The Wondering Prince

SIX

Anne of Austria delighted to see her son dance—an accomplishment he performed with such grace—and it pleased her often to give an informal dance, inviting just a few members of the highest nobility to her own private apartments in the Louvre. Here she would sit in her dressing gown, her hair hidden under a cornette to indicate that the occasion was an intimate one and by no means to be considered a ball. She would have the violins in one corner of the vast room, and her friends about her in another; and in the middle of the floor the young people danced while she gossiped with her friends who must constantly supply her with the latest scandal and compliments on her son’s perfections.

To these dances she often invited Henrietta Maria and her daughter.

“Such a pleasure for the little girl!” she said. “For she grows so charming. How old is she now?”

“Eleven,” said Henrietta Maria. “Yes, she is growing up. It is difficult to believe that it is eleven years since that terrible day when …”

Anne interrupted quickly: “Louis enjoys dancing so much. Ah, what it is to be young! And as for Louis, he is never tired. There never was such a one.” Anne tittered. “Why, do you know, I shall soon begin to believe that it was Apollo who stole in on me while I slept and planted his seed within me!”

“You will soon have to think of his marriage,” suggested Henrietta Maria.

“One constantly thinks of his marriage. It will be the most important of marriages. But who, dear sister, who will be worthy to mate with Louis? That is the problem.”

“Only the best,” said Henrietta Maria fervently. “Only the best.”

Anne looked slyly at her sister-in-law. Now if none of these tragic events had occurred in England, she pondered, if young Henriette’s brother were safe on the throne, there could be no objection to my son’s marriage with her daughter. Of course it would depend on Louis.

Anne spoke her thoughts aloud. “Louis will make his own choice, I doubt not. I remember once I took him to the Convent of the Carmelites, and when he was in the community room and the nuns spoke to him, he took no notice of them because he was so interested in the latch of the door. He played with the latch and would not have his attention diverted from it. I was forced to scold him. I said: ‘Leave that latch, Louis.’ But he frowned and answered: ‘It is a good latch. I, the King, like this latch.’ I said: ‘It is a fine thing for a King to sulk before ladies and not utter a word.’ Then suddenly his face grew scarlet and he stamped his foot as he shouted: ‘I will say nothing because I wish to play with this latch. But one day, I shall speak so loudly that I shall make myself heard.’ Oh, what a bold little fellow he was! Yes, Louis will have his own way, depend upon that.”

Louis would indeed have his own way. So, at the private dances in Anne’s apartments, Henrietta Maria could scarcely contain herself as she watched the crescent friendship between her daughter and the King of France.

Louis’ valet was dressing him for an informal dance in his mother’s apartments.

Louis was silent, smiling to himself as he was being dressed, but he did not see the handsome figure reflected in the mirror. He looked like a young god in his costume of cloth of silver-and-black velvet embroidered with golden lilies. He felt like a god.

Yesterday he had had an adventure. It was an adventure which had seemed to befall him by chance. It had happened last night, and the partner of his adventure had been Madame de Beauvais who had always fascinated him in some strange way: Now he knew why. He had been dancing with her. The night was warm, and something in her expression as she looked at him made him say: “Madame, I should like to know you better than I do.” She had laughed and moved closer to him and had said: “That is a command. Should I come to your apartments or you to mine, Sire?” Oddly enough he had stammered like a nervous boy—he the King! She had laughed, strange, throaty laughter, which made his heart beat faster. “I’ll come to you,” she said. “The King cannot move without attracting attention. I will be in the antechamber when the guards are sleeping tonight, when all have retired.”

He only vaguely understood; he was very innocent. His mother and Mazarin had determined to keep him so; they did not want him to give rise to scandalous rumors about himself, as his grandfather had done in his early teens. He was astonished that this should have happened. She was old; she was twenty or more; she was plump; she had only one eye; but she had such merry laughter—merry and kind. And the thought of what she might have to say to him made his heart beat quickly.

So he had cautiously joined her in the antechamber. Did any of the guards see him go? Perhaps. But if they opened one eye they would realize from his manner that he did not wish to be seen, and the wishes of Louis Quatorze were always obeyed.

He was remembering now; he had wondered what he would say to her, but there had been no need of words. She wore nothing but a loose robe which fell from her as she approached him. He gasped; this reminded him of the first time he had dived into deep water when learning to swim; he had been tremendously exhilarated and fearful on that occasion, as he was on this.

“So to me comes the honor of leading Your Majesty to the doux scavoir!”

He stammered: “Madame … Madame …”

And she had said: “But you are beautiful. I am to mate with a god. I never thought that I should be the one.”

He was bewildered, but she was not. She was the kindest, most tender person in the world.

And afterwards they lay side by side until the dawn came; and then he said he had better leave her, but they would meet again. So he had tiptoed back to his apartments and lain in his bed, mazed, bewildered and enchanted.

He was grown up; the boy-King had become a man.

All that day he had gone about in a dream—a dream of power and pleasure. He could not help knowing that any beautiful woman on whom he cast his eyes would, he dared swear, be ready to share with him such an adventure as he had enjoyed last night with Madame de Beauvais.

This was exciting knowledge.

These were his thoughts as he prepared himself for the dance in his mother’s apartments.

As he walked into the room all rose and fell to their knees, except the two Queens who sat side by side. He made his way to them and kissed, first his mother’s hand, and then that of his aunt.

“My beloved, how splendid you look!” said his mother. “These apartments seemed so dull a moment ago. Now you have entered and the sun shines on us all.”

“Your mother but voices the thoughts of everyone present, Sire,” added Henrietta Maria.

Her eyes were on her young daughter. Oh dear, she thought, if only the child would plump up! How thin, she thought, if only the child would plump up! How thin she is! I would we had more money that she might be ade-Court and that she is not here like a bird of paradise putting us all to shame.

She glanced at her sister-in-law, informal in her brocaded dressinggown and cornette. It was but an informal occasion. She doubted much whether she and Henriette would have been invited had it been a grand ball or a masque, since their favor was not high at Court.

Louis was gazing round the company. Now that he had arrived, the violins began to play, but no one would dance until the King led the way. According to etiquette he must dance with the lady of the highest rank, and since neither of the Queens would dance, Louis would be bound in duty to ask his little cousin to dance first.

But Louis seemed disinclined to dance. The violins played on. He stood there, smiling to himself. He thought: If she were here, I would go to her now and ask her to dance with me. I should not care that she is not of the highest rank; I care nothing for rank. That is what I would have her know. I care only for what we were to each other last night, and that is something I shall never forget as long as I live. I will give her estates when it is in my power to do so. I will give her titles … and all she can desire. For no one could have been so kind as she was, pretending not to notice my inexperience, making of a simple boy a man of experience in one night.

Oh, the ecstasy of that encounter! Again tonight? Why had he come to a stupid dance? He had no desire to dance. He wished only to lie with her in the dark … in that antechamber. Had not that which he desired always been granted?

She was not there, his dear, dear Madame de Beauvais. Perhaps it was well that she was not, for he would not have been able to hide his grateful love. Now he knew—and fresh gratitude swept over him—that for this reason she had stayed away: She did not wish him to betray himself! She understood. She was wise as well as tender; she was modest as well as sweetly full of knowledge.

He looked round the assembly. No! He would not dance with that thin little cousin of his. He was in no mood to talk to a child tonight. His newly-found manhood made demands upon him. Tonight he was in love with women—all mature women who understood the delights of the doux scavoir. He offered his hand to the Duchesse de Mercoeur, who was the eldest niece of Cardinal Mazarin, a young and handsome matron.

Anne gasped. There was one thing which could always arouse her from her torpor—a breach of etiquette.

This was impossible! Louis had overlooked the Princess Henriette.

She rose and went to her son’s side. “My dearest,” she whispered, “you have forgotten … Your cousin Henriette is here …”

The King frowned; now he looked like the little boy who had played with the latch in the Carmelite convent. “Tonight,” he said, “I do not wish to dance with little girls.”

Henrietta Maria felt faint with anxiety. The King was slighting her daughter. He did not want to dance with a little girl! Well, Henriette was young yet, and she was so thin—bad, bad child; she would not eat enough! But later on he might grow fond of her. In the meantime this was disastrous. What could she do?

She rose uncertainly and went to Anne and Louis.

“I must tell Your Majesties,” she said, “that my daughter cannot dance tonight. She has a pain in her foot. It would be too painful for her to attempt to dance. I am sure that His Majesty was aware of this and for that reason asked the Duchesse to dance.”

Anne replied: “If the Princess is unfit to dance, the King should not dance tonight.”

The King’s natural good temper seemed to have deserted him. There was an ominous silence throughout the apartment. All eyes were on the royal party. Henrietta Maria thought quickly: A scene must be avoided at all costs. This might result in our being banished from Court.

She said firmly: “My daughter shall dance. Come, Henriette.”

Henriette, blushing and miserably unhappy, obeyed her mother.

For an instant the King did not move to take her hand. Why should he—a man as well as a King—be told with whom to dance? Why should he not choose whom he pleased? He was no longer a boy. Madame de Beauvais understood that; all the Court … all the world must understand it too.

Then he looked at the little girl beside him. He saw her lips tremble and he noted the misery in her eyes. He realized her humiliation and he was ashamed suddenly. He was behaving more like a spoiled boy than the man he had become last night.

He took his cousin’s hand and began to dance. He did not speak to her. He saw that she was fighting back her tears, so he pressed her hand tightly. He wanted to say: it is not that I do not wish to dance with you, Henriette. It is just that I am in no mood for the company of children.

But he said nothing and the dance continued.

That night the Princess Henriette cried herself to sleep.

Henriette was with her mother in the great Cathedral of Notre Dame de Rheims. It was an honor to be here, she knew; her mother had impressed that upon her. They were participating in the Coronation of the King of France to which they had been invited, although it seemed that there was very little hope of the royal house of England’s ever reinstating itself.

Charles was wandering around Europe, never staying long in one place, now and then daring to hope that there might be a chance of a little help from some important monarch who had reason to dislike the Protector of England. Plans … plans … plans … which never seemed to materialize. Then he would return to his dicing and women. Rumor reached France that the profligacy of the roaming English Court was becoming notorious.

Henriette longed for news of him, longed to see his face again. Each day, she hoped, would bring some news of him. At least, when he idled with his profligate friends, he was not endangering his life.

