The Loves of Charles II (41 page)

Philippe, she sometimes thought, was more in love with himself than with her. He liked her to admire his clothes and jewels. She believed it
would not be difficult to live with Philippe. He was not very much older than she was, and she began to think she had been childish to feel so fearful.

Sometimes she would find his eyes upon her—alert, watchful, as though he were searching for something, as though he found her fascinating in a way he could not understand.

Once he said: “My lovely Henriette, you are charming. But yours is a beauty which is not apparent to all. They must look for it. They must seek it out. And then they find how very charming it is, because it is so different, so enchanting that the voluptuous beauties of the Court seem merely fat and vulgar when compared with you.”

She said: “You are fond of me, Philippe, and thus you see perfection where others see what is imperfect.”

He smiled secretly and after a while he said: “Now that all these perfections are mine, I should like others to see them and envy me my possessions.”

She grew gay during those days of her honeymoon. She felt she had made an important discovery. There was nothing to fear from Philippe; he was kind and not excessive in his demands for a love she could not give him. It was as though, like herself, he accepted their intimacy for the sake of the children they must beget. She was no longer to suffer humiliation. He talked of the entertainments they would give as Monsieur and Madame of France; and she found herself waiting eagerly to begin the round of gaiety he was proposing.

“You were meant to be gay, Henriette,” he told her. “You have suffered through living in the shade. Now that the sun will shine upon you, you will open like a flower. You will see; others will see.” He went on, “We should not stay here in solitude too long. We must not forget that we are Monsieur and Madame, and there is one whom we must entertain before all others. I refer, of course, to my brother. Let us plan a grand ball and decide on whom we shall invite. The list will not include the Queen. Poor Marie-Thérèse! Her condition is just what the country would wish it to be, but I’ll swear she looks plainer than ever. We’ll have to provide another lady for Louis. That should not be difficult. Who shall it be? Madame de Soissons? Perhaps … But enough of Louis. This is your first appearance as Madame, and I wish it to be remembered by all who see it. Your gown … what shall it be? The color of parchment, I think. That will show your dark eyes. And there shall be slashes of scarlet on it … again for the sake of your
beaux yeux.
And in your hair there shall be jewels. Remember, Henriette, you are no longer an exile. You are Madame … Madame of the Court, the first lady of the ball; for my mother will not come, nor will yours; and poor little Marie-Thérèse must lie abed nursing the heir of France within her!”

“Philippe, I have rarely seen you so excited.”

“I think of your triumph. How proud I shall be! Henriette, make me proud. Make all men envy me.”

She laughed and threw herself gleefully into the preparations. There should be a dazzling ballet for the King’s enjoyment. She and Philippe would dance together. Their first entertainment for the King should surpass all that had gone before.

She was gay. She wrote verses; she practiced the singing of them; she practiced the dance; her gown would be the most becoming she had ever possessed. For life had taken a new turn, and she was going to assume that gaiety which was her birthright and which had lain slumbering too long.

Philippe watched her, smiling, clapping his hands, kissing her lightly.

“All men will envy me this night!” he declared.
“All
men!”

Animated, and vivacious as none had seen her before, she greeted Louis on his arrival, gracefully curtsying as he extended his hand for her to kiss.

He had said good night to his wife before he had left for the Tuileries; and he had thought how plain and sallow she was.

She was lying back in bed playing cards with her women, her greedy eyes turned from the dish of sweetmeats which were on the bed. She looked at him as though he were one of the sweetmeats, the biggest and the most succulent; and he had felt sick and angry because the daughter of the King of Spain did not look like Madame de Soissons.

Now Henriette stood before him. Such radiance! Such beauty! He had never before seen her thus. All his pity for his poor little cousin was swept aside and there remained feelings which he did not understand.

He said: “It shall be my privilege to open the ball with you, cousin … nay, you are my sister now.”

He took Henriette’s hand.

She thought how handsome he was, and she was momentarily wretched because it was his brother and not himself who was her husband. But now he was looking at her as he had never looked before, when the violins began to play and the dancers fell in behind them.

“You have changed,” said Louis.

“Is that so, Your Majesty?”

“Marriage has changed you.”

“Your Majesty knew me for a long time as the sister of an exiled King. Now Your Majesty sees me as the sister of a reigning King and … your brother’s wife.”

“Henriette,” he whispered, “I’m glad you are my sister.”

Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and he saw them.

Then suddenly understanding came to him. So many women had loved him; here was another.

