“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.”
Henriette’s eyes glistened; she clasped her hands together and listened ecstatically.
The Queen of England caught the child to her and kissed her fiercely. “No! You must forget you are eight years old. You must conduct yourself as a lady. You must never … never forget that, though exiled, you are the daughter of the King of England … and that only a daughter of kings would be worthy to mate with such as Louis. Our dear Mademoiselle is not quite that, eh? For all her airs and so-called beauty … for all her wealth … she is not quite that. She is the King’s cousin, as you are, my little one, but there is a difference. Ah! There is a difference. You are the daughter of the King of England, and your mother is as royal as Louis’ own father, for their father was one and the same—the great and glorious Henri Quatre of great fame.”
Henriette shifted from one foot to the other; she had heard all this before.
“Now tomorrow His Majesty will ride into his capital, and you will be there to greet him. Beside him will ride your own brother—two young kings side by side.”
“Charles!” cried Henriette gleefully.
Henrietta Maria frowned at her daughter. “Yes, yes, brother make you forget your homage to the King of France. It is all very well to love your brother … but it will be necessary for you one day to love another more than you love Charles.”
Henriette did not tell her mother—for it would have made her angry—that never as long as she lived could she love another as she loved her brother Charles.
“You are eight years old,” repeated the Queen. “Old enough to put away childish things. Time enough for a princess to think of her future.”
Eight years old! Often Henriette thought of that time as the end of her childhood.
The next day the King of France rode into his capital. Along the route from Saint-Cloud to Paris the crowd waited to cheer him. It was a year since he had left Paris, and the people did not forget that, although they had rebelled against the Court, they had never felt any resentment towards this beautiful boy—so tall, so physically perfect, so charming to behold that he only had to show himself to win their applause.
Everywhere was pageantry and color; the city guards in red-and-blue velvet led the procession, and following them rode the King, glorious in purple velvet embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his plumed hat well back from his handsome face, his brown eyes alight with triumph and loving kindness towards his people; his beautifully shaped features looked as if they had been carved by a Greek sculptor out of stone, because of their very perfection; yet his clear, bright complexion showed him to be of healthy flesh and blood. Beside him, such an excellent foil to such celestial beauty, was the tall lean figure of the King of England, his dark, saturnine face alight with humor; he seemed ugly in comparison with that pink and white boy, and yet many women in the crowd could not take their eyes from him to look at the beautiful boy-King of France.
From the churches bells pealed forth. The war of the Fronde was over; there was peace in France; and men and women wept and told each other that this handsome King was a gift from Heaven and that he would lead France to prosperity. At the windows groups shouted and cheered; silken streamers hung from those windows; people climbed to roofs to get a better view of their monarch. One woman—ragged and dirty—pushed her way through the crowds that she might kiss the royal foot. The guards tried to prevent her, but the King merely smiled that smile which made the women cry “God bless him!,” and all began to cheer the beggar woman with their King.
Behind the King rode the great Dukes of France—the Duc de Vendôme and Duc de Guise; then followed the Marshal; and after them the Lords in glittering apparel, followed by more guards on horseback.