Lucy had a child now; he had heard that she was Sir Henry Bennett’s mistress. He was fond of Henry—an amusing fellow. He wished Henry luck with Lucy; he wanted to see young Jemmy; but he believed he had finished with Lucy. He wanted a different sort of woman. So he would not seek out Lucy; a meeting between them might provoke an awkward situation, and he had lost none of his desire to avoid such happenings.

No! He would enjoy these weeks in Paris. He would play with his little sister; he would court Mademoiselle who, he could swear, was more inclined to listen to him now than she had ever been.

“My cousin,” she said to him, as they walked through the gardens of the Tuileries, “you have grown up since you returned from England. You have ceased to be afraid of me.”

“I was never afraid of you, fair cousin,” he answered, “only afraid of myself.”

“Those are meaningless words,” she countered. “Afraid of yourself! What do you mean?”

“Afraid of the lengths to which my passion for you might lead me.”

“When you went away you could not speak French. You go to Scotland; you go to England; and you return speaking it fluently. Pray, did they teach you French in those two countries?”

“They taught me much, but not French. I came away not caring what was thought of my French or myself.”

“How was it you acquired such indifference to the opinion of others?”

“I suppose, Mademoiselle, it was because my opinion of myself was so bad that that which others had of me could not be much worse.”

“You sound like a cynical old man. Were the sins you committed in England great?”

“No greater than those committed by others, I dare swear.”

“Am I to conclude that you now have a contempt for the whole world?”

“Never! The world is made up not only of saints and sinners—both of which I have no doubt I should abhor—but also of beautiful women.”

“Could not beautiful women also be saints … or sinners?”

“Nay! They are but beautiful women. Beauty is apart. It exonerates them from all charges of sin or saintliness.”

“You are ridiculous, Charles. But you amuse me.”

“You would have been amused far more to see me with servants in the kitchen, posing as a nailer’s son from Birmingham. There I sat … one of them … so sure of myself—William, the nailer’s son from Birmingham. God’s Body! What a strange world this is, when it is better to be the son of a nailer from Birmingham than the son of a Prince of Scotland and Princess of France!”

Mademoiselle clenched her fists at the thought. She could not bear to contemplate insults to royalty. Charles noticed this and smiled. He was a King, and therefore it was easier to bear such insults than it was for poor Mademoiselle to contemplate them. Mademoiselle would never be a Queen in her own right; though she could achieve a crown mayhap by marrying him. Was this the moment to remind her of this? He doubted it.

He went on, “Unfortunately for me the meat-jack ran down. ‘Now, William,’ cried the cook, ‘why do you sit there … as though you’re a lord? Wind up the meat-jack and be quick about it!’ I was eager to serve the cook, but although much time and care has been spent on my education, the winding of meat-jacks was never taught me, and I, William, the nailer’s son, was exposed in my ignorance and called by that fat cook ‘the veriest clownish booby in the world!’”

“You should have drawn your sword and run the fellow through.”

“Then, dear lady, I should have left my head behind me on London Bridge. ’Tis better to be called a clownish booby—if you merit the name—than a corpse, to my way of reckoning. Howsoever, I fared better than Wilmot who, hiding in a malthouse, came near to being baked alive, while our enemies looked everywhere but in that spot for him.”

“And this Jane Lane … doubtless she became your mistress?”

“This is not so.”

“Come, Charles! I know you well.”

“Not well enough, it seems. I was the lady’s servant and as such I behaved.”

“Some servants, possessing the necessary qualifications, have been known to lay aside the garments of servitude at certain times.”

“Not such servants as William Jackson when serving such a mistress as Jane Lane. Ah! It is small wonder that you find me changed. You should have seen me trying to squeeze myself into a priest’s hole. You should have heard me. That hole was made not only for a smaller man than I, but for one less profane. You should have seen me mingling with the ostlers and the serving men. It is not easy for me to disguise myself. My dark and ugly face seemed known to all. How often was I told that I had a look of that tall, dark, lean man for whom the Parliament was offering a thousand pounds!”

“Yes, assuredly you have had adventures, cousin.”

“And one day, I shall succeed. You know that, dearest lady. One day I shall go to England and not return.”

“Do you mean that you will settle down to a life of servitude with a charming lady—a Mistress Lane?”

“I hope to settle down with a charming lady, but as a king, Mademoiselle. Would you be that charming lady? I should be the happiest man alive if that could be.”

“Ask me later, Charles. Ask me when you have won your crown.”

Charles kissed her fingertips. He was by no means upset. Mademoiselle was too proud a young woman to make a comfortable wife. Moreover, he had caught sight of one of Mademoiselle’s ladies-in-waiting, the young Duchesse de Châtillon. She was a lovely creature—calm, serene and so gentle. In some measure she reminded him of Jane Lane; she was warm and tender yet unapproachable, being completely in love with her husband.

The hopelessness of loving her suited the King’s present mood.

He was happy to transfer his attentions from the haughty Mademoiselle to charming “Bablon” as he called the Duchesse.

Life suddenly began to change for Henriette. When she was eight years old she renewed her acquaintance with the two most important boys in France. One was Louis, the King, who was fourteen years old; the other, Philippe, his brother, was aged twelve.

