He had borne no resentment towards Philippe; he remembered that he had begun the quarrel by spitting on his brother’s bed. Within a week, when he was to continue the journey while Philippe stayed behind, he was melancholy at the separation, and during his absence had written notes to Philippe, begging for news of him and reminding him that he was his affectionate and kind little Papa Louis.

But it had not ended there, that quarrel in the bedroom; it was not Louis who had wounded Philippe’s amour propre. It was his mother and the Cardinal who had blamed the younger boy for the scene, who had impressed on him that he must never again expose his brother to indignity; if Louis spat on his bed he must remember that he did so with royal spittle, and it was not for Philippe to object.

Philippe was sullen; but he could not, of course, blame Louis; he could only be envious of Louis.

Now he remembered this and sullenly took the hand of the little girl, while Louis called to a musician to come and play music that his brother and cousin might dance.

Little Henriette danced with grace, and Louis watched with mild pleasure. The Sun God! he was thinking, and he smiled at the picture of himself. The ballet would be devised to show his perfections; he would have the central part and, when it was over, everyone would fawn on him and tell him that he was no human; he was too perfect; he was divine.

But he would remember La Porte and try not to be too pleased with himself.

Philippe and Henriette had finished their dancing.

“Well done!” said Louis. “You shall have a part in the ballet, cousin.”

Philippe had languidly dropped his cousin’s hand. He said: “Louis, let us call in the others. Let us call de la Châtre, and the Coslin boys and du Plessis-Praslin … and de Guiche.”

“Yes,” said Louis, “have them brought. We will devise our ballet of the Sun God; and, cousin, I have promised you a part.”

“Thank you, Sire,” said Henriette shyly.

The King’s playmates came into the apartment. Louis said: “I have thought of a ballet. I am to be the Sun God.”

Philippe took de Guiche into a corner where they arranged each other’s hair and giggled together. Louis’ admirers closed about him.

Henriette stood apart. No one was very interested in the thin little girl.

Henrietta Maria came to see her daughter. Henriette was faintly alarmed. She knew her mother so well that she guessed some fresh task was about to be given her.

“I have good news for you, chérie. Your brother is coming to France.”

“Charles …”

“No, no, no! Always it is of Charles you think. You have other brothers. I refer to your brother Henry.”

“Henry … my youngest brother. I have never seen Henry.”

“Then that shall be remedied. You shall see him ere long, for he is coming to Paris.”

“Oh, Mam, I am so pleased.”

“I shall have yet another of my children with me. That pleases me. He is thirteen. I remember well the hot day he came into the world. It was in the Palace of Oatlands and your father …”

“Mam, I pray you do not speak of those days. They but distress you, and you must be happy now because Henry is coming.”

“Yes; and there is something we have to do for Henry—you and I.”

“I, Mam?”

“Yes, indeed. You are a fortunate girl. Do you realize that? You came to France when you were but two years old and heresy had scarcely touched you. Your brother has been less fortunate. I fear his immortal soul is in danger. We must save him, Henriette. And in this I shall allow you to help me. You must explain to him what Père Cyprien has taught you so well. Together we will save his soul.”

Henry arrived—a shy boy of thirteen, very happy to be reunited with his family. His mother was loud in her exclamations of pleasure. Her beloved child restored to her; this was one of the happiest days of her life. Then she burst into passionate weeping because Elizabeth could not be with them.

Henry wept with her, and his little sister took his hand and begged him not to cry.

“For you are here, Henry,” she said. “That is one matter for rejoicing. Let us think of that and nothing else.”

Henry was pleased to do this; he was a boy who had had too much sorrow.

When they were alone together Henriette sought to do what her mother had commanded. She made him tell her of his life with James and Elizabeth and how James had escaped during a game of hide-and-seek. Then he told her of that time when they had lived at Syon House; but he did not speak of that January day when he and his sister had been taken to Whitehall to see their father. Instead he told her of Carisbrooke Castle and how Mr. Lovel had been good to him and had been his main companion since the death of Elizabeth; he told her how he had longed above all things to be with his mother again.

“Brother,” said Henriette, “you are not of our faith—Mam’s and mine.”

“I am of the faith of my father.”

“Henry, Mam wishes you to be of our faith. Will you come with me and hear what Père Cyprien has to say tomorrow?”

The boy’s mouth grew stern. “I beg of you, Henriette, do not ask me to do that. I did not tell you, but when we were at Syon House, Elizabeth and I went to Whitehall one day. It was a cold day and the river was frozen. It was the saddest day of my life, Henriette; but I did not know it then. We went to see our father. It was the day before he died.”

“Do not speak of it, Henry,” said Henriette shrilly. “I pray you, do not speak of it.”

“I must speak of it because I must explain. Our father took me onto his knee and told me that I must remain in the faith in which I was baptized.”

“That is not Mam’s faith and mine.”

“No. But it is the faith of my father and my father’s country.”

“I see, Henry.”

“Oh, Henriette, tell no one of this, but Mr. Lovel has said to me that if our mother had been of our father’s faith, if she had not tried to turn him into a Catholic, and our country into a Catholic country, our dearest Papa might be alive today.”

“Is it true then, Henry? Can that be true?”

