She sat listening while Anne talked, and the talk was of Louis. Louis at seven being reprimanded for using oaths; Louis at eight, in pink satin trimmed with gold lace and pink ribbons, dancing perfectly, outshining all with his grace and his beauty; Louis with the fever on him, when for fourteen days his mother had done nothing but weep and pray; the sweetness and patience of the sick child; how he had appointed certain boys-in-waiting to share his games; how he had selected one of the serving girls, a country wench, to play with; how he loved her dearly and liked to make her act King while he became the serving maid; how in disputes between the brothers, she had always insisted that Philippe should obey Louis; how he must always be mindful of the great destiny which was his brother’s. And so on, until she rose to go.

Then Henrietta Maria sent for her daughter; she embraced her warmly.

“Mam, Mam, what has happened to make you so happy? Is there news of Charles?”

“You think of your brother first on every occasion! There are other people who should concern you now and then. You are to visit the King and his brother; you are to go to the Louvre tomorrow to help them devise a ballet for our entertainment.”

“I … Mam!” Henriette shrank from her mother.

“No, no!” scolded the Queen. “You must not be foolish.” She pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Remember what I have said. Though you must always remember that you are a King’s daughter, you should not be insensible of this great honor which is done you. My little daughter, here is great news! Mademoiselle who would wish to marry Louis, is sent to the country in disgrace, and you, my little one, are to take her place in sharing the amusements of Louis and his brother. Now you must agree always with everything Louis says. You must take his side if there is a disagreement between the brothers. You must remember what I have told you.”

“Yes, Mam,” whispered Henriette.

She wished Charles were in Paris that she might tell him how uneasy she felt. He would understand; he would soothe her; but without Charles she was alone and there was no one to whom she could turn.

The two boys were waiting for their cousin. Louis was impatient.

“A little girl!” he said. “Here’s a pretty pass! So now we must play with little girls! Why should I be asked to play with little girls!”

“Because her brother is the King of England,” Philippe answered wryly.

“King of England! The English have a different tale to tell.”

“As the French might have had, brother … not so long ago.”

Louis shook his head in exasperation, but he was used to Philippe’s dry comments. Philippe was in a state of continual pique because he was two years younger than his brother and merely Monsieur, Duc d’Orléans, instead of King.

Louis’ annoyance did not last long. He was naturally sweet-tempered though often arrogant, for it would have been a miracle if he had been anything else. From the day he was five he had been told he was the most important person in the world. Only a short while ago his tutor had told him that God had given him something that even his illustrious grandfather Henri Quatre had not possessed—a handsome presence, a beauty that was almost unearthly in its perfection, a fine figure, a charm which delighted while it won respect. All through his life it had been the same. His tutors never forced him to learn anything, but allowed him to follow his inclinations; it was a wonder that he had acquired any knowledge at all, considering he loved sports so much. But with all his physical perfections there had been born in him a desire to do what was right, and occasionally this was uppermost. Then he would try to study for a while before his desire to play soldiers—his favorite game—came over him and he could not resist calling his army of young boys together for a mock battle. Alas, only a year ago his Company of Honor had been disbanded, for their exploits had become so realistic that his mother had grown terrified for his safety; and Mazarin had decided to risk the King’s displeasure and put an end to these warlike games. Then had Louis turned to dancing and, in particular, the ballet.

He excelled in these, but he never forgot that the praise which came his way might not be entirely genuine; Monsieur de Villeroi his governor, never reproved him; if Louis asked for something, de Villeroi always said: Yes, he might have it, before he even knew for what the boy asked. Yet Louis loved far better his valet, La Porte, who often crossed him and had even on occasion forbidden him to do what he wanted. The most Monsieur de Villeroi would say, if La Porte advised against doing something, was: “La Porte is right, Sire.” But his governor never actually reproved or forbade, even when the King had turned somersaults on his bed and had ended by falling and getting a most unpleasant bump on the head.

Louis had realized long ago that, surrounded by such sycophants, a great ruler of fourteen must be especially watchful.

