The Wondering Prince

FIVE

The carriage of the Queen-Mother of France was turning in at the Palais-Royal. Henrietta Maria was waiting impatiently to receive her, curbing the natural impatience which this flaccid-minded woman inspired in her, cautioning herself to remember that she was dependent on her sister-in-law’s hospitality, on her sister-in-law’s goodwill, if that for which she longed above all things was to come to pass.

Into the great reception room swept Anne of Austria, accompanied by her women. Poor creatures! thought Henrietta Maria. They looked worn out—worn out with having to listen to her inanities, having to adjust their minds to hers—quite a feat, for many of them were not only well-born but well-educated women. How relieved they must be at the end of the day after the Queen’s coucher when they must chatter lightly to her until she had fallen asleep, for then they could escape from their bondage!

It was a great honor that she should condescend to call at the lodging of her exiled sister-in-law. Henrietta Maria’s heart leaped with hope in contemplating the cause.

They embraced—the Queen-Mother of France and the exiled Queen of England. The ready tears came to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.

“Such an honor … such an honor,” she murmured. “Dearest Majesty, you make me forget I am an exile depending on your bounty.”

Anne smiled. She was generous by nature and she loved to do little kindnesses if they did not involve taking too much trouble. She spent all the morning in bed and after that she prayed in her oratory for hours. She liked to be there alone, while her thoughts flitted lightly from one subject to another. What delicacies would her cooks have prepared for her that day? What new gossip was there in the Court? What new plays were being prepared for her? What was her darling doing at this moment? She must ask him to come to see her. Ask now—not command anymore. The beloved creature was no longer to be commanded. She could lie back in the sanctity of her oratory and think about his many perfections—her beautiful, beautiful son, of whom she never tired of thinking, whose handsome looks were a delight to her whenever her eyes fell upon him. Every queen in the world envied her her Louis. Any queen who had produced such a one had justified her existence, was entitled to give up her days to idling, gambling, watching plays, gossip …

She was doubly pleased with herself, for not only had she produced Louis, but Philippe. She laughed to herself sometimes when she thought of her late husband, now no longer here to plague her. Not that she thought of him often; he had been dead for nearly ten years. She was not one to brood on the past. She lightly skimmed over the years of marriage, his dislike for her, the urgent need for a child, which had forced Cardinal Richelieu to bring them together for a brief spell, and themselves to conform to his wishes; and the miracle, the birth of Louis—Louis Dieudonné—and later that of Philippe.

But why think of that other Louis—her husband—the cold, ugly misogynist who, after the first delights of fatherhood, had been irritated by the boisterous manners of his heir. Anne could smile at the memory of the little Prince’s distaste when he had first seen his father in his nightcap. He had roared his dislike so that the King had turned furiously on his wife, accusing her of influencing the child against him, and he had even threatened to take the child from her.

Not that he had succeeded in doing that. He had been old; he was enfeebled; it had been clear that he was not long for this world.

It had seemed prophetic when, on the occasion of little Louis’ christening at the age of two, his father had taken him on his knee when the ceremony was over and asked him: “Now what is your name, my child?” and the boy had answered boldly: “I am Louis XIV, Father.” Then had the bitter mouth curled; then had the ugly eyes narrowed and a faint smile had touched the sallow face. “Not yet, Louis XIV,” he had said. “Louis XIII is not dead yet. Aye, but mayhap you speak only a little too soon.”

It was not long after that that the boy was indeed Louis XIV, and new power had come to Anne as Regent. Not that she had ever wished to alter her way of life. Politics bored her and she had her dear Mazarin to do for her what Richelieu had done in a previous reign. She was more concerned with the trivialities of life.

“Dismiss the attendants,” she said now to Henrietta Maria. “Let us have a sisterly talk.”

“This is an honor and a pleasure,” said Henrietta Maria.

“Ah,” said Anne, when they were alone, “it is good to be back in Paris. It is good to know that the troubles are over.”

“And to see your son, His Majesty, gives me no less pleasure than it does yourself, I assure you, dear sister,” said Henrietta Maria. “He grows in beauty. A short while ago it would not have seemed possible for any to be more handsome. But it was so. Louis of today is more beautiful than Louis of yesterday.”

If there was one thing Anne liked better than lying abed, gossiping or having her hair combed, displaying her beautiful hands for admiration, partaking of the savory dishes and sweetmeats prepared for her approval, it was listening to praises of her son.

“You speak truth,” she said now. “I confess his many perfections amaze me.” She added condescendingly: “And your little daughter is not without her charm.”

