She waited until they had dined that day; then, as they rose to leave the dining chamber, she went to Henry and embraced him warmly.

“My son,” she said, “how grieved I am that I should be forced to deal so severely with you, but it is my love that makes me do it. You must know that well.”

“Oh, Mam,” said the little boy, his eyes filling with tears, “please understand. I gave my word to Papa.”

“Please … please, Henry, don’t talk to me of Papa. There are some days when the memory of him hurts me more than others. I knew him more than you did, child. We had years together before you were born. Any grief you have felt for Papa is a small thing compared with mine.”

“Mam … then … it is because of him, you understand …”

“You are weary, my son,” she interrupted, “of being talked to on this matter. God knows I am weary of it too. Let us shorten the trial. Go to your apartments now and I will send the Abbé Montague to you.”

“Please, Mam, there is nothing I can do. Do understand me when I say …”

“Go now, my son. Listen to the Abbé, and then give me your final answer.”

“It can make no difference.”

She pushed him gently from her, wiping her eyes as she did so.

He went to his apartment where the Abbé came to him; wearily he listened, and again and again he reiterated his determination not to swerve from the faith in which he had been baptized, not to break his word to his father.

“This is going to hurt your mother, the Queen, so deeply that I fear what the result will be,” warned the Abbé.

“I cannot heed the result,” answered the boy. “I have only one answer to give.”

So the Abbé left him and went to Henrietta Maria who was with her youngest daughter; together they were stitching an altar cloth for Chaillot.

“Your Majesty,” said Montague, “I fear I have only bad news for you. The boy remains obstinate. He clings fast to heresy.”

Henrietta Maria rose to her feet, letting the altar cloth fall to the floor.

Her daughter watched the purple blood disfigure her face as, clenching her hands together, she cried: “Very well! This is the end then. He shall see what it means to flout God … and me. Go to him. Tell him that he shall see my face no more. Go at once. Tell him that. Tell him I can bear no more sorrows. I am weary. I am going to Chaillot to pray … for there only can I find peace.”

“Oh, Mam!” cried Henriette. “Mam, what are you saying? You cannot mean this.”

“I do mean it. I never want to see his face again. I want to forget I bore him.”

“But, Mam, he swore to our father. He swore. You must understand.”

“I understand only that he wishes to flout me. I shall make him repent this ere long. Go to him at once, Abbé. Give him my message. The ungrateful boy! He is no child of mine!”

Henrietta Maria flung herself out of the room; Henriette slowly picked up the altar cloth; then she sat down on the stool and covered her face with her hands.

Was there no end to these troubles which beset her family?

After a while she rose. She must go to Henry. Poor Henry, who had dreamed so often of reunion with his family!

She went along to his apartment. Montague was talking to Henry, whose face was white; he looked stricken yet incredulous. It was clear that he could not grasp what the man was saying; he could not believe his mother had really cast him off.

“Just think what this will mean,” Montague was saying. “If your mother renounces you, how will you live? How will you supply your table with food? How will you pay your servants?”

“I do not know,” said Henry piteously. “I cannot understand!”

“Then go to the Queen; tell her that you will be her very good son, and she will have a proposal to make which will set your heart at rest.”

“I fear, sir,” said Henry in a quavering voice, though his lips were determined, “that my mother’s proposals would not have that effect upon me, for my heart can have no rest but in the free exercise of my religion and in the keeping of my word to my father.”

James came into his apartment while Henriette was wondering what she could do to soothe her brother. When James heard the news he was astounded.

“But our mother cannot do this!” he cried. “I will go to see her. There has been some mistake.”

He strode out of the apartment, and Henriette put her arm about Henry. “Be of good cheer, Henry,” she begged. “There has been a mistake. You heard what James said. It must be a mistake.”

But shortly afterwards James was back. “Our mother is in a fury,” he said. “She declares that henceforth she will show her pleasure to neither of her sons, except through the medium of Montague.”