Once she had found consolation for the loss of her brother in the exciting company of her magnificent royal cousin, but that had changed recently. She and her mother spent most of their time in seclusion now at the Palais-Royal, Chaillot or Colombes, this last being a pretty house on the Seine, which Henrietta Maria had acquired, and where it was pleasant to spend the hot summer months. Life was growing quieter. Henriette was studying a good deal; her education was opening out into a course hardly ever pursued by ladies of her rank. There was little to do but study. She was thinner than ever and growing too quickly. Already she was aware of a slight deformity in her spine. She dared not tell her mother of this. One could not add to the sorrows of La Refine Malheureuse. Henriette knew that her mother longed for her to grow plump, with rounded cheeks and limbs. She, the daughter of an exiled family, would have nothing to recommend her as a wife but rank and beauty; and at this stage it seemed that the latter would never be hers.

Sometimes she worked in a frenzy that she might please her tutors and Père Cyprien; her knowledge increased and her wits sharpened; for recreation she played the lute and harpsichord and also practiced singing. She improved her dancing, practicing often, sometimes alone, sometimes with her women; she wished to excel at that because Louis set such store by it. Her slenderness gave her grace, and she learned to disguise her slight deformity by the dresses she wore, so that only her intimate attendants were aware of it.

She longed to be able to please her mother. She dreamed sometimes that she had become a bel esprit of the Court; she devised clever remarks; she imagined that Louis himself laughed heartily at her bon mots. It was pleasant dreaming.

Often she was at Chaillot with her mother, and there she was able to please the Queen by waiting at table on the Abbess and her Filles de Marie. They all declared that she was charming, graceful and modest.

And now there had come this invitation to attend the Coronation. Henrietta Maria was delighted.

“So we are not forgotten!” she cried. “On an occasion they realize, do they not, that it would be a great breach of etiquette to ignore such close relationships.”

It was not as her mother believed, Henriette was sure. Louis had wanted them to be present, for Louis—King though he was, haughty though he could be—was more sorry for them than anyone else at the Court. Henriette remembered how he had danced with her and that the frown on his face had meant that he was sorry he had slighted her. He was ashamed of what he had done. Therefore he would take great pains to be kind. That was the sort of boy Louis was. While he had strong desires, while the sycophants about him assured him that his conduct was as perfect as his person, he yet wished to do what was right in his own eyes.

He was sorry for his thin little cousin; therefore he made a point of graciously inviting her and her mother to his Coronation. That was all. Henriette kept reminding herself of this.

Now they were bringing Louis into the Cathedral.

At six o’clock that morning, two Bishops, preceded by the Canons of the Chapter, had gone to the Archbishop’s Palace—where Louis had had his lodging—and up to the King’s bedchamber. The Precentor had knocked on the door with his silver wand.

“What do you want?” the Grand Chamberlain had asked from within.

“We desire the King,” said the Bishops.

“The King sleeps.”

“We desire Louis, the XIV of that name, son of the great Louis XIII, whom God has given us to be our King.”

Then they entered the chamber where Louis had been lying in the state bed, pretending to be asleep. He wore a cambric shirt and red satin, gold-braid-trimmed tunic slit in certain places to allow him to be anointed with holy oil. Over this he wore a robe of cloth of silver, and on his head there was a black velvet cap decorated with feathers and diamonds.

The Bishops and their followers then helped him to rise and conducted him to the Cathedral.

As he entered, between the Bishops, Henriette studied this beautiful boy. All eyes were on him; he was sixteen and the eulogists had not greatly exaggerated when they declared that his youthful beauty was unequaled.

Between the Swiss Guards the procession made its way to the chancel where the King’s chair and prie-dieu, upholstered in purple velvet decorated with the golden lilies of France, had been placed on Turkey rugs.

As she watched the ceremony, Henriette thought of another man whom she loved very dearly indeed. If he could have been in a similar position, how wonderful that would be! If it were Charles who was being anointed with oil, and this ceremony was taking place, not in France but in England, she told herself, she would have felt complete contentment, for then he would take her home with him, and she would live at his Court where there would be no slights, no humiliations; she need not then be disturbed by her feelings for her cousin Louis; she could give herself up to the pleasure of the King of England’s company and forget those incomprehensible longings which were aroused within her by the King of France.

The Bishops were asking those present if they were willing to have this Prince as their King; and the purple velvet sandals were being put on Louis’ feet while he was helped into the robe and dalmatica, and the great ceremonial cloak of purple velvet embroidered with golden lilies was placed about his shoulders. Now he looked indeed magnificent. He held out his hands that the consecrated gloves might be slipped over them and the ring placed on his finger; then he took the Sceptre in his right hand and the Hand of Justice in his left, after which the great Crown of Charlemagne was set upon his head, and he was led to the throne, there to receive the homage of the peers.

“Long live the King!” echoed through the Cathedral and the streets beyond.

Louis XIV, the Roi-Soleil, had been crowned. It was an inspiring ceremony. Tears dimmed Henriette’s eyes. She was praying fervently for the King of England, but the magnificent image of the King of France would come between her and her prayers.

How tired one grew of exile! thought Charles. How weary of moving from place to place in search of hospitality! One had to suppress one’s finer feelings when one was a beggar.

“Ah,” he said one day, as he looked on the river from his lodgings in the town of Cologne, “it is a mercy that I am a man of low character, for how could one of noble ideals tolerate my position? From which we learn that there is good in all evil. A comforting thought, my friends!”

He smiled at his Chancellor, Edward Hyde, who had joined him in Paris some years ago and had since been his most trusted adviser. He liked Hyde—a grim old man, who did not stoop to flatter the King in case he should one day come into his own.

That amused Charles. “Others,” he said, “wish to ensure their future—not that they have any high hopes that I shall be of much use to them—but flattery costs little. Reproaches cost far more. That is why I will have you with me, Edward, my friend. And if there should come that happy day when I am restored to my own, you shall be well paid for those reproaches you heaped upon me when I was in exile. There! Are you not pleased?”

“I should be better pleased if Your Majesty would not merit these reproaches. I would rather have the pleasure of praising you now, than the hope of rewards in the future.”

“Would all men had your honesty, Chancellor,” said the King lightly. “And would I had a state whose affairs were worthy of your counsel. Alas! How do we pass our days? In vain hopes and wild pleasure. What new songs are there to be sung today? Shall we throw the dice again? Any pretty women whose acquaintance we have not made?”

“Your Majesty, could you not be content with one mistress? It would be so much more respectable if you could.”

“I am content with each one while I am with her. Content! I am deeply content. One leaves me and another appears, and then I find contentment again.”

“If Your Majesty would but occupy yourself with matters of state you would have less time for women.”

“Matters of state! They are things to dream about. Women! They are to be possessed. One woman in Cologne is worth a million imaginary state papers in Whitehall.”

“Your Majesty is incorrigible.”

“Nay, Edward, merely resigned. I will tell you this: You have enemies here at my mock Court and they would seek to drive a wedge between us were that possible. Yesterday one said to me: ‘Your Majesty, do you know what your respected Chancellor said of you? Most disrespectfully he spoke of you. He declared you are a profligate who fritters his time away in vices of all descriptions.’ And how do you think I answered your calumniator, Edward? I said: ‘It does not surprise me that he should say that once in a way to you, for he says the same of me to myself a hundred times a week!’”

Charles laughed and laid his arm about his Chancellor’s shoulders. “There!” he continued. “That is what I think of you and your honesty. I can appreciate other things … I can love other things … besides beautiful women!”

“Let us talk of state matters,” said Edward Hyde. “It would be better if your sister of Orange did not make her proposed visit to Paris to see your mother.”

Charles nodded. “I see that, Edward.”

“Now that we are entering into negotiations with Spain, and Ormonde has gone on a mission to Madrid, we do not wish Spain to think that the bond between ourselves and France is being strengthened. The Spaniards will know that your mother and sister are being treated with scant courtesy in France; therefore they will be more likely to favor us. Any who is out of favor with France should readily find favor with Spain.”

“I will speak to my sister.”

“You should forbid her to make the journey.”

Charles looked uneasy. “I … forbid Mary!”

“You are the King of England.”

“A King without a kingdom, a man who would often have been without a home but for Mary. What would have happened to us but for her, I cannot think. Holland was our refuge until, with the death of her husband, she lost her influence. Even now we owe the money, on which we live, to her; but for my sister Mary I should not have even this threadbare shirt to cover my shoulders. And you would ask me to forbid her making a journey on which she has set her heart!”

“You are the King.”

“I fear she will think me an ungrateful rogue.”

“It matters not what she thinks of Your Majesty.”

“It matters not! My dear sister to think me an ungrateful oaf? My dear Chancellor, you astonish me! A moment ago you were complaining because the world looks upon me as a libertine; now you say it is a matter of little importance that my sister should find me ungrateful.”

“Your Majesty …”

“I know. I see your point. Ingratitude … intolerance … are minor sins in the eyes of the statesman. If the outcome of these things is beneficial, then it is good statecraft. But to invite a pretty woman to one’s bed … in your eyes, Edward, and in the eyes of Puritans, that is black sin; yet to me—if she be willing—it seems but pleasure. We do not see life through the same eyes, and you would be judged right by the majority, so it is I who am out of step with the world. Perhaps that is why I wait here, frittering away my time with dice and women.”

“I should advise Your Majesty to speak to your sister.”

Charles bowed his head.

“And if I were Your Majesty I would not continue to associate with the woman, Lucy Water, who now calls herself Mistress Barlow.”

“No? But I am fond of Lucy. She has a fine boy who is mine also.”

“She is mistress of others besides Your Majesty.”

“I know it.”

“There are many gentlemen of the Court who share your pleasure in this woman.”

“Lucy has much to give.”

“You are too easygoing.”

“I am content to go where my will carries me. There is no virtue in my easy temper.”

“The woman could be sent to England.”

“To England?”

“Indeed, yes. It would be better so. She could be promised a pension.”

Charles laughed.

“Your Majesty is amused?”

“Only at the idea of such a magnanimous promise from a man in a threadbare shirt.”

“There are some who would help to pay the pension for the sake of ridding Your Majesty of the woman.”

“Poor Lucy!”

“She would enjoy returning to her native land doubtless. If the Spanish project comes to anything, we should leave Cologne. She would not wish to stay here when all her lovers had gone. Have I your permission to put this proposition to her, Your Majesty?”

“Put it by all means, but don’t force her to go back to live among Puritans, Edward.”

“Then sign this paper. It is a promise of a pension.”

Charles signed. Poor Lucy! He had ceased to desire her greatly. Occasionally he visited her in indolence or out of kindness. He was not sure which, and he did not care enough to find out. One never knew, when visiting her, whether one would startle her with a lover who might be hiding in a cupboard until the royal visitor had departed. Such situations were not conducive to passion.