“My little Henriette! I have done my best. It has not been easy. These terrible years … I have devoted much time to her education. She is clever. She has also read much and she takes a delight in music. She can sing well; she plays, not only the harpsichord, but the guitar. Her brother, the King, adores her and declares he delights in her company far more than that of many ladies noted for their wit and beauty.”

“He is a good brother to little Henriette. Poor child! Hers has been a hard life. When I think of her fate and compare it with that of my own two darlings …”

“Fortune has smiled on you, sister. There are some of us …” The ready tears sprang to Henrietta Maria’s eyes.

But Anne, who did not care for exhibitions of grief, said quickly: “Well, the child is here with her family and, now that we have restored peace and order to the land, there will be changes at Court. It is of these matters that I have come to speak to you now. My sons take great pleasure in fêtes and balls … and particularly in the ballet. They excel in dancing. Now why should not their little cousin join them in these sports and pleasures? Mademoiselle …” Anne’s flaccid mouth had hardened a little … “will be staying in the country for a while.”

Henrietta Maria could not hide her satisfaction.

“She was clever at devising these entertainments,” went on Anne, “but as she will not be here … mayhap your daughter could be of some use.”

“This is a great pleasure to me. Henriette will be delighted.”

“She may come to the Louvre to help my sons plan an entertainment they wish to give. I am sure she will be very helpful.”

Henrietta Maria almost forgot to be discreet; she wanted to draw her chair closer to that of the Queen-Mother of France; she wanted to chat—as mother to mother—about the charms and achievements of their offspring; she wanted to make delightful plans for linking Henriette and Louis. But her ambition came to her aid and for once she suppressed her impetuosity.

She sat listening while Anne talked, and the talk was of Louis. Louis at seven being reprimanded for using oaths; Louis at eight, in pink satin trimmed with gold lace and pink ribbons, dancing perfectly, outshining all with his grace and his beauty; Louis with the fever on him, when for fourteen days his mother had done nothing but weep and pray; the sweetness and patience of the sick child; how he had appointed certain boys-in-waiting to share his games; how he had selected one of the serving girls, a country wench, to play with; how he loved her dearly and liked to make her act King while he became the serving maid; how in disputes between the brothers, she had always insisted that Philippe should obey Louis; how he must always be mindful of the great destiny which was his brother’s. And so on, until she rose to go.

Then Henrietta Maria sent for her daughter; she embraced her warmly.

“Mam, Mam, what has happened to make you so happy? Is there news of Charles?”

“You think of your brother first on every occasion! There are other people who should concern you now and then. You are to visit the King and his brother; you are to go to the Louvre tomorrow to help them devise a ballet for our entertainment.”

“I … Mam!” Henriette shrank from her mother.

“No, no!” scolded the Queen. “You must not be foolish.” She pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Remember what I have said. Though you must always remember that you are a King’s daughter, you should not be insensible of this great honor which is done you. My little daughter, here is great news! Mademoiselle who would wish to marry Louis, is sent to the country in disgrace, and you, my little one, are to take her place in sharing the amusements of Louis and his brother. Now you must agree always with everything Louis says. You must take his side if there is a disagreement between the brothers. You must remember what I have told you.”

“Yes, Mam,” whispered Henriette.

She wished Charles were in Paris that she might tell him how uneasy she felt. He would understand; he would soothe her; but without Charles she was alone and there was no one to whom she could turn.

The two boys were waiting for their cousin. Louis was impatient.

“A little girl!” he said. “Here’s a pretty pass! So now we must play with little girls! Why should I be asked to play with little girls!”

“Because her brother is the King of England,” Philippe answered wryly.

“King of England! The English have a different tale to tell.”

“As the French might have had, brother … not so long ago.”

Louis shook his head in exasperation, but he was used to Philippe’s dry comments. Philippe was in a state of continual pique because he was two years younger than his brother and merely Monsieur, Duc d’Orléans, instead of King.

Louis’ annoyance did not last long. He was naturally sweet-tempered though often arrogant, for it would have been a miracle if he had been anything else. From the day he was five he had been told he was the most important person in the world. Only a short while ago his tutor had told him that God had given him something that even his illustrious grandfather Henri Quatre had not possessed—a handsome presence, a beauty that was almost unearthly in its perfection, a fine figure, a charm which delighted while it won respect. All through his life it had been the same. His tutors never forced him to learn anything, but allowed him to follow his inclinations; it was a wonder that he had acquired any knowledge at all, considering he loved sports so much. But with all his physical perfections there had been born in him a desire to do what was right, and occasionally this was uppermost. Then he would try to study for a while before his desire to play soldiers—his favorite game—came over him and he could not resist calling his army of young boys together for a mock battle. Alas, only a year ago his Company of Honor had been disbanded, for their exploits had become so realistic that his mother had grown terrified for his safety; and Mazarin had decided to risk the King’s displeasure and put an end to these warlike games. Then had Louis turned to dancing and, in particular, the ballet.

