“So they have told you that, have they?”

“I cannot bear that you should be burned, dear Nan.”

“Come, dry your tears. I promise you this: I shall not be burned.”

“Then you will …”

“Let us not talk of this, my dearest. Might it not be that there are many ways to salvation?”

“But there is only one. Père Cyprien says so.”

“It may be that he knows only one. Now I will tell you how we came out of England, shall I?”

“Oh yes, please … and how I kept telling people that I was the Princess and that the clothes I wore were not my own.”

So she was appeased for the moment, and later she said to her mother: “I will tell Charles he must be saved, for, Mam, he too may burn eternally.”

“Do not speak of these matters to your brother, chérie.”

“But, Mam, he will not be saved if he is not a Catholic.”

Henrietta Maria was more brusque than she usually was with her little daughter. “Now … now … you talk too much. It is not for you to save souls. That is for Père Cyprien. You must learn what is told you. You are not yet ready to teach.”

“But if I may try to save dear Lady Morton, why should I not try to save Charles?”

Henrietta Maria pinched the soft cheek affectionately. “I have said you must learn first. There is so much you do not understand.”

Henriette nodded. She was content not to understand, for understanding, it seemed, could make people disagree, and that had already caused trouble between those whom she loved.

It seemed to Henriette that any day might bring news which made her mother weep and declare that she was the most unhappy Queen in the world and that no woman suffered as she did.

The troubles of the Fronde endangered the lives of royal people. It was a long time since Henriette had seen her cousins, Louis the King and his brother Philippe, so that she had forgotten she had ever known them. Her own beloved Charles had left again; he had gone to Jersey where the people were loyal. Henriette quickly learned that it was a sad thing to be an exile in a strange land. And although her mother told her stories of the days when she herself was a little girl and Paris had been her home, still they were looked upon as strangers. When the French were angry with the English government much was made of Henriette and her mother; when they were indifferent to the English government they had nothing but sullen looks for the exiles.

“It is the saddest thing in the world to have no country,” said Henrietta Maria.

“Shall we never have a country?” asked her daughter.

Her mother’s eyes, with the dark shadows beneath them, gleamed as she enlarged on one of her favorite topics. “If you marry, the country of your husband will be your country.”

Henriette nodded slowly; she knew that her mother had a husband in mind for her. It was a boy who would one day be the most important man in France. He was already a King, even as Charles was. He was Louis XIV. She had forgotten what he looked like so she began to picture him looking exactly like her brother Charles, although she knew that he was not so old. But he was a King, and people would kneel and kiss his hands as they kissed Charles’. She was not displeased at the thought of marriage with Louis since when she thought of him she thought of a boy who looked like Charles, spoke like Charles and indeed was another Charles—but instead of being called by that name he was Louis, and King of France instead of King of England.

Now, of course, on account of the Fronde, the little King and his brother did not come to Paris. Henrietta Maria and her daughter stayed there because they were not important and Paul de Gondi allowed them to.

So sometimes they were in the apartments of the Louvre, and sometimes they were in the house on the hills of Chaillot. Henriette studied; she found it easy to study and there were few distractions. She wanted to learn; there was so much to know. She wanted to understand why the people of England had killed her father and would not allow Charles to have his throne; she wanted to know why the people of France were threatening their monarch with the same treatment.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier visited them now and then. “La Grande Mademoiselle” she was called in Paris, for she was on the side of the Frondeurs; and she hoped to be remembered in the years to come as another Jeanne d’Arc who had saved France. She was very handsome and very anxious that everyone should pay homage to her, the cousin of the King, the richest heiress in Europe, and now … the heroine of the Fronde.

Henriette knew that her mother wanted La Grande Mademoiselle to marry Charles, and Henriette thought she was almost worthy of him as she looked at the handsome girl so exquisitely dressed in the fashions inspired by the Fronde—her long hanging sleeves were frondées, slung, not looped; her fan, gloves and kerchief were all à la mode de la Fronde; on her elaborate hat she wore an ornament which was the shape of a sling. The people cheered as her carriage drove through the streets: “Vive la grande Mademoiselle!”

Mademoiselle should, so said Henrietta Maria, look to her actions. Did she think that her attitude endeared her to the Queen Mother? Was this siding with the Queen’s enemies a wise thing? It was true that the great Condé was on the side of the Fronde, and that many aristocrats had followed his example, but for a young woman who hoped to marry the little King to side with his mother’s enemies, was surely unwise!

But Mademoiselle was unwise and Mademoiselle was arrogant. She thought herself grand and clever enough to do exactly as she pleased.

She was coquettish; she liked to talk to Henrietta Maria about Charles, for Charles was one of her many suitors, and although Mademoiselle considered him beneath her, she was not averse to hearing of his passion for her.

The little Princess liked to be present at these conversations between her mother and Mademoiselle; she liked to hear their talk of Charles, for, of course, they talked of him differently from the way in which they talked of him to her. There was so much she wanted to know about that most fascinating person, her beloved brother Charles.

“When he regains his kingdom his wife will be the Queen of England,” Henrietta Maria constantly reminded her niece.

“Ah, when, dear Madame! When will that be?”

