“I am sure it will be very entertaining,” said Henriette.
And the King was satisfied.
The dispensation had arrived from the Pope; the wedding was arranged; but there was a postponement because of the death of Mazarin. Louis and his mother insisted on two weeks’ Court mourning, during which time it was impossible for a Court wedding to take place. Buckingham, who had accompanied the Princess and her mother from England, was too obvious in his attentions to Henriette, and Philippe showed his jealousy. The Court was amused; so was Louis. It was amazing to see Philippe in love with a woman, and that woman his future wife.
Philippe insisted on Buckingham’s being recalled to England, and Charles complied with his request. And all the time Henriette seemed to be in a dream, hoping that something would happen again to postpone the wedding.
But this time all went smoothly, and at the end of March the contracts were signed at the Louvre, and later that day at the Palais-Royal the betrothal took place before the King and Queens Anne and Henrietta Maria. All the nobility of France was present and, although owing to the recent deaths of the bride’s brother and sister and the bereavement the royal family of France had suffered in the loss of Cardinal Mazarin, there were no balls and pageants such as were usually given to celebrate a royal wedding, the country showed itself delighted with the union, for all felt sure that it would bring peace between England and France, and moreover, the little Princess with her romantic story had always been a favorite in the land. La Fontaine wrote verses in which he told the story of her escape from England and the years of exile which had culminated in this brilliant marriage.
Charles was delighted; so was Louis. Philippe seemed completely happy; only the bride was filled with foreboding.
So she was married. She was no longer the Princesse d’Angleterre, a shy young girl to be ignored and humiliated; she was Madame of the French Court and, after the little Queen Marie-Thérèse and Anne, the Queen Mother, she was the most important lady of France.
Terror had seized her when it was necessary for her to leave her mother and go with Philippe to the Tuileries.
He had been tender and by no means a demanding lover. She believed she had to be grateful to Philippe. He was kind during those weeks of the honeymoon; he had begged her not to be afraid of him. Did he not love her?
She reminded herself that all royal princes and princesses must face marriage. It was a duty they were called upon to perform. If there were love in their marriages they were indeed fortunate; it did not happen to many.
Philippe, she sometimes thought, was more in love with himself than with her. He liked her to admire his clothes and jewels. She believed it would not be difficult to live with Philippe. He was not very much older than she was, and she began to think she had been childish to feel so fearful.
Sometimes she would find his eyes upon her—alert, watchful, as though he were searching for something, as though he found her fascinating in a way he could not understand.
Once he said: “My lovely Henriette, you are charming. But yours is a beauty which is not apparent to all. They must look for it. They must seek it out. And then they find how very charming it is, because it is so different, so enchanting that the voluptuous beauties of the Court seem merely fat and vulgar when compared with you.”
She said: “You are fond of me, Philippe, and thus you see perfection where others see what is imperfect.”
He smiled secretly and after a while he said: “Now that all these perfections are mine, I should like others to see them and envy me my possessions.”
She grew gay during those days of her honeymoon. She felt she had made an important discovery. There was nothing to fear from Philippe; he was kind and not excessive in his demands for a love she could not give him. It was as though, like herself, he accepted their intimacy for the sake of the children they must beget. She was no longer to suffer humiliation. He talked of the entertainments they would give as Monsieur and Madame of France; and she found herself waiting eagerly to begin the round of gaiety he was proposing.
“You were meant to be gay, Henriette,” he told her. “You have suffered through living in the shade. Now that the sun will shine upon you, you will open like a flower. You will see; others will see.” He went on, “We should not stay here in solitude too long. We must not forget that we are Monsieur and Madame, and there is one whom we must entertain before all others. I refer, of course, to my brother. Let us plan a grand ball and decide on whom we shall invite. The list will not include the Queen. Poor Marie-Thérèse! Her condition is just what the country would wish it to be, but I’ll swear she looks plainer than ever. We’ll have to provide another lady for Louis. That should not be difficult. Who shall it be? Madame de Soissons? Perhaps … But enough of Louis. This is your first appearance as Madame, and I wish it to be remembered by all who see it. Your gown … what shall it be? The color of parchment, I think. That will show your dark eyes. And there shall be slashes of scarlet on it … again for the sake of your beaux yeux. And in your hair there shall be jewels. Remember, Henriette, you are no longer an exile. You are Madame … Madame of the Court, the first lady of the ball; for my mother will not come, nor will yours; and poor little Marie-Thérèse must lie abed nursing the heir of France within her!”
“Philippe, I have rarely seen you so excited.”
“I think of your triumph. How proud I shall be! Henriette, make me proud. Make all men envy me.”
She laughed and threw herself gleefully into the preparations. There should be a dazzling ballet for the King’s enjoyment. She and Philippe would dance together. Their first entertainment for the King should surpass all that had gone before.
She was gay. She wrote verses; she practiced the singing of them; she practiced the dance; her gown would be the most becoming she had ever possessed. For life had taken a new turn, and she was going to assume that gaiety which was her birthright and which had lain slumbering too long.
Philippe watched her, smiling, clapping his hands, kissing her lightly.
“All men will envy me this night!” he declared. “All men!”
Animated, and vivacious as none had seen her before, she greeted Louis on his arrival, gracefully curtsying as he extended his hand for her to kiss.
He had said good night to his wife before he had left for the Tuileries; and he had thought how plain and sallow she was.
She was lying back in bed playing cards with her women, her greedy eyes turned from the dish of sweetmeats which were on the bed. She looked at him as though he were one of the sweetmeats, the biggest and the most succulent; and he had felt sick and angry because the daughter of the King of Spain did not look like Madame de Soissons.
Now Henriette stood before him. Such radiance! Such beauty! He had never before seen her thus. All his pity for his poor little cousin was swept aside and there remained feelings which he did not understand.
He said: “It shall be my privilege to open the ball with you, cousin … nay, you are my sister now.”
He took Henriette’s hand.
She thought how handsome he was, and she was momentarily wretched because it was his brother and not himself who was her husband. But now he was looking at her as he had never looked before, when the violins began to play and the dancers fell in behind them.
“You have changed,” said Louis.
“Is that so, Your Majesty?”
“Marriage has changed you.”
“Your Majesty knew me for a long time as the sister of an exiled King. Now Your Majesty sees me as the sister of a reigning King and … your brother’s wife.”
“Henriette,” he whispered, “I’m glad you are my sister.”