He excelled in these, but he never forgot that the praise which came his way might not be entirely genuine; Monsieur de Villeroi his governor, never reproved him; if Louis asked for something, de Villeroi always said: Yes, he might have it, before he even knew for what the boy asked. Yet Louis loved far better his valet, La Porte, who often crossed him and had even on occasion forbidden him to do what he wanted. The most Monsieur de Villeroi would say, if La Porte advised against doing something, was: “La Porte is right, Sire.” But his governor never actually reproved or forbade, even when the King had turned somersaults on his bed and had ended by falling and getting a most unpleasant bump on the head.

Louis had realized long ago that, surrounded by such sycophants, a great ruler of fourteen must be especially watchful.

“Those who are lenient concerning your faults,” La Porte told him once, “are not so on your account, but on their own, and their object is merely to make you like them, so that they may receive your favors and grow rich.”

Louis never forgot that warning.

He became very fond of La Porte; he still liked to have the valet read to him when he was in bed at night. The History of France sounded quite exciting when read by La Porte; and Louis always listened gravely to the valet’s comments and criticisms of other Kings of France.

But on this day he was by no means pleased that there had been sent to him a little girl, eight or nine years old, to help him and Philippe contrive a ballet.

She came and knelt before him. She was tall for her age and thin—very thin. Louis thought her rather ugly, for he was beginning to be very conscious of the looks of women.

He had grown accustomed to tender looks all his life, but there was one lady of his mother’s bedchamber who made him feel very extraordinary when his eyes rested on her. It was an odd sensation, for she had only one eye and was far from comely. She was years older than he was; he assumed she must be at least twenty years old; she was married, and she was fat; yet—he did not understand why—he could not stop himself looking her way.

“So you have come to help us with the ballet, cousin?” said Louis.

“Yes, Sire. On the orders of our mothers.”

“Then rise, and we will tell you what we plan. It is to be a grand ballet which we shall call The Nuptials of Thetis and Peleus.”

Henriette listened as he continued. Philippe, somewhat bored, had wandered away and was looking at himself in the great Venetian mirror, thinking how handsome he was, setting his curls so that they fell more to one side of his head; he was wishing that, instead of this quiet girl, they had asked some of the amusing young men to join them. Philippe smiled at the thought. De Guiche was so good looking and so understanding.

He turned to his brother who was scowling at him for leaving him to explain to the little girl who, of course, would know nothing of ballets and such things, having just come from the nursery—or so it seemed from the look of her.

But Henriette’s face had flushed a little and, listening to the King, she caught his enthusiasm. “Your Majesty should appear as Apollo in the masque,” she ventured.

“Apollo!” cried the King with interest.

“Yes, Sire. The Sun God. It would be the most enchanting role in the ballet. You would be dressed in gold … and about your head could be a halo from which light radiated so that all would know that you were the Sun God as soon as they set eyes on you.”

“The Sun God!” murmured Louis. “You are cleverer than I thought, cousin.”

“I have lived so quietly, Sire, that so much of my time has been spent in study.”

“That is why you are so thin,” said Louis. “You should have spent more time out of doors. Then you would enjoy more glowing health. Though I’ll grant you you would not be so useful in arranging ballets.”

Philippe had come over to them. “What part is there for me?” he asked. “I should like the part of a lady. I like wearing ladies’ costumes … jewels in my ears and patches on my face.”

He minced about in a manner which was quite feminine and which made the King laugh. Henriette, taking her cue from him, laughed also. “You would make a lovely shepherdess, cousin,” she said.

“A shepherdess! While my brother is the Sun God!”

“Ah, but a shepherdess in silver tissue with ribands the color of roses … scented ribands mayhap, and a hat of black-and-white velvet with sweeping plumes, blue, the color of the sky on hot summer days. You could carry a gilded crook.”

“I like the costume, but I do not care to be a shepherdess, cousin.”

“Then be a goddess. Be the goddess of love.”

“She has ideas, this cousin of ours,” said Philippe.

“Yes,” admitted Louis, “that is true.” He looked a little wistful. They were educating her—those old nuns of Chaillot—while he and his brother were allowed to do whatever they wished. This little girl, six years younger than he was, four years younger than Philippe, might be shy and ignorant of great ceremonies, but she had in a few years assimilated more booklearning than he and Philippe had.

“Can you dance, cousin?” asked Louis.

“A little, Sire.”

“Then you shall show us. Dance, Philippe.”

Philippe turned haughtily away. “I am in no mood to dance, Louis,” he said. “Why do you not dance with our cousin, the better to test her prowess?”

