He joked in his characteristic way. “I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “to be such an unconscionable time a-dying.”
They sought new remedies, and it was hard to find one which they had not tried upon him. They gave him black cherry water, flowers of lime and lilies of the valley, and white sugar candy. They administered a spirit distilled from human skulls.
He asked for his wife. She had come earlier, they said, and now so prostrate with grief was she that she was fainting on her bed.
She had sent a message to him, begging his forgiveness for any faults she may have committed.
And when they told him this, they saw the tears in his eyes. “Alas, poor woman,” he said. “She begs my pardon? I beg hers with all my heart. Go tell her that.”
Louise was waiting outside his apartments. The attitude towards her had changed subtly, and there were many to remind her that, since she was not the King’s wife, she had no place in that chamber of death. She had hung over him when he was unconscious, but he had been unable to recognize her, and a great terror possessed Louise.
What will become of me now? she asked herself.
She was rich; she would return to France, to her duchy of Aubigny. But the King of France would no longer honor her, having no need of her services. He would remind her that she had failed in the one great task for which she had been sent to England. Charles had been paid vast sums of money to declare himself a Catholic at the appropriate time. Now he was dying and he had not done this. But he must do it. Louise must return to France victorious. She must say to Louis: “I came to do this and, although it was delayed to that time when he was on his deathbed, still I did what I set out to do.”
She thought of Charles, only half conscious in his agony, made more acute by the attention of his doctors. It might well be that now was the time, when he could not be fully aware of what he did.
It must be done. Only thus could Louise serve the King to whose country she must soon return.
She sent for Barrillon.
“Monsieur L’Ambassadeur,” she said, “I am now going to reveal a secret which could cost me my head. The King is at the bottom of his heart a Catholic. There is no one to administer to his need. I cannot in decency enter his room, for the Queen is there constantly. Go to the Duke of York and tell him of this. There is little time in which to save his brother’s soul.”
Barrillon understood. He nodded admiringly. It was in the interests of France that the King should die a Catholic.
By great good fortune, when Bishop Ken had come to the King’s bedside to administer the last rites of the Church of England, Charles had turned wearily away. He had submitted to too much. He had never been a good churchman and he was not the man to change on his deathbed. He had lived his life as he had meant to live it; he had declared that the true sins were malice and unkindness and, within his limits, he had done his best to avoid these sins. He had said that the God he visualized would not wish a gentleman to forgo his pleasures. He had meant that; and he was no coward to scuttle for safety at the last moment.
The Duke of York came into his bedroom. He knelt by the bed and whispered in his ear. “For your soul’s sake, Charles, you must die in the Catholic Faith. The Duchess of Portsmouth has told me of your secret belief. She will never forgive herself if it is denied to you.”
At the mention of Louise’s name Charles tried to turn his glazed eyes to his brother, and a smile touched his lips. Then he said, half comprehending: “James … do nothing that will bring harm to you.”
“I will do this,” said James, “though it cost me my life. I will bring a priest to you.”
Into the chamber of death an altar was smuggled, and with it came a priest, Father Huddleston, a man who had helped to save Charles after Worcester and whom Charles had saved from death during the Popish troubles. In spite of his drugged and dazed state, Charles recognized him.
“Sir,” said James, “here is a man whose life you saved and who is now come to save your soul.”
“He is welcome,” said Charles.
Huddleston knelt by the bed.
“Is it Your Majesty’s wish to receive the final rites of the Catholic Church?”
The glazed eyes stared ahead. Charles was conscious of little but his pain-racked body. He thought it was Louise who was beside him. Louise making her demands on behalf of the King she was really serving.
“With all my heart,” he said wearily.
“Do you desire to die in that communion?”
Charles nodded.
He repeated all that Huddleston wished him to.
His lips moved. “Mercy, sweet Jesu, mercy.”
Extreme unction was administered. Charles could scarcely see the cross which Huddleston held before his eyes. He was conscious for brief intervals before he swooned with the pain and the exhaustion which was in part due to the terrible ordeal through which his physicians had caused him to pass.
When the priest left, those who had been waiting outside burst into the room.
From her house in Pall Mall Nell looked out on the street. She saw the people silently standing about. London had changed. It was somber out there in the streets.
She could not believe that she would never see him again. She thought of the first occasion she had seen him at the time of his Restoration, tall, lean and smiling, the most charming man in the world. She thought of the last time she had seen him when he had taken her hand and promised to make her a Countess that all might know what love and value he had for her.
And now … never to see him again! How could she picture her life without him?
She sat still while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.
She thought, I shall never be happy again.
Her son came and threw himself into her arms. He was sobbing wildly.
He knew, for how could such things be kept from children?
She held him fast against her, for in those moments of desolate grief she could not bear to look into that face which was so like his father’s.
She did not think of the future. What did the future matter? Life for her was blank since her King and her love would no longer be there.
Charles lay still, uncomplaining. He was aware that he was dying and that those who crowded into his apartment had come to take their last farewell.
They knelt about his bed, his beloved children, and he blessed them in turn. He looked in vain for one, for he had forgotten that his eldest son was still in exile.
He called his brother to him.
“James,” he said. “James … I am going…. It will not be long now. Forgive me if I have been unkind. I was forced to it. James … may good luck attend you. Look to Louise. Look to my poor children. And, James, let not poor Nelly starve.”
He sank back then; he was conscious of those weeping about his bed. Scenes from his past life flitted before his eyes. He thought he was sore from riding so far to Boscobel and Whiteladies. He thought he was cramped because he was hiding in an oak while the Roundheads searched for him below.
But then he knew that he was in his bed and that soon this familiar room would be his no more.
“Open the curtains,” he said, “that I may once more see the day.”
So they drew them back, and he stared at the window. He listened to the sounds of his city’s waking to life, and he slipped into unconsciousness again.
He was breathing so painfully that his gasps mingled oddly with the ticking of the clocks. His dogs began to whimper. Then, just before noon, he fell back on his pillows and ceased to live.
Bruce, who had loved him dearly, said as the tears rolled down his cheeks: “He is gone … my good and gracious master, the best that ever reigned over us. He has died in peace and glory, and may the Lord God have mercy on his soul.”