Each day there was some entertainment for Mary’s pleasure. Even young Philippe gave a ball two days after her arrival. It took place in the Salle de Gardes, and Philippe himself had spent much time and trouble ensuring that the illuminations should be of the brightest. In the tapestry-decorated salle, it was King Louis who opened the ball with Henriette. Mary, of course, did not dance, as French etiquette, dictated by Queen Anne, decreed that widows should not dance at great balls, and only on private occasions should they be allowed to do so.
Louis composed a ballet for her pleasure. It was founded on the story of Psyche, and never, declared the courtiers, had the King danced with greater perfection. Chancellor Seguier gave a fête in her honor, and the galleries which led to the ballroom were lighted with three hundred torches.
Mademoiselle, who was still banished from the Court, invited the Princess of Orange to her country residence of Chilly where she sought to outdo in splendor all the previous entertainments which the Princess had seen.
Mademoiselle, resplendent in jewels, was a dazzling hostess.
“Why, Henriette,” she said to her cousin on that occasion, “how thin you are! Worn out, I dare swear, by all this unaccustomed gaiety. You must be rather sad at Colombes and Chaillot and the Palais-Royal. So very quiet it must be for you!”
“And you too, Mademoiselle, here in the country.”
“Oh, I know how to entertain myself. I have my own little Court here, you see, and I have heard that I shall very soon be invited back to Court. I shall go at my pleasure.”
“I am glad of that, Mademoiselle,” said Henriette. “I know how unhappy it must have made you to feel the King’s displeasure.”
“It is not Louis. It is his mother. What jewels your sister has! They rival anything I see here. And Henriette, there is something I would say to you. You should not, you know, go in to supper before me. I should take precedence over you.”
“My mother says that is not so; and you know how important it is that everyone should walk in the right order.”
“In the old days the Kings of Scotland gave place to the Kings of France. Your brother … if he had a crown … would be a Scottish King, would he not?”
“But also a King of England …”
“My dear Henriette, you really should step aside for me to go into supper before you.”
“My mother would never allow me to. Nor would Queen Anne.”
Mademoiselle pouted. “Such fusses!” she said. “And over such small details. The Queen gives too much thought to such matters. Well, we shall see who will have precedence. Mark you, I think it would be a different matter if your brother were a ruling king.”
“In the eyes of the French Court he is still a king.”
“Lately, I have wondered. But enough of this. Enjoy yourself, Henriette. My poor child, it must be enchanting for you. You only go to the little private dances at the Louvre now, don’t you?”
Mademoiselle left Henriette and returned to her guest of honor.
“And how do you like the Court of France, Madame?”
“I am in love with the Court of France,” Mary told her.
“It is very different from that of Holland, is it not?”
“Indeed yes. Mayhap that is one reason why I have fallen so deeply in love with it.”
“You do not love the Court of Holland?”
“I will tell you this, Mademoiselle: as soon as my brother is settled in his kingdom, I shall go and live with him.”
“Ah! When will that be?”
“I pray to God each night,” said Mary vehemently, “that his return will not be long delayed.”
“You think you would live in amity with Charles?”
“Any woman could live in amity with Charles. He is the sweetest-tempered man alive.”
Henrietta Maria heard them as they talked of her son, and her eyes sparkled with intrigue. Mademoiselle might be temporarily out of favor at the Court, but she was still the richest heiress in Europe; and badly Charles needed money.
“Ah!” she cried. “I hear you talk of this poor King of England. So you wish to hear news of him, Mademoiselle?”
“Her Highness offered it without my expressing the wish,” said the insolent Mademoiselle.
“He is foolish,” said Henrietta Maria, “in that he will never cease to love you.”
“And wise,” said Mademoiselle, “in that he does not allow this devotion, which you say he has for me, to interfere with his interest in others.”
“He bade me tell you how sorry he was that he had to leave France without saying goodbye to you. Why, Mademoiselle, if you were married you would be your own mistress.”
“But the King, your son, would not give up any of his if I were!”
“You would do exactly as you pleased. He is, as his sister tells you, such a sweet-tempered person. It is impossible to quarrel with him.”
“And you, Madame, have achieved the impossible!”
“It is because he is unhappy that we have quarreled. If you married him he would be so happy that he and I would be reconciled.”
“If the King cannot live happily with you, Madame, I doubt whether he could with me.”
Mademoiselle’s brilliant eyes were turned on Louis who had begun to dance.
Henrietta Maria followed her gaze. She could scarcely hold back her anger. It was ridiculous. Mademoiselle was eleven years older than the King of France and Henrietta Maria meant Louis to marry her own Henriette.
Henrietta Maria knew that she must shelve her immediate desires—Charles’ marriage with Mademoiselle and Henriette’s with Louis. Her daughter Mary was as amiable as her brother and as eager to please and live peaceably with her family. She attended the Anglican church every day; but perhaps it was possible that Henrietta Maria might save her for the true Church.
“Dearest daughter,” she said, “I want you to come to Chaillot with me tomorrow. I am sure a rest in the tranquil atmosphere there will do you so much good.”
Mary smiled at her mother. Charles was right about her, she thought. She was the most affectionate of mothers when her children obeyed her. But, thought Mary grimly, she shall never make a convert of me.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, “I will with pleasure come to Chaillot, but I shall not go to Mass there. As you know, I always attend the Anglican church.”
Henrietta Maria frowned. “One should never shut one’s ears and one’s heart, Mary. It is well to listen to both sides.”
“That is true enough, Mama. So I hope you will attend the Anglican church with me, as I shall come with you to Chaillot.”
“That is quite impossible!”
Henrietta Maria’s whole body seemed to be bristling with indignation. Then her eyes filled with tears. “I always think,” she said, “that everything would have been so different had your father lived.”
Mary was filled with pity. Poor Mother! she thought. It is sad. She lost her husband and she loved him dearly; she must continually be haunted by the fear that she was instrumental in bringing him to his end. That is why she so fiercely maintains her grief. All her children will disappoint her, I fear. Charles has quarreled with her. She has sworn she will never see Henry again. James—her favorite—will bring sorrow to her, I doubt not, for he was mightily taken with Anne Hyde when they met. And what will Mother say to a marriage with Anne Hyde, Charles’ Chancellor’s daughter? But perhaps it will not come to that. Let us hope that she will not disown James as she has Henry, and doubtless would Charles if she dared. I disappoint her because I will not turn Catholic. No wonder she dotes on our little sister. Henriette seems to be the only one who is able to please her. Now I foresee many arguments; she will call Père Cyprien and the Abbé Montague to deal with me. Dear Mother! I am so sorry. But I cannot give up my faith even to please you.