Louis shook his head impatiently. He was not going to demean himself by dancing with such a thin little girl.

His eyes narrowed slightly as they met his brother’s, and Philippe felt waves of resentment rising within him. He was born only two years later and the King was his brother, yet, because of those two years’ seniority, he must obey Louis even in their games. His mother had said so. Mazarin had said so.

For a few seconds the two brothers stood glaring at each other. Philippe thought of quarrels they had had. They did not often quarrel, but when they did he had always been the one who must take the blame. He remembered an occasion when the Court was on a journey and Louis had insisted that they share a bedroom. It was such a small room, quite different from those which they usually occupied, and in the morning, on awakening and finding his brother’s bed so close to his own, the King had spat on it. Philippe, ever ready to take offense, had immediately spat on Louis’ bed; this had enraged the King who immediately spat in his brother’s face. Philippe had then jumped on his brother’s bed and wetted it. Incensed, the King had repeated this action on his brother’s bed. When their attendants rushed in a battle was in progress; the brothers were flinging pillows about and trying to smother each other with the sheets, and it was all poor de Villeroi could do to stop them. Only La Porte had dared separate them and call upon them to realize what little savages they had become; at which Philippe flew into a rage, biting and kicking; but he, Philippe, had been ready to forget the incident in a few hours. Not so Louis. He could not forget. He blamed himself and suffered great remorse because he had conducted himself in a manner disgraceful to a King of France.

He had borne no resentment towards Philippe; he remembered that he had begun the quarrel by spitting on his brother’s bed. Within a week, when he was to continue the journey while Philippe stayed behind, he was melancholy at the separation, and during his absence had written notes to Philippe, begging for news of him and reminding him that he was his affectionate and kind little Papa Louis.

But it had not ended there, that quarrel in the bedroom; it was not Louis who had wounded Philippe’s amour propre. It was his mother and the Cardinal who had blamed the younger boy for the scene, who had impressed on him that he must never again expose his brother to indignity; if Louis spat on his bed he must remember that he did so with royal spittle, and it was not for Philippe to object.

Philippe was sullen; but he could not, of course, blame Louis; he could only be envious of Louis.

Now he remembered this and sullenly took the hand of the little girl, while Louis called to a musician to come and play music that his brother and cousin might dance.

Little Henriette danced with grace, and Louis watched with mild pleasure. The Sun God! he was thinking, and he smiled at the picture of himself. The ballet would be devised to show his perfections; he would have the central part and, when it was over, everyone would fawn on him and tell him that he was no human; he was too perfect; he was divine.

But he would remember La Porte and try not to be too pleased with himself.

Philippe and Henriette had finished their dancing.

“Well done!” said Louis. “You shall have a part in the ballet, cousin.”

Philippe had languidly dropped his cousin’s hand. He said: “Louis, let us call in the others. Let us call de la Châtre, and the Coslin boys and du Plessis-Praslin … and de Guiche.”

“Yes,” said Louis, “have them brought. We will devise our ballet of the Sun God; and, cousin, I have promised you a part.”

“Thank you, Sire,” said Henriette shyly.

The King’s playmates came into the apartment. Louis said: “I have thought of a ballet. I am to be the Sun God.”

Philippe took de Guiche into a corner where they arranged each other’s hair and giggled together. Louis’ admirers closed about him.

Henriette stood apart. No one was very interested in the thin little girl.

Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter. Henriette was faintly alarmed. She knew her mother so well that she guessed some fresh task was about to be given her.

“I have good news for you, chérie. Your brother is coming to France.”

“Charles …”

“No, no, no! Always it is of Charles you think. You have other brothers. I refer to your brother Henry.”

“Henry … my youngest brother. I have never seen Henry.”

“Then that shall be remedied. You shall see him ere long, for he is coming to Paris.”

“Oh, Mam, I am so pleased.”

“I shall have yet another of my children with me. That pleases me. He is thirteen. I remember well the hot day he came into the world. It was in the Palace of Oatlands and your father …”

“Mam, I pray you do not speak of those days. They but distress you, and you must be happy now because Henry is coming.”

“Yes; and there is something we have to do for Henry—you and I.”

“I, Mam?”

“Yes, indeed. You are a fortunate girl. Do you realize that? You came to France when you were but two years old and heresy had scarcely touched you. Your brother has been less fortunate. I fear his immortal soul is in danger. We must save him, Henriette. And in this I shall allow you to help me. You must explain to him what Père Cyprien has taught you so well. Together we will save his soul.”

Henry arrived—a shy boy of thirteen, very happy to be reunited with his family. His mother was loud in her exclamations of pleasure. Her beloved child restored to her; this was one of the happiest days of her life. Then she burst into passionate weeping because Elizabeth could not be with them.