“Can you doubt that it will be ere long? The people of England will not endure forever that upstart Cromwell and his miserable rule.”

“They say he has a way of enforcing that which is not palatable.”

“Can you doubt that a young man so strong, so full of courage, so determined, will not soon win back his kingdom?”

“There are some who say he loves the company of women better than that of soldiers and statesmen.”

“So did my father, but that did not prevent his conquering his enemies and bringing an end to civil war in France.”

“But that happy state of affairs did not come about until he was well advanced in years. I should not care to spend the days of my youth an exiled Queen. Moreover, the King of England, even while courting me, brought his mistress to Paris.”

“Bah! A man must have a mistress. What of that?”

“And treats her bastard as though he were a prince.”

“He is at least the bastard of a King.”

“I have heard that there is some doubt of that. This Lucy Water! Who is she? A King’s mistress should have some quality, should she not?”

“He but amuses himself. And what ladies of quality were there, do you think, at The Hague where he found her?”

“Madame, she was his mistress in Paris.”

“He is the sweetest natured man in the world. He could not turn her off because he was in Paris. You will see what grand mistresses he will have when he is in his own country.”

“Madame, I would rather my husband were faithful to me than that he should have the grandest mistresses in the world. Your son cannot remain faithful to any woman. Why, even when he courts one, his eyes follow others. I hear now that he is causing some scandal in Jersey. There is a woman’s name which is mentioned in connection with him—Margaret Carteret.”

“Margaret Carteret!” interrupted the Queen. “She is merely the daughter of the Seigneur of Trinity. She is a young girl. My son stays at Elizabeth Castle, which is her father’s residence, and because my son is there and a young woman is there …” Henrietta Maria’s hands flew up in a gesture of inevitability.

“Wherever Charles Stuart is, Madame, there will be scandals concerning women.”

“That is because he is so gallant and charming.”

“And such a lover of women!”

“Mademoiselle,” said Henrietta Maria, “I shall tell my brother to marry you to a monk. I can see that you do not wish for a man.”

And with that Henrietta Maria rose and left her niece, taking short rapid steps which, to her daughter, conveyed her anger.

Little Henriette sat on, quietly thinking of her brother.

Lucy, who had been lonely, was lonely no longer.

She had left Paris for The Hague—with her was the King and his little Court—for Charles had returned from Jersey and there were new plans afoot with the Scots. The Marquis of Montrose was awaiting him at The Hague with new propositions to lay before him. England would have none of her King; but Jersey had accepted him, and Scotland was prepared to do so—on terms. All Charles need do was sign the Oath of the Covenant, and he could be crowned at Scone.

Lucy did not understand why the King should be so perplexed. If he could not be King of England he could at least be King of Scotland. To be King of any land was surely better than to be King of none; and even Lucy could see that Charles was King in name only.

“You don’t understand, Lucy,” her lover tried to explain. “The Covenanters of Scotland are Presbyterian, and the Church of Scotland is the enemy of the Church of England, of which my father was head. There was trouble when my father sought to force them to accept the English liturgy. To sign the Covenant is, in a measure, to betray England. But what is the use of explaining, Lucy? You do not care for these matters, and perhaps in that you are wise. Lucy, I often think that if all the world were as careless of so-called great matters, and so absorbed in the pleasure of love, this Earth would be a happier place.”

Lucy smiled; she knew how to turn him from his worries; and he was only too ready to be turned. He hated trouble; when it presented itself he always seemed to be looking for the easiest way out of it.

His friend George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, was at his elbow now. “Why not sign the Covenant?” he asked. “Better to have a country to rule over—even if it is that bleak and puritanical one—than remain an exile here!”

And so eventually he decided to sign. He knew that his mother would throw up her hands in despair, for the Covenanters’ aim was to destroy Popery; he knew that there would be many to say that had he been a nobler man he would have preferred exile to siding with the Covenanters. He explained to Buckingham: “I am not a man who is so devoted to religion that he cannot set it aside for the sake of peace. My grandfather changed his religion that the wars of France might cease. There are times when I feel that I am my grandfather reborn.”

“It is true you are as careless of religion,” agreed George. “You are devoted to women. There is certainly a resemblance. But, Sire, you will have to work harder with the latter if you are to compete with your noble grandsire.”

“Give me time,” murmured the King. “Give me time.”

The two young men could not be serious for long, and even the prospect of a sojourn in a land of Puritans could not curb their levity.

So Charles left for Scotland, whither obviously he could not take his mistress and little Jemmy. The Scots, said the King, so assiduously loved God that it gave them little time for loving others—even their wives; but he had little doubt that they took time off from their devotions to make love to their wives now and then, though it would be under cover of darkness and, as he had heard, for the sole purpose that more Puritans might be procreated.

Before he left he embraced Lucy and spent as long as he could playing with Jemmy.

“Take care of my boy, Lucy,” he admonished, “and remember me when I am gone.”

“I will never forget you, Charles,” she told him.

“Nor I you, Lucy.”

He did not promise that he would be faithful; although he broke so many promises, he did not make them callously. He doubted that he would be faithful, though he had heard that the Scottish women were as cold as their climate. There were always exceptions, as he well knew, and if there was one warmhearted woman in Scotland, he doubted not that he would find her.