“Those who are lenient concerning your faults,” La Porte told him once, “are not so on your account, but on their own, and their object is merely to make you like them, so that they may receive your favors and grow rich.”

Louis never forgot that warning.

He became very fond of La Porte; he still liked to have the valet read to him when he was in bed at night. The History of France sounded quite exciting when read by La Porte; and Louis always listened gravely to the valet’s comments and criticisms of other Kings of France.

But on this day he was by no means pleased that there had been sent to him a little girl, eight or nine years old, to help him and Philippe contrive a ballet.

She came and knelt before him. She was tall for her age and thin—very thin. Louis thought her rather ugly, for he was beginning to be very conscious of the looks of women.

He had grown accustomed to tender looks all his life, but there was one lady of his mother’s bedchamber who made him feel very extraordinary when his eyes rested on her. It was an odd sensation, for she had only one eye and was far from comely. She was years older than he was; he assumed she must be at least twenty years old; she was married, and she was fat; yet—he did not understand why—he could not stop himself looking her way.

“So you have come to help us with the ballet, cousin?” said Louis.

“Yes, Sire. On the orders of our mothers.”

“Then rise, and we will tell you what we plan. It is to be a grand ballet which we shall call The Nuptials of Thetis and Peleus.”

Henriette listened as he continued. Philippe, somewhat bored, had wandered away and was looking at himself in the great Venetian mirror, thinking how handsome he was, setting his curls so that they fell more to one side of his head; he was wishing that, instead of this quiet girl, they had asked some of the amusing young men to join them. Philippe smiled at the thought. De Guiche was so good looking and so understanding.

He turned to his brother who was scowling at him for leaving him to explain to the little girl who, of course, would know nothing of ballets and such things, having just come from the nursery—or so it seemed from the look of her.

But Henriette’s face had flushed a little and, listening to the King, she caught his enthusiasm. “Your Majesty should appear as Apollo in the masque,” she ventured.

“Apollo!” cried the King with interest.

“Yes, Sire. The Sun God. It would be the most enchanting role in the ballet. You would be dressed in gold … and about your head could be a halo from which light radiated so that all would know that you were the Sun God as soon as they set eyes on you.”

“The Sun God!” murmured Louis. “You are cleverer than I thought, cousin.”

“I have lived so quietly, Sire, that so much of my time has been spent in study.”

“That is why you are so thin,” said Louis. “You should have spent more time out of doors. Then you would enjoy more glowing health. Though I’ll grant you you would not be so useful in arranging ballets.”

Philippe had come over to them. “What part is there for me?” he asked. “I should like the part of a lady. I like wearing ladies’ costumes … jewels in my ears and patches on my face.”

He minced about in a manner which was quite feminine and which made the King laugh. Henriette, taking her cue from him, laughed also. “You would make a lovely shepherdess, cousin,” she said.

“A shepherdess! While my brother is the Sun God!”

“Ah, but a shepherdess in silver tissue with ribands the color of roses … scented ribands mayhap, and a hat of black-and-white velvet with sweeping plumes, blue, the color of the sky on hot summer days. You could carry a gilded crook.”

“I like the costume, but I do not care to be a shepherdess, cousin.”

“Then be a goddess. Be the goddess of love.”

“She has ideas, this cousin of ours,” said Philippe.

“Yes,” admitted Louis, “that is true.” He looked a little wistful. They were educating her—those old nuns of Chaillot—while he and his brother were allowed to do whatever they wished. This little girl, six years younger than he was, four years younger than Philippe, might be shy and ignorant of great ceremonies, but she had in a few years assimilated more booklearning than he and Philippe had.

“Can you dance, cousin?” asked Louis.

“A little, Sire.”

“Then you shall show us. Dance, Philippe.”

Philippe turned haughtily away. “I am in no mood to dance, Louis,” he said. “Why do you not dance with our cousin, the better to test her prowess?”

Louis shook his head impatiently. He was not going to demean himself by dancing with such a thin little girl.