“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.

Everywhere was pageantry and color; the city guards in red-and-blue velvet led the procession, and following them rode the King, glorious in purple velvet embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his plumed hat well back from his handsome face, his brown eyes alight with triumph and loving kindness towards his people; his beautifully shaped features looked as if they had been carved by a Greek sculptor out of stone, because of their very perfection; yet his clear, bright complexion showed him to be of healthy flesh and blood. Beside him, such an excellent foil to such celestial beauty, was the tall lean figure of the King of England, his dark, saturnine face alight with humor; he seemed ugly in comparison with that pink and white boy, and yet many women in the crowd could not take their eyes from him to look at the beautiful boy-King of France.

From the churches bells pealed forth. The war of the Fronde was over; there was peace in France; and men and women wept and told each other that this handsome King was a gift from Heaven and that he would lead France to prosperity. At the windows groups shouted and cheered; silken streamers hung from those windows; people climbed to roofs to get a better view of their monarch. One woman—ragged and dirty—pushed her way through the crowds that she might kiss the royal foot. The guards tried to prevent her, but the King merely smiled that smile which made the women cry “God bless him!,” and all began to cheer the beggar woman with their King.

Behind the King rode the great Dukes of France—the Duc de Vendôme and Duc de Guise; then followed the Marshal; and after them the Lords in glittering apparel, followed by more guards on horseback.

The Swiss Guards followed just ahead of the Queen’s coach. In this Anne of Austria sat back plump and arrogant, displaying her beautiful hands, jewel-covered; the crowds had few cheers for her; they had never liked her and they blamed her—not handsome Louis—for the troubles from which the country had just emerged. With her rode her second son, Philippe—known as Monsieur—who was twelve years old and a little sulky now because of all the fuss which was being made of his brother. It was difficult for a younger son not to resent the fate which had decreed that he should be born after his brother. Philippe lacked the striking beauty of Louis, but he knew himself to be of a sharper intellect, and it was sad to have to take second place on every occasion.

His mother, watching him, reminded him that it was necessary to smile and bow to the people. Did he want them to think he was a sullen fellow, so different from his brother? So Monsieur smiled and bowed and hid his feelings; and the people murmured together that it was a marvelous thing that after twenty-two years God had blessed the union of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria with two such boys.

Now the guns of the Bastille and the salvos from the Place de Grève roared forth; lamps shone in the windows and bonfires were lighted in the streets of Paris.

The war of the Fronde was over; Louis was back in his Louvre. Now there would be a return of pageantry and gaiety such as the French loved.

So Paris rejoiced.

In the great hall of the Louvre the King welcomed his guests.

Henrietta Maria was present with her daughter. Anne of Austria smiled on her sister-in-law, and Henrietta Maria had reason to believe that she was not averse to a match between their children.

That made Henrietta Maria’s eyes sparkle; that made her almost happy.

If only one other could be here to see this day! she thought, and the tears gushed to her eyes. None must see them; they were all impatient of her grief, as people always are of the grief of others too long preserved.

If Charles could have the fortune of Mademoiselle, he could begin campaigning for the return of his kingdom. If Anne of Austria would agree to a match between Louis and the little Henriette …

All these were dreams; but surely not impossible of fulfilment?

Young Louis had an arrogant air. Would he obey his mother? He was surrounded by sycophants who told him he had been sent by Heaven to govern France; he had been a king from the nursery; none had ever dared deny him what he asked; the most sweet-tempered person in the world could not emerge without a little arrogance from an upbringing such as that which had befallen the boy-King of France. No! He would make his own choice within reason; and was it not likely that he would choose her little Henriette?

Henriette herself felt bewildered by all the pageantry; she had lived so quietly during the war of the Fronde when the Court was not in Paris; she had never in all her life been in such glittering company.

She was excited by it; she loved to see the flashing jewels and the brilliant garments of the men and women. And Charles was here, in a place of honor beside the King of France. That gave her great pleasure. It was wonderful to see the honor paid to him and to remind herself that he was, after all, her dearest brother whose hair she pulled, who tossed her in his arms and was never too much the King to remember that he was Minette’s brother.