Henry wept with her, and his little sister took his hand and begged him not to cry.

“For you are here, Henry,” she said. “That is one matter for rejoicing. Let us think of that and nothing else.”

Henry was pleased to do this; he was a boy who had had too much sorrow.

When they were alone together Henriette sought to do what her mother had commanded. She made him tell her of his life with James and Elizabeth and how James had escaped during a game of hide-and-seek. Then he told her of that time when they had lived at Syon House; but he did not speak of that January day when he and his sister had been taken to Whitehall to see their father. Instead he told her of Carisbrooke Castle and how Mr. Lovel had been good to him and had been his main companion since the death of Elizabeth; he told her how he had longed above all things to be with his mother again.

“Brother,” said Henriette, “you are not of our faith—Mam’s and mine.”

“I am of the faith of my father.”

“Henry, Mam wishes you to be of our faith. Will you come with me and hear what Père Cyprien has to say tomorrow?”

The boy’s mouth grew stern. “I beg of you, Henriette, do not ask me to do that. I did not tell you, but when we were at Syon House, Elizabeth and I went to Whitehall one day. It was a cold day and the river was frozen. It was the saddest day of my life, Henriette; but I did not know it then. We went to see our father. It was the day before he died.”

“Do not speak of it, Henry,” said Henriette shrilly. “I pray you, do not speak of it.”

“I must speak of it because I must explain. Our father took me onto his knee and told me that I must remain in the faith in which I was baptized.”

“That is not Mam’s faith and mine.”

“No. But it is the faith of my father and my father’s country.”

“I see, Henry.”

“Oh, Henriette, tell no one of this, but Mr. Lovel has said to me that if our mother had been of our father’s faith, if she had not tried to turn him into a Catholic, and our country into a Catholic country, our dearest Papa might be alive today.”

“Is it true then, Henry? Can that be true?”

“It is what has been said … not only by Mr. Lovel, but by many. I could never turn to a faith which by its very existence was responsible for my father’s death.”

“But it is Mam’s faith, Henry.”

“I am of my father’s faith and I will never be of another. I promised him, Henriette. Oh, you never knew him. It is so long ago, but I cannot think of him without weeping, Henriette. I cannot … I cannot …”

Henriette dried her brother’s eyes with her kerchief.

“Dearest brother, I shall never again ask you to change your faith. I am afraid myself … I am afraid of a faith which could bring about our father’s death.”

“Perhaps I am wrong, Henriette. Perhaps it is not a faith that could do this. Perhaps it is the way in which people think of their faith. It is not a religion which brings heartbreak and bloodshed; it is something in men which says: ‘I think this way and I will kill and torture all those who think otherwise.’ That cannot be true religion, Henriette. That is pride … self-pride and perhaps … doubt. I do not know. But do not ask me to change my faith.”

“I will not,” declared Henriette emphatically. “I promise I never will again.”

Henriette had passed her tenth birthday. She was leading a gayer life now than ever before. The royal brothers of France, discovering that, though only a little girl, she could dance gracefully and play the lute, graciously allowed her to take part in the revels. At the ballet in which the King appeared, not only as the Sun God, Apollo, but also as Mars, taking as well the minor roles of dryad, fury and courtier to show his versatility, the Court appeared to grow restive when he was not to the fore. Little Henriette had played the part of Erato, the muse of love and poetry; crowned with myrtle and roses she had repeated verses which she had learned by heart. Such an enchanting figure did she present that the Court was loud in its applause, and Henrietta Maria told those about her that this was one of the happiest moments of her life; she had one grief and it was a great one; her martyred husband could not be here to witness his daughter’s triumph. Even Anne of Austria, lolling in her chair, had taken her eyes off her Sun God for a brief moment to study the little girl.

She nodded her head. “How the costume becomes her,” she said. “This little girl of yours will be a beauty yet, sister. Louis tells me that he is pleased with her dancing and that she plays the lute with a skill beyond her years.”

Ah yes, that had been a happy day for Henrietta Maria who already saw the crown of France on her daughter’s head; but she was not so pleased as she surveyed her youngest son.

Stubbornly he had determined to shut his ears to the truth with which Père Cyprien was trying to save him from perdition.

“But he shall be saved!” Henrietta Maria told herself, tapping her foot. “He shall! Or I will make him wish he had never been born to defy his mother and God.”

