But those arguments did not take place, for within a few days news came that Mary’s little Dutch William was ill, and the smallpox was feared.

She was beside herself with grief, and left at once for Holland.

Charles was riding to Breda. Another move—and who could say how long he would stay at Breda?

It was more than five years since he had set foot in England. Five wandering years! How many more would he spend—an exile from his kingdom? He was accustomed now to dreaming dreams, making plans which became nothing more than dreams. “I have had so little luck since Worcester,” he told his friends, “that I now expect none.”

He had said goodbye to Lucy and his son. They would be in London now. He did not care to think of London; but he hoped Lucy would fare well there. But Lucy, he assured himself, would fare well in any place. She would always have lovers to provide for her. How was he going to pay the four hundred pounds a year which he had promised her? He had no idea. His purse was empty. “I am a generous man,” he often said. “I love to give, and if the only things I am able to give are promises with little hope of fulfilling them, then must I give them.”

Lucy had said a sad farewell to him … and to others; she had wept to leave him … and to leave others.

He had swung young Jemmy up in his arms, and he knew then that he dearly loved the boy. If he had been the son of himself and Mademoiselle or Hortense Mancini or the now-widowed Duchesse de Châtillon—someone whom he could have married—he would have been well content. It was a pity such a fine boy as Jemmy must be a bastard.

“What will you do in London, Jemmy?” he had asked.

“Fight for the King’s cause!” had answered the sturdy little boy.

“Ah, my dear boy, you will best do that by keeping those fine sentiments to yourself.”

“I shall do it with my sword, Papa. Dead … dead … dead … I’ll cut off Cromwell’s head.”

“Take care of yourself, my son. That is how you will best serve your King.”

Jