When Mademoiselle came in there were traces of tears on her face; she embraced Henriette and burst into tears.
“I come from Colombes,” she said.
Henriette tried in vain to speak. Mam … ill! she thought. But she has been ill so long. Mam … dead! Mam … gone from me!
“She died in her sleep,” said Mademoiselle. “It was a peaceful end. She had not been able to sleep; the doctors gave her medicine to cure her wakefulness, which it has done so effectively that she will never wake again.”
Still Henriette did not speak.
Louis came to Saint-Cloud. He was full of tenderness, as he could always be when those for whom he felt affection were in trouble.
“This is a great blow to you, my darling,” he said. “I know how you suffer. My brother’s conduct is monstrous. I have remonstrated with him … and yet he does nothing to mend his ways.”
“Your Majesty is good to me.”
“I feel I can never be good enough to you, Henriette. You see, I love you. When I am with you, I am conscious of great regret. I have a wife … and there are others … but you, Henriette, are apart from all others.”
“It warms my heart to hear you say so.”
“You and I are close, my dearest … closer than any two people in the world.”
He embraced her tenderly. She was frailer than ever.
“I know you love me,” went on the King. And then: “Your brother is asking that you may visit him.”
She smiled, and jealousy pierced Louis’ heart, sharp and cold as a sword thrust.
“He says that it is long since he saw you. He says that the grief you have both suffered makes you long to be together for a short while.”
“If only I might go!”
“I have spoken to Philippe. He is against your going.”
“And you, Sire?”
“Philippe is your husband. His consent would be necessary. It might be that we could force him to give it. Henriette, I wish to speak to you of secret matters. I know I can trust you to work for me … for me exclusively.”
“I am your subject, Louis.”
“You are also an Englishwoman.”
“But France is my country. I have lived all my life here. You are my King.”
“And more than your King?”
“Yes, Louis. You are my King and my love.”
He sighed. “I wish to make a treaty with your brother. It is a very secret treaty. I think he may need … a certain amount of persuasion to make him agree to this treaty.”
Henriette’s heart was beating fast.
“There is none who could persuade him … as you could,” Louis went on.
“What is this treaty, Louis?”
“I could only disclose it if I thought that you were entirely mine. There are few who know of its contents, and I trust you, Henriette. I trust you completely.” He was looking into her eyes. She saw that his were brilliant—as brilliant as when they rested on one of his potential mistresses. But what was happening now was seduction of a different kind—mental seduction. He was as jealous as a lover, but he was jealous of her love for her brother; he was demanding her complete surrender, not to be his mistress but his slave—his spy.
She was overcome by her love for him; the love of years seemed to envelop and overwhelm her.
She knew that if she failed him now, she had lost him; she knew that, if she gave herself to him in this way, they would be bound together forever, that what he felt for his mistresses would indeed be light compared with what he felt for her, that what they could give would be as nothing, compared with her service. She had something which she alone could give: her influence with her brother. He was demanding now to know the extent of her affection for him, how great it was compared with that which she had for Charles.
She felt as though she were swooning. She heard herself say, “Louis … I am yours … all yours.”
There were quarrels at Saint-Cloud. Philippe was furious with his wife.
The King had had the Chevalier de Lorraine arrested and sent to the Bastille. He had insulted Madame, and that, in the King’s eyes, was a sufficient reason.
Madame was the King’s favorite now. It was as it had been in the old days. Where Louis was, there was Henriette. They walked through the groves and alleys of Fontainebleau and Versailles, Louis’ arm through that of Madame. They spent hours together with one or two of the King’s ministers. Madame was not only the King’s dear friend, it seemed; she was his political adviser.
Philippe came upon them once, poring over a document, which was put aside as he entered. His rage was boundless.
“What does the King talk of with you?” he wanted to know. “Answer me! Answer me! Do you think I will allow myself—the King’s brother—to be pushed aside!”
She replied coldly: “You must ask the King. He will tell you what he wishes you to know.”
“Holy Mother! You are now such a minister of state that you shall ask for the release of Lorraine.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“You will … you will! It is to please you that he has put my dear friend away. And the only way you shall live with me, Madame, is to live with him as well. We will be together—the three of us—and if you do not like that, you shall endure it!”
“I will endure no such thing. The King has not yet released him, remember.”
“If you do not have him released, I will not allow you to go to England.”
“The King wishes me to go to England.”
“You shall not stay long, though.”
She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
“I shall divorce you!” he cried.
“That is the best news I have heard for a long time.”
“Then I shall not divorce you. I shall make you live in hell … a hell upon Earth.”
“You have already done that. Nothing you do to me in the future can be worse than you have done in the past.”
“You are ill. Anyone can see that. You are nothing but a bag of bones.”
“I know I cannot hope to compete in your eyes with your dear little friends, Monsieur de Marsan and the Chevalier de Beuvron.”
“It is true you cannot.”
“Then I hope they console you for the loss of your dear Lorraine!”
Philippe flung out of the room. His rage had brought him near to tears. It had always been the same, Louis always in the ascendant. The same story now, as it had been in their childhood! He wished he had not married Henriette.
Henriette could not sleep.
Now she knew the terms of the treaty. She knew that for Louis’ sake she must persuade her brother to do something which she knew it was wrong for him to do.
Sometimes she would whisper to herself: “I cannot do it.” She recalled her father’s terrible end. He had gone against the wishes of his people. Was Louis asking Charles to do the same?
She repeated the terms over to herself. Charles was to join Louis in the invasion of Holland. The French were not popular in England, and that would be a difficult thing for him to arrange; but it was not that clause which gave her the greatest anxiety.
Charles was to make a public confession of his conversion to the Roman Catholic faith. Louis would pay him a large sum of money on his signing the treaty, and would give him men and ammunition to fight his fellow countrymen, should they object to their King’s decision.
Louis had said: “I hold that only with a Catholic England can we have a true alliance.”
“But if the English will not accept a Catholic King?”
“We must see that they do.”
“This could make tragedy in England.”
“My dearest, we are concerned with France. Your brother was brought up to be more French than English. He is half French, and it is more natural for him to follow our faith. I have heard that he—as well as your brother James—has a fancy for it.”