As they journeyed through Marseilles—that turbulent town which had been more rebellious than most—and the people looked on their young King, those who had been ready to condemn the royal house experienced a quick change of mind. How could they do anything but express their love and loyalty to this handsome Apollo who rode among them, bowing and smiling, telling them that he was their “Papa Louis,” that he was their King who loved them?

Philippe, watching his brother’s triumph, scowled. The people did not cheer him as they did Louis; they did not admire him as they did the King. He fancied some of them tittered at his appearance. That was intolerable.

De Guiche knew that his royal friend was in special need of comfort and he wondered how best to give this.

It was a few evenings later, when they had rested at one of the châteaux on their road, that the two walked together in the grounds, and Philippe had his arm about de Guiche’s shoulders.

“This journey is not so much in order to soothe these people by Louis’ magnificent presence,” said Philippe with a touch of anger as he referred to his brother, “as that there may be conferences between the ministers of Spain and our own.”

“Monsieur is right as usual,” said de Guiche. “It is Louis’ marriage which is under consideration.”

“I wonder if he will like Marie-Thérèse.”

“I have heard rumors that she is very small and far from well favored,” said de Guiche, to please his master.

Philippe laughed. “He’ll not like that. He likes big plump women—matrons—with some experience to help him along.”

De Guiche joined in Philippe’s laughter, and Philippe went on: “Louis is the most innocent King that ever sat upon the throne of France.”

“He has not Monsieur’s quick mind,” said de Guiche. “That has kept him innocent.”

“You flatter, dearest Comte.”

“It is no flattery. Is it not clear? See how he worships Madame de Soissons. She clearly loves the King because he is the King. And Monsieur de Soissons is so blind because his wife’s lover is the King. But Louis thinks it is pure good chance that Soissons should not be in her apartment when he visits her. Louis is so romantic!”

Mayhap he will not feel so romantic when he is married to Marie-Thérèse. She is very thin; she is very plain. Why are all the girls whom princes may marry, thin and plain? Marguerite; Henriette; and now Marie-Thérèse.

“Henriette?” said de Guiche sharply.

“My cousin … the Princess of England.”

“She is thin, yes,” said de Guiche slowly; “but she has a charm.”

“A charm! But she is so very thin … nothing but a bag of bones! And so quiet.”

“There are some who are quiet because their discourse would be too profound to interest most of those who are at hand to hear it.”

“But … Henriette … profound!”

“She has a quality,” said de Guiche. “It is as yet hidden. She is not fifteen, your little cousin. Wait, Monsieur … ah, wait!”

“This is amusing. I think you but seek to make me laugh, dear Comte.”

“No. I speak with great seriousness. She is a child yet, but she is clever. There is one thing: I have seen a certain sparkle in her eyes. She is sad because her life is sad. She has always lived in exile … like a plant in the shade. Ah, if the sun would shine on her! If she could let loose her natural gaiety! But she cannot. She is plagued all the time. She is an exile … a beggar at Court. Mademoiselle de Montpensier continually seeks to take precedence. Henriette’s brothers wander the Continent; she never knows when they will meet their death. She is humiliated at every turn and, being so clever—so full of imagination—she is sensitive; so she remains in her corner, quiet and pale, and to those who have not the eyes to see, so plain. Do not underestimate Henriette, Monsieur. Your brother is not insensible to her charm.”

“Louis!”

“Ah, Louis knows it not yet. Louis sees her as you do. Poor plain little cousin. ‘Nothing but bones,’ he said, and he thinks of his plump matrons. But Louis is romantic. He is a boy in heart and mind. You, Monsieur—forgive me; this sounds like treason, but between ourselves, eh?—you are so much cleverer than the King. You see more clearly. I’ll wager this: One day Louis will not be insensible to the charms of little Henriette. Let her brother regain his throne; let her come out of her corner; let her dazzle us with her beautiful clothes, her jewels. Then we shall see her beauty shine. Do you remember that, in the ballets, it is she who often says: ‘Wear this … it will so become you.’ And how often is she right! Have you seen her, animated in the ballet, playing a part? Then she forgets she is the exiled Princess, the little beggar girl who may be snubbed at any moment. The true Henriette peeps out for a while to look at us; and, by the saints, there you have the most charming lady of the Court!”

“You speak with fervor, de Guiche. Are you in love with my cousin?”

“I? What good would that do me? I do not love women, as you well know. They married me too young, and so I lost any taste I might have had for them. I was merely telling you that the King is not insensible to the charms of his cousin.”

“But he has refused to marry her; you know that.”

“Yes. And she knows it. It has made her quieter than ever in his presence. But you have noticed the softness in the King’s eyes when he speaks of her? Poor Henriette! he says to himself. He is sorry for her. He does not understand. He gambols with his plump matrons. He is like a child learning love … for he is far younger than his brother. He has spent his time in youthful sports; he is a boy yet. He has now acquired a certain taste for love, but at the moment he likes the sweet and simple flavors. Wait … wait until he demands something more subtle.”

“Then you think …”

“He will one day greatly regret that he turned away from the Princess Henriette.”

“I cannot believe that, Comte.”

But Philippe was thoughtful; and his mind was filled with memories of Henriette.

During the journey of the French Court to the Spanish border, Henrietta Maria and her daughter remained in Paris. Charles took advantage of the absence of the Court to visit his sister.