But as he signed he was really thinking of Mary, and what he would say to her.

Was it possible that Spain might help him to regain his throne?

There were times when some wild scheme would rouse him from his lethargy, and he would once more be conscious of hope.

Mary, the Princess of Orange, had all the Stuart gaiety. She had lost her husband; she was young and alone in a country which did not greatly love her; she was full of anxieties for her baby son; yet when she was with her brother she could fling aside her cares and laugh, dance and make merry.

She was looking forward to going to France as she had not looked forward to anything for a long time.

“Paris!” she cried. “And all the gaiety I hear is indulged in there! I want to enjoy all that. And most of all, I want to see our mother whom I have not seen for thirteen years, and dear little Henriette whom I have not seen at all. Poor Mother! She was always so tender and loving.”

“To those who do her commands!”

“Charles, you have grown cynical.”

“Realistic, my dear. The longer I live, and the farther I wander, the greater grows my respect for the truth. Ask poor Henry to tell you of our mother’s tender love!”

“Poor little Henry! His was a sad experience.”

“And entirely our mother’s doing.”

“You must not dislike her because she is a Catholic.”

“It is not her religion that I hate. It is her unkindness to our brother. The boy was heartbroken when Ormonde brought him to me.”

“Well, Charles, you have made up to him for what he suffered at our mother’s hands. He may have been disappointed in her, but he is not so in his brother. He adores his King; and is it not pathetic to see how he tries to model himself on you?”

“It is more than pathetic—it is tragic. And so bad for his morals.”

“You might try to prevent that by leading a more respectable life yourself, brother.”

“I cannot attempt the impossible—even for young Henry.”

Mary laughed. “Now you are looking stern,” she said. “Now you are preparing to pass on Master Hyde’s orders to me. You are going to forbid me to go to Paris.”

“Mary, who am I to forbid you!”

“You are the King and the head of our house.”

“You are the Princess of Orange, mother of the Orange heir. I am your out-at-elbows brother.”

“Oh Charles, dearest Charles, you are not a very good advocate for your cause. You are a profligate, they say, and I know that to be true; you are careless; you are idle; but I love you.”

“If the reward of profligacy is love, then mayhap I am not such a fool after all.”

“Are you forbidding me to go to Paris?”

“I forbid nothing.”

“But you ask me not to go?”

“’Twill offend the Spaniards.”

“Listen to me, Charles. You and our mother have quarreled over Henry. It is a bad thing in any family to quarrel—in ours it might well be disastrous. I wish to right these matters. For years I have longed to see our mother again.”

Charles smiled. “Dear Mary,” he said. “You must please yourself. Go, if that is what you wish.”

“I am sure I am right. I do not believe the Spaniards will help you regain your kingdom. They’ll not fight for you. They are just temporarily friendly with you because, for the moment, the French are not.”

“I think you have the truth there.”

“We must not have these rifts between members of our family. Our mother must love you again. She must love Henry. Oh, Charles, there are so few of us left now. Smile on my journey. I could not enjoy it if you did not.”

“Then if my smile is necessary to your pleasure, you must have it, dear sister. Take a kiss to my dear Minette.”

Mary embraced him warmly.

“Yes, Charles,” she said. “Do you know you’re my favorite brother? I would almost go further and, but for a small person who now resides in Holland, I would say you are my favorite man.”

“I really begin to think,” said the king, “that I am not such a fool as I believed myself to be.”

“You’re the wisest fool on earth. I shall take your Chancellor’s daughter with me as a maid of honor. She is a pleasant girl, Anne Hyde. And I wish her to make herself very agreeable to our mother whom I would like to see reconciled to the girl’s father. She declares Hyde advises you to act against her wishes, you know.”

“You make me wistful. I would that I could go with you on this journey to France.”

“What! Have you a fancy for the Chancellor’s daughter?”

“Anne Hyde! Assuredly not.”

“Then I am glad, because I think her father would have a high pride in her virtue.”

“I was not thinking of being with Anne Hyde,” said Charles. “I was thinking of the pleasure of seeing Minette again.”

Lucy was in bed nibbling sweetmeats. She could hear Ann Hill moving about whilst she cleaned the apartment. Lucy had coarsened slightly, but she was still beautiful. On the pillow beside her had rested, until a few hours ago, the fair head of one of the Court gentlemen. She did not know his name, but he had been a satisfactory lover.

Her clothes lay on the floor where she had flung them; Ann had not yet been in to tidy the room. Ann was angry with her mistress. Ann thought her mistress should not receive any gentlemen in her bed except the King.

But Lucy must have a lover; she might sigh for the King, but the King was not always at hand, and there were so many waiting to take his place.

Now she wondered whether the fair gentleman would visit her again this night. If he did not, another would.

Ann had come into the room and was clicking her tongue at the state of the apartment as she picked up the garments which lay about the floor.

“Don’t frown!” cried Lucy. “It makes you look uglier than usual.”

“If this is what beauty brings you to, I’m glad I’m ugly,” muttered Ann. “A new man last night! I’ve never seen him before.”

“He was wonderful!” murmured Lucy.

“What if …”

“What if the King had visited me? Oh no!” Lucy sighed and was momentarily sad. “He is pleasantly occupied elsewhere for the last week—and the next, I doubt not.”

“It’s wrong,” said Ann, shaking her head. “Quite wrong.”

“Is it? I never have time to think about it.”

“You think of little else!”

“It seems that I am thinking of last night’s pleasure until it is time to anticipate tonight’s.”

Ann said: “It’s depravity … and everybody here seems to … to wallow in it.”

“It is a pastime in which one cannot indulge alone.”

“For the children to see such things is not right.”

“They are too young to know.”

“Mary may be. Jemmy is not. He begins to wonder. He is nearly seven. It is time you gave up this way of living and, settled down to quiet, and thought of looking after the children.”

Lucy stared before her. She loved her children—both of them—but she adored Jemmy. He had such vitality, such charm, and he was such a handsome little boy. Moreover everybody who visited the house—and in particular the King—made much of him.

Settle down and be quiet! Look after Jemmy! As well ask a bird not to sing in the spring, a bee not to gather honey!

Ann went on: “There are rumors. There’ll be another move soon.”

“I dare swear we shall go to Breda.”

“If there is another attempt …”

“Attempt?”

“You think of nothing but who your next lover will be. Don’t you see they’re only waiting here. One day they’ll be gone … and then where will you be? They’ll all be leaving here to fight with the King, and you’ll be left with a few Germans to make love to you.”

“You’re in a bad mood today, Ann.”

“It’s all these rumors,” said Ann. “We shall be moving soon, I know. I wish we could go home.”

“Home?”

“To London. Fancy being in Paul’s Walk again!”

Lucy’s eyes were dreamy. “Yes,” she said. “Just fancy! Fancy going to Bartholomew and Southwark Fairs.”

“I’d like to walk by the river again,” said Ann wistfully. “No other place is the same, is it? They don’t look the same … don’t smell the same … All other places are dull. They weary a body … and make her long for home.”

“To walk down the gallery at the Royal Exchange again …” murmured Lucy.

Jemmy came running into the room. He wore a toy sword at his belt; it was a present from his father. “I’m a soldier!” he cried. “I’m for the King. Are you for the Parliament? Then you’re dead … dead … dead …”

He took out his sword and waved it at Ann, who skillfully eluded him.

“Wars, wars, wars!” said Lucy. “It is always wars. Even Jemmy dreams of wars.”

“I’m the Captain,” said Jemmy. “I’m no Roundhead.” He climbed onto the bed looking for comfits and sweetmeats which were always kept close by Lucy so that all she had to do was reach for them. Her lovers kept her well supplied; they were the only presents Lucy appreciated.

Jemmy sat on the bed, arranging the sweetmeats as soldiers and eating them one by one. “Dead, dead, dead,” he said, popping them into his mouth. “Is my Papa coming today?”

“We do not know,” said Ann. “But if you eat more of those sweetmeats you will be too sick to see him, if he does.”

Jemmy paused for a second or so; then he continued to murmur “Dead … dead … dead” as he popped sweet after sweet into his mouth. He was remarkably like his father at that moment.

A serving maid came in to say that a gentleman was waiting to see Mistress Barlow.

“Hurry!” cried Lucy. “My mirror! My comb! Ann … quick! Jemmy, you must go away. Who is it, I wonder?”

“If it is my father, I shall stay,” said Jemmy. “If it is Sir Henry, I shall stay too. He promised to bring me a pony to ride.” He leaped off the bed. “He may have brought it.”

The maid said that it was neither the King nor Sir Henry Bennett. It was an elderly gentleman whom she did not know and who would not give his name.

Lucy and Ann exchanged glances. An elderly gentleman who had never been here before? Lucy liked young lovers. She grimaced at Ann.

“I should put a shawl over your shoulders,” said Ann, placing one there.

Lucy grimaced again and pushed the shawl away so that the magnificent bust and shoulders were not entirely hidden.

Edward Hyde was shown into the room. He flinched at the sight of the voluptuous woman on the bed. The morals of the Court—which he would be the first to admit were set by his master—were constantly shocking him. He thought of his daughter, Anne, and was glad that the Princess of Orange was taking her away. He thought: What I must face in the service of my master! And his thoughts went back to that occasion when, seeking to join Charles in France, his ship had been taken by corsairs, and he, robbed of his possessions, had been made a slave before he finally escaped.

“It is my lord Chancellor!” said Lucy.

Edward Hyde bowed his head.

“This is the first time you have visited my apartment,” she went on.

“I come on the King’s pleasure.”

“I did not think that you came on your own!” laughed Lucy.

The Chancellor looked impatient; he said quickly: “It is believed that we shall not be here in Cologne much longer.”

“Ah!” said Lucy.”

“And,” went on Hyde, “I have a proposition to make. Many people remain here because they dare not live in England. That would not apply to you. If you wished you could return there, set up your house, and none would say you nay.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed it is. And it would be the wisest thing you could do.”

“How should I live there?”

“How do you live here?”

“I have many friends.”

“English friends. The English are as friendly at home as in exile. The King has promised to pay you a pension of four hundred pounds a year if you return to England.”

“It is for Jemmy,” she said. “He wants Jemmy to be brought up in England; that’s it, I’ll swear.”

“It would be a very good reason for your going.”

“London,” she said. “I wonder if it has changed much.”

“Why not go and find out?”

“The King …?”

“He will not be long in Cologne.”

“No,” said Lucy sadly. “He will go, and he will take the most gallant gentlemen with him.”

