The Loves of Charles II (51 page)

“Charles is popular, Mam. I should not worry about him. It may be that subjects like their Kings to be gay. It may be that they wish for these things. They grew tired of Cromwell’s England.”

“But the women at his Court! It is not that he has a mistress … or two. It is a seraglio.”

“Mam, Charles will always be Charles, whatever is said of him.”

“And no son to follow him! Only James Crofts … or Monmouth, as he now is.”

“A charming boy,” said Henriette.

“And likely to become as profligate as his father and mother.”

“Lucy Water!” pondered Henriette. “I saw her once. A handsome girl … but with little character, I felt. Well, Charles loved her and he has kept his word to care for her son; and the little girl is well looked after, although many say that Charles is not her father.”

“He is ready to accept all who come to him and accuse him of being their father.”

“Dearest Charles! He was always too good-natured. Mam, I beg of you, cease to worry. I will send my physicians to you to prescribe something for your sleeplessness.”

“My child, may the saints bless you. May they bring you through your troubles to happiness. May you have a happier life than your poor mother.”

“I always remember that you had a good husband who was faithful to you, Mam. It would seem to me that that made up for so much.”

“Ah, but to have such a one … and to lose him … to lose him as I did!”

Mother and daughter fell into silence, and after a while Henrietta Maria left for Colombes.

Four days later Henriette’s daughter was born. Her mother did not come to see her; by that time she was feeling too ill to leave Colombes.

Henrietta Maria lay in her bed while the physicians sent by her daughter ranged themselves around her.

“It is sleep Your Majesty requires,” said Monsieur Valot. “If you could rest you would regain your strength. We shall give you something to ease your pain, Madame.”

Henrietta Maria nodded her assent. She, who had complained bitterly of her unhappy life, bore pain stoically.

Monsieur Valot whispered to one of the doctors: “Add three grains to the liquid. That will send Her Majesty to sleep.”

Henrietta Maria, hearing the talk of grains, raised herself on her elbow. She said: “Monsieur Valot, my physician in England, Dr Mayerne, has told me I should never take opium. I heard you mention grains. Are those grains you spoke of, grains of opium?”

“Your Majesty,” explained Valot, “it is imperative that you sleep. These three grains will ensure that you do. My colleagues here all agree that you must take this sleeping draught, for you cannot hope to recover without sleep.”

“But I have been strictly warned against opium on account of the condition of my heart.”

“This dose is so small, and I beg of Your Majesty to accept the considered opinion of us all.”

“You are the doctors,” said Henrietta Maria.

“I shall then instruct the lady in attendance on Your Majesty to give you this dose at eleven o’clock.”

Henrietta Maria felt a little better that day. She was able to eat a little, and soon after supper her women helped her to bed.

“I feel tired,” she said. “I am sure that, with the aid of my sleeping draught, I shall sleep well.”

“There are two hours yet before you should take it, Your Majesty,” said her ladies.

“Then I shall lie and wait for it in the comfort that a good night’s rest is assured me.”

Her ladies left her, and two hours later one of them brought in the draught. The Queen was then sleeping peacefully.

“Madame,” said the woman, “you must wake and drink this. The doctor’s orders, Your Majesty will remember.”

Half awake Henrietta Maria raised herself and drank. She was too sleepy to question the wisdom of waking a sleeping person to administer a sleeping draught.

When her attendants came to wake her in the morning, she was dead.

Henriette held her child in her arms. Another daughter. Did this mean she must resume marital relations with Philippe? It was too much to ask. She would not do it. She hated Philippe.

Her woman came to tell her that Mademoiselle de Montpensier was on her way to visit her.

When Mademoiselle came in there were traces of tears on her face; she embraced Henriette and burst into tears.

“I come from Colombes,” she said.

Henriette tried in vain to speak. Mam … ill! she thought. But she has been ill so long. Mam … dead! Mam … gone from me!

“She died in her sleep,” said Mademoiselle. “It was a peaceful end. She had not been able to sleep; the doctors gave her medicine to cure her wakefulness, which it has done so effectively that she will never wake again.”

Still Henriette did not speak.

Louis came to Saint-Cloud. He was full of tenderness, as he could always be when those for whom he felt affection were in trouble.

“This is a great blow to you, my darling,” he said. “I know how you suffer. My brother’s conduct is monstrous. I have remonstrated with him … and yet he does nothing to mend his ways.”

“Your Majesty is good to me.”

“I feel I can never be good enough to you, Henriette. You see, I love you. When I am with you, I am conscious of great regret. I have a wife … and there are others … but you, Henriette, are apart from all others.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so.”

“You and I are close, my dearest … closer than any two people in the world.”

He embraced her tenderly. She was frailer than ever.

“I know you love me,” went on the King. And then: “Your brother is asking that you may visit him.”

She smiled, and jealousy pierced Louis’ heart, sharp and cold as a sword thrust.

“He says that it is long since he saw you. He says that the grief you have both suffered makes you long to be together for a short while.”

“If only I might go!”

“I have spoken to Philippe. He is against your going.”

“And you, Sire?”

“Philippe is your husband. His consent would be necessary. It might be that we could force him to give it. Henriette, I wish to speak to you of secret matters. I know I can trust you to work for me … for me exclusively.”

“I am your subject, Louis.”

“You are also an Englishwoman.”

“But France is my country. I have lived all my life here. You are my King.”

“And more than your King?”

“Yes, Louis. You are my King and my love.”

He sighed. “I wish to make a treaty with your brother. It is a very secret treaty. I think he may need … a certain amount of persuasion to make him agree to this treaty.”

Henriette’s heart was beating fast.

“There is none who could persuade him … as you could,” Louis went on.

“What is this treaty, Louis?”

“I could only disclose it if I thought that you were entirely mine. There are few who know of its contents, and I trust you, Henriette. I trust you completely.” He was looking into her eyes. She saw that his were brilliant—as brilliant as when they rested on one of his potential mistresses. But what was happening now was seduction of a different kind—mental seduction. He was as jealous as a lover, but he was jealous of her love for her brother; he was demanding her complete surrender, not to be his mistress but his slave—his spy.

She was overcome by her love for him; the love of years seemed to envelop and overwhelm her.

She knew that if she failed him now, she had lost him; she knew that, if she gave herself to him in this way, they would be bound together forever, that what he felt for his mistresses would indeed be light compared with
what he felt for her, that what they could give would be as nothing, compared with her service. She had something which she alone could give: her influence with her brother. He was demanding now to know the extent of her affection for him, how great it was compared with that which she had for Charles.

She felt as though she were swooning. She heard herself say, “Louis … I am yours … all yours.”

There were quarrels at Saint-Cloud. Philippe was furious with his wife.

The King had had the Chevalier de Lorraine arrested and sent to the Bastille. He had insulted Madame, and that, in the King’s eyes, was a sufficient reason.

Madame was the King’s favorite now. It was as it had been in the old days. Where Louis was, there was Henriette. They walked through the groves and alleys of Fontainebleau and Versailles, Louis’ arm through that of Madame. They spent hours together with one or two of the King’s ministers. Madame was not only the King’s dear friend, it seemed; she was his political adviser.

Philippe came upon them once, poring over a document, which was put aside as he entered. His rage was boundless.

“What does the King talk of with you?” he wanted to know. “Answer me! Answer me! Do you think I will allow myself—the King’s brother—to be pushed aside!”

She replied coldly: “You must ask the King. He will tell you what he wishes you to know.”

“Holy Mother! You are now such a minister of state that you shall ask for the release of Lorraine.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“You will … you will! It is to please you that he has put my dear friend away. And the only way you shall live with me, Madame, is to live with him as well. We will be together—the three of us—and if you do not like that, you shall endure it!”

“I will endure no such thing. The King has not yet released him, remember.”

“If you do not have him released, I will not allow you to go to England.”

“The King wishes me to go to England.”

“You shall not stay long, though.”

She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

“I shall divorce you!” he cried.

“That is the best news I have heard for a long time.”

“Then I shall not divorce you. I shall make you live in hell … a hell upon Earth.”

“You have already done that. Nothing you do to me in the future can be worse than you have done in the past.”

“You are ill. Anyone can see that. You are nothing but a bag of bones.”

“I know I cannot hope to compete in your eyes with your dear little friends, Monsieur de Marsan and the Chevalier de Beuvron.”

“It is true you cannot.”

“Then I hope they console you for the loss of your dear Lorraine!”