; and unless real peace could be made between the two countries, doubtless ere long there would be war again. Marriage was one of a King’s first duties, providing it was the right kind of marriage; and Louis was ever conscious of his duty.

When Marie Mancini had been sent away from the Court he had turned to her elder sister Olympia who had married the Count of Soissons.
He was soon deep in romantic love again, and gave balls in honor of the lady when he was not gambling in her house until three in the morning.

The Queen and Mazarin watched this friendship. “There is nothing to fear,” said Anne to the Cardinal. “She is married, and he is safe with her. It is the romantic attachments to unmarried ladies which bother me. My Louis is so noble; he loves like a boy of sixteen still.”

The Cardinal nodded; he was eager to reach the Pyrenean frontier.

Philippe was pleased because his favorite, the Comte de Guiche, travelled with the royal party.

The Comte was an extremely handsome young man with bold dark eyes and a dashing manner; Philippe had admired him from his earliest days and had commanded that the Comte should be his special companion. De Guiche was clever, witty and very sure of himself. Moreover, being a married man, he seemed knowledgeable in the eyes of Philippe. The young Comte had married—most reluctantly—when he was very young indeed, a child who was heiress to the great house of Sully; he had never had the slightest affection for his young wife, avoided her as much as possible, and was content to be the
bel ami
of the King’s brother.

He was of the noblest family—that of the de Gramonts. His father was the Maréchal who enjoyed the affection as well as the respect of the royal family. The young Comte had grace of person; he excelled in social activities such as the ballet, which Louis had made so popular; he knew exactly how to please Philippe, and Philippe declared that he simply could not
exist
without his dear friend.

De Guiche had quickly discovered that one of Philippe’s chief wishes was to be told that he was in reality as attractive as Louis. It was clear to the sly young Comte that Philippe had suffered much through his proximity to his royal brother. Louis was tall; Philippe was short. Louis was handsome in a masculine mold; Philippe was almost pretty in a girlish way; he had beautiful dark eyes, long lashed; he was graceful, almost dainty, and he accentuated his good points by means of jewels and cosmetics. Philippe must be constantly assured that he, in his way, was as attractive as Louis, and de Guiche’s task was to assure him of this without saying anything which could be construed as disrespectful to the King. This was not easy, and there were occasions when de Guiche grew bold in his confidences with the young Prince.

As they journeyed through Marseilles—that turbulent town which had been more rebellious than most—and the people looked on their young King, those who had been ready to condemn the royal house experienced a quick change of mind. How could they do anything but express their love and loyalty to this handsome Apollo who rode among them, bowing and
smiling, telling them that he was their “Papa Louis,” that he was their King who loved them?

Philippe, watching his brother’s triumph, scowled. The people did not cheer him as they did Louis; they did not admire him as they did the King. He fancied some of them tittered at his appearance. That was intolerable.

De Guiche knew that his royal friend was in special need of comfort and he wondered how best to give this.

It was a few evenings later, when they had rested at one of the châteaux on their road, that the two walked together in the grounds, and Philippe had his arm about de Guiche’s shoulders.

“This journey is not so much in order to soothe these people by Louis’ magnificent presence,” said Philippe with a touch of anger as he referred to his brother, “as that there may be conferences between the ministers of Spain and our own.”

“Monsieur is right as usual,” said de Guiche. “It is Louis’ marriage which is under consideration.”

“I wonder if he will like Marie-Thérèse.”

“I have heard rumors that she is very small and far from well favored,” said de Guiche, to please his master.

Philippe laughed. “He’ll not like that. He likes big plump women—matrons—with some experience to help him along.”

De Guiche joined in Philippe’s laughter, and Philippe went on: “Louis is the most innocent King that ever sat upon the throne of France.”

“He has not Monsieur’s quick mind,” said de Guiche. “That has kept him innocent.”

“You flatter, dearest Comte.”

“It is no flattery. Is it not clear? See how he worships Madame de Soissons. She clearly loves the King because he is the King. And Monsieur de Soissons is so blind because his wife’s lover is the King. But Louis thinks it is pure good chance that Soissons should not be in her apartment when he visits her. Louis is so romantic!”

Mayhap he will not feel so romantic when he is married to Marie-Thérèse. She is very thin; she is very plain. Why are all the girls whom princes may marry, thin and plain? Marguerite; Henriette; and now Marie-Thérèse.

“Henriette?” said de Guiche sharply.

“My cousin … the Princess of England.”

“She is thin, yes,” said de Guiche slowly; “but she has a charm.”

“A charm! But she is so very thin … nothing but a bag of bones! And so quiet.”

“There are some who are quiet because their discourse would be too profound to interest most of those who are at hand to hear it.”

“But … Henriette … profound!”

“She has a quality,” said de Guiche. “It is as yet hidden. She is not fifteen, your little cousin. Wait, Monsieur … ah, wait!”

“This is amusing. I think you but seek to make me laugh, dear Comte.”

“No. I speak with great seriousness. She is a child yet, but she is clever. There is one thing: I have seen a certain sparkle in her eyes. She is sad because her life is sad. She has always lived in exile … like a plant in the shade. Ah, if the sun would shine on her! If she could let loose her natural gaiety! But she cannot. She is plagued all the time. She is an exile … a beggar at Court. Mademoiselle de Montpensier continually seeks to take precedence. Henriette’s brothers wander the Continent; she never knows when they will meet their death. She is humiliated at every turn and, being so clever—so full of imagination—she is sensitive; so she remains in her corner, quiet and pale, and to those who have not the eyes to see, so plain. Do not underestimate Henriette, Monsieur. Your brother is not insensible to her charm.”

“Louis!”

“Ah, Louis knows it not yet. Louis sees her as you do. Poor plain little cousin. ‘Nothing but bones,’ he said, and he thinks of his plump matrons. But Louis is romantic. He is a boy in heart and mind. You, Monsieur—forgive me; this sounds like treason, but between ourselves, eh?—you are so much cleverer than the King. You see more clearly. I’ll wager this: One day Louis will not be insensible to the charms of little Henriette. Let her brother regain his throne; let her come out of her corner; let her dazzle us with
her
beautiful clothes, her jewels. Then we shall see her beauty shine. Do you remember that, in the ballets, it is she who often says: ‘Wear this … it will so become you.’ And how often is she right! Have you seen her, animated in the ballet, playing a part? Then she forgets she is the exiled Princess, the little beggar girl who may be snubbed at any moment. The true Henriette peeps out for a while to look at us; and, by the saints, there you have the most charming lady of the Court!”