Little Henriette had been delighted with her success. She loved to dance; she had learned her verses more easily than anybody, and Louis himself had been delighted with her. She found that Louis’ praise made her very happy. When those large brown eyes were turned on her in appreciation, she felt that she could be perfectly happy if she could go on pleasing him. How different was Philippe! Philippe’s dark, long-lashed eyes were quite scornful of her; being a clever little girl and sharper-witted than the two boys, she was aware that neither of them wished to play with a girl as young as she was; the difference was that Philippe was anxious for her to know that they despised her youth, while Louis was anxious to hide this fact from her. Louis was not only handsome; he was kind. Henriette was beginning to think that he was one of the kindest people she had ever known. She was moved because he was a king—a much cherished king—and yet had the kindness to care for the feelings of a little girl. She tried to think of new ideas for ballets, and if Louis liked them she was happy; if his interest was perfunctory—which meant that he liked them not at all—she was desolate and cried a little when she was alone at night because she had failed to please him. Sometimes, oddly enough, if she had pleased him she would cry—but with different feelings; perhaps this was because she wistfully longed to be older and more beautiful, so that he would like her better.

But her excitement in her companionship with the King was spoiled by her pity for her brother. Why could he not be allowed to continue in the faith of the Church of England? It was Charles’ faith; therefore it was right that it should be Henry’s; and as Henry had promised his father that he would never leave it, why could not Mam be satisfied with one little Catholic in the family?

Charles came to see her and she forgot even her new friendship with Louis. He kissed her affectionately and told her he was going away again. It was to Cologne this time.

“I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, Minette,” he said. “I am not only a king without a crown, I am a man without a country. I cannot stay long in one place for fear of wearing out my welcome. So I just flit from place to place, never staying long anywhere lest, when I next wish to visit it, my previous visit may be remembered as a very long one.”

“Here we love to have you.”

“You do, Minette, I know. But this is not your home either. However, be of good cheer. One day we shall be together. Then I shall be a king with a crown, and you shall be my companion forever. How will you like that?”

“Let it be soon, I pray. It is what I should love more than anything on earth,” said Henriette vehemently.

“Oh come, you are happy enough here. They tell me you have done well in the ballet and that Louis himself is pleased with you. There, Minette! You may bask in the rays of the Sun God, so what do you want with a poor wandering prince like me when you move in the radiance of the Olympians?”

“I would rather be in a hovel with you.”

“Nay, Minette, do not say such things. Make the most of your good fortune. Louis is a good fellow. It makes me happy that you have pleased him. And now I must see Mam before I depart, and make her swear not to plague poor Henry.”

Henrietta Maria listened to her son in cold silence before she brought out the old arguments. The King, her husband, she stressed then, had promised that her children should be brought up in her religion.

“Mam! Mam! Why cannot you leave this matter of Henry’s religion and concern yourself with the ballet as does our little Henriette?”

“You are frivolous, Charles. It is small wonder that God does not crown your efforts with success. This is a child’s soul for which we are battling.”

The King was stern for once. He said: “Henry has given his solemn word to our father that he will not change his religion. Mam, you astonish me. Would you force the boy to break his word? I speak to you now as your King, Madam. I forbid you to plague the boy. I command that you obey.”

Henrietta Maria pursed her lips together to keep back the angry words.

“My own son is against me,” she complained bitterly to her daughter when Charles had gone. “It is small wonder that he is an exile … small wonder indeed. It is small wonder that God is on the side of our enemies.”

“But they are not Catholics either, Mam,” said Henriette gently.

And for once the Queen pushed her daughter away from her; she was in no mood for further argument.

Her mind was made up. Charles was the King and he had commanded her; but Charles was an exile and would soon be far away.

Young Henry was bewildered. For so many years he had longed to escape from his father’s enemies, to be with his family; and now that he had achieved this end he found that he was tormented as he never had been when he was in the hands of the Roundheads.

His mother gave him no peace. He must read this; he must study that; he must listen to the teachings of older, wiser men than himself. Père Cyprien was at his elbow; so was the Abbé Montague.

To all their talk he remained mute and faithful to the promise he had given his father; his mother did not see his attitude as fidelity; she called it stubbornness.

The little boy was only fourteen. He did not know what he would have done without his brothers and sisters. Charles was not only his brother but his King; and Charles supported him. But Charles had gone to Cologne for a brief spell. His brother James was in Paris, and he supported him.

“Mam is a loving mother,” James had said; “she is fond of us all, but she has one real passion—her faith; and where that is concerned she is a regular tornado. Stay firm, brother. Those are Charles’ commands, and he is the King. You promised our father. You do well to remember your promise, and in this you are in the right.”

He knew that his sister Mary, the Princess of Orange, had placed herself on his side. He was certain that Elizabeth would have supported him had she been alive; Elizabeth would have died rather than break her word to her father.

“And so will I!” declared Henry on his knees. “And so will I. I swear it, Papa. I remember. I will remember.”

