The Queen and Père Cyprien were determined to make a Catholic of her; yet Lady Morton knew that it had been her father’s wish that she should be brought up in accordance with the tenets of the Church of England. She could not have understood how Henrietta Maria, who wept so bitterly for her husband, could work against his wishes in this way, had she not understood the nature of the widowed Queen. Henrietta Maria was a Catholic first; and anything else took second place to that. Lady Morton knew that she would have beaten the little girl whom she now fondled so tenderly, if the child had shown any signs of refusing to accept the Catholic faith. Moreover Henrietta Maria had always been able to believe what she wanted to believe, and now she was able to assure herself—in direct contradiction of the facts—that the child’s religious teaching had been left in her hands. And as Anne Morton looked at this fervent little woman with the snapping black eyes, she wondered once more whether Charles I might not still be alive had he married, instead of the French woman, the bride from Spain who had at first been intended for him.

Now there was a subtler meaning behind the Queen’s words concerning Lady Morton. Was she thinking of dismissing her? It would seem so. She wanted Père Cyprien to take over the education of her daughter completely; she wanted no heretic to have a hand in it. Henrietta Maria would wave aside the valiant part Anne Morton had played in bringing her daughter to France; she would forget that which she had vowed never to forget, for it would be in the name of the Holy Catholic Church. She would forget her gratitude to Anne as she had forgotten the wishes of her husband whom she continued to mourn. Henrietta Maria was a tornado of emotions; and Lady Morton had to make up her mind whether her duty lay with her own children or with the Princess.

Henrietta Maria was watching her slyly, guessing her thoughts. Even in that moment of grief for her daughter Elizabeth, she would not swerve in what she called the battle for the soul of Henriette.

“And now,” the Queen was saying, “we shall prepare for Chaillot. There we shall mourn together, dearest. Lady Morton, prepare the Princess. You will not accompany us, of course.”

The Princess was led away, thinking sadly of the rigorous life at Chaillot, of the solemn nuns in their black garments, of the hard wood on which she had to kneel for so long, of the cold rooms and the continual ringing of bells. And what if Charles should come while she was there and go away again without seeing her?

She mentioned this to Anne, who said: “But he is in Scotland. He cannot come so soon. You will doubtless be back in the Louvre before he is again in Paris. Moreover …” She paused and Henriette had to urge her to go on. “It is nothing,” she added. “I know nothing.”

Henriette stamped her foot—a habit learned of her mother. “I will not have you start to tell me something and then stop. You do it often. I wish to know. I wish to know.”

Then Anne Morton knelt down so that her face was on a level with that of the Princess. Anne was near crying, Henriette saw; she put her arms about her neck and kissed the governess. “Anne, are you crying for Elizabeth?” she asked.

“Not only for her, my darling. For us all.”

“Why for us all?”

“Because life has become so hard for us.”

“Are you thinking of your children in England?”

“Of them … and of you … I pray we shall soon all be in England.”

“Do you think we shall?”

“Well, suppose the Scots helped your brother to regain his throne, and suppose he was crowned in London, and suppose you all went home …”

Henriette clasped her hands. “I will think of that, Anne. All the time I am at Chaillot I will think of that. Then the time will pass quickly perhaps.”

But the time at Chaillot did not pass quickly. There was more bad news.

The Prince of Orange, who was the husband of Henriette’s sister Mary, died, and there was more shedding of bitter tears. In vain did little Henriette try to comfort her mother. “But this is not so bad, dear Mam, is it? Not as bad as Elizabeth’s death. Elizabeth was my own sister and your daughter, but the Prince is only the husband of Mary …”

“My child, you are but six years old, yet you have already known more sorrow than many know in a lifetime. This is a sad thing … in a way it is sadder than the death of Elizabeth for, my love, Elizabeth was but a little girl … a prisoner. We loved her dearly and her death hurt us in one way; but the death of your other sister’s husband touches us more closely. Now that he is dead, your sister has not the same power, and there are men in her country who wish to be friends with Cromwell.”

“The beast Cromwell?”

