Philippe, watching his brother’s triumph, scowled. The people did not cheer him as they did Louis; they did not admire him as they did the King. He fancied some of them tittered at his appearance. That was intolerable.
De Guiche knew that his royal friend was in special need of comfort and he wondered how best to give this.
It was a few evenings later, when they had rested at one of the châteaux on their road, that the two walked together in the grounds, and Philippe had his arm about de Guiche’s shoulders.
“This journey is not so much in order to soothe these people by Louis’ magnificent presence,” said Philippe with a touch of anger as he referred to his brother, “as that there may be conferences between the ministers of Spain and our own.”
“Monsieur is right as usual,” said de Guiche. “It is Louis’ marriage which is under consideration.”
“I wonder if he will like Marie-Thérèse.”
“I have heard rumors that she is very small and far from well favored,” said de Guiche, to please his master.
Philippe laughed. “He’ll not like that. He likes big plump women—matrons—with some experience to help him along.”
De Guiche joined in Philippe’s laughter, and Philippe went on: “Louis is the most innocent King that ever sat upon the throne of France.”
“He has not Monsieur’s quick mind,” said de Guiche. “That has kept him innocent.”
“You flatter, dearest Comte.”
“It is no flattery. Is it not clear? See how he worships Madame de Soissons. She clearly loves the King because he is the King. And Monsieur de Soissons is so blind because his wife’s lover is the King. But Louis thinks it is pure good chance that Soissons should not be in her apartment when he visits her. Louis is so romantic!”
Mayhap he will not feel so romantic when he is married to Marie-Thérèse. She is very thin; she is very plain. Why are all the girls whom princes may marry, thin and plain? Marguerite; Henriette; and now Marie-Thérèse.
“Henriette?” said de Guiche sharply.
“My cousin … the Princess of England.”
“She is thin, yes,” said de Guiche slowly; “but she has a charm.”
“A charm! But she is so very thin … nothing but a bag of bones! And so quiet.”
“There are some who are quiet because their discourse would be too profound to interest most of those who are at hand to hear it.”
“But … Henriette … profound!”
“She has a quality,” said de Guiche. “It is as yet hidden. She is not fifteen, your little cousin. Wait, Monsieur … ah, wait!”
“This is amusing. I think you but seek to make me laugh, dear Comte.”
“No. I speak with great seriousness. She is a child yet, but she is clever. There is one thing: I have seen a certain sparkle in her eyes. She is sad because her life is sad. She has always lived in exile … like a plant in the shade. Ah, if the sun would shine on her! If she could let loose her natural gaiety! But she cannot. She is plagued all the time. She is an exile … a beggar at Court. Mademoiselle de Montpensier continually seeks to take precedence. Henriette’s brothers wander the Continent; she never knows when they will meet their death. She is humiliated at every turn and, being so clever—so full of imagination—she is sensitive; so she remains in her corner, quiet and pale, and to those who have not the eyes to see, so plain. Do not underestimate Henriette, Monsieur. Your brother is not insensible to her charm.”
“Louis!”
“Ah, Louis knows it not yet. Louis sees her as you do. Poor plain little cousin. ‘Nothing but bones,’ he said, and he thinks of his plump matrons. But Louis is romantic. He is a boy in heart and mind. You, Monsieur—forgive me; this sounds like treason, but between ourselves, eh?—you are so much cleverer than the King. You see more clearly. I’ll wager this: One day Louis will not be insensible to the charms of little Henriette. Let her brother regain his throne; let her come out of her corner; let her dazzle us with her beautiful clothes, her jewels. Then we shall see her beauty shine. Do you remember that, in the ballets, it is she who often says: ‘Wear this … it will so become you.’ And how often is she right! Have you seen her, animated in the ballet, playing a part? Then she forgets she is the exiled Princess, the little beggar girl who may be snubbed at any moment. The true Henriette peeps out for a while to look at us; and, by the saints, there you have the most charming lady of the Court!”
“You speak with fervor, de Guiche. Are you in love with my cousin?”
“I? What good would that do me? I do not love women, as you well know. They married me too young, and so I lost any taste I might have had for them. I was merely telling you that the King is not insensible to the charms of his cousin.”
“But he has refused to marry her; you know that.”
“Yes. And she knows it. It has made her quieter than ever in his presence. But you have noticed the softness in the King’s eyes when he speaks of her? Poor Henriette! he says to himself. He is sorry for her. He does not understand. He gambols with his plump matrons. He is like a child learning love … for he is far younger than his brother. He has spent his time in youthful sports; he is a boy yet. He has now acquired a certain taste for love, but at the moment he likes the sweet and simple flavors. Wait … wait until he demands something more subtle.”
“Then you think …”
“He will one day greatly regret that he turned away from the Princess Henriette.”
“I cannot believe that, Comte.”
But Philippe was thoughtful; and his mind was filled with memories of Henriette.
During the journey of the French Court to the Spanish border, Henrietta Maria and her daughter remained in Paris. Charles took advantage of the absence of the Court to visit his sister.
He came riding to Colombes where they were residing at that time. Unceremoniously he found his sister, and Henriette, giving a little cry of joy, ran into his arms.
She was laughing and crying, looking eagerly into his face, noting the changes, the fresh lines about the eyes and mouth which did not detract from his charm.
“Charles! Charles!” she cried. “What magic have you? That which makes others ugly merely adds to your charm.”
“I was born ugly,” said the King. “Those who love me, love me in spite of my face. Therefore they are apt to find something to love in my ill-favored countenance and they call it charm … to please me.”
“Dearest brother, will you stay long?”
“Never long in one place, sister. I merely pay a flying visit while the coast is clear.”
“It is wonderful to see you. Mam will be delighted.”
Charles grimaced. “We are not the best of friends, remember. She cannot forgive me for taking Henry’s side against her, and for not being a Papist. I cannot forgive her for the way she treated the boy.”
“You must forgive her. There must not be these quarrels.”
“It was to see you I came.”
“But you will see her while you are here. To please me, Charles?”
“Dearest, can it please you to displease us both?”
“You would go away happier if you mended your quarrels with Mam. Charles, she is most unhappy. She grieves continually. She thinks still of our father.”
“She nurses her grief. She nourishes it. She tends it with care. I am not surprised that it flourishes.”
“Try to understand her, Charles. Try … because I ask it.”
“Thus you make it impossible for me to refuse.”
So he did his best to mend the quarrel between himself and his mother. He could not love her; he could not tolerate cruelty, and when he remembered Henry’s sorrow he was still shocked. But they did not discuss his brother, and he was able to spend many superficially pleasant hours in his mother’s company.