And when his mother railed against him, he shut his eyes tightly and thought of that man in the velvet jacket and lace collar with the hair falling about his shoulders. “Never forget what I ask, Henry….” He heard those words in his dreams. “Papa … Papa …” he sobbed. “I will remember.”

Sometimes his little sister Henriette came to his bed and sat beside it, holding his hand.

She wanted him to be happy. She did not know whether she ought to obey her mother and try to bring her brother into the Catholic faith; but when she heard that Charles had commanded his mother not to molest Henry, she knew what she must do.

She soothed Henry; she did not say much—it seemed so wrong to speak against her mother—but Henry knew that his brothers and sisters without exception were on his side; and he continued to hold out.

Henrietta Maria was growing impatient. She would sit glowering at her youngest son, tapping the floor with her foot, her eyes hard.

Obstinate fellow! she thought. What an unhappy woman I am! My children will not obey me. They flout me. They are fools. Had Charles become a Catholic he might have stayed here. He might have been helped to regain his kingdom; who knew, Mademoiselle might have married him. But this obstinate clinging to heresy … it is ruining my life! What an unhappy woman I am!

It was true that Anne of Austria was protesting against the celebration of the rites of the Church of England in the Louvre; it was true that she was ready to help Henrietta Maria in her battle for little Henry’s soul; but no one in France was ready to go to war with the Protector of England to help the King regain his throne. Still, Henrietta Maria liked to believe that this was so.

And now the boy had dared, without his mother’s knowledge, to dispatch a letter to his brother, the King; that was because she had dismissed his tutor Lovel—an evil influence if ever there was one.

Henrietta Maria now had Charles’ reply to Henry in her hands, and she fumed with rage as she read it.

“Do not let them persuade you,” Charles had written, “either by force or fair promises; the first, they neither dare nor will use; and for the second, as soon as they have perverted you, they will have their end, and then they will care no more for you … If you do not consider what I say unto you, remember the last words of your dead father which were ‘Be constant to your religion and never be shaken in it’; which, if you do not observe, this shall be the last time you shall hear from

Dear brother,

Your most affectionate

Charles II.”

Her own family banding against her! It was more than a mother could endure. She would not be treated thus. She would settle this matter of her youngest son’s religion once and for all time.

She waited until they had dined that day; then, as they rose to leave the dining chamber, she went to Henry and embraced him warmly.

“My son,” she said, “how grieved I am that I should be forced to deal so severely with you, but it is my love that makes me do it. You must know that well.”

“Oh, Mam,” said the little boy, his eyes filling with tears, “please understand. I gave my word to Papa.”

“Please … please, Henry, don’t talk to me of Papa. There are some days when the memory of him hurts me more than others. I knew him more than you did, child. We had years together before you were born. Any grief you have felt for Papa is a small thing compared with mine.”

“Mam … then … it is because of him, you understand …”

“You are weary, my son,” she interrupted, “of being talked to on this matter. God knows I am weary of it too. Let us shorten the trial. Go to your apartments now and I will send the Abbé Montague to you.”

“Please, Mam, there is nothing I can do. Do understand me when I say …”

“Go now, my son. Listen to the Abbé, and then give me your final answer.”

“It can make no difference.”

She pushed him gently from her, wiping her eyes as she did so.

He went to his apartment where the Abbé came to him; wearily he listened, and again and again he reiterated his determination not to swerve from the faith in which he had been baptized, not to break his word to his father.

“This is going to hurt your mother, the Queen, so deeply that I fear what the result will be,” warned the Abbé.

“I cannot heed the result,” answered the boy. “I have only one answer to give.”

So the Abbé left him and went to Henrietta Maria who was with her youngest daughter; together they were stitching an altar cloth for Chaillot.

“Your Majesty,” said Montague, “I fear I have only bad news for you. The boy remains obstinate. He clings fast to heresy.”

Henrietta Maria rose to her feet, letting the altar cloth fall to the floor.

Her daughter watched the purple blood disfigure her face as, clenching her hands together, she cried: “Very well! This is the end then. He shall see what it means to flout God … and me. Go to him. Tell him that he shall see my face no more. Go at once. Tell him that. Tell him I can bear no more sorrows. I am weary. I am going to Chaillot to pray … for there only can I find peace.”

“Oh, Mam!” cried Henriette. “Mam, what are you saying? You cannot mean this.”

“I do mean it. I never want to see his face again. I want to forget I bore him.”

“But, Mam, he swore to our father. He swore. You must understand.”

“I understand only that he wishes to flout me. I shall make him repent this ere long. Go to him at once, Abbé. Give him my message. The ungrateful boy! He is no child of mine!”

