Early the next year she died and I could not be sorry because, poor soul, she who had done so many kindnesses had suffered greatly. I could only be relieved that she had found peace at last.
To my dismay France declared war on England in support of the Dutch. Louis had no wish for it, I knew; and although the people of France hated the English and the people of England hated the French, both Charles and Louis were trying to come to some agreement. It was during this time that the Dutch fleet, smarting under the humiliation of the English victory at sea, sailed up the Medway and burned several men-of-war including the Royal Charles, which was lying at Chatham.
That was a year of disaster and the biggest of all was the great fire of London when two-thirds of the city was burned to the ground. Eighty-nine churches including St. Paul’s Cathedral were destroyed, with more than thirteen thousand dwelling houses. I was so pained when I heard that the Catholics had been accused of starting the fire and for the first time in years felt the old fighting spirit rising in me. I wanted to go to England to tell them how false that accusation was. I wanted to tell them how wicked and cruel they were to suggest it.
England was in a sorry state. The terrible plague had brought trade almost to a standstill; the war had crippled its finances even more. My pension was reduced and I was indignant and wrote to Charles to tell him so. I was trying so hard to live within my means and my greatest pleasure was to give to the poor and needy and at the same time bring those who had strayed from it back to the Catholic Faith.
I went to Colombes and lived as quietly as I could there. I had my friends about me—chief of all dear Henry without whom I should have been desolate indeed.
I had my music; my reading; my chapel. I prayed constantly and thought a good deal about the past.
I began to grow introspective, reliving those long-ago scenes and asking myself what might have happened if I had done, or not done, this and that. Such thoughts intruded and I found sleep difficult. My cough was worrying me and sometimes I felt very ill indeed.
Henriette came to see me and she expressed her horror at the sight of me. She said she was going to call in the doctors in whom she had great faith.
I said: “There is nothing wrong with me. When I feel a little better I will go to Bourbon for the waters. Please do not make such a fuss, Henriette.”
“But, Mam,” she cried anxiously, “I can see you are not well. You might as well admit it because it is obvious.”
“I do not want to be like those women who cry for a little pain in the head or a cut finger,” I retorted.
“Dear Mam, I am not going to ask your permission. I am going to call in the best doctors we have in France.”
I had to give way; and I certainly was feeling ill. “If only I could sleep soundly,” I said. “But I simply cannot. As soon as my head is down, I am going over the past and I am blaming myself so much, Henriette.”
“They will give you something to make you sleep.”
“And I shall not take it. Old Mayerne said I was never to take anything like that.”
“We will hear what the doctors have to say,” Henriette insisted firmly.
They were the leading doctors in France. M. Valot was one and he was the first physician to Louis. M. Espoit was first physician to Philippe and M. Juelin to Henriette. They came to Colombes to consult with M. d’Aquin, my own doctor.
I submitted to their examination and lay back listening while they talked to Henriette in a far corner where they had gone so that I should not hear too much of what they said.
I felt rather indifferent and impatient with them. I was old; I had had a long and arduous life; I must die soon and I was ready.
M. Valot was saying: “By the grace of God the Queen has no fatal malady. Inconvenient…but not dangerous. She would be so much better if she slept and put whatever it is on her mind out of her thoughts. Now I am going to add three grains to the prescription you are giving her, M. d’Aquin. That will ensure sleep and when she is rested we shall find her disorder clearing.”
Grains! I thought. That means opium. I had never taken opium and I was not going to now.
They came to my bedside and I said: “I am not taking your grains.”
“Your Majesty,” said M. Valot, “they will do you no harm, only great good. They will bring you sleep.”
“Sir Theodore Mayerne said I was never to take any such things.”
“He was old and out of date, Your Majesty. Medicine has improved since then.”
They were all talking to me, including Henriette.
“Dear Mam, you will take it. You will feel so much better….”
“I do not promise,” I said. “I shall try to sleep without it.”
It has been a good day. I have worked a little, prayed a good deal and conversed with my friends.
At supper we were quite merry and Henry amused us all with some scandalous stories he had gleaned about people at Court.
I had had a good meal and could not help laughing at him. I am so tired. If I could only sleep, but however tired I am when I am in bed thoughts come between me and sleep.
I was prepared for bed as usual and the nearer the time came to say goodnight to my friends the more wide awake I became.
I am very thoughtful tonight. More than ever the past comes back—haunting me, robbing me of peace. I can see everything in especial clarity tonight—my coming to England, my quarrels with Charles. Oh what a foolish girl I was then! And then our great joy in each other…but the troubles came too quickly. I am very uneasy tonight. Something is telling me that everything might have been so different and I cannot stop myself wondering what would have happened to Charles if he had had a different Queen. How much had I contributed to that murder in Whitehall?
What has happened to me in the last years? I have become more myself than I ever was before. Had I in the past been living other people’s lives? I had constantly told them what they should do. I had been estranged from my son Henry and he had died without a reconciliation. Mary and I had not been good friends. I had quarreled with James and should have done so with Charles if he had been of a nature to quarrel.
I cannot endure this feeling of doubt which envelops me. I had always felt before that I knew, that I was right in everything I did.
Now I am haunted by fears. Perhaps I was not right. Perhaps I was tragically wrong.
These thoughts are tormenting me. They have completely chased away sleep. I am frightened. In the last years I have seen events more clearly than I did when they were happening and a fearful sense of guilt is settling on me. I had been so sure of my place in Heaven. I had loved my husband deeply; I had loved my children. But what had I done to them?
I must sleep. I will call in one of my attendants and tell her that I give in. I will take M. Valot’s grains for I must sleep. I cannot endure this burden of guilt. I will take the grains…and sleep.
Now I will lay down my pen and call the attendant.
EPILOGUE
On that August night of the year 1669 Henriette Maria sent one of her ladies to M. d’Aquin to tell him that as she could not sleep she would take the medicine which the doctors had prescribed and it was brought to her in the white of an egg.
After she had drunk it she was soon fast asleep.
When her lady-in-waiting came to her bedside the next morning to ask how she had slept, there was no answer.
Henriette Maria was dead.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Aubrey, William Hickman Smith, The National and Domestic History of England
Birch, Thomas, The Court and Times of Charles I
Bone, Quentin, Henrietta Maria