“Then she discards us both, James,” said Henry. “Oh, James, I almost wish they had not let me come to France. I was happier at Carisbrooke than here.”

“I would there were something I could do,” said Henriette. “I do not believe Mam means this. She flies into tempers, but they pass. Go to her, Henry. Speak to her. She will soon be leaving for Chaillot, where she is going for Mass. Speak to her before she goes.”

James thought that their mother might be in a softened mood as she was departing for her devotions.

So Henry waylaid his mother; he knelt before her, entreating her not to turn away from him; but she pushed him angrily aside and would not speak to him.

The boy was heartbroken and uncertain what to do. James put his arm about him, and together they went to the service which was held in Sir Richard Browne’s chapel for the English Princes.

“She’ll get over her anger,” James told him. “Don’t fret, brother.”

But when Henry returned to his apartment after the service, he found that all his servants had been dismissed. There was no place for him at the table.

Bewildered, he flung himself down and gave way to bitter weeping. His mother, for whom he had longed during the years of exile, had turned away from him and had declared her intention of looking on his face no more.

Gloomily he walked about the palace grounds. He did not know what to do.

The day passed; he returned to the palace. He decided he would go to bed and try to make plans for the morrow. As he entered the palace his little sister ran to him. “Henry, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I do not know. I must go away, I suppose. But I do not know where to go.”

“Then you will resist … our mother?”

“I must, Henriette.”

“Oh Henry…. Oh, my brother! Oh, my mother! What can I do? I shall never be happy again.”

“So you too are afraid of her. She is only kind to you because you are a Catholic. If you were not, she would be as cruel to you as she is to me.”

Henriette continued to weep.

Her brother kissed her. “I am going to my apartment,” he said. “I shall try to rest. Perhaps in the morning I shall know what to do.”

She nodded and kissed him fondly.

He broke down then. “It is because I so longed to be with her … so much …”

“I know, Henry. I know, dear brother.”

She turned and fled; and Henry went up to his apartments, only to find that the sheets had been taken from his bed, and that all the comforts had been removed from his room.

His Controller found him there, staring about in a bewildered fashion; he reported that the horses had been turned out of the stables and that he himself had been dismissed and warned that he should expect no wages from the Queen while he remained in the service of Prince Henry.

“But I do not know what to do!” cried the boy.

James sought him out and James had good news.

“Fret no more, brother,” he cried. “All will be well. Did you think Charles would forget you! He knows how fierce our mother can be when she is engaged in conversions. Charles has sent to you the Marquess of Ormonde who waits below. He has horses and instructions to take you to Charles in Cologne.”

“Charles!” cried Henry, tears filling his eyes. “I am to go to Charles!”

“Charles would never desert you!” cried James. “He expected this. He wrote to you somewhat sternly because he knew that you would never be at peace if you broke your word to our father. He wished you to hold out against our mother, and he is proud that you have done so. But never think that he would desert you. Be of good cheer, brother. You will find life more agreeable with the King, your brother, than among the monks of a Jesuit college which Mam had in mind for you.”

And that night, after taking fond farewells of his brother James and his little sister Henriette, Henry, an exile from his mother’s care, set out to join that other exile in Cologne.

SIX

Anne of Austria delighted to see her son dance—an accomplishment he performed with such grace—and it pleased her often to give an informal dance, inviting just a few members of the highest nobility to her own private apartments in the Louvre. Here she would sit in her dressing gown, her hair hidden under a cornette to indicate that the occasion was an intimate one and by no means to be considered a ball. She would have the violins in one corner of the vast room, and her friends about her in another; and in the middle of the floor the young people danced while she gossiped with her friends who must constantly supply her with the latest scandal and compliments on her son’s perfections.

To these dances she often invited Henrietta Maria and her daughter.

“Such a pleasure for the little girl!” she said. “For she grows so charming. How old is she now?”

“Eleven,” said Henrietta Maria. “Yes, she is growing up. It is difficult to believe that it is eleven years since that terrible day when …”