“The beast Cromwell!” Henrietta Maria spat out the words, and the Cromwell in the Princess’s mind was an ape-like figure with terrible teeth and a crown on his head—her father’s crown. “They are friends of the beast, so they will not offer the hospitality to your brothers that they have received in the Prince’s day.”

“Won’t there be another Prince, Mam?”

“Yes. We hope that when your sister’s child is born he will be the Prince.”

“Then they won’t dare be friends with the beast?”

“He will be but a baby. He can do little while he is so young. Oh, was there ever such an unhappy woman as your mother, child? Was there?”

“There was our Lady of Sorrows,” said Henriette.

Then Henrietta Maria swept up her daughter in one of her suffocating embraces. “You comfort me, my daughter,” she said. “You must always comfort me. You can, you know. A little girl like you can make up for all I have suffered.

“I will, Mam. I will make you La Reine Heureuse instead of La Reine Malheureuse.”

There were more close embraces; and Henriette could not understand why that which she had offered as comfort should open the gates to more floods of tears.

There was one happy event which pleased the Queen: her daughter Mary gave birth to a son. He was christened William and there was great rejoicing, not only throughout Holland but in the convent of Chaillot. Henriette was delighted. Now there would be no more tears; now they could be gay.

The Queen talked frequently of her grandchild. “My first grandchild … my very first!” She thought fleetingly of that bonny boy whom Charles called Jemmy. If that boy had been the child of Charles’ wife instead of that low woman Lucy Water, what a happy woman she would have been! Henriette too was thinking of Jemmy. She reminded her mother of him. “He is your grandchild too, Mam. And, Mam, it is said that Charles already has more than one son.”

“Then they should have their tongues cut out for saying it!”

“Why, Mam? Is it not a matter for rejoicing when a king has many sons?”

“When a king decides to have sons he should first take the precaution of marrying.”

“Why, Mam?”

“Because when a man is a king he should have sons who could follow him as kings.”

Henriette as usual sought excuses for her brother. “Mayhap as he has no crown, he thought he need not have a marriage.”

“He is a gay rogue, your brother.”

Henriette laughed; she did not mind Charles being called that, when it was done in such a manner that “rogue” was almost a compliment.

“He is the most wonderful person in the world, Mam,” she said. “How I wish he could be here!”

She looked eagerly at her mother, hoping that her attitude had softened towards her eldest son; but there were so many emotions to be seen in the Queen’s face that it was impossible to know which train of thought she was following.

“Would the Prince of Orange had lived to see his son!” said Henrietta Maria fervently.

“Still, Mam, it is a good thing that he has left a son, even though he is not here to see him.”

Shortly afterwards they returned to their apartments in the Louvre, and there a shock awaited the Princess, for Anne Morton came to her and told her she was going home to England.

“I have my own children who need me,” she explained.

“But I need you,” said Henriette, her eyes filling with tears.

“My dearest, I must go. I have outlived my usefulness to you.”

“I’ll not let you go, Nan. You are my Nan. Did you not bring me here? Nan, do not talk of going. Instead let us talk of the days when we left England and I insisted on telling everyone that I was a Princess.”

“That was long ago, sweetheart. Now you have your mother and Père Cyprien to look after you, and you no longer need your Nan.”

So, thought Henriette, Anne was leaving because of the conflict between her and Père Cyprien. Henriette threw herself into her governess’s arms and begged her not to go. But Anne’s mind was made up, and so was the Queen’s, and beside those overwhelming factors, the tears and entreaties of a little Princess carried no weight.

There came a wonderful day in the life of Henriette. It was during the October following her seventh birthday, and her mother and those about her had been more than usually somber for a long time.

Henriette had tried to discover what it was that saddened them, but no one answered her questions. She was just set to do her lessons under the guidance of Père Cyprien, to read the holy books he brought for her, and so to study how to be a good Catholic.

Then one day her mother said to her: “My daughter, we are going to meet someone. I want you to ride with me out of Paris to greet this person. Wear your prettiest clothes. You will be glad you have done this when you see who this person is.”

One name trembled on Henriette’s lips, but she did not say it; she was afraid that if she said that name her mother might shake her head and say impatiently: “How can that be! You know he is in Scotland.”