He came riding to Colombes where they were residing at that time. Unceremoniously he found his sister, and Henriette, giving a little cry of joy, ran into his arms.

She was laughing and crying, looking eagerly into his face, noting the changes, the fresh lines about the eyes and mouth which did not detract from his charm.

“Charles! Charles!” she cried. “What magic have you? That which makes others ugly merely adds to your charm.”

“I was born ugly,” said the King. “Those who love me, love me in spite of my face. Therefore they are apt to find something to love in my ill-favored countenance and they call it charm … to please me.”

“Dearest brother, will you stay long?”

“Never long in one place, sister. I merely pay a flying visit while the coast is clear.”

“It is wonderful to see you. Mam will be delighted.”

Charles grimaced. “We are not the best of friends, remember. She cannot forgive me for taking Henry’s side against her, and for not being a Papist. I cannot forgive her for the way she treated the boy.”

“You must forgive her. There must not be these quarrels.”

“It was to see you I came.”

“But you will see her while you are here. To please me, Charles?”

“Dearest, can it please you to displease us both?”

“You would go away happier if you mended your quarrels with Mam. Charles, she is most unhappy. She grieves continually. She thinks still of our father.”

“She nurses her grief. She nourishes it. She tends it with care. I am not surprised that it flourishes.”

“Try to understand her, Charles. Try … because I ask it.”

“Thus you make it impossible for me to refuse.”

So he did his best to mend the quarrel between himself and his mother. He could not love her; he could not tolerate cruelty, and when he remembered Henry’s sorrow he was still shocked. But they did not discuss his brother, and he was able to spend many superficially pleasant hours in his mother’s company.

It was not long after his arrival at Colombes that he betrayed to Henriette a secret excitement.

“I will tell you, sister,” he said, “because if this should fail—as most projects have failed—I should not mind your knowing. Have you ever heard of General George Monk?”

“No, Charles.”

“He was one of Cromwell’s supporters, but I do not think my lord Protector ever entirely trusted him. I have heard that once when George Monk was in Scotland, Oliver wrote to him: ‘ ’Tis said there is a cunning fellow called George Monk who lies in wait to serve Charles Stuart. Pray use your diligence to take him and send him to me.’ You see, Oliver was not without some humor.”

“You speak as though you could even forgive Oliver.”

“Forgive Oliver!” Charles laughed. “I thank God I shall never be asked to. He has passed beyond my forgiveness. I was never very skilled in judging and affixing blame. It is a matter of great relief to me that the judging of Oliver has passed into other hands. But more of Monk. He married his washerwoman—Mistress Anne Clarges; she must have a strong will as well as a strong arm for the tub, to induce the General to marry her. And do you know, Minette, Anne Clarges gives her support to me. She has a taste, not only for Generals, it seems, but for Kings; and I doubt not that she has urged her lord to favor me, with the same urgency as she once pressed him into marriage.”

“Do you mean, Charles, that there is a General in England who would be ready to help you regain your kingdom?”

“I do, Minette. Aye, and do not speak of him as a General. He is the foremost General. He is a man who served the Protector well, but who, since the death of Oliver, has become disgusted with the Parliamentarians’ rule. He has come to the conclusion that kings are slightly more attractive than protectors.”

“What is happening? What is General Monk doing?”

“He has drunk in the presence of others to ‘His Black Boy.’ That is his name for me. He is reputed to have said that he is tired of the bickering in high places and that, if he had an opportunity of doing so, he would serve me with his life.”

“Oh, Charles! If only it would come true!”

“If only, Minette! There have been so many ‘if onlys’ in my life. The sign of many failures, alas!”

“I shall hope and pray that Your Majesty soon comes to his kingdom. I shall pray that all health and happiness may attend Your Majesty.”

“Come, come, do not treat me with so much ceremony. There should not be so many ‘Your Majesty’s between us two; there should be nothing but affection.”

She clung to him, her eyes shining. Surely there must be some good fortune waiting for him at last! Surely the exile must soon be restored to his kingdom!

Mademoiselle de Montpensier was faintly alarmed.

She had lost all hope of the exalted marriage for which she had longed. It was now common knowledge that Louis was to marry Marie-Thérèse, the daughter of the King of Spain. Negotiations were going ahead. Louis was reconciled to the fact that as a king he must do his duty. It would not be many months before the marriage would take place.

So I shall never be Queen of France! thought Mademoiselle.

There were other offers for her hand. She was still a granddaughter of France if not a daughter, she reminded herself, and she was the richest heiress in the world. A grand marriage was still possible for her. She was fascinated by Charles Stuart, but she certainly would not marry a roaming exile, and she had no wish to leave France. France was her home, and to have lived for years at the Court of France was to know that other Courts could never satisfy. No! Mademoiselle knew definitely what she wanted. She wanted to remain in France, and she wanted to make a brilliant marriage. There was only one other man worthy of her, in her opinion, now that she could not have Louis. A second best it was true, but it would still be a royal marriage—Philippe.

She and Philippe were good friends. They had been brought up together. She was thirteen years older than he was, but that was not an insurmountable difficulty. She had bullied him in childhood because it was Mademoiselle’s habit to bully, but Philippe had accepted her domineering ways and even admired her for them. In the recent dispute over the right of precedence, Philippe had immediately placed himself on her side and demanded to know why people who depended on them for their bread should walk before them.