“Dearest brother, I shall never again ask you to change your faith. I am afraid myself … I am afraid of a faith which could bring about our father’s death.”
“Perhaps I am wrong, Henriette. Perhaps it is not a faith that could do this. Perhaps it is the way in which people think of their faith. It is not a religion which brings heartbreak and bloodshed; it is something in men which says: ‘I think this way and I will kill and torture all those who think otherwise.’ That cannot be true religion, Henriette. That is pride … self-pride and perhaps … doubt. I do not know. But do not ask me to change my faith.”
“I will not,” declared Henriette emphatically. “I promise I never will again.”
Henriette had passed her tenth birthday. She was leading a gayer life now than ever before. The royal brothers of France, discovering that, though only a little girl, she could dance gracefully and play the lute, graciously allowed her to take part in the revels. At the ballet in which the King appeared, not only as the Sun God, Apollo, but also as Mars, taking as well the minor roles of dryad, fury and courtier to show his versatility, the Court appeared to grow restive when he was not to the fore. Little Henriette had played the part of Erato, the muse of love and poetry; crowned with myrtle and roses she had repeated verses which she had learned by heart. Such an enchanting figure did she present that the Court was loud in its applause, and Henrietta Maria told those about her that this was one of the happiest moments of her life; she had one grief and it was a great one; her martyred husband could not be here to witness his daughter’s triumph. Even Anne of Austria, lolling in her chair, had taken her eyes off her Sun God for a brief moment to study the little girl.
She nodded her head. “How the costume becomes her,” she said. “This little girl of yours will be a beauty yet, sister. Louis tells me that he is pleased with her dancing and that she plays the lute with a skill beyond her years.”
Ah yes, that had been a happy day for Henrietta Maria who already saw the crown of France on her daughter’s head; but she was not so pleased as she surveyed her youngest son.
Stubbornly he had determined to shut his ears to the truth with which Père Cyprien was trying to save him from perdition.
“But he shall be saved!” Henrietta Maria told herself, tapping her foot. “He shall! Or I will make him wish he had never been born to defy his mother and God.”
Little Henriette had been delighted with her success. She loved to dance; she had learned her verses more easily than anybody, and Louis himself had been delighted with her. She found that Louis’ praise made her very happy. When those large brown eyes were turned on her in appreciation, she felt that she could be perfectly happy if she could go on pleasing him. How different was Philippe! Philippe’s dark, long-lashed eyes were quite scornful of her; being a clever little girl and sharper-witted than the two boys, she was aware that neither of them wished to play with a girl as young as she was; the difference was that Philippe was anxious for her to know that they despised her youth, while Louis was anxious to hide this fact from her. Louis was not only handsome; he was kind. Henriette was beginning to think that he was one of the kindest people she had ever known. She was moved because he was a king—a much cherished king—and yet had the kindness to care for the feelings of a little girl. She tried to think of new ideas for ballets, and if Louis liked them she was happy; if his interest was perfunctory—which meant that he liked them not at all—she was desolate and cried a little when she was alone at night because she had failed to please him. Sometimes, oddly enough, if she had pleased him she would cry—but with different feelings; perhaps this was because she wistfully longed to be older and more beautiful, so that he would like her better.
But her excitement in her companionship with the King was spoiled by her pity for her brother. Why could he not be allowed to continue in the faith of the Church of England? It was Charles’ faith; therefore it was right that it should be Henry’s; and as Henry had promised his father that he would never leave it, why could not Mam be satisfied with one little Catholic in the family?
Charles came to see her and she forgot even her new friendship with Louis. He kissed her affectionately and told her he was going away again. It was to Cologne this time.
“I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, Minette,” he said. “I am not only a king without a crown, I am a man without a country. I cannot stay long in one place for fear of wearing out my welcome. So I just flit from place to place, never staying long anywhere lest, when I next wish to visit it, my previous visit may be remembered as a very long one.”
“Here we love to have you.”
“You do, Minette, I know. But this is not your home either. However, be of good cheer. One day we shall be together. Then I shall be a king with a crown, and you shall be my companion forever. How will you like that?”
“Let it be soon, I pray. It is what I should love more than anything on earth,” said Henriette vehemently.
“Oh come, you are happy enough here. They tell me you have done well in the ballet and that Louis himself is pleased with you. There, Minette! You may bask in the rays of the Sun God, so what do you want with a poor wandering prince like me when you move in the radiance of the Olympians?”
“I would rather be in a hovel with you.”
“Nay, Minette, do not say such things. Make the most of your good fortune. Louis is a good fellow. It makes me happy that you have pleased him. And now I must see Mam before I depart, and make her swear not to plague poor Henry.”
Henrietta Maria listened to her son in cold silence before she brought out the old arguments. The King, her husband, she stressed then, had promised that her children should be brought up in her religion.
“Mam! Mam! Why cannot you leave this matter of Henry’s religion and concern yourself with the ballet as does our little Henriette?”
“You are frivolous, Charles. It is small wonder that God does not crown your efforts with success. This is a child’s soul for which we are battling.”
The King was stern for once. He said: “Henry has given his solemn word to our father that he will not change his religion. Mam, you astonish me. Would you force the boy to break his word? I speak to you now as your King, Madam. I forbid you to plague the boy. I command that you obey.”
Henrietta Maria pursed her lips together to keep back the angry words.
“My own son is against me,” she complained bitterly to her daughter when Charles had gone. “It is small wonder that he is an exile … small wonder indeed. It is small wonder that God is on the side of our enemies.”
“But they are not Catholics either, Mam,” said Henriette gently.
And for once the Queen pushed her daughter away from her; she was in no mood for further argument.
Her mind was made up. Charles was the King and he had commanded her; but Charles was an exile and would soon be far away.
Young Henry was bewildered. For so many years he had longed to escape from his father’s enemies, to be with his family; and now that he had achieved this end he found that he was tormented as he never had been when he was in the hands of the Roundheads.
His mother gave him no peace. He must read this; he must study that; he must listen to the teachings of older, wiser men than himself. Père Cyprien was at his elbow; so was the Abbé Montague.
To all their talk he remained mute and faithful to the promise he had given his father; his mother did not see his attitude as fidelity; she called it stubbornness.
The little boy was only fourteen. He did not know what he would have done without his brothers and sisters. Charles was not only his brother but his King; and Charles supported him. But Charles had gone to Cologne for a brief spell. His brother James was in Paris, and he supported him.