“It is what has been said … not only by Mr. Lovel, but by many. I could never turn to a faith which by its very existence was responsible for my father’s death.”

“But it is Mam’s faith, Henry.”

“I am of my father’s faith and I will never be of another. I promised him, Henriette. Oh, you never knew him. It is so long ago, but I cannot think of him without weeping, Henriette. I cannot … I cannot …”

Henriette dried her brother’s eyes with her kerchief.

“Dearest brother, I shall never again ask you to change your faith. I am afraid myself … I am afraid of a faith which could bring about our father’s death.”

“Perhaps I am wrong, Henriette. Perhaps it is not a faith that could do this. Perhaps it is the way in which people think of their faith. It is not a religion which brings heartbreak and bloodshed; it is something in men which says: ‘I think this way and I will kill and torture all those who think otherwise.’ That cannot be true religion, Henriette. That is pride … self-pride and perhaps … doubt. I do not know. But do not ask me to change my faith.”

“I will not,” declared Henriette emphatically. “I promise I never will again.”

Henriette had passed her tenth birthday. She was leading a gayer life now than ever before. The royal brothers of France, discovering that, though only a little girl, she could dance gracefully and play the lute, graciously allowed her to take part in the revels. At the ballet in which the King appeared, not only as the Sun God, Apollo, but also as Mars, taking as well the minor roles of dryad, fury and courtier to show his versatility, the Court appeared to grow restive when he was not to the fore. Little Henriette had played the part of Erato, the muse of love and poetry; crowned with myrtle and roses she had repeated verses which she had learned by heart. Such an enchanting figure did she present that the Court was loud in its applause, and Henrietta Maria told those about her that this was one of the happiest moments of her life; she had one grief and it was a great one; her martyred husband could not be here to witness his daughter’s triumph. Even Anne of Austria, lolling in her chair, had taken her eyes off her Sun God for a brief moment to study the little girl.

She nodded her head. “How the costume becomes her,” she said. “This little girl of yours will be a beauty yet, sister. Louis tells me that he is pleased with her dancing and that she plays the lute with a skill beyond her years.”

Ah yes, that had been a happy day for Henrietta Maria who already saw the crown of France on her daughter’s head; but she was not so pleased as she surveyed her youngest son.

Stubbornly he had determined to shut his ears to the truth with which Père Cyprien was trying to save him from perdition.

“But he shall be saved!” Henrietta Maria told herself, tapping her foot. “He shall! Or I will make him wish he had never been born to defy his mother and God.”

Little Henriette had been delighted with her success. She loved to dance; she had learned her verses more easily than anybody, and Louis himself had been delighted with her. She found that Louis’ praise made her very happy. When those large brown eyes were turned on her in appreciation, she felt that she could be perfectly happy if she could go on pleasing him. How different was Philippe! Philippe’s dark, long-lashed eyes were quite scornful of her; being a clever little girl and sharper-witted than the two boys, she was aware that neither of them wished to play with a girl as young as she was; the difference was that Philippe was anxious for her to know that they despised her youth, while Louis was anxious to hide this fact from her. Louis was not only handsome; he was kind. Henriette was beginning to think that he was one of the kindest people she had ever known. She was moved because he was a king—a much cherished king—and yet had the kindness to care for the feelings of a little girl. She tried to think of new ideas for ballets, and if Louis liked them she was happy; if his interest was perfunctory—which meant that he liked them not at all—she was desolate and cried a little when she was alone at night because she had failed to please him. Sometimes, oddly enough, if she had pleased him she would cry—but with different feelings; perhaps this was because she wistfully longed to be older and more beautiful, so that he would like her better.

But her excitement in her companionship with the King was spoiled by her pity for her brother. Why could he not be allowed to continue in the faith of the Church of England? It was Charles’ faith; therefore it was right that it should be Henry’s; and as Henry had promised his father that he would never leave it, why could not Mam be satisfied with one little Catholic in the family?

Charles came to see her and she forgot even her new friendship with Louis. He kissed her affectionately and told her he was going away again. It was to Cologne this time.

“I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, Minette,” he said. “I am not only a king without a crown, I am a man without a country. I cannot stay long in one place for fear of wearing out my welcome. So I just flit from place to place, never staying long anywhere lest, when I next wish to visit it, my previous visit may be remembered as a very long one.”

“Here we love to have you.”

“You do, Minette, I know. But this is not your home either. However, be of good cheer. One day we shall be together. Then I shall be a king with a crown, and you shall be my companion forever. How will you like that?”

“Let it be soon, I pray. It is what I should love more than anything on earth,” said Henriette vehemently.

“Oh come, you are happy enough here. They tell me you have done well in the ballet and that Louis himself is pleased with you. There, Minette! You may bask in the rays of the Sun God, so what do you want with a poor wandering prince like me when you move in the radiance of the Olympians?”

“I would rather be in a hovel with you.”

“Nay, Minette, do not say such things. Make the most of your good fortune. Louis is a good fellow. It makes me happy that you have pleased him. And now I must see Mam before I depart, and make her swear not to plague poor Henry.”

Henrietta Maria listened to her son in cold silence before she brought out the old arguments. The King, her husband, she stressed then, had promised that her children should be brought up in her religion.