The Loves of Charles II (43 page)

He said: “Dearest, they are talking. There is scandal concerning us.”

“I know it, Louis,” she answered.

“My mother has warned me.”

“Mine has warned me.”

“What must we do?”

“We must never be alone together; we must give up our moonlight rambles. You must select a favorite and spend much time with her. You must treat me more as a sister.”

“I could not do it, Henriette. Loving you as I do, I could not pretend not to do so.”

“Yet it must be done.”

“How I hate myself! We should have been free to make the most perfect marriage ever made by King and Queen … if I had been less of a fool!”

“Do not speak of yourself thus, Louis. If you were not exactly as you are, how could I love you? To me you are as perfect as your courtiers tell you you are—not because I think you are the wisest man in France, not because I think you write better verses than Moliere and Racine, but because I love you. I love you as you are, and would not have one little part of you changed.”

He kissed her with passion. In future there must be no opportunities for such displays of feeling. They were both a little afraid of where such displays might lead them; they had both been brought up in the French Court by two mothers who had never failed to impress upon them the importance of their royalty. Etiquette was second nature to them and neither of them could act without being conscious of their royalty.

He released her and cried: “What are we going to do, Henriette? What shall we do, my love?”

It was to her that he had always turned for suggestions.

“There is only one thing we can do,” she said. “We must make everyone believe that the affection we have for each other is pure … as pure as we know it to be. We must see each other rarely and never without others present.”

“That I’ll not agree to!”

“Then, Louis, you must come to see me, but it must appear that you are not interested in me, but in someone else.”

“Would anyone believe that?”

“I have some pretty maids of honor.”

He laughed at the suggestion and, taking her hands, kissed them fervently. “Henriette,” he demanded, “why should we care? What should our positions matter to us? Has there ever been love such as ours? Why should
we not ignore all those about us! Why should we not follow our inclinations! Life has cheated us.”

“Nay, Louis,” she answered sadly, “we have cheated ourselves.”

“The fault is mine.”

She stroked his face gently as though she longed to remember every detail of it. “I’ll not have you blame yourself. The fault was mine. I was too proud. I was too conscious of my beggary. I hid myself away; I was shy and gauche.”

“And I was blind.”

“Nay, Louis, it is not true. I was there, but I was not awake then. I was only a child—a shy, proud child. I was not the person I am today. Nor are you. You, too, have changed.

“We have grown up, dearest. We have left childhood behind us. Why should we not be happy together?”

“I am trying to think of a means whereby we might continue our happiness. At the ball tonight we shall present the
Ballet des Saisons.
All the most beautiful women of the Court will either be among the spectators or taking part in the ballet. You must pretend to be mightily interested in one of them. There is a charming girl, Frances Stuart, one of the loveliest girls I ever saw.”

“She will not seem lovely to me. I shall not see her.”

“Dear Louis, you must see her … or one of them. There is young Marie-Anne, the youngest Mancini girl. She is charming.”

“I shall dislike her. She will remind me how foolish I was with her sisters.”

“There is a quiet little girl—only just sixteen. She is very shy, but she seems quite pretty at times. She would be enchanted if you but smiled at her. She will be carrying your Diana’s train.”

“I shall have eyes only for Diana.”

“Please spare a glance for little Louise de la Vallière. She will be overcome with delight at the honor; and if you pay some attention to her, it will be said that Madame no longer draws to herself all the King’s attention.”

Then he held her against him and she clung to him. She had a feeling that there would be so few opportunities in the future.

“Dearest Louis,” she said, “do not be jealous if you see me showing some civility to a friend of Philippe’s, for I shall have to play my part. The Comte de Guiche will be to me as little Louise is to you; and you need not feel any jealousy, for he is one of Philippe’s friends, and you know they have no interest in women.”

“So … we must disguise our love. We must pretend to care more for others….”

“It is the only way, Louis. You may trust me with de Guiche, and I shall trust you with the little Vallière.”

It was the most elaborate of all the fêtes, and the ballet, most appropriately, took place out of doors. The stage had been set on the lawn near the lake, and torches lighted in the avenues of trees.

The Queens Anne and Henrietta Maria were seated in state, surrounded by those members of the Court who were not taking part in the ballet.

First came beautiful nymphs, scattering roses on the grass as they sang and danced, and their songs were eulogies of the qualities of Diana the huntress. Then the curtain was drawn to show Henriette. A gasp of delight came from the spectators at the sight of her. She was clad in fine draperies and her hair hung loose about her shoulders; the silver crescent was on her brow and in her arms were the bow and quiver.

