The Loves of Charles II (7 page)

Henriette could not understand what he meant, but she laughed with him; her laughter came of contentment.

He talked to her as he could not talk to others. He talked wistfully of his youth. He talked of England, where he had once been the most important of little boys; he told of playing in the gardens of palaces with his brother James and his sister Mary; they had played hide-and-seek on wet days through the great rooms of Hampton Court and Whitehall, and on fine days in the gardens, hiding among the trees, stalking each other through alleys of neatly trimmed yews. Best of all he loved to watch the ships on the river; so he told her how he used to lie in the grass for hours at Greenwich, watching the ships pass by.

“But, Minette, you do not know of these things, and I am a fool to talk to you, for in talking to you I am really talking to myself, and that is a foolhardy thing to do when such talk brings self-pity; for self-pity is a terrible thing, dear Minette; it is the sword which is thrust against oneself; one turns the blade in the wound; one revels in one’s own pain, and that way lies folly.” He stopped, smiling at her.

“More! More!” cried Henriette.

“Ah, my little Minette, what will become of us … what will our end be, I wonder?” But it was not in his nature to be sad for long. He did not believe that his father could be victorious, but he still could turn a nonchalant face to the future. He could live in the moment, and at this moment he was discovering what a delightful sister was his; he was discovering the pleasures of family life. “Dearest Minette, you do not tell me I must go and court the haughty Mademoiselle, do you! You laugh at my maudlin talk as though it were precious wit. Small wonder that I love you, sweet Minette.”

“Minette loves Charles,” she said, putting her arms about his neck.

Then he told her of Mr. Fawcett who had instructed him and his brother James in archery. His mind raced on; he thought of his French master and his writing master, and the tutor who had made him read from his horn-book; he remembered, too, his mother, who had smothered him with
her affection, and had impressed on him the importance of his position. “Never forget, Charles, that one day you will be King of England. You must be as great and good a King as your father.” He smiled wryly. Would the people of England now say that his father was a great and good King when they were doing their utmost—at least thousands of them were—to rid themselves of him? Would they ever welcome young Charles Stuart as their King?

“Poor Mam,” he said softly, “I have a feeling that she will never be satisfied. She is one of the unlucky ones of this world. It is a comfort to talk to you, sweet sister, because you are too young to understand all I say.” He put his lips against her hair. “You are lovely, and I love you. Do you know, I would rather be with you than with all the fine ladies of the Court—or with the King and Queen, and Mam … all of them.”

Then to amuse her he told her of the piece of wood which he always took to bed with him when he was a boy of her age. “In vain did they try to take it from me, for I would not let them. I loved my wooden billet, and I confess I kept it until it had to be taken from me by very force—and I knew then that I had long outgrown it. One day, Minette, I will tell you more. I will tell you of the fun we had—my brother and sister and I—and I’ll tell you how we thought we should go on forever and ever, laughing, playing our games; and then, suddenly, we grew up, all of us on the same day. It was worse for them, as they were younger than I; Mary only a year younger, James four years younger, and little Elizabeth five years younger. I was the big brother. Henry was the baby then, and there was no little Minette in our family, for she had not yet put in an appearance.”

“No Minette!”

“You cannot imagine a world without her, can you? Come, Minette, let us play a game together. I weary you with my talk.”

“No. Stay like this!” she said.

And thus it was that Mademoiselle, accompanied by his cousin Prince Rupert, found them.

“Your mother would not be pleased that you should spend your time playing with a baby in the nursery,” said Mademoiselle coquettishly. She told herself that she had little time to spare for this boy whose fortunes were in the balance, but she was never averse to a light flirtation, and there was something about him—in spite of his youth and inexperience—which interested her more than his cousin Rupert did.

“You must forgive me, Mademoiselle,” said Charles. “My French is not good enough to answer you in that language.”

She tapped his arm with her fan. “Are you not ashamed, cousin? You cannot speak French!”

“It is remiss of me. I fear I occupied myself riding and shooting at the
butts when I should have been studying French, just as you, Mademoiselle, doubtless indulged in some pastime when you should have been studying English.”

Rupert translated, and Mademoiselle pouted.

“What would you say if I said you might wear my colors, Charles?”

“I should say you are very gracious,” he answered through Rupert.

“I might allow you to hand me into my coach.”

“Mademoiselle is most kind.”

“And perhaps to hold the flambeau while I am at my toilette.”

“Pray tell Mademoiselle that I am overwhelmed by her generosity.”

Mademoiselle turned to Rupert. “Do not translate this I only do these things because I am sorry for the poor boy. I would never marry him, as his mother hopes I will. I have set my aim higher … much higher.”

“I am sure,” said Charles, “that Mademoiselle is talking sound sense.”

Rupert smiled. He knew that the Prince of Wales understood every word, and that it was only his shyness which prevented his speaking French with Mademoiselle.

“Tell him,” said Mademoiselle, “that he may come to my apartment and sit at my feet while I am with my women.”

When Rupert translated this, Charles replied: “Mademoiselle is overwhelmingly generous, but I have a previous engagement with a lady.”

“A lady!” cried Mademoiselle.

“My little sister, Mademoiselle. My friend Minette.”

Henriette guessed that the beautiful Mademoiselle was being unkind to her brother. “Go away!” she said. “Minette does not like you.”

Mademoiselle answered: “I know she is young, but she should be taught how to conduct herself. She should be beaten for that.”

Henriette, recognizing the word “beaten,” put her arms about her brother and buried her face against him.