“Go to London,” said the Chancellor. “You’ll be happier there, and one day, let us hope, all the friends you have known here will join you there. What do you say? Four hundred pounds a year; and you have the King’s promise of it as soon as it is possible. A passage could be arranged for you. What do you say, Mistress Barlow? What do you say?”

“I say I will consider the offer.”

He took her hand and bowed over it.

“The serving girl will show you out,” she told him.

When he had left she called Ann Hill to her.

“Ann,” she said, “talk to me of London. Talk as you love to talk. Come, Ann; sit on the bed there. How would you like to go to London, Ann? How would you like to go home?”

Ann stood still as though transfixed. She was smelling the dampness in the air on those days when the mist rose up from the Thames; she was hearing the shouts and screams of a street brawl; she was watching the milkmaids bearing their yokes along the cobbled streets; she was seeing the gabled houses on an early summer’s morning.

And, watching her, Lucy caught her excitement.

At the Palais-Royal, Henrietta Maria and her daughter were awaiting the arrival of Mary of Orange. The Queen felt happier than she had for some time; the royal family of France, although they had so long neglected the exiled Queen and her daughter Henriette, were preparing to give Mary of Orange a royal welcome.

“This is an honor of which we must not be insensible,” said Henrietta Maria to her youngest daughter. “The King, the Queen, and Monsieur are all riding out to meet Mary at Saint-Dennis.”

“It is Holland they honor, Mam, not us,” Henriette reminded her mother.

“It is Mary, and Mary is one of us. Oh, I do wonder what she will be like. Poor Mary! I remember well her espousal. She was ten years old at the time, and she was married in the Chapel at Whitehall to the Prince her husband, who was a little boy of eleven. It was at the time when your father was forced into signing Strafford’s death warrant; and the day after the marriage the mob broke into Westminster Abbey and … and …”

“Mam, I beg of you do not talk of the past. Think of the future and Mary’s coming. That will cheer you.”

“Ah, yes, it will cheer me. It will be wonderful to see her again … my little girl. A widow now. Oh, what sorrows befall our family!”

“But there is joy coming now, Mam. Mary will soon be with us, and I know her visit will make us very happy.”

“Hers was a Protestant marriage.” Henrietta Maria’s brow darkened.

“Please, Mam, do not speak of that. She will soon be here with us. Let us be content with that.”

They heard the shouts and cheers as the party approached.

Mary was riding between Louis and Queen Anne. Philippe was on the other side of his brother. This was indeed a royal welcome for Mary.

So the first time Henriette set eyes on her sister was a very ceremonious occasion; but there was time in between the balls and masques, which the royal family of France had devised for Mary’s entertainment, for them to get to know each other.

Henriette discovered Mary to be warmhearted and delighted to be with her family again. She was merry and quick to joke, and in that she reminded Henriette of Charles; she talked continually of her little boy who was now five years old—her little William of Orange, such a solemn boy, a regular Dutch William! She spoke sadly of her husband. She had been loath to marry him, she told Henriette as they sat alone. “So very frightened I was. I was younger than you, Henriette; think of that! But he was frightened too, and far shyer than I was, and we soon learned to love each other. And he died of that dreadful pox. It was a great tragedy for me, Henriette, in more ways than one. I could not then offer your brothers the hospitality which I had shown them hitherto; but more than that, I had lost a husband and protector … the father of my little Dutch William.”

Henriette shed tears for her sister’s sorrow, but more often she was joining in her sister’s laughter.

Each day there was some entertainment for Mary’s pleasure. Even young Philippe gave a ball two days after her arrival. It took place in the Salle de Gardes, and Philippe himself had spent much time and trouble ensuring that the illuminations should be of the brightest. In the tapestry-decorated salle, it was King Louis who opened the ball with Henriette. Mary, of course, did not dance, as French etiquette, dictated by Queen Anne, decreed that widows should not dance at great balls, and only on private occasions should they be allowed to do so.

Louis composed a ballet for her pleasure. It was founded on the story of Psyche, and never, declared the courtiers, had the King danced with greater perfection. Chancellor Seguier gave a fête in her honor, and the galleries which led to the ballroom were lighted with three hundred torches.

Mademoiselle, who was still banished from the Court, invited the Princess of Orange to her country residence of Chilly where she sought to outdo in splendor all the previous entertainments which the Princess had seen.

Mademoiselle, resplendent in jewels, was a dazzling hostess.

“Why, Henriette,” she said to her cousin on that occasion, “how thin you are! Worn out, I dare swear, by all this unaccustomed gaiety. You must be rather sad at Colombes and Chaillot and the Palais-Royal. So very quiet it must be for you!”

“And you too, Mademoiselle, here in the country.”

“Oh, I know how to entertain myself. I have my own little Court here, you see, and I have heard that I shall very soon be invited back to Court. I shall go at my pleasure.”

“I am glad of that, Mademoiselle,” said Henriette. “I know how unhappy it must have made you to feel the King’s displeasure.”

“It is not Louis. It is his mother. What jewels your sister has! They rival anything I see here. And Henriette, there is something I would say to you. You should not, you know, go in to supper before me. I should take precedence over you.”

“My mother says that is not so; and you know how important it is that everyone should walk in the right order.”

“In the old days the Kings of Scotland gave place to the Kings of France. Your brother … if he had a crown … would be a Scottish King, would he not?”

“But also a King of England …”

“My dear Henriette, you really should step aside for me to go into supper before you.”

“My mother would never allow me to. Nor would Queen Anne.”

Mademoiselle pouted. “Such fusses!” she said. “And over such small details. The Queen gives too much thought to such matters. Well, we shall see who will have precedence. Mark you, I think it would be a different matter if your brother were a ruling king.”

“In the eyes of the French Court he is still a king.”

“Lately, I have wondered. But enough of this. Enjoy yourself, Henriette. My poor child, it must be enchanting for you. You only go to the little private dances at the Louvre now, don’t you?”

Mademoiselle left Henriette and returned to her guest of honor.

“And how do you like the Court of France, Madame?”

“I am in love with the Court of France,” Mary told her.

“It is very different from that of Holland, is it not?”

“Indeed yes. Mayhap that is one reason why I have fallen so deeply in love with it.”

“You do not love the Court of Holland?”

“I will tell you this, Mademoiselle: as soon as my brother is settled in his kingdom, I shall go and live with him.”

“Ah! When will that be?”

“I pray to God each night,” said Mary vehemently, “that his return will not be long delayed.”

“You think you would live in amity with Charles?”

“Any woman could live in amity with Charles. He is the sweetest-tempered man alive.”

Henrietta Maria heard them as they talked of her son, and her eyes sparkled with intrigue. Mademoiselle might be temporarily out of favor at the Court, but she was still the richest heiress in Europe; and badly Charles needed money.

“Ah!” she cried. “I hear you talk of this poor King of England. So you wish to hear news of him, Mademoiselle?”

“Her Highness offered it without my expressing the wish,” said the insolent Mademoiselle.

“He is foolish,” said Henrietta Maria, “in that he will never cease to love you.”

“And wise,” said Mademoiselle, “in that he does not allow this devotion, which you say he has for me, to interfere with his interest in others.”

“He bade me tell you how sorry he was that he had to leave France without saying goodbye to you. Why, Mademoiselle, if you were married you would be your own mistress.”

“But the King, your son, would not give up any of his if I were!”

“You would do exactly as you pleased. He is, as his sister tells you, such a sweet-tempered person. It is impossible to quarrel with him.”

“And you, Madame, have achieved the impossible!”

“It is because he is unhappy that we have quarreled. If you married him he would be so happy that he and I would be reconciled.”

“If the King cannot live happily with you, Madame, I doubt whether he could with me.”

Mademoiselle’s brilliant eyes were turned on Louis who had begun to dance.

Henrietta Maria followed her gaze. She could scarcely hold back her anger. It was ridiculous. Mademoiselle was eleven years older than the King of France and Henrietta Maria meant Louis to marry her own Henriette.

Henrietta Maria knew that she must shelve her immediate desires—Charles’ marriage with Mademoiselle and Henriette’s with Louis. Her daughter Mary was as amiable as her brother and as eager to please and live peaceably with her family. She attended the Anglican church every day; but perhaps it was possible that Henrietta Maria might save her for the true Church.

“Dearest daughter,” she said, “I want you to come to Chaillot with me tomorrow. I am sure a rest in the tranquil atmosphere there will do you so much good.”

Mary smiled at her mother. Charles was right about her, she thought. She was the most affectionate of mothers when her children obeyed her. But, thought Mary grimly, she shall never make a convert of me.

“Yes, Mama,” she said, “I will with pleasure come to Chaillot, but I shall not go to Mass there. As you know, I always attend the Anglican church.”

Henrietta Maria frowned. “One should never shut one’s ears and one’s heart, Mary. It is well to listen to both sides.”

“That is true enough, Mama. So I hope you will attend the Anglican church with me, as I shall come with you to Chaillot.”

“That is quite impossible!”

Henrietta Maria’s whole body seemed to be bristling with indignation. Then her eyes filled with tears. “I always think,” she said, “that everything would have been so different had your father lived.”

Mary was filled with pity. Poor Mother! she thought. It is sad. She lost her husband and she loved him dearly; she must continually be haunted by the fear that she was instrumental in bringing him to his end. That is why she so fiercely maintains her grief. All her children will disappoint her, I fear. Charles has quarreled with her. She has sworn she will never see Henry again. James—her favorite—will bring sorrow to her, I doubt not, for he was mightily taken with Anne Hyde when they met. And what will Mother say to a marriage with Anne Hyde, Charles’ Chancellor’s daughter? But perhaps it will not come to that. Let us hope that she will not disown James as she has Henry, and doubtless would Charles if she dared. I disappoint her because I will not turn Catholic. No wonder she dotes on our little sister. Henriette seems to be the only one who is able to please her. Now I foresee many arguments; she will call Père Cyprien and the Abbé Montague to deal with me. Dear Mother! I am so sorry. But I cannot give up my faith even to please you.

But those arguments did not take place, for within a few days news came that Mary’s little Dutch William was ill, and the smallpox was feared.

She was beside herself with grief, and left at once for Holland.

Charles was riding to Breda. Another move—and who could say how long he would stay at Breda?

It was more than five years since he had set foot in England. Five wandering years! How many more would he spend—an exile from his kingdom? He was accustomed now to dreaming dreams, making plans which became nothing more than dreams. “I have had so little luck since Worcester,” he told his friends, “that I now expect none.”

He had said goodbye to Lucy and his son. They would be in London now. He did not care to think of London; but he hoped Lucy would fare well there. But Lucy, he assured himself, would fare well in any place. She would always have lovers to provide for her. How was he going to pay the four hundred pounds a year which he had promised her? He had no idea. His purse was empty. “I am a generous man,” he often said. “I love to give, and if the only things I am able to give are promises with little hope of fulfilling them, then must I give them.”

