“She … she has changed in more than her status.”
“It has made a great difference to her and her mother, and I rejoice to see it. I never thought Henriette so charming before. She seems almost beautiful; and she is so frail, with such a look of innocence. Quite charming. Philippe is eager for the marriage, and it is small wonder.”
Louis said in a mood of unaccustomed ill-temper: “Philippe should not worry. He shall marry the bones of the Holy Innocents.”
Anne looked at him in amazement, but he was smiling fondly at Marie-Thérèse.
Mademoiselle was furious.
The King was married; Philippe was to marry Henriette, and she had always thought that, if she lose Louis, Philippe would be hers for the taking.
What had come over her young cousin? This passion for Henriette had sprung up so suddenly. It was only a little while ago that he was taking sides against her.
Mademoiselle was no longer young. She was past the time for marriage. If she were not the granddaughter of France and its richest heiress she would be alarmed.
She must marry, and her marriage must be one which would not bring shame to her proud spirit.
There was one marriage which would please her more than any—except perhaps with Louis. Yet when she compared the two marriages she thought she would prefer the one still open to her. She would have wished to be Queen of France beyond anything, she supposed, because France was her native land and the Court well known to her; it would have been completely satisfying to spend the rest of her days in France. But to be the Queen of England—married to that fascinating rake, Charles Stuart—would be an exciting adventure.
Had she known he was to come into his kingdom, she would have married him ere this. But it was not yet too late, for he was still unmarried.
She went to his mother and, after kissing her hand, asked permission to sit beside her. Henrietta Maria graciously gave that permission.
No longer an exile! thought Mademoiselle. She is almost condescending to me now. I shall have to let these Stuarts know that I consider it my privilege to walk before their daughter, for the girl is not yet Madame of France.
Henrietta Maria’s fond eyes were on Henriette now.
“A triumphant day for your daughter, Madame,” said Mademoiselle.
“I rejoice to see her so happy.”
“Is she happy? She does not seem entirely so. Do you think she is as eager for this marriage as … others?”
“She will be. She is but a child. Philippe is eager … very eager.” Henrietta Maria stole a malicious look at her niece. “He is as eager to marry her as others are to marry him.”
“Let us hope she will be happy.”
“Who could fail to be happy in such a match, Mademoiselle?”
“There will be matches in plenty in your family now, I doubt not.”
“I doubt not,” said Henrietta Maria. “My son, the King, will not hesitate now.”
“She will be a happy woman whom he chooses.”
“There was a time, Mademoiselle, when you did not consider his wife would ever be in such a happy position.”
“Nor would she have been had he remained in exile.”
“He will remember the days of his exile, I doubt not. He will remember his friends of those days … and those who were not so friendly.”
“Here at the French Court there have always been many to offer him sympathy and friendship.”
“He owes much to his sister Mary.”
“A charming princess. She reminded me of Charles.”
“So you found Charles charming then?”
“Who does not?”
“Many did not during the days of his exile. But I doubt not that the charm of a king—to some—is more obvious than that of a wandering beggar.”
Mademoiselle was growing angrier. Was the Queen suggesting she was too late? Had she forgotten the vast fortune which Mademoiselle would bring to her husband! She had heard that the King of England still suffered from a lack of money.
Henrietta Maria was remembering it. She wondered what Charles would feel about marrying this woman. She must curb her impetuosity; it would not do to offend one who might become her daughter-in-law.
She turned her gaze on Henriette, and was soothed. There was one who was to make the best marriage possible—since Louis was married.
Mademoiselle followed her aunt’s gaze, and her anger was turned to something like panic.
Too late for Louis; too late for Philippe. Could it be that she was too late for Charles?
Henriette and her mother were ready to leave France on their journey to England. Henriette was longing to see her brother; but she was bewildered. Too much had happened to her in too short a time. The step from girlhood to womanhood had been too sudden. The thought of marriage alarmed her although as a princess she had been prepared for it, and she had been long aware that love played little part in the marriages of royal persons.
She liked Philippe; she continually told herself that. There had been one or two quarrels when they were children, but was not that inevitable? He had not always been kind to her; but he had been only a boy, and all that would be changed now that he was in love with her. She could not doubt his love; he made it so evident. His eyes scarcely left her and he was obviously proud of her. It was touching to see the way in which he looked at his brother as though he were comparing Henriette with Marie-Thérèse, to the disadvantage of the Queen. How ridiculous of Philippe! And yet she found it to be rather charming and very pleasant, after all the humiliations she had received, to be so loved by such an important person.
She would not wonder whether Louis was happy in his marriage; she would not think of Louis. Happily she was going to England and there it might be possible to talk with Charles, to tell him all that was in her mind and ask his advice.
She sought her mother, but when she reached the Queen’s apartments she found Henrietta Maria lying on her bed, weeping bitterly.
“What is wrong?” cried Henriette in great alarm. Her thoughts had gone at once to Charles. Had he lost the kingdom he had so recently regained?
“Leave me with the Queen,” said Henriette, and the women obeyed.
The Princess knelt by the bed and looked into her mother’s face. The small dark eyes were almost hidden behind their swollen lids, but Henriette knew at once that her mother’s grief was caused more by anger than sorrow.
“Can you guess what is happening in England?” she demanded.
“Tell me quickly, Mam. I cannot endure the suspense.”
“There is danger of that woman’s being received at Court.”
“What woman?”
“That harlot … Anne Hyde!”
“You mean … Anne … Clarendon’s daughter?”
“Yes, I do mean that rogue’s daughter. That fool James has married her. Your brother has dared … without my consent … without the consent of his brother, the King, to marry her in secret!”
“He … he loves her.”
“Loves her! She has tricked him, as she would well know how to do. He married her just in time to allow her bastard to be born in wedlock. And he … poor simpleton … poor fool … acknowledged the child to be his.”
“Mam, it may well be that the child is his.”
“My son … to marry with a low-born harlot!”
“Marriage with James will make her Duchess of York, Mam.”
“If you try to soothe me I shall box your ears! I’ll not be soothed. Thank God we can go to England to prevent further disaster. Can you believe what I have heard! Your brother Charles is inclined to be lenient over the affair and will receive the woman at Court as James’ wife!”
“Yes,” said Henriette, “I can believe it. It is what he would do.”
“Charles is soft. There will always be rogues to get the better of him.”
“No, Mam. He is kind. He says: ‘They love each other; they are married; they have a child. So … let us all be merry together!’”