He was silent as they continued the dance, but she was no longer silent. She was beautiful and vivacious tonight, and she knew that this was the beginning of a new life for her. She knew that all in the vast room watched her and marveled at the change in her. She could almost hear their voices, see the question on their lips: Is this little Henriette, the quiet little Princess who was so shy, so thin, so ready to hide herself in a corner? Has marriage done this? So all that charm and gaiety was hidden beneath those quiet looks!

Louis was enchanted. He did not notice Madame de Soissons. He could not bring himself to leave Henriette’s side; and she felt recklessness sweep over her. She had been unhappy so long because he had failed to find her attractive.

Now she was happy; she could live in the moment. At last Louis had looked at her and found the sight a pleasing one.

He said to her: “Now that the Queen is indisposed, there is much you can do to help me. We shall need a lady to lead the Court. My mother has felt the Cardinal’s death sorely, my wife is indisposed …”

“I shall do my best to prove a good substitute,” she murmured.

“Substitute!” said Louis. “Oh … Henriette!”

“Your Majesty finds me changed. Have I changed so much? I am still thin.”

“You are as slender as a willow wand.”

“Still the bones of the Holy Innocents! Do you remember?”

“You shame me,” cried Louis. “I am thinking what a fool I was. Henriette, what a blind, stupid fool!”

“Your Majesty …”

“I think of what might have been mine, and what is. I might have been in Philippe’s place. I might …”

She broke in: “Your Majesty, what would I not have given to see you look at me thus a year ago!”

“So you …”

“Do you doubt that any who look upon you could fail to love you?”

“What can we do?” said the King. “What a tragedy is this! You and I … and to know this … too late!”

She said: “We are princes, and we have our duty. But that will not prevent our being friends. It is enough for me to be near you and see you often.”

“Yes, often. It shall be so. Henriette … you are the most perfect being of my Court, and you are … Philippe’s wife!”

So they were together and Madame was gay that night.

This is the happiest time of my life, she told herself.

Philippe watched his wife and his brother with immense satisfaction, for at last he had that which Louis coveted. Here was his revenge for all the boyhood slights.

Louis wanted Henriette, and Henriette was Philippe’s wife.

enriette began to be happy as she had never been happy before.

Louis loved her; he sought every opportunity of being with her. She was to reign over the Court with him; he reproached himself a hundred times a day because he might have married her, but had been a blind fool; he realized that he had never been indifferent to her, that those stirrings of pity which she had aroused in him had, in fact, been true love. He saw himself as a simpleton, a man who had never thought for himself because there had been others to think for him, a man who had never explored his own mind, because there were so many to tell him he was perfect, more god than man. He had never been given to self-analysis. Why should he? He had been told he was perfect. He had been taught to vault and ride, to show off his physical perfections rather than to study and use his brains.

He saw himself for the first time as a man who had been duped by his own simplicity. Beside him, loving him, had been the perfect companion, and he had failed to see in her more than a sad little cousin, worthy of his pity.

If Henriette had changed, so had Louis. He was no longer the puppet King. Mazarin was dead, and he intended to be the true King of France. He had grown up through the realization of his love for Henriette; he was a simple boy no longer; he was a man who would also be a King.

Now he began to show his mother that she could no longer lead him. He, Louis, would decide.

He seemed to increase his stature. He was at least three inches taller than most men at Court, but he seemed more than that in his high heels and his wig of stiff frizzed hair which rose straight up from his brow adorned with the broad-brimmed plumed hat. He was a magnificent figure, the leader of the Court, as he had never been before.

In those weeks it was enough for Louis—as it was for Henriette—to know themselves loved by the loved one. Their relationship seemed to them the more perfect because, as they saw it at this time, it could never reach its
natural climax. It was romantic love which seemed to gain beauty from the fact that it could not reach that climax and therefore would go on forever at the same high level. Both Louis and Henriette were too well-versed in the etiquette of the Court to believe that Henriette could ever be his mistress—not only because of their marriage vows, but because of the close relationship which Henriette’s marriage with Philippe had brought about.

Fontainebleau made a perfect setting for their romance. There in the gilded salons, Louis whispered to Henriette that he loved her; he told her the same thing as they wandered through the gardens. He enjoyed establishing an unceremonious rule at his beloved Fontainebleau, at this time his favorite palace. He would be there with Henriette, the Queen of his intimate Court; he would walk among his friends, joining their games of billiards and piquet when the fancy took him. Always Henriette was beside him, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his candid eyes alight with affection; they would discuss together the rebuilding of Versailles, planning the long gallery with its border of orange trees to be set in boxes of silver and to be lighted by candles in rock crystal lusters. Through the shrubberies and groves they wandered when they wished to be alone; under trees and past bushes which they planned to take from these woods of Fontainebleau to beautify the gardens of Versailles and make a charming setting for its statues and its waterworks.