Lucy had said a sad farewell to him … and to others; she had wept to leave him … and to leave others.

He had swung young Jemmy up in his arms, and he knew then that he dearly loved the boy. If he had been the son of himself and Mademoiselle or Hortense Mancini or the now-widowed Duchesse de Châtillon—someone whom he could have married—he would have been well content. It was a pity such a fine boy as Jemmy must be a bastard.

“What will you do in London, Jemmy?” he had asked.

“Fight for the King’s cause!” had answered the sturdy little boy.

“Ah, my dear boy, you will best do that by keeping those fine sentiments to yourself.”

“I shall do it with my sword, Papa. Dead … dead … dead … I’ll cut off Cromwell’s head.”

“Take care of yourself, my son. That is how you will best serve your King.”

Jemmy was not listening. He was fingering his sword and thinking of what he would do in London.

“You’ll have to curb our young Royalist, Lucy,” Charles told the boy’s mother. “We have talked too freely before him, I fear.”

So they had gone, and here he was riding on to Breda.

His sister Mary joined him in the little town. She had left the French Court in haste on hearing news of her son’s illness, but now cheering messages were reaching her. Her little William was merely suffering from an attack of measles, and not the dreaded smallpox as had been feared.

Mary, released from fear, was full of gaiety. She declared she could not come near Breda without meeting her favorite brother.

They embraced affectionately, and Charles made her tell him in detail all that had befallen her at the Court of France. He was particularly eager for news of Minette.

“I wonder who loves the other more—you or your little sister,” said Mary.

“Tell me—is she well?”

“Yes—well and charming; but she grows too fast; and life at the Court is not very happy for her and our mother. Mademoiselle makes herself unpleasant, demanding precedence whenever they meet.”

“A curse on Mademoiselle!”

“I thought you wanted to marry the woman.”

“Mam wanted it, you mean, and as for myself, I would marry her, I dare swear, if she would have me. I’m not enamored of her, but her fortune is too great to be turned lightly aside.”

“Poor Charles! Is your purse quite empty?”

“Very nearly.”

“I have brought twenty thousand pistoles for your use.”

“Mary, you are an angel! One day I shall pay you back. That’s a promise.” He smiled wryly. “I would give you a fortune if I had one; alas, all I have to lay at your feet is a promise.”

“One day you will in truth be King of England. I am sure of it, Charles. One day you will be restored to the throne. The people of England are not pleased with Puritan rule. How could they be? You know how they love gaiety. Now the theaters are closed; there is no singing, no dancing, nothing to do but contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. It is not the English man’s or woman’s way meekly to accept such constraint. They love pageantry above all things. They will soon decide to have no more of puritanism. They decided they would have no more Catholic rulers at one time; they will be equally firm, when the time comes, to ban puritanism. The Englishman does not like his religion to interfere with his pleasure.”

“I am beginning to think,” said Charles, “that I make a very good Englishman.”

“You do indeed. And soon the English will realize this. Then they will implore you to return. They’ll go down on their knees and beg you to return …”

“They will have no need to. They have but to lift a finger, to throw a smile to poor Charles Stuart, and he will be entirely at their service. Now let us talk of the family. It is so rarely that we meet and can be alone together. Let us indulge ourselves, Mary.”

“I wish it were a happier subject. I am a little disturbed about James and Anne Hyde. Perhaps I should never have taken the girl with me.”

“James … and Anne Hyde?”

“He has a fancy for her. She is a good girl, Charles.”

“And James … is not so good?”

Mary sighed. “I can only hope that no ill comes of it. I think of our mother and what she would have to say.”

“Poor Mam! We do not want her declaring that she will not see James’ face again.”

“She is so ambitious for us all. She has been plaguing Mademoiselle … trying to persuade her to take you.”

Charles groaned. “No! Not again!”

“And Mademoiselle spoke quite emphatically. I think, Charles, that you have fascinated her a little. If you were not an exile, willingly would she marry you.”

“There are hundreds who would willingly marry the reigning King of England, Mary. It is only when they consider Charles Stuart the exile, that they find him such an unattractive fellow.”

“Never that!” said Mary fondly. “Threadbare and empty of purse you may be, but you are the most fascinating man in Europe. Mademoiselle’s problem is that she would like to marry you, but her pride won’t let her.”

“True! And I thank God that Mademoiselle’s pride is there to protect me from Mademoiselle.”

“And, of course, our mother has hopes of Louis for Henriette.”

“That is what I would wish for, Mary. It is a cherished dream of mine. Dear sweet Minette … the Queen of France! How think you she would feel about it? I should not care to see her unhappy.”

“Louis is magnificent, Charles. He is physically perfect … a little stupid perhaps, by Stuart standards.” They laughed together. “But he is so beautiful and not unkind. I think Henriette is fond of him. In fact I do not see how she could help being fond of him. She compares him with you. I know it. I know of it by the manner in which she speaks of you both in the same breath.”

“Then must Louis’ perfections be more obvious than ever!”

“No, Charles. That is not so. In her eyes you are perfect. I said to her: ‘How perfectly Louis dances!’ She answered: ‘He dances well, but he is not so graceful as Charles.’ I said: ‘Louis is surely the most handsome man in the world.’ She smiled and said: “That may be so. I am no judge. But he has not the wit of Charles.’ It is always Charles. It should not be so: a Princess so to love her brother!”

“Dear Minette! She should not. I shall write to her and scold her for loving me too well. But I do not think she loves me one whit more than I love her. If ever I become King I shall bring my family home. We shall all be together. That is what I long for more than anything.”

“But,” said Mary pensively, “I do not think she is untouched by Louis’ charm. Indeed, I think she is very fond of him. He is a charming boy and of good character. He must be, for never was one more flattered, and yet his arrogance is not overpowering, and he always gives the impression of wishing to do what he considers right.”

“I doubt that he would marry Henriette while I am still an exile. Oh, Mary, if I regained my kingdom, what a difference that would make, eh? I doubt not that then my little Minette would become the Queen of France. What an excellent thing that could be for our two countries! What an alliance! For I would love the French more than ever if Minette were their Queen.”

“And you would take Mademoiselle for wife?”

“Ah! I doubt it. I doubt it very much. There is a great obstacle which I feel may prevent Mademoiselle and me from joining hands at the altar. While I am an exile she cannot contemplate marrying me; and if I had a crown fixed firmly on my head I could not bring myself to take her. Now let us drink to the future. Let us hope that our dreams will come true.”

“Our first step will be to put you on the throne of England, where you belong.”

“Our first step! But what a step! Yet, who knows … one day it may come to pass.”

When Lucy arrived in London she found that a great change had taken place in the city since she had left it.

Now the clothes of the people were drab, and the people themselves were, for the most part, suppressed and sullen. Those who were not, seemed to wear an air of perpetual complacency. All the ballad singers had disappeared, and there were no spontaneous outbursts of pageantry which had been a feature of the old days. The only places which still flourished were the brothels, and their inmates still chattered to each other from windows of rooms which projected and almost met over the cobbled streets.

Lucy found rooms over a barber’s shop near Somerset House. She was warmly received by the barber and, as she called herself Mistress Barlow, no one knew of her connection with the King, nor that the bright-eyed little boy was Charles’ son.

Ann Hill had taken charge, and told the barber that her mistress was a lady who had been living abroad and been trying for a long time to return to her native country.

They had a little money, and for a few days Lucy was content to lie in the room looking out on the street; but she soon began to long for a lover.

Each day Ann discovered more of the changes which had befallen London. All the taverns were closed; bull-baiting was suppressed; all the pleasure gardens were closed except the Mulberry Garden. There had been no Christmas festivals in the churches for a long time. There was no dancing in the streets on May Day.

“Why did we come back?” wailed Lucy. “There was more fun at The Hague and in Cologne.”

A few days after her arrival she dressed herself with great care and went out. Everyone stared at her; she was different from other women. She looked like a foreigner. She soon found a lover—a high-ranking soldier of Cromwell’s Ironsides; but she did not enjoy her relationship with him as she had with the merry Cavaliers in exile. He was conscious of sin the whole time he was with her, and he felt compelled to make love under cover of darkness, slipping into the rooms over the barber’s shop at dusk, and leaving before it was light. Lucy was beautiful, and beauty, she believed, was not meant to be hidden by darkness. She was restive. She was wishing she had not come to London.

Finally, she told her lover that she had had enough of him and his preoccupation with sin, and that he had best take himself off to repentance.

After that it had become her habit to go out and wander disconsolately in the Mulberry Garden; it was not what it had been, of course; but it was still a place in which to sit and watch the world go by, to take a little refreshment under the trees and perhaps pick up a lover.

She did not meet a lover in the Mulberry Garden; but as she sat at one of the tables a woman approached and asked if she might join her.

“I saw you sitting there,” she said, “and I thought I should like to join you. It is rarely one sees such ladies as yourself in the Mulberry Garden in these days.”

“Ah, these days!” said Lucy incautiously. “In the old days, it was different, I can tell you.”

“I could tell you too!” sighed her companion. “The old days! Will they ever come back, do you think?”

“You would like to see them back?”

“Who would not? I was fond of the play. I was fond of a bit of fun … a bit of gaiety in the streets. Now it is nothing but prayer meetings … all day and every day. Will you take a little refreshment with me?”

“Thank you,” said Lucy, warming to the company. The woman was rather flashily dressed; she was no Puritan; that much was clear.

They ate tarts with a little meat, which they washed down with Rhenish wine.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” said Lucy’s new friend.

Lucy smiled her acknowledgment of the compliment.

“And very popular with the men, I’ll warrant!”

“Are there any men left in this town?” asked Lucy ironically.

“Yes. A few. They visit my house near Covent Garden occasionally. You must pay us a visit.”

“I’d like to.”

“Why not come along now?”

“I have a family who will be waiting for my return.”

“A family indeed!”

“A boy and a girl. I have left them with my maid.”

“Where do you live then?”

“Near Somerset House. Over a barber’s shop.”

“It hardly seems a fitting lodging for a lady like you.”

“Oh, I have had some fine lodgings, I can tell you.”

“I don’t need to be told. I can guess.”

“You would be surprised if I told you where I have lodged.”

“You have been in foreign parts, eh?”

“Yes. At The Hague and Paris. And … Cologne.”

“There were Englishmen at those places, were there not?”

“Indeed there were!”

“Real gentlemen, I’ll warrant.”