Henrietta Maria flung herself out of the room; Henriette slowly picked up the altar cloth; then she sat down on the stool and covered her face with her hands.

Was there no end to these troubles which beset her family?

After a while she rose. She must go to Henry. Poor Henry, who had dreamed so often of reunion with his family!

She went along to his apartment. Montague was talking to Henry, whose face was white; he looked stricken yet incredulous. It was clear that he could not grasp what the man was saying; he could not believe his mother had really cast him off.

“Just think what this will mean,” Montague was saying. “If your mother renounces you, how will you live? How will you supply your table with food? How will you pay your servants?”

“I do not know,” said Henry piteously. “I cannot understand!”

“Then go to the Queen; tell her that you will be her very good son, and she will have a proposal to make which will set your heart at rest.”

“I fear, sir,” said Henry in a quavering voice, though his lips were determined, “that my mother’s proposals would not have that effect upon me, for my heart can have no rest but in the free exercise of my religion and in the keeping of my word to my father.”

James came into his apartment while Henriette was wondering what she could do to soothe her brother. When James heard the news he was astounded.

“But our mother cannot do this!” he cried. “I will go to see her. There has been some mistake.”

He strode out of the apartment, and Henriette put her arm about Henry. “Be of good cheer, Henry,” she begged. “There has been a mistake. You heard what James said. It must be a mistake.”

But shortly afterwards James was back. “Our mother is in a fury,” he said. “She declares that henceforth she will show her pleasure to neither of her sons, except through the medium of Montague.”

“Then she discards us both, James,” said Henry. “Oh, James, I almost wish they had not let me come to France. I was happier at Carisbrooke than here.”

“I would there were something I could do,” said Henriette. “I do not believe Mam means this. She flies into tempers, but they pass. Go to her, Henry. Speak to her. She will soon be leaving for Chaillot, where she is going for Mass. Speak to her before she goes.”

James thought that their mother might be in a softened mood as she was departing for her devotions.

So Henry waylaid his mother; he knelt before her, entreating her not to turn away from him; but she pushed him angrily aside and would not speak to him.

The boy was heartbroken and uncertain what to do. James put his arm about him, and together they went to the service which was held in Sir Richard Browne’s chapel for the English Princes.

“She’ll get over her anger,” James told him. “Don’t fret, brother.”

But when Henry returned to his apartment after the service, he found that all his servants had been dismissed. There was no place for him at the table.

Bewildered, he flung himself down and gave way to bitter weeping. His mother, for whom he had longed during the years of exile, had turned away from him and had declared her intention of looking on his face no more.

Gloomily he walked about the palace grounds. He did not know what to do.

The day passed; he returned to the palace. He decided he would go to bed and try to make plans for the morrow. As he entered the palace his little sister ran to him. “Henry, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I do not know. I must go away, I suppose. But I do not know where to go.”

“Then you will resist … our mother?”

“I must, Henriette.”

“Oh Henry…. Oh, my brother! Oh, my mother! What can I do? I shall never be happy again.”

“So you too are afraid of her. She is only kind to you because you are a Catholic. If you were not, she would be as cruel to you as she is to me.”

Henriette continued to weep.

Her brother kissed her. “I am going to my apartment,” he said. “I shall try to rest. Perhaps in the morning I shall know what to do.”

She nodded and kissed him fondly.

He broke down then. “It is because I so longed to be with her … so much …”

“I know, Henry. I know, dear brother.”

She turned and fled; and Henry went up to his apartments, only to find that the sheets had been taken from his bed, and that all the comforts had been removed from his room.

His Controller found him there, staring about in a bewildered fashion; he reported that the horses had been turned out of the stables and that he himself had been dismissed and warned that he should expect no wages from the Queen while he remained in the service of Prince Henry.

“But I do not know what to do!” cried the boy.

James sought him out and James had good news.

“Fret no more, brother,” he cried. “All will be well. Did you think Charles would forget you! He knows how fierce our mother can be when she is engaged in conversions. Charles has sent to you the Marquess of Ormonde who waits below. He has horses and instructions to take you to Charles in Cologne.”

“Charles!” cried Henry, tears filling his eyes. “I am to go to Charles!”

“Charles would never desert you!” cried James. “He expected this. He wrote to you somewhat sternly because he knew that you would never be at peace if you broke your word to our father. He wished you to hold out against our mother, and he is proud that you have done so. But never think that he would desert you. Be of good cheer, brother. You will find life more agreeable with the King, your brother, than among the monks of a Jesuit college which Mam had in mind for you.”

And that night, after taking fond farewells of his brother James and his little sister Henriette, Henry, an exile from his mother’s care, set out to join that other exile in Cologne.