The Loves of Charles II (20 page)

In Paris Mademoiselle de Montpensier was discovering a new quality in the young King. He now spoke French without embarrassment; he had left his shyness behind him with his luxuriant locks.

He was skilled in the graceful art of paying compliments; even the young French gallants could not do so more graciously than he could, and with the words he spoke went such eloquent looks from those large brown eyes that Mademoiselle was tempted to consider him seriously as a husband.

Charles was certainly seriously considering her as a wife. She was handsome—though not as handsome as she believed herself to be—and she was rich and royal. He could not make a more suitable marriage, he believed, than with the daughter of the King’s uncle.

He thought of Lucy now and then. He had little fancy for Lucy now. He was not the inexperienced boy who had been her lover; he had grown up since he had last seen Lucy. Adventures such as he had experienced since he had left the Continent had done much to change him. He had sobered considerably, though this was not outwardly visible; he had lost those wild dreams of easily regaining his kingdom; the defeat at Worcester had marked him deeply; not only had it set shadows beneath his eyes, etched new lines of cynicism about his mouth; it had touched the inner man.

He was indolent; he knew it now, and he blamed himself for his defeat at Worcester. He firmly believed—for his gift of seeing himself without self-bias had been heightened by his misfortunes—that a better man would not have suffered defeat.

He had had a chance and lost it. He did not blame the superior forces of the Parliament, ill-luck, bad weather, or any of the ready-made excuses of defeated generals; it was characteristic of him that he blamed none but Charles Stuart. Somewhere he had failed. He had failed in Scotland; he had failed at Worcester; and he blamed himself because of his inclination to shrug his shoulders and think of dancing, gambling and going to bed with women, rather than starting a new campaign. He often thought: If the first Charles Stuart had had the power of the second Charles to see himself as he really was, and the second Charles had had the noble inclinations of the first Charles, they would, combined, have made one Charles worthy to wear the crown of England. It was a distressing foible to know oneself too well.

He had thought of this when riding with Jane Lane through the Forest of Arden. Dear Jane! So beautiful, so aloof, yet so entirely conscious that she rode pillion with the King. William, she had called him—William Jackson,
her humble servant, who must accompany her on a journey. He would never forget that journey, the beautiful girl riding pillion behind him. He had been dressed as a farmer’s son in a gray cloak and high black hat; and for a week, Jane—and only Jane—had held his life in her hands. Yet never once had he attempted to make careless love to her, though when he said adieu to Jane, he had ceased to long for Lucy.

Lucy had a child now; he had heard that she was Sir Henry Bennett’s mistress. He was fond of Henry—an amusing fellow. He wished Henry luck with Lucy; he wanted to see young Jemmy; but he believed he had finished with Lucy. He wanted a different sort of woman. So he would not seek out Lucy; a meeting between them might provoke an awkward situation, and he had lost none of his desire to avoid such happenings.

No! He would enjoy these weeks in Paris. He would play with his little sister; he would court Mademoiselle who, he could swear, was more inclined to listen to him now than she had ever been.

“My cousin,” she said to him, as they walked through the gardens of the Tuileries, “you have grown up since you returned from England. You have ceased to be afraid of me.”

“I was never afraid of you, fair cousin,” he answered, “only afraid of myself.”

“Those are meaningless words,” she countered. “Afraid of yourself! What do you mean?”

“Afraid of the lengths to which my passion for you might lead me.”

“When you went away you could not speak French. You go to Scotland; you go to England; and you return speaking it fluently. Pray, did they teach you French in those two countries?”

“They taught me much, but not French. I came away not caring what was thought of my French or myself.”

“How was it you acquired such indifference to the opinion of others?”

“I suppose, Mademoiselle, it was because my opinion of myself was so bad that that which others had of me could not be much worse.”

“You sound like a cynical old man. Were the sins you committed in England great?”

“No greater than those committed by others, I dare swear.”

“Am I to conclude that you now have a contempt for the whole world?”

“Never! The world is made up not only of saints and sinners—both of which I have no doubt I should abhor—but also of beautiful women.”

“Could not beautiful women also be saints … or sinners?”

“Nay! They are but beautiful women. Beauty is apart. It exonerates them from all charges of sin or saintliness.”

“You are ridiculous, Charles. But you amuse me.”

“You would have been amused far more to see me with servants in the kitchen, posing as a nailer’s son from Birmingham. There I sat … one of them … so sure of myself—William, the nailer’s son from Birmingham. God’s Body! What a strange world this is, when it is better to be the son of a nailer from Birmingham than the son of a Prince of Scotland and Princess of France!”

Mademoiselle clenched her fists at the thought. She could not bear to contemplate insults to royalty. Charles noticed this and smiled. He was a King, and therefore it was easier to bear such insults than it was for poor Mademoiselle to contemplate them. Mademoiselle would never be a Queen in her own right; though she could achieve a crown mayhap by marrying him. Was this the moment to remind her of this? He doubted it.

He went on, “Unfortunately for me the meat-jack ran down. ‘Now, William,’ cried the cook, ‘why do you sit there … as though you’re a lord? Wind up the meat-jack and be quick about it!’ I was eager to serve the cook, but although much time and care has been spent on my education, the winding of meat-jacks was never taught me, and I, William, the nailer’s son, was exposed in my ignorance and called by that fat cook ‘the veriest clownish booby in the world!’”

“You should have drawn your sword and run the fellow through.”

“Then, dear lady, I should have left my head behind me on London Bridge. ’Tis better to be called a clownish booby—if you merit the name—than a corpse, to my way of reckoning. Howsoever, I fared better than Wilmot who, hiding in a malthouse, came near to being baked alive, while our enemies looked everywhere but in that spot for him.”