“You would be surprised if you knew.”

“Nothing would surprise me about a beautiful woman like yourself.”

“You are very kind.”

“I but speak the truth.” The woman lifted her glass and said: “I will drink to the health of someone whose name should not be mentioned.”

Lucy seized her glass and tears shone in her eyes. “God bless him!” she said.

“You speak with fervor, madam.”

“I do indeed. There is none like him … none … none at all.”

“You knew him … in The Hague and Paris …?”

“Yes, I knew him well.”

The woman nodded, then said: “Do not speak of it here. It would not be safe.”

“Thank you. You are kind to remind me.”

“It is good to have a friend. I hope we shall meet again. We must meet again. Will you visit my house tomorrow?”

“If it is possible, perhaps.”

“Please come. Come in the evening. We make merry then. What is your name?”

“Barlow. Mistress Barlow.”

“Mistress Barlow, I hope we shall be great friends. I see we are two who think similar thoughts in this drab place our city has become. My name is Jenny. Call me Jenny. It’s more friendly.”

“I am Lucy.”

“Lucy! It’s a pretty name, and you have a pretty way of speaking. That’s not the London way.”

“No. I come from Wales.”

“Barlow! Is that a Welsh name?”

“Yes. It is, and so is Water … my maiden name.”

“Water, did you say?”

“Yes. My name before I married … Mr. Barlow.”

“Lucy Water … recently come from The Hague. You will come to see me tomorrow, please. I shall look forward to your visit.”

Lucy went home not ill pleased with her visit to Mulberry Garden. Perhaps she would go to Jenny’s house next day. It would be interesting to meet some merry company again.

Lucy did go, and it was a merry evening. She awoke next morning in a strange bedroom, and when she opened her eyes she was slightly perturbed.

Ann would guess that she had stayed the night, not caring to face the streets at a late hour, and she would look after the children, so there was nothing to fear on that score; but Lucy’s lover of last night had not entirely pleased her. She missed the pleasant manners of the Court gentlemen. Yes, that was it; last night’s lover had been too crude for Lucy.

There was another discovery she had made. Jenny’s home was nothing but a bawdy house. She had begun to realize that, not long after she had entered it; but already by then she had drunk a little too much and felt too lazy—and, of course, it would have been very impolite—to leave abruptly.

As she lay there she understood that she had not enjoyed last night’s lover. Love, such as undertaken in Jenny’s establishment, was quite different from that which she had hitherto enjoyed. She had always been fastidious in choosing her lovers; something in them had attracted her or made a strong appeal to her sensuality. This was quite different. This was lust, to be bartered for and haggled over. Lucy was not that kind of loose woman.

Now she knew why Jenny had been so friendly in the Garden, why she had been so eager for her to visit her home. She was glad her companion of last night was no longer with her. She would rise and dress, thank Jenny for her entertainment and slip away, never to see the woman again.

She was dressed when there was a knock at her door.

“Come in!” she cried; and Jenny entered.

“Good morrow to you, Lucy. Why, you look as pretty by morning light as by candlelight, I swear. Were you comfortable in this room?”

“Yes, thank you. I was quite comfortable.”

Jenny laughed. “I notice you took the most amusing of the gentlemen, Lucy.”

“Was he the most amusing?”

“I could see that from the moment you set eyes on him, no other would do.”

“I fear I drank too freely. I am not accustomed to overmuch wine.” “Are you not? It is good for you, and it gives you such high spirits, you know.”

“My spirits have always been high enough without. Now I must thank you for my lodging and be off.”

“Lucy … you’ll come again?”

Lucy was evasive. She was telling herself that if she had not drunk so much wine, if she had not been so long without a lover, what had happened last night would never have taken place.

“Mayhap I will,” she said.

“Lucy, I’ll make you very comfortable here. Those rooms over the shop … they must be most unsuitable for a lady used to the comforts you enjoyed at The Hague and Cologne.”

“I manage very well. I have my faithful servant to look after me, and my children to consider.”

“You could bring them all here. I could use a new servant, or you could keep her merely to wait on you. The children would be welcome here. We are a very happy family in this house.”

The woman was breathing heavily. Lucy smelt the stale gin on her breath, and was aware of the avaricious gleam in her eyes. Lucy was not clever, but she now understood that she had behaved with the utmost folly. Doubtless there had been gossip bandied about as to the life Charles led on the Continent, and her name might well have been one of those which were mentioned in connection with him; and she, stupidly, had betrayed who she was, and perhaps last night had babbled even more.

No wonder this woman was eager to make her an inmate of her brothel! She could imagine what a draw the mistress of Charles Stuart would be.

Then Lucy wanted to get away. She wanted to wipe the shame of the place from her mind. She wanted to forget that she had spent the night in a brothel. All her love affairs had been so different. She had discovered that last night—half tipsy though she had been.

She drew herself away. “Well, I will say goodbye now.”

“But you’ll come again?”

“I … I’ll see.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. She was not going to let Lucy escape as easily as that.

Ann was reproachful. She guessed that Lucy had spent the night with a man. She said nothing, but she was a little frightened. Glad as she was to be in London, she was quicker than Lucy to realize that, in more ways than one, this was not the same London which they had left more than eight years ago.

Jenny called. She was wheedling, and then faintly threatening. She hinted that one who had come rather mysteriously from across the water and had clearly been a close friend of people who were regarded as the enemies of the Commonwealth, might find it convenient to shelter in the house of a good friend who would protect her.

“I am very comfortable here,” Lucy told her.

“You may not always be so,” retorted Jenny. “You may be glad of friends one day, and that day soon!”

“I shall not join you at your brothel,” declared Lucy firmly.

Jenny’s eyes gleamed. “You may find there are worse places than my house, Lucy Water.”

“I have never been in one,” said Lucy carelessly.

“You’ll change your mind.”

“Never!” cried Lucy, and for once her mouth was set into lines of determination.

The woman left, and Lucy lay thoughtfully nibbling sweetmeats.

Jenny called again on two other occasions; she sought to placate Lucy, but Lucy’s determination not to join her household brought more veiled threats.

A few days later two men called at the rooms over the barber’s shop. They were soberly clad, grim-faced men, servants of the Commonwealth. They came to search the rooms and Mistress Barlow’s belongings, they said.

“For what reason?” demanded Ann on the threshold.

“For this reason,” answered one of the men. “We suspect that the woman who occupies these rooms has recently come from the Continent, and that she is a spy for Charles Stuart.”

Lucy rose from her bed, her flimsy draperies falling about her; but these men were not Court gallants to be moved by beauty in distress. They began to search the room, and in a box they found the King’s promise to pay Lucy four hundred pounds a year.

One of them said: “Mistress, prepare yourself to leave this place at once.” He turned to Ann. “You also. We are taking you all to another lodging.”

Trembling, Ann prepared herself and the children, who were making eager inquiries.

“Where are we going?” said little Mary. “Are we going for a walk?”

“You must wait to see where we are taken,” Lucy told her.

“Mama,” cried Jemmy, “do you want to go? If you don’t, I’ll run them through with my sword.”

The men looked at Jemmy without a smile. Jemmy hated them. He was used to caresses and admiration. He drew his sword from his belt, but Ann was beside him; she caught his arm.

“Now, Master Jemmy, do as you’re told. That is what is best for your mother … and for us all. It is what your father would wish.”

Jemmy fell silent. There was something in Ann’s face which made him pause to think; he saw that his mother was in earnest too. This was not a game.

In a very short time they had left the barber’s shop and were being taken towards the water’s edge, to where a barge was waiting for them.

Slowly they slipped down the river, and soon Jemmy was pointing out the great gray fortress on its banks. “There’s the Tower!” he cried.

“That’s so,” said one of the men. “Take a good look at it from the outside, my boy. Mayhap you’ll be seeing nothing but the inside for a long time.”

“What do you mean?” cried Lucy.

“Just that we are taking you to your new lodging, Mistress, your lodging in the Tower … the rightful place for friends of Charles Stuart who come to London to spy for him.”

Lucy was ailing. The rigorous life of a prisoner did not suit her. She had been accustomed to too much comfort. She had grown thinner since her incarceration; she would sit listlessly at her barred window, looking out on the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and every time she heard the bell toll she would be seized with a fit of shivering.

Ann looked after her as well as she could, but Ann too was frightened. She remembered the day, over six years ago, when the Parliament had beheaded the King. She wondered if the same fate was in store for them.

Their jailer would tell them nothing. He would bring their not very palatable fare each day, and they would eat it in their cell. There were no sweetmeats for Lucy now; worse still, there were no lovers.

Jemmy often flew into a rage. He was a bold boy and a spoiled one. He demanded that they be set free.

He told the jailor: “One day you will suffer for this. My father will see that you do. I will kill you dead with my sword, and when my father is King again …”

The jailor listened in horror. He had not heard such words since the close of the war, and to think that he had under his care the son of Charles Stuart—bastard though he might be—overwhelmed him with astonishment at the importance and responsibility of his task in guarding these prisoners.

The jailor had a son who helped him in his work—a youth in his teens. Lucy’s interest was slightly stirred at the sight of him, for he was a good-looking boy; but her attempts to fascinate him were half-hearted; she missed her ribands and laces, her sweetmeats and her comfortable lodgings. She was almost always tired and listless; there was about her an air of bewilderment. She, who had always been so healthy as to be unconscious of her health, was now made uncomfortably aware of many minor ailments.

All the same she made the young man conscious of her fascination, and when his father was not present he would smile shyly at his pretty prisoner and exchange a few words with her. He even brought in some sweetmeats for her, and a blue riband to tie about her hair.

Ann thought: One night I shall doubtless find him sneaking in to lie on the straw with her. Will she sink so low?

But that did not happen, for it was quickly realized that Lucy was no subtle spy. She was merely one of Charles Stuart’s mistresses and, said those in authority, if we are going to keep all such women under lock and key, we shall soon have no room in the Tower for others. What harm can this woman do? She is nothing but a stupid, wanton creature. Why should we waste good victuals on Charles Stuart’s mistress and his bastards? Send them back whence they came, and warn them not to come to England again.

So it was arranged, and a few months after Lucy’s arrival in England she found herself, with Ann and the children, on the way back to Holland.

Henrietta Maria and her daughter had once more retired to the country and only made very brief appearances at state functions.

