The Loves of Charles II (35 page)

“You speak with fervor, de Guiche. Are you in love with my cousin?”

“I? What good would that do me? I do not love women, as you well know. They married me too young, and so I lost any taste I might have had for them. I was merely telling you that the King is not insensible to the charms of his cousin.”

“But he has refused to marry her; you know that.”

“Yes. And she knows it. It has made her quieter than ever in his
presence. But you have noticed the softness in the King’s eyes when he speaks of her? Poor Henriette! he says to himself. He is sorry for her. He does not understand. He gambols with his plump matrons. He is like a child learning love … for he is far younger than his brother. He has spent his time in youthful sports; he is a boy yet. He has now acquired a certain taste for love, but at the moment he likes the sweet and simple flavors. Wait … wait until he demands something more subtle.”

“Then you think …”

“He will one day greatly regret that he turned away from the Princess Henriette.”

“I cannot believe that, Comte.”

But Philippe was thoughtful; and his mind was filled with memories of Henriette.

During the journey of the French Court to the Spanish border, Henrietta Maria and her daughter remained in Paris. Charles took advantage of the absence of the Court to visit his sister.

He came riding to Colombes where they were residing at that time. Unceremoniously he found his sister, and Henriette, giving a little cry of joy, ran into his arms.

She was laughing and crying, looking eagerly into his face, noting the changes, the fresh lines about the eyes and mouth which did not detract from his charm.

“Charles! Charles!” she cried. “What magic have you? That which makes others ugly merely adds to your charm.”

“I was born ugly,” said the King. “Those who love me, love me in spite of my face. Therefore they are apt to find something to love in my ill-favored countenance and they call it charm … to please me.”

“Dearest brother, will you stay long?”

“Never long in one place, sister. I merely pay a flying visit while the coast is clear.”

“It is wonderful to see you. Mam will be delighted.”

Charles grimaced. “We are not the best of friends, remember. She cannot forgive me for taking Henry’s side against her, and for not being a Papist. I cannot forgive her for the way she treated the boy.”

“You must forgive her. There must not be these quarrels.”

“It was to see you I came.”

“But you will see her while you are here. To please me, Charles?”

“Dearest, can it please you to displease us both?”

“You would go away happier if you mended your quarrels with Mam.
Charles, she is most unhappy. She grieves continually. She thinks still of our father.”

“She nurses her grief. She nourishes it. She tends it with care. I am not surprised that it flourishes.”

“Try to understand her, Charles. Try … because I ask it.”

“Thus you make it impossible for me to refuse.”

So he did his best to mend the quarrel between himself and his mother. He could not love her; he could not tolerate cruelty, and when he remembered Henry’s sorrow he was still shocked. But they did not discuss his brother, and he was able to spend many superficially pleasant hours in his mother’s company.

It was not long after his arrival at Colombes that he betrayed to Henriette a secret excitement.

“I will tell you, sister,” he said, “because if this should fail—as most projects have failed—I should not mind your knowing. Have you ever heard of General George Monk?”

“No, Charles.”

“He was one of Cromwell’s supporters, but I do not think my lord Protector ever entirely trusted him. I have heard that once when George Monk was in Scotland, Oliver wrote to him: ‘ ’Tis said there is a cunning fellow called George Monk who lies in wait to serve Charles Stuart. Pray use your diligence to take him and send him to me.’ You see, Oliver was not without some humor.”

“You speak as though you could even forgive Oliver.”

“Forgive Oliver!” Charles laughed. “I thank God I shall never be asked to. He has passed beyond my forgiveness. I was never very skilled in judging and affixing blame. It is a matter of great relief to me that the judging of Oliver has passed into other hands. But more of Monk. He married his washerwoman—Mistress Anne Clarges; she must have a strong will as well as a strong arm for the tub, to induce the General to marry her. And do you know, Minette, Anne Clarges gives her support to me. She has a taste, not only for Generals, it seems, but for Kings; and I doubt not that she has urged her lord to favor me, with the same urgency as she once pressed him into marriage.”

“Do you mean, Charles, that there is a General in England who would be ready to help you regain your kingdom?”

“I do, Minette. Aye, and do not speak of him as
a
General. He is the foremost General. He is a man who served the Protector well, but who, since the death of Oliver, has become disgusted with the Parliamentarians’ rule. He has come to the conclusion that kings are slightly more attractive than protectors.”

“What is happening? What is General Monk doing?”

“He has drunk in the presence of others to ‘His Black Boy.’ That is his name for me. He is reputed to have said that he is tired of the bickering in high places and that, if he had an opportunity of doing so, he would serve me with his life.”

“Oh, Charles! If only it would come true!”

“If only, Minette! There have been so many ‘if onlys’ in my life. The sign of many failures, alas!”

“I shall hope and pray that Your Majesty soon comes to his kingdom. I shall pray that all health and happiness may attend Your Majesty.”

