Lady Morton did not altogether approve of this and because I was so fond of her and would never forget how she had brought Henriette out of England to me, I was very anxious for her to have the benefit of the true Faith too. I confided this to Henriette. I said: “My darling, you love Lady Morton, do you not?”

Henriette said she did indeed.

“Then,” I said, “is it not sad that she should be left in darkness? We should try to bring her into the light with us…. It would give me the greatest happiness if our dear Lady Morton would cease to be a Protestant and become a Catholic. We must try to help her. Will you?”

“Oh I will, Mam,” said my little daughter fervently.

Some days later I asked how she was getting on with the conversion and she told me very seriously that she was trying very hard.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Hug her and kiss her and I say to her, ‘Dear Madam, do be a Catholic. Please be a Catholic. You must be a Catholic to be saved.’”

I smiled and I learned that Lady Morton was touched but it did not change her. She implied that she was aware of our little plot and she told me with a smile that she believed Father Cyprien was in fact instructing her rather than Henriette.

Henriette soon betrayed her zeal to her brother and this was the beginning of trouble.

One could never be sure what Charles was thinking. He was not a man to lose his temper—he did not take after me in that—but gave the impression of a kind of insouciance, an indifference. At times he seemed content to dally on the Continent and I wondered whether he was making any real efforts to win back his crown. But when he was determined on something he could be very stubborn. He exasperated me sometimes because it was impossible to quarrel with him. I would rather he had flared up in anger so that I could know what he was thinking.

He said to me: “Mam, it is unwise for Minette to be brought up as a Catholic.”

“I think,” I retorted, “for the sake of the child’s soul it would be unwise to bring her up in any other way.”

“It was the cause of much of our troubles.”

“One often has to fight for one’s Faith. The Faith is strewn with martyrs.”

“My father one of them.”

He was sorry then because any mention of the late King filled me with melancholy which persisted for days.

“He had other troubles,” he went on softly, “God rest his soul. But, Mam, if it is known in England that Henriette is being brought up as a Catholic and I approve of this, it could jeopardize my chances of regaining the crown.”

“I cannot see that.”

“I can,” he said. “The people will be afraid that I or James might be the same.”

“I would to God you were! Listen to me, Charles. When I married your father there was a clause in the settlement that I was to have charge of my children’s religious instruction until they were thirteen years old. That was never carried out.”

“It would have meant that we should all have been Catholics, for what children learn in their early years usually settles them for life. No, Mam, Henriette should not be allowed to talk so constantly of her religion and efforts to convert Lady Morton.”

“She is but a child.”

“It would be better to take her out of the hands of Father Cyprien.”

“I will not do it,” I said firmly.

Charles sighed. He did not want to hurt me for there was a very kind side to his nature. He hated trouble and when it was there tried to avoid it by delegating someone else to take care of it. As a king he could do that. I thought it was a great fault in his nature but later I began to see that it was an asset. He did not waste his emotions on petty quarrels. He rarely lost that magnificent serenity which later was to give him the reputation of a cynic. So now he did not insist, but I knew the matter was not at an end, someone else would be set to persuade me. In fact he gave the task to Sir Edward Hyde, a man I loathed, but whom I had to admit had always been loyal to the royalist cause and he was now Charles’s constant companion and adviser.

I soon dispatched him with a few sharp words.

However it did make a coolness between Charles and me and it showed me clearly that my son had no intention of taking my advice.

A few weeks later the Emperor lost his young bride and I could not resist a dig at Mademoiselle.

“Perhaps I should congratulate you on the death of the Empress,” I said slyly. “For if the affair failed formerly it is sure to succeed next time.”

She flushed hotly and replied haughtily: “I had not given thought to the matter.”

“Some people prefer old men who must be nearly fifty with four children to a handsome King of nineteen years old. It is difficult to understand but must be accepted, I suppose. Do you see that very handsome young woman over there. My son likes her very well.”