It was clear that the fortunes of the Stuarts were at their lowest. Cromwell, determined to fight the “Lord’s battles,” had sent his Ironsides to join with Marshall Turenne against the Spaniards who, he declared, were “the underpropper of the Romish Babylon” which meant that the Protector was fighting with France. How could the royal family of France honor the enemies of their ally, the Protector? All Henrietta Maria and her daughter could do was remain in obscurity, while it was impossible for any of the Stuart men to set foot in France. In desperation Charles, James and Henry joined forces with the Spaniards. Charles had been reported wounded when fighting in Spain, but this rumor had proved to be false. A few months later James and Henry were actually in Dunkirk, which was in the hands of the Spaniards, and was taken after a siege by the French.

During this period Henrietta Maria could do little but lie on her bed and weep bitterly. In vain did Henriette try to comfort her mother. The Queen saw the dissolution of all her high and mighty schemes.

When an invitation came for the Princess to attend the fête given by the Chancellor Seguier, Henriette was loath to go, but her mother insisted.

“My child,” she said, “I grow sick and ill, but you must go. What will become of us, I wonder. And, my dearest, whatever has happened, you are still a princess. You have your position to uphold, and the King and Queen will never forget what is due to you; I am sure of that.”

But afterwards Henrietta Maria wished with her daughter that Henriette had never gone to the Chancellor’s fête, for Mademoiselle was present and she was determined on this occasion to assert her rights.

As the party left the ballroom for the banqueting hall, very deliberately she stepped in front of Henriette.

This was noticed by many, and the next day the whole Court was buzzing with the news. Etiquette was one of the most serious topics of the day—Queen Anne would have it so; and this seemed a matter of major importance.

Mazarin and the Queen called Mademoiselle to their presence and demanded an explanation.

Mademoiselle was haughty. She was sure, she said, that she had the right to enter a room before the Princess of England.

“She is the daughter of a king, Mademoiselle,” said Anne sternly.

“Your Majesty, the Kings of Scotland always stood aside for the Kings of France, and Charles Stuart is not even a king of Scotland. He is King in nothing but in name.”

“This is most distressing,” said the Queen. “I am annoyed with you.”

“Your Majesty, I did not wish to make too much of the matter. To tell the truth, I caught her hand as we passed in, and to many it would seem that we walked together.”

Philippe, who had been listening while studying the rings on his fingers, cried out suddenly: “And if Mademoiselle did step before the Princess of England, she was perfectly right to do so. Things have come to a fine pass if we are to allow people who depend on us for bread and butter to pass before us. For my part, I think they had better take themselves elsewhere.”

Louis, who had been giving only half his attention to the dispute, was startled by his mother’s sharp cry of protest.

Louis was not really interested in the question as to which of his cousins stepped aside for the other. Greater matters concerned him. Since Madame de Beauvais had initiated him into the doux scavoir he found no pastime to equal it. He would be grateful to Madame de Beauvais for the rest of his days; he would always feel tender towards her, but his desires strayed elsewhere. There were three beautiful nieces of Cardinal Mazarin: Olympia, Marie and Hortense. Louis, who had been violently in love with Olympia—quickly married off to the Count of Soissons—had now transferred his affections to Marie. He was eager to marry her. She was after all the niece of the Cardinal and she bewitched him. Louis could not think very much about his thin little cousin, who was only a child, when his thoughts and feelings were so deeply involved with the fascinating Marie.

All the same, he was sorry for the little Henriette. She and her mother were out of favor now because of foreign affairs, and it was certainly not the fault of the Princess. Philippe was wrong to speak of her so slightingly, for what he had said would surely be carried hither and thither until it reached the ears of the desolate Queen and her little daughter.

So Louis joined his mother in reprimanding Philippe, who slunk off in some annoyance to go and find his favorite de Guiche and tell him what had happened, to complain that Louis and his mother conspired together to humiliate him, and to receive de Guiche’s assurance that he was the most charming and clever of princes even though he had had the misfortune to be born two years later than his brother.

Louis went on dreaming of the beauty of Marie Mancini.

Love! What a pastime! What a pleasure! He would not of course wallow in it as did his cousin, Charles of England. Louis must have more dignity; he had so much to remember, so much to live up to. He was no wandering exile. That was why he would try to persuade his mother and the Cardinal to agree to his marriage with Marie. Then he could enjoy legitimate love, which would be so much more gratifying since it would not involve a lack of dignity.

Marie! Beautiful, charming, voluptuous Marie! But if the occasion arose, and he remembered, he would be kind to poor little Henriette.

In his bedchamber at Versailles, Louis awoke to a new day. His first thoughts were of Marie. He intended to plead with his mother to allow him to marry her; he would do so this very day, without delay. Marie was urging him. Marie loved him, but she was also very eager to be Queen of France.

Louis’ morning in Versailles involved a ritual. As soon as he awoke he said his prayers and rosary in bed, and when his voice was heard, his attendants would come to his bedside; among them would be the Abbé de Péréfixe whose duty it was to read to him from the Scriptures. Sometimes the Abbé substituted a part of the book he was writing—a history of Louis’ grandfather.

When the Abbé had finished his reading, the valets, La Porte and Dubois, would come forward; they would put his dressing gown about him and lead him to his commode, on which he made a habit of sitting for half an hour. On rising, he went back to his bedroom where the officials of state would be waiting for him; he would chat with them in that charming and easy way which made them all so delighted to be with him. He continued to chat while he washed his face and hands and rinsed his mouth; then prayers began. After that his beautiful hair was brushed and combed amid expressions of admiration, and he was helped into the light breeches and cambric shirt which he wore for his morning physical exercises. At these he excelled, but on this morning he showed less than his usual skill, so that it was clear to those about him that something was on his mind. He did not land on the seat of the wooden horse with his habitual agility, although the usher, seeing his mood, had taken the precaution of not winding it quite so high as usual. It was the same during the bout of fencing; Louis was not displaying his customary good judgement. Even during the drill with pike and musket he was absentminded. But no one reproached him. Even when he made a fault there came a chorus of admiration. Then followed the ballet dancing to which he usually looked forward with such pleasure. Now he imagined himself to be dancing with Marie; and although he ignored the instructions of Beauchamp, the foremost master of the ballet in the country, he danced with inspiration that morning.

Sweating from the dance, he returned to his chamber, there to change his clothes before eating breakfast.

After that he went to the apartments of Cardinal Mazarin to discuss state matters.

Cardinal Mazarin! He was quite excited to be with him, for the Cardinal had a special importance at this time, being Marie’s uncle.

He wondered whether to approach the Cardinal on the matter of his marriage; surely the great man would be on the King’s side and would wish to see his niece Queen of France. All the same, Louis did not entirely trust Mazarin, and dared not speak to him until he had laid his plans before his mother.

He went to her as soon as he had left the Cardinal. It was now eleven o’clock and she was still in bed, for Anne never rose early.

Her face lighted at the sight of her son. Each morning it seemed to her that he had grown in beauty; he was like one of those romantic heroes of whom Mademoiselle de Scudéry wrote so entertainingly; and indeed this was not to be wondered at, for all writers of the day saw in Louis the romantic ideal, and no man could be a hero—even in fiction—unless he bore some resemblance to the King.

This was one of the hours of the day which Anne enjoyed most. To lie in bed and receive the filial duties of her beloved boy; to watch him as he gracefully handed her her chemise; to chat with him while she consumed the enormous breakfast which was brought to her bed; these were indeed great pleasures. She almost wished that he were a small boy again, that she might pop titbits into that pretty mouth.

She was glad he was so physically perfect. What did it matter if he were not a bookworm or if, after he left her, he indulged in sports and devoted but an hour or so a day to books?

“I have something to say to you, dear Mama,” he said.

“You would wish us to be alone?”

He nodded. She waved her hand, and in a few moments her chamber was deserted.

“Now, my beloved?”

“Madame, it is this: “I am no longer a boy, and it is time I thought of marriage.”

“Dearest, that is true. I have thought of your marriage ever since you were in your cradle.”

“I have now found one whom I would wish to make Queen of France. I love her, chère Maman. I cannot live without Marie.”

“Marie?”

“Marie Mancini.”

“My son! But you joke!”

“It is not a joke. I love her, I tell you.”

“Oh yes, you love her. That is understandable. It is not the first time you have loved. But marriage … the marriage of the greatest King in the world, my boy, is not a matter to be undertaken lightly.”

“I am not a boy. I am twenty and a man.”

“Yes, you are a man, and marry you shall. But you shall have a wife worthy of you.”

“I love Marie.”

“Then love Marie. She will be honored to become your mistress.”

“This is a different love, Mama. Marie is too good, and I love her too deeply …”

“Fortunate Marie! Now, my son, there is nothing with which to distress yourself. Have your Marie. She is yours … in all ways but that of marriage. Why, you demean yourself, Louis! You … the King of France … and such a King as never before sat on any throne! Why, none but a royal bride would do for you.”

“If I married Marie I should make her royal.”

Anne was so distressed she could not do justice to the delicious cutlets which she so enjoyed.

“Dearest, you love Marie, but you have a duty to your country. Think about this, and, with your good sense, you will see that a marriage between you and Marie Mancini is out of the question. You must have a royal bride. I thought you were going to tell me that you wished to marry your cousin Henriette.”

“Henriette!” Louis’ eyes were wide with distaste.

“Do you not like Henriette?”

“She is but a little girl.”

“She is fourteen now …”

“She is quiet and oh … I think of her as a little girl. I do not like little girls. I wish for a woman … a woman like Marie.”

“Then we will find you a woman like Marie … a royal woman. But if you had wished to marry Henriette, if you had been in love with Henriette, in spite of her brother’s exile, we should have been ready to consider the match. For you see, dearest, you are the son of a line of Kings and you must continue that line. Your children must be royal. You understand that, beloved. Henriette is royal. She is a princess, and her grandfather was your own grandfather, great Henri. The people would not be displeased to see you united to his granddaughter, pitiable though the state of her country’s affairs may be. But … I would not say that was the best marriage you could make. There are other royal houses in Europe which are not in eclipse. If we could make peace with Spain you might marry the daughter of the Spanish King.”

In the King’s mind, love battled with his sense of duty. He never forgot for a moment the responsibilities of his position. He was fully aware that he must not make a mésalliance. He wished to be perfect in all things; he must not fail in this matter.

“But I love Marie,” he persisted. “It is Marie whom I wish to marry.”

“But, dearest, you will do your duty, I know. And in a little while you will forget Marie. There will be so many women to love you. Believe me, dearest, the one you marry need not necessarily come between you and your pleasures. Give France royal sons; and give as many sons as you wish to others. You will enjoy the begetting, and there is no woman in France who would not be proud to bear the King’s sons, even though they be bastards.”

“Such behavior seems wrong.”