“Come, come, do not treat me with so much ceremony. There should not be so many ‘Your Majesty’s between us two; there should be nothing but affection.”

She clung to him, her eyes shining. Surely there must be some good fortune waiting for him at last! Surely the exile must soon be restored to his kingdom!

Mademoiselle de Montpensier was faintly alarmed.

She had lost all hope of the exalted marriage for which she had longed. It was now common knowledge that Louis was to marry Marie-Thérèse, the daughter of the King of Spain. Negotiations were going ahead. Louis was reconciled to the fact that as a king he must do his duty. It would not be many months before the marriage would take place.

So I shall never be Queen of France! thought Mademoiselle.

There were other offers for her hand. She was still a granddaughter of France if not a daughter, she reminded herself, and she was the richest heiress in the world. A grand marriage was still possible for her. She was fascinated by Charles Stuart, but she certainly would not marry a roaming exile, and she had no wish to leave France. France was her home, and to have lived for years at the Court of France was to know that other Courts could never satisfy. No! Mademoiselle knew definitely what she wanted. She wanted to remain in France, and she wanted to make a brilliant marriage. There was only one other man worthy of her, in her opinion, now that she could not have Louis. A second best it was true, but it would still be a royal marriage—Philippe.

She and Philippe were good friends. They had been brought up together. She was thirteen years older than he was, but that was not an insurmountable difficulty. She had bullied him in childhood because it was Mademoiselle’s habit to bully, but Philippe had accepted her domineering ways and even admired her for them. In the recent dispute over the right of
precedence, Philippe had immediately placed himself on her side and demanded to know why people who depended on them for their bread should walk before them.

Mademoiselle was certain that she only had to make her wishes known to Philippe and he would be eager for their marriage.

It was strange how serving women seemed to know more of what was going on at Court than their masters and mistresses.

It was Clotilde, her maid, who first made her aware of the mistake she might be making concerning Philippe.

As she combed Mademoiselle’s hair, she said: “Do you think Monsieur is serious in his attentions to the English Princess, Mademoiselle?”

“What is this? Monsieur … serious?”

“Oh yes, Mademoiselle. He is paying court to the Princess, it is said. He rides over to Colombes very often and … he is continually at the Palais-Royal.”

“This is nonsense.”

“It is, Mademoiselle?” Clotilde was silent. None dared contradict Mademoiselle.

“Well?” said Mademoiselle impatiently. “What else have you heard?”

Clotilde wished she had not spoken. She stammered: “Oh, ‘twas a rumor, I dare swear, Your Highness. It is said that he is enamored of the Princess Henriette and is spending much time with her.”

Mademoiselle’s face was scarlet with mortification. She did not believe it. She would not believe it.

But she was uneasy.

Later, in the ballroom, when she was dancing with the King, she could not refrain from mentioning the matter to him. “Your Majesty is setting the fashion for marriage, I hear. Is it true?”

Louis raised his eyebrows. “Is what true?”

“Philippe, Your Majesty. I hear rumors. I wondered if they were true. I have heard that he has become enamored of that little bag of bones, Henriette.”

Louis smiled. “Have you then? I doubt not that he will get her. Our aunt has tried in vain for the Grand Duke of Tuscany and the Duke of Savoy. They’ll have none of our poor Henriette. I am sorry for that girl. A hard life she has had. If Philippe wants to marry her he is sure to do so … for no one else will have her, I fear.”

“But … Your Majesty has heard these rumors?”

“Philippe has been thoughtful of late, and that is a sign of love. He rides often to Colombes, I hear; and Henriette is at Colombes.”

“Your Majesty would give your consent to such a marriage?”

Louis hesitated. He would do nothing, Mademoiselle knew, without the agreement of his mother and Mazarin. Louis, for all his magnificence, was a boy in the hands of those two. He now said uncertainly: “I would her brother could regain his kingdom. If so … it would be an excellent match … an excellent match.”

“There is little chance of that. And would Your Majesty allow your brother—Monsieur of France—to marry with the sister of an exile?”

“It would be hard to refuse,” said Louis. “If they were really in love … I should find it hard to refuse.”

Mademoiselle wished she could have slapped the sympathetic smile from the handsome face. It was all she could do to prevent herself doing so.

She was enraged. It would be intolerable if she lost not only Louis but Philippe.

All Paris was
en fête.

This was an occasion beloved by all, for on this hot August day the King was bringing his bride to the capital.

It might have been said that this year, 1660, was one when the stars of kings shone brightly.

Across the water there had been another great day—an even greater one for England than this was for France.

In London, a few weeks before, the streets had been decked with flowers and tapestries, fountains had run with wine, the citizens had shouted derisive farewells to the old
régime;
the life of pleasure and revelry was back, and there should be, all declared, more merriment than there had ever been before. The Black Boy was back; the Merry Monarch had returned; and his restoration was due to the will of his people—all except a few miserable Puritans.