“But the people of England …”
“As I said, we must think of France first, England second, eh? Your brother will know how this may be arranged. We do not ask him to proclaim his conversion at once. He may do so at his own leisure. The time to announce it will be for him to decide. There will be great advantages for him.”
But still she did not sleep.
“I love them both,” she whispered. “I love France; I love England. I love Louis; I love Charles.”
But she knew she was placing the safety of England in jeopardy for the sake of France, for she was going to beg Charles, whom she loved, to risk his crown for the sake of Louis, whom she loved even more.
So with great pomp she arrived at Dover. There was one young girl in her suite whose freshness and beauty delighted Henriette. She kept the girl beside her, for it was pleasant to see her childish delight in all the sights and ceremonies. She was the daughter of a poor Breton gentleman, and her name was Louise de Kéroualle.
It was a wonderful moment for Henriette when her brother and Mon-mouth came on deck to welcome her to England.
She was held fast in Charles’ arms, and she saw the tears in his eyes.
“Minette … it has been so long. And how frail you are, my dearest, my darling!”
After the ceremonial greetings, the banquet given in her honor, she found herself alone with him. He told her he was grieved to see her so frail. He had heard of her suffering, and that her married life was by no means a felicitous one. He had heard the rumors concerning Lorraine. He would like to lay his hands on that gentleman, he said.
How close they were in those hours!
He learned the terms of the secret treaty. She watched his lean, dark, clever face. Charles understood her anxiety; he understood everything; she might have known that she could keep nothing from him.
Moreover, he was aware that she understood what she was asking him to do in signing this treaty; he knew, therefore, that she was working not for him, but for Louis. It was characteristic of him that he should understand this. His mind was alert. He had said that if he were less lazy he would be a good statesman, and if he could feel as enthusiastic about state matters as he could about a woman’s charms, he would be a better King but a far inferior lover.
So it was clear to him that Louis had sent Henriette on this mission because Henriette loved Louis.
Charles was momentarily angry. This was not because she had failed in her love for him—he was but her brother and there was certain to be another whom she must love more—but because of what she had suffered in France. He knew her proud spirit; he knew of the humiliations she had endured at the hands of Philippe. He knew that she must soon leave him and go back to France. There, her position would only be tolerable if she were the King’s favorite. Charles loved her; he loved her far more than she loved him. A poor statesman, I! he thought. But a good lover.
He took her face in his hands and kissed it.
“I am entirely yours, Minette,” he said.
His quick mind was working. If I sign, I shall receive Louis’ pension. That is a good thing. I may declare my conversion at any time I wish. Also a good thing.
My grandfather said Paris was worth a mass. Is not the happiness of my dear sister—she whom I believe I love beyond all things—worth a signature to a treaty?
Then he held her against him.
“My dearest Minette,” he said, “you must go back and enjoy your triumphs. Louis is your friend. You can never have a better friend in a country than that country’s King—providing he knows how to keep his crown. And you, my sister, have two who love you. When you return to France with my signature on that treaty, the King of France will indeed love you. But I do not think it can be said that he will love you more than does the King of England. Fortunate Minette, to be so loved by two Kings!”
He would not release her. He did not wish to see her tears, nor her to see his.
Minette now had what she had come for. As for Charles, he would find his way out of this awkward situation, as he had on other occasions.
The treaty was dispatched to France. Then the entertainments began. Charles was determined to show his sister that the Court of England was as full of wit and luxury as that of France. But the most wonderful thing in the world was, as he told her, for them to be together.
The days passed quickly and it was soon time for her to leave.
“I will give you a parting gift, Charles,” she said. “I will give you something which will remind you forever of this meeting of ours.”
She called to little Louise de Kéroualle to fetch her casket, that the King might select a jewel. But when the girl came, the King’s eyes were not on the casket but on her.
“Pray choose, brother,” said Henriette.
Charles laid his hand on the arm of the girl. “Give me this beautiful child,” he said. “Let her stay at my Court. She is the only jewel I covet.”
Louise’s beautiful eyes were opened wide; she was not insensible of his charm.
“Nay,” said Henriette. “I am responsible to her parents. I cannot leave her with you, Charles. Come … take this ruby.”
But Charles and Louise continued to exchange glances, and before Henriette left for France he had managed to kiss the girl.
“I shall not forget you,” he said. “One day you shall come to me.”
On a hot June day Henriette took her last farewell of Charles; and those about them wept to see their sorrow at this parting, for, never, it was said, had royal brother and sister loved each other as these two did.
Louis received her back in France with great warmth. She was his dear friend; now he would trust her forever; never again would he doubt to whom her love was given.
There should be balls, masques, fêtes, ballets; and the Queen of his Court should be his Henriette.
She was gay for a while—two short weeks. She enjoyed her triumphs; but at night she would think of the dark, clever face which she loved so well, and she knew that he—past master in the art of loving—had proved the better lover. He had signed for her sake, and for love of Louis she had made him sign. He understood, as he would always understand; as he would have said: “To love is not only a pleasure, it is a privilege.”
He had written in the verses he had shown her:
“… I think that no joys are above
The pleasures of love.”
Yet she had betrayed him, and because of that she knew she would never be happy again.
Now those about her noticed the effect of the sleepless nights. She was too thin, too fragile for a young woman barely twenty-seven years of age.
Philippe worried her continually. Her influence with the King was great, he reminded her; she must bring about the return of Lorraine; he would make her very sorry if she did not.
She turned wearily away from him. He forced her to go alone with him to Saint-Cloud where he continued to make her life miserable, and only the command of the King could induce him to bring her back to Versailles; but as soon as possible he forced her to return once more to Saint-Cloud.
There she must endure his company, his continual complaints, and this she suffered, together with the reproaches of her own conscience.
She was coughing a good deal, and there were times when she felt almost too weary to care what became of her.
One evening, only a few weeks after her return, she was dining with Philippe and her ladies when she felt a strange lassitude come over her. When the meal was over she lay down on some cushions because, she said, she felt unusually tired. The day had been hot and she now slept, and while she slept she dreamed. She dreamed she was sailing towards Dover, and her brother was holding out his arms to her, but that she was turning away and crying because she was ashamed to go to him.