Charles was standing by at that time and I think he was annoyed to be discussed in his presence; but I, his mother, would do as I pleased.

I went on: “My son is too poor for you, Mademoiselle. All the same he does not want you to know of his feelings for the young lady. He is very much afraid that I should mention her to you.”

Charles bowed to me and then to Mademoiselle and walked out of the room, his face inscrutable so that I could not tell how annoyed he was. But I guessed it was very deeply. He was very cool to me afterward though always polite.

I was angry with myself. I had been foolish to say what I had when all that mattered to me now was my children’s affection and well being. But I was angry about Mademoiselle and it did seem such a good opportunity missed. And he could have charmed her had he wished to. Heaven knows he was successful enough with other women.

The French Court was still at St. Germain because the Fronde troubles kept starting up and Anne felt it was unsafe to bring the young King back to the Louvre. I was still there but I had noticed a growing antagonism toward me. At first they had all been so sorry for me and remembered that I was the daughter of their beloved Henri IV; now they saw me as royal, closely connected with Queen Anne and therefore Mazarin; and I was beginning to get hostile looks, and so were members of my household.

Anne was afraid for us and sent messages asking us to come to her and the King at St. Germain. Charles agreed with me that we ought to accept the invitation, for the mood of the Parisians was growing more and more hostile.

So one day we set out; but of course we could not leave in secret and as we passed through the palace gates an angry crowd was waiting for us. They jeered at us. It was true that I owed money to many tradesmen and they must have feared that they would never get it and that I was leaving in order to escape paying them.

I wanted to explain, but how can one talk to a crowd of menacing people.

I was the one they hated. They crowded round my coach and I had a few horrifying moments when I feared they were going to drag me out and kill me.

Few mobs can be as terrifying as a Paris mob. They seem far more fierce than the English and I feared that they might become very violent indeed.

Then just as I was certain that some ruffian was going to wrench open the door of my coach and drag me out, my son Charles appeared. He looked so tall and dignified in his black mourning garments that for a few moments he startled the crowd. Those few moments were enough. He laid his hand on the door of the coach and told the coachman to proceed slowly. He walked beside the coach as we went through the crowds, and I was amazed at the manner in which they fell back; and it was all due to that magnificent presence of his. He was unarmed; he would have been unable to defend himself with his sword against the mob; but still they recognized and respected his royalty.

I watched him through a haze of tears and I knew that one day he would be a king in very truth.

That incident moved me deeply and perhaps it did him too, for after it our relationship began to change. I felt I could not dictate to such a man; and he seemed to come to a new understanding and realize that everything I did—however misguided it might seem to him—was meant to be for his benefit and was done out of an excess of love.

AFTER WORCESTER

I was glad that the relationship between Charles and myself had changed and that when he did go we parted as loving parent and devoted son.

Everything seemed to go wrong for us. We had planned that he should go to Ireland and use it as a stepping stone to England; but no sooner had we agreed that this would be the best plan than we heard that Cromwell had gone to Ireland on a punitive expedition, so that put the project out of the question.

Charles decided however that he could not remain in Paris and set out for Jersey with his retinue, which included his mistress Lucy Walter and her few-months’-old son whom they had named James. It was very irregular but I had come to the conclusion that I must not try to interfere too much with Charles.

At least in Jersey he could keep an eye on what was happening in England and be ready to go through Scotland, perhaps, if Ireland remained unsuitable.

Just as my hopes were beginning to rise fate struck me another blow. This one I found very hard to bear. It was a long time since I had seen my two children who were the prisoners of the Roundheads but I thought of them every day and I was constantly turning over in my mind plans to rescue them.

I worried more about Elizabeth than Henry. She was a little older and more able to appreciate sorrow, and I knew how deeply affected she had been by her father’s death for I had news of her from time to time and I had written letters to members of the Parliament imploring them to send my daughter and little son to me. What harm could such children do to any cause?