The excitement began suddenly. Her mother came to her, and Henriette had begun to know that when those black eyes—embedded in pouches and wrinkles—sparkled and gleamed with speculation, when those plump white hands gesticulated wildly, there were plans in her mother’s mind.

“Great events are afoot,” cried Henrietta Maria, and she immediately dismissed all attendants.

The little girl gave her some anxiety; she was so thin and was growing too rapidly; and although she was vivacious and intelligent, she lacked that conventional perfection which was recognized in the Court as beauty.

“What may well be a very important day in your life is approaching, my child!” cried the Queen.

“In my life, Mam?”

“You are the daughter of a King—never forget that. My dearest wish is to see you wearing a crown. That alone can compensate me for all I have suffered.”

Henriette was uneasy. Her mother had a habit of imposing unpleasant tasks which had to be done for her sake, because she was La Reine Malheureuse who had suffered so much.

“The war of the Fronde is over. The King and his mother and brother are to return victorious to Paris.”

“And this … is important to me?”

“Now, child, you are not showing your usual intelligence. Is it not important to all France that those wicked rebels are subdued, that the King returns to his capital?”

“But, Mam, you said for me …”

“For you in particular. I want you to love the King.”

“All France loves him. Is that not so?”

“You must love him as the King of this land, of course; but you must love him in another way. But more of that later. Louis is the most handsome King that ever lived.”

Henriette set her lips stubbornly. There was only one King who could be that to her.

Henrietta Maria shook her daughter. “Yes, yes, yes. You love Charles. He is your dear brother. But you cannot marry your brother.”

“I … I am to marry King Louis?”

“Hush, hush, hush! What do you think would happen if any overheard such words? How do we know? This is the King of France of whom you speak. Oh yes, he is a boy of fourteen, but nevertheless he is a King. Do not dare talk of marrying him!”

“But you said …”

“I said you were only to think of it, stupid one. Only to think of it … think of it day and night … and never let it be out of your thoughts.”

“A secret?”

“A secret, yes! It is my dearest wish. Mademoiselle, your cousin, hopes to marry him. A girl of her age and a boy of fourteen! It is a comedy! And what does she think will be her reception when the King and his mother come back to their own, eh? What will they say to Mademoiselle, who ordered the guns of the Bastille to fire on the King’s soldiers? I will tell you, my child. Monsieur Mazarin declared that the cannon of the Bastille killed Mademoiselle’s husband. That is true. When those shots were fired, she lost her chance of marrying her cousin. Foolish girl! And double fool for thinking herself so wise! She thinks she is another Jeanne d’Arc. The foolish one!”

“Mam, you were talking about me, and how important this is.”

“And so I shall talk of you. Let the foolish ways of Mademoiselle be a lesson to you. I’ll swear that when the Court returns, Mademoiselle will be requested to leave the Tuileries; she will be retired to the country. There let her toss her pretty head; there let her write in her journal; there let her wonder whether it might not be a good thing to turn to the King of England before it is too late—lest she lose him as she has lost the King of France. The King of France! A woman of her age! Nay, she shall never have Louis. Ah, my little Henriette, how I wish we could plump you up! How thin you are! Bad child! You do not eat enough. I shall have you whipped if you do not eat.”

“Please, Mam, don’t do that. I eat very well, but it does not make me fat. It only makes me tall.”

“Louis is tall. Louis is so handsome that all who see him gasp at his beauty. A King ten years … and only fourteen now. It is said that he is not mortal, that no one could be as perfect as this boy, and be human.”

“And is he so perfect, Mam?”

“Of course he is. More beautiful than all other boys; taller, more full of health, high spirits and good nature. They say he is the son, not of his father, but of a god.”

Henriette’s eyes glistened; she clasped her hands together and listened ecstatically.

The Queen of England caught the child to her and kissed her fiercely. “No! You must forget you are eight years old. You must conduct yourself as a lady. You must never … never forget that, though exiled, you are the daughter of the King of England … and that only a daughter of kings would be worthy to mate with such as Louis. Our dear Mademoiselle is not quite that, eh? For all her airs and so-called beauty … for all her wealth … she is not quite that. She is the King’s cousin, as you are, my little one, but there is a difference. Ah! There is a difference. You are the daughter of the King of England, and your mother is as royal as Louis’ own father, for their father was one and the same—the great and glorious Henri Quatre of great fame.”

Henriette shifted from one foot to the other; she had heard all this before.

“Now tomorrow His Majesty will ride into his capital, and you will be there to greet him. Beside him will ride your own brother—two young kings side by side.”

“Charles!” cried Henriette gleefully.

Henrietta Maria frowned at her daughter. “Yes, yes, brother make you forget your homage to the King of France. It is all very well to love your brother … but it will be necessary for you one day to love another more than you love Charles.”

Henriette did not tell her mother—for it would have made her angry—that never as long as she lived could she love another as she loved her brother Charles.

“You are eight years old,” repeated the Queen. “Old enough to put away childish things. Time enough for a princess to think of her future.”

Eight years old! Often Henriette thought of that time as the end of her childhood.

The next day the King of France rode into his capital. Along the route from Saint-Cloud to Paris the crowd waited to cheer him. It was a year since he had left Paris, and the people did not forget that, although they had rebelled against the Court, they had never felt any resentment towards this beautiful boy—so tall, so physically perfect, so charming to behold that he only had to show himself to win their applause.