About her were green-clad beauties, and two of these were young girls whom Henriette had recommended to Louis: Frances Stuart who, it was clear, in spite of her youth, would be a great beauty, and the much less noticeable brown-haired girl, Louise de la Vallière.

The seasons of the year entered to pay tribute to Diana, and, dressed as Spring, in green and gold and ablaze with diamonds, came the King himself. He knelt before Henriette and lifted his eyes to her face. The chorus was singing verses in praise of Spring with such passion and verve that, if any had failed to recognize Louis in his verdant robes, it would have been known that Spring could only be the King.

Louis was not listening to the verses. He was looking at the young girl who stood with downcast eyes, not daring to glance his way.

Louise de la Vallière was very shy, and obviously in agony because she feared she would forget her words. Now came her cue to join Diana’s handmaidens in a song, and Louise missed it.

She looked at the King and the King was looking at her; she blushed hotly and a wave of tenderness swept over Louis. Poor child! She was shy because she was taking part in a ballet with him, and he himself had seen that she was not so clever at the acting and singing as some of the girls.

He smiled, and he saw that it was all she could do to prevent herself falling on her knees before him. He raised his eyebrows. His lips formed the words: “I am not now the King; I am merely Spring.” They seemed like part of the ballet. La Vallière smiled, tremulous and adoring; and Louis, accustomed as he was to admiration, was well-pleased.

They walked about the gardens of Fontainebleau, the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. Henriette had changed Diana’s draperies for a gown of cloth of silver and scarlet. Until today the King would have been beside her. With feelings of mingling relief and regret she saw that he was with a group which included La Vallière. It was as they had planned, but how she wished he had refused to carry out their plan! She imagined his coming to her and saying: “I care not for their gossip. I wish to be with you, and with you I shall be.”

Armand, the Comte de Guiche, was beside her. “Madame,” he said fervently, “may I congratulate you on a wonderful performance?”

“You are kind, Monsieur le Comte.”

“It is you who are kind, Madame, to allow me to speak thus with you.”

“Oh come, monsieur, we do not stand on ceremony on such occasions. Those are the King’s orders. See how he himself mingles with his guests.”

“It has been so difficult to speak with Madame,” said de Guiche. “Usually the King is at her side. I am delighted to have this opportunity.”

“The part you played in the ballet was considerable, Comte. You were a great success.”

“I shall treasure such praise, coming whence it does.”

“You have an air of melancholy. You have not quarreled with Monsieur, have you?”

“No, Madame.”

“Then is anything amiss?”

“Amiss, Madame? I am the victim of a hopeless passion. I love a lady, the most delightful in the Court, and I have no hope that my passion will ever be returned.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I did not know you cared for ladies.”

“I never did until I saw this one.”

“I am sorry she will have none of you. Have you courted her long?”

“I have seen her often, but there has been little opportunity for courtship. She is far above me. She is elegant; she is slender; and she is quite different from the plump beauties of the Court.”

Henriette smiled. “Then I can only wish you the good fortune of falling out of love, since you cannot win this woman. Now, Monsieur le Comte, will you conduct me to the King? I wish to hear whether he himself is satisfied with our entertainment.”

She was thinking: I cannot bear to be away from him. He has shown the arranged interest in La Vallière, and I mine in de Guiche; we have done our duty for this night, and we must not break away too suddenly.

She noticed how Louis’ face lighted as she approached, and in that moment Fontainebleau was a very happy place for Henriette.

Philippe faced his friend and demanded an explanation of his conduct. “You … flirting with Madame! What means this?”

“You have been misinformed.”

“My eyes do not misinform me. I saw you. You were mincing along beside her, complimenting her like a young fop bent on seduction!”

“Does Monsieur think Madame would look my way?”

“It appears that she did.”

“Only because …”

“Never mind why she smiled on you! Why did you smile on her?”

“She is enchanting.”

“Armand!”

“Of what use to deny it?” said the Comte. “Of course I am in love with Madame. I was in love with her before anyone else saw how delightful she really was. I have always watched her; I have always understood her … known more of her than anyone….”

“How dare you stand there and tell me you love my wife … you who are
my
friend!”

“Monsieur … Philippe … I am sorry. I love you. I have loved you since we were boys. This is different. It should not come between us. You, as her husband, should understand that.”

“What has that to do with you and me?”

“You know her … how charming she is. I feel that I have helped to make her what she is today. I have helped to tear away that shyness, that
gaucherie
… but to me, even that was charming.”

“Armand! I will not have you talk thus before me. Do not imagine that my favor is for you alone. There are others who would be only too ready to take your place in my affections. You may go away for all I care. And, in fact, if you are thinking of making love to Henriette, go you certainly shall! Do not imagine you can make me jealous by preferring my wife!”