“No one shall hurt you, Minette,” he told her. “No one shall hurt you while your brother Charles is here.”

Mademoiselle laughed, and rising, commanded Rupert to lead her away.

“We will leave the boy to play with his sister,” she said; “for after all, he is but a boy and still concerned, I doubt not, with childish things.”

And when they were alone, Minette and her brother were soon gay again, and she loved him dearly.

Each day they were together; each day he talked to her, and although she did not always understand what he said, she knew that he loved her as she loved him.

It had not occurred to her that life could change, until one day he came to her and sadly kissed her. “Minette,” he said, “we shall always love one an-other—you and I.” And the next day he did not come.

Angrily she demanded to know where he was. He had gone away, they told her.

She fretted; she would not eat; she so much longed for him.

Her mother warmly embraced her. “My dearest child, you are very young, but there are things you have to learn. Your father is fighting wicked men, and your brother must go to help him. Then, when they have beaten those wicked men, we shall all go home, and you will not only have one brother, but three—as well as a dear sister.”

“Don’t want three brothers,” sobbed Henriette. “Minette wants Charles.”

And all through the days which followed she was a sad little figure in the palace of Saint-Germain.

If any asked her what ailed her she would say: “Want Charles.” And each day she knelt on the window seat watching for him to come again; she waited, so it seemed to her, for years; but she never forgot him.

In the palace of the Louvre, the Princess Henriette lay in her bed. Her mother sat beside the bed, and about her shoulders were three cloaks, and her hands were protected by thick gloves. It was bitter January weather, and outside the Louvre, in the narrow streets of Paris, Frenchmen were fighting Frenchmen in that civil war which had been called the War of the Fronde.

Little Henriette, who was but four years old, shivered with the cold; her mother shivered also—but not only from cold. As her friend, Madame de Motteville, had said to her: “This year a terrible star reigns for kings and queens.”

Henrietta Maria was not thinking so much of the bloodcurdling shrieks which again and again reached her from the streets; her thoughts were across the Channel in her husband’s country, for he was now the prisoner of the Parliament, and awaiting trial. She had begged to be allowed to see him, but this had been denied her. If she came to England, she was told, it would be to stand on trial with him, for the Parliament considered her as guilty as her husband of High Treason.

What was happening in England? She knew little for no messengers could reach her, France having its own civil war with which to contend. She was alternately full of self-reproach and indignation towards others. She accused herself of ruining not only her own life but that of her husband and children; then she would rail against the wicked Cromwell and his Parliamentarians who had brought such suffering to her family.

And here she was—Queen of England—without food and warmth in
this vast palace, alone with her child, the child’s governess, Père Cyprien and a few servants who were all suffering now as she and her daughter suffered.

Three of her children were prisoners in the hands of the Parliament—James, Elizabeth and Henry. Mary, she thanked God, had been safely married and out of England before the trouble grew beyond control; and Mary at the Court of Holland provided a refuge for her brother Charles and any of those who managed to escape thither. The family relied on Mary in these hard times.

When she had first come to France much honor had been given to Henrietta Maria; but little by little she had shed her pomp, her plate and jewels; her foremost thought had been to send all she possessed to her husband in England. If she was frivolous, if she had been in a large measure responsible for his downfall, at least she was wholehearted in her passionate desire to help him. Only now that she was separated from him did she realize the extent of her love for that good and noble man, the best of husbands and fathers, even if he were not the wisest of kings. And now what assistance could she hope for from her royal relatives of France? They had been forced to leave Paris; the little King, in charge of his mother, the Queen-Regent, had slipped away from Paris to Saint-Germain where they stayed during the siege of Paris. Mademoiselle de Montpensier had decided to place herself on the side of the Frondeurs, which was typical of her; trust Mademoiselle to call attention to herself in some way!

It was an evil star indeed which shone on kings and queens during that year. Henrietta Maria had in vain warned her sister-in-law. Had she herself not suffered so much because she had once believed as Anne believed, behaved as Anne behaved? It was hard to learn that their countries were moving forward, that new ideas had brought a new outlook. The Stuarts would have been as autocratic as the Tudors, but they did not understand the people, and that understanding had been at the very root of the popularity achieved by those great Tudor sovereigns, Henry VIII and Elizabeth. The common people denied the Divine Right of Kings to govern; there were some who remembered the revolt of the barons in an earlier century. The people wished to go back to those conditions when a king’s power was limited. How easy it was to see mistakes when one looked back, and to say: “Had I done this, that would not have happened. Had we not made mistakes, Charles I and Henrietta Maria would be reigning in England now, living happily together.”

And so it was with Anne of Austria, the Queen-Mother of France. The situation was tragically similar. Mazarin and the Queen-Regent had imposed crushing taxes on the people, and the people would have them know that the age when kings and queens could believe they ruled by Divine
Right was over. France was divided. Anne, frivolous, as Henrietta Maria had been, and as unrealistic, had laughed in the face of Paul de Gondi, the Coadjuteur of Paris; she had encouraged her friends to laugh at him because he was something of a dandy, and that accorded ill with the
soutane
he wore as a man of the Church. Paul de Gondi was a strong man; he had declared he would be master of Paris and he had prepared himself to bring about that state of affairs.

It was last July, in the heat of summer, when, below that apartment in which the Queen of England and her daughter now shivered, Parisians had barricaded the streets. Great barrels, filled with earth and held in place by chains, were placed at the entrances of narrow streets. Citizens were detailed to guard these streets. This was reminiscent, and indeed inspired by the “Night of the Barricades” of the previous century.