“And this Jane Lane … doubtless she became your mistress?”

“This is not so.”

“Come, Charles! I know you well.”

“Not well enough, it seems. I was the lady’s servant and as such I behaved.”

“Some servants, possessing the necessary qualifications, have been known to lay aside the garments of servitude at certain times.”

“Not such servants as William Jackson when serving such a mistress as Jane Lane. Ah! It is small wonder that you find me changed. You should have seen me trying to squeeze myself into a priest’s hole. You should have heard me. That hole was made not only for a smaller man than I, but for one less profane. You should have seen me mingling with the ostlers and the serving men. It is not easy for me to disguise myself. My dark and ugly face seemed known to all. How often was I told that I had a look of that tall, dark, lean man for whom the Parliament was offering a thousand pounds!”

“Yes, assuredly you have had adventures, cousin.”

“And one day, I shall succeed. You know that, dearest lady. One day I shall go to England and not return.”

“Do you mean that you will settle down to a life of servitude with a charming lady—a Mistress Lane?”

“I hope to settle down with a charming lady, but as a king, Mademoiselle. Would you be that charming lady? I should be the happiest man alive if that could be.”

“Ask me later, Charles. Ask me when you have won your crown.”

Charles kissed her fingertips. He was by no means upset. Mademoiselle was too proud a young woman to make a comfortable wife. Moreover, he had caught sight of one of Mademoiselle’s ladies-in-waiting, the young Duchesse de Châtillon. She was a lovely creature—calm, serene and so gentle. In some measure she reminded him of Jane Lane; she was warm and tender yet unapproachable, being completely in love with her husband.

The hopelessness of loving her suited the King’s present mood.

He was happy to transfer his attentions from the haughty Mademoiselle to charming “Bablon” as he called the Duchesse.

Life suddenly began to change for Henriette. When she was eight years old she renewed her acquaintance with the two most important boys in France. One was Louis, the King, who was fourteen years old; the other, Philippe, his brother, was aged twelve.

The excitement began suddenly. Her mother came to her, and Henriette had begun to know that when those black eyes—embedded in pouches and wrinkles—sparkled and gleamed with speculation, when those plump white hands gesticulated wildly, there were plans in her mother’s mind.

“Great events are afoot,” cried Henrietta Maria, and she immediately dismissed all attendants.

The little girl gave her some anxiety; she was so thin and was growing too rapidly; and although she was vivacious and intelligent, she lacked that conventional perfection which was recognized in the Court as beauty.

“What may well be a very important day in your life is approaching, my child!” cried the Queen.

“In
my
life, Mam?”

“You are the daughter of a King—never forget that. My dearest wish is to see you wearing a crown. That alone can compensate me for all I have suffered.”

Henriette was uneasy. Her mother had a habit of imposing unpleasant tasks which had to be done for her sake, because she was
La Reine Malheureuse
who had suffered so much.

“The war of the Fronde is over. The King and his mother and brother are to return victorious to Paris.”

“And this … is important to me?”

“Now, child, you are not showing your usual intelligence. Is it not important to all France that those wicked rebels are subdued, that the King returns to his capital?”

“But, Mam, you said for
me …”

“For you in particular. I want you to love the King.”

“All France loves him. Is that not so?”

“You must love him as the King of this land, of course; but you must love him in another way. But more of that later. Louis is the most handsome King that ever lived.”

Henriette set her lips stubbornly. There was only one King who could be that to her.

Henrietta Maria shook her daughter. “Yes, yes, yes. You love Charles. He is your dear brother. But you cannot marry your brother.”

“I … I am to marry King Louis?”

“Hush, hush, hush! What do you think would happen if any overheard such words? How do we know? This is the King of France of whom you speak. Oh yes, he is a boy of fourteen, but nevertheless he is a King. Do not dare talk of marrying him!”

“But you said …”

“I said you were only to think of it, stupid one. Only to think of it … think of it day and night … and never let it be out of your thoughts.”

“A secret?”

“A secret, yes! It is my dearest wish. Mademoiselle, your cousin, hopes to marry him. A girl of her age and a boy of fourteen! It is a comedy! And what does she think will be her reception when the King and his mother come back to their own, eh? What will they say to Mademoiselle, who ordered the guns of the Bastille to fire on the King’s soldiers? I will tell you, my child. Monsieur Mazarin declared that the cannon of the Bastille killed Mademoiselle’s husband. That is true. When those shots were fired, she lost her chance of marrying her cousin. Foolish girl! And double fool for thinking herself so wise! She thinks she is another Jeanne d’Arc. The foolish one!”

“Mam, you were talking about me, and how important this is.”

“And so I shall talk of you. Let the foolish ways of Mademoiselle be a lesson to you. I’ll swear that when the Court returns, Mademoiselle will be requested to leave the Tuileries; she will be retired to the country. There let her toss her pretty head; there let her write in her journal; there let her wonder whether it might not be a good thing to turn to the King of England before it is too late—lest she lose him as she has lost the King of France. The
King of France! A woman of her age! Nay, she shall never have Louis. Ah, my little Henriette, how I wish we could plump you up! How thin you are! Bad child! You do not eat enough. I shall have you whipped if you do not eat.”

“Please, Mam, don’t do that. I eat very well, but it does not make me fat. It only makes me tall.”

“Louis is tall. Louis is so handsome that all who see him gasp at his beauty. A King ten years … and only fourteen now. It is said that he is not mortal, that no one could be as perfect as this boy, and be human.”

“And is he so perfect, Mam?”

“Of course he is. More beautiful than all other boys; taller, more full of health, high spirits and good nature. They say he is the son, not of his father, but of a god.”