“What is wrong for ordinary men is right for kings. Never forget, my loved one, your brilliant destiny. You are not to be judged as ordinary men. Oh, my beloved, do not turn from your mother because she cannot give you what you want. How willingly would I give my consent if I could! My one wish is to give you all you ask. There! See how I love you! I have been unable to eat my breakfast.”

He stooped and kissed his mother’s cheek.

“Then you do not blame me, dearest?” she said anxiously.

“I understand, of course,” answered Louis. “But, Mama, I cannot marry Henriette. Do not ask that of me.”

“Why are you so much against her?”

“I think it is because I am sorry for her. I do not like to be sorry for girls. I like to admire, not to pity. And she is too learned. She spends too much time in study. No! It must not be Henriette.”

“How vehement you are against this poor child, Louis. One would think you hated her.”

Louis shook his head. He did not understand his feelings for his cousin. He protected her when he could from slights and insults; but he was determined on one thing; he would not marry her.

Sorrowfully he left his mother and went to the riding school, where he forgot his problems temporarily as he galloped round the school, picking up rings on his lance and holding them suspended during the gallop.

He was an expert at such feats, but as the cheering of his attendants filled his ears that day he began to think of what he would tell Marie; yet he found that it was the tall figure of Henriette which troubled his mind.

Shortly after that interview with her son, Anne, in panic, invited to the Court of France the Dowager Duchess of Savoy, a daughter of Henri Quatre. The Dowager Duchess had a daughter. This was the Princess Marguerite, a small, dark-skinned girl, very plain, and, knowing the purpose of her visit to the French Court, very nervous.

Louis received her with all the courtesy he could muster, but it was impossible to hide his feelings of distaste. It seemed to him that, the more he saw of other women, the more he was in love with Marie.

“I shall not marry my cousin Marguerite,” he told his mother. “I could not entertain the idea.”

“You need see very little of her,” said Anne. “And you would soon grow accustomed to her.”

“Dear Mother, that is not my idea of marriage.”

“You will have neither Marguerite nor Henriette then!”

“Neither,” he said firmly.

The Cardinal would have liked to see a marriage between his niece and the King, but he realized that such an alliance was inadvisable. He knew that if the royal tradition of the house of France was so flouted, not only the nobility but the people would rise against him. They would blame him, as they were always ready to blame him for France’s troubles. He remembered the wars of the Fronde, and the unpopularity he had suffered at that time; and he could see that such a marriage would do him more harm than good.

“Sire,” he said, “if you should persist in making this marriage against my advice, I should have no alternative but to give up my office as your minister.”

Louis was morose; he felt inadequate to deal with the situation. He thought continually of Henriette, because he knew that if he declared he would marry her, there would be no objection.

He wished that he had studied more assiduously; he wished he was more learned. It was all very well to be able to leap and vault to perfection, to outstrip all others in the hunt. But there was more to life than that. If he had had more book-learning, he might have been able to confute the Cardinal’s arguments; he would certainly have been able to state his feelings with more clarity; he realized that well-chosen words were weapons which he had never before appreciated.

His cousin Marguerite returned to Savoy, and the Cardinal decided to send his niece away from Court.

Louis did not protest; he knew that what had been done was right for the King of France, no matter how disappointing it was to Louis the man.

He declared himself heartbroken, and then he found a lady of his mother’s bedchamber who comforted him with great skill, and he was soon feeling as grateful to her as he had, during a previous period, been to Madame de Beauvais.

Court gossip reached Henriette at Colombes. Her attendants chattered about the King’s passion for the Cardinal’s niece and the arrival of his cousin Marguerite.

“She was small and plain … and Louis would have none of her.”

“It would have been such a suitable match,” murmured Henriette.

“Ah yes, but he could not find it in his heart to love her. And he is so handsome … so romantic … so made for love.”

Henriette pictured that poor plain Marguerite who had failed to charm the King. She was very sorry for her; she knew how the poor child must have suffered.

Henriette wept silently for Marguerite … and for herself.

Lucy was tired, but she still walked through the streets of Paris. She was frequently ill now; she knew that she had changed, all in a few short months. She grew breathless at the least effort, and worse, she was suffering from an illness which she knew would not allow her many more months of life.

There were times when her mind wandered a little, when she thought she was back in the past, when men and women whom she had known would seem to walk beside her and talk to her.

Her father was often there. He said: “We shall have to marry that girl quickly.” And her mother nodded and understood.

I was born that way, Lucy told herself. ’Twas no fault of mine. It was something which had to be. It was as natural to me as breathing. If I had been born ill favored like poor good Ann Hill, I should have been different. So who should blame such as I? Is it our fault that some of us are born with bodies which demand the satisfaction of physical love with such an intensity that we are not strong enough to deny it? Some have a love of mental exercise, and they become wise and are applauded; others have great skill in the art of war, and they win honors; but those who love—and love is all taking and giving pleasure, for the two go hand in hand—come to this sad end.

She would wander past the new houses in the Place Royale and the Place Dauphine; she did not notice the fruit trees and the flowers which grew in the gardens and nearby meadows. She was looking at the men who passed her by. They scarcely threw her a look nowadays—they who had once sought her so eagerly. She had sauntered through Paris; she had wandered along the north and south banks; she had strolled from the Place de Carrousel to the Porte St. Antoine, from the Porte du Temple to the Porte Marceau, and she found not one man who was ready to be her lover even for an hour.

To this had she sunk.

The roundness had left her face, and her cheeks hung in flabby folds; there were dark shadows under her still beautiful, large brown eyes. Her hair had lost its luster, and she had no money to buy colored ribands with which to adorn it.

Her good health had begun to desert her during her stay in the Tower; but her troubles had been slight then. When she had arrived in Holland she had still been a comely girl. There were lovers in Holland, but it seemed to her that one followed another in too rapid succession; they grew a little less courtly, less of the gentleman.

“I dislike this country,” she had declared to the faithful Ann. “I hate the flatness and the wind.”

By degrees they had made their way to Paris, going from town to town. Ann worked in some of the big houses, sometimes in gardens, often in the fields. Lucy plied the only trade for which she had any aptitude. And eventually they had come to Paris. But how changed was everything! She had hoped to find the King there, for she heard little news during her wanderings. She thought: He will not desert me. He will want to help me, if only for Jemmy’s sake.

But there were rumors in Paris. The King of England never came there now. The French were friendly with his enemies. The Queen of England and the Princess Henriette were rarely seen in the capital; they attended few state functions; they lived in obscurity.

And so here was Lucy in Paris, trying to find lovers who would support her and her children, feeling too old and too ill to struggle any longer.

She sat on the bank and stared at the river.

It would have been better, she thought, if I had stayed in London. Jenny, the brothel keeper, was right. I should have been better off had I followed her advice, for what is there for such as I when we grow old and ill and are no longer desirable!

She sat dreaming of her lovers. There were two whom she remembered best. The first because he was the first: she recalled the copse at twilight, the light in the sky, the shouts of Roundhead soldiers, and the sudden understanding of herself. She would never forget her first lover, and she would never forget Charles Stuart.

“Charles,” she murmured, “where are you now? Yes, the most exalted of them all, would be the one above all others to help me now.”

She thought of the children. What would become of them when she died?

Panic seized her, for she knew that she must soon die. She had known others who had contracted this disease which now threatened her life. She had seen how death came. It was the result of promiscuous pleasure. It was inevitable, mayhap, when one took lovers indiscriminately.

She must get back to her lodgings—the miserable room in a narrow cobbled street; she must get there quickly and talk to Ann. Ann was a good woman—a practical woman who loved the children. When Lucy died Ann must take them to their fathers and make sure that they were well cared for.

She struggled to her feet, and began to walk away from the river. As she neared that part of the town where she had her lodging, a fishwife, from whom now and then Ann bought scraps, called to her: “Have you heard the news then?”

“What news?”

“You’ll be interested … since you are English. Cromwell is dead.”

“Cromwell … dead!”

“Aye! Dead and buried. This will mean changes in your country.”

“That may be so,” said Lucy in her slow, laborious French, “but I’ll not be there to see them.”

She mounted the stairs to her garret and lay exhausted on the straw.

“This will mean changes for him,” she murmured.

When Ann came in with the children she was still lying there.

Ann’s face fell into the lines of anxiety habitual to it now. She had been excited when she came in, and Jemmy was shouting: “Cromwell’s dead … dead. Cromwell is dead!”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “Cromwell is dead. Ann, there is something I want you to do without delay. I want you to leave at once … with the children. Find out where the King now holds his Court. Go to him. Tell him what has befallen me.”

“We’ll all go,” said Ann.

“Where shall we go?” demanded Jemmy.

“We are going to the King’s Court,” Ann told him.

“To the King’s Court?” cried Jemmy. He seized his sister’s hand and began to dance round the garret. He was so strong and healthy that the life of poverty had scarcely had any effect upon him.

“Ann,” said Lucy quietly, “mayhap the King will be going to England now. Who knows? You must find him quickly. You must not rest until you have found him and taken the children to him. He will do what has to be done.”

“Yes,” said Ann, “he will do what has to be done. Would to God we had never left him.”

“Ann … leave soon. Leave … now.”

“And you?”

“I think I can fend for myself.”

“I’ll not leave you. I’ll never leave you.”

Lucy heard Jemmy’s shouts. “Cromwell is dead. We are going to see the King. You are Cromwell, Mary. I am the King. I kill you. You’re dead.”

“You have a fever,” said Ann to Lucy.

“Leave tomorrow, please, Ann. It is what I wish … for the children.”

“I’ll never leave you,” said Ann, and the tears started to run down her cheeks.

Lucy turned away. She said: “It has to end. All things have to end. It was a happy life, and all will be well for Jemmy and Mary. He will see to that. He is a good man, Ann, a good gay man … for a gay man can be as good as a somber one.”

“There is none to equal him,” said Ann.

“No,” agreed Lucy. “None to equal him.”

She lay still for a long time; and she fancied he was beside her, holding her hand, telling her not to be afraid. Life had been gay and merry; let there be no regrets that it had come to its end.

She whispered as she lay there: “In the morning, Charles, Ann will set out to bring the children to you … Jemmy who is yours, and Mary … who ought to have been yours. Look after Jemmy and see that Mary is well cared for. You will do it, Charles, because … because you are Charles … and there is none to equal you. In the morning, Charles …”

All night she lay there, her throat hot and parched, her mind wandering.

She fancied she heard the voices of people in the streets; they seemed to shout: “Cromwell is dead! Long live the King! God bless him!”

“God … bless … him!” murmured Lucy.

And in the morning Ann, with the two children, set out for the King’s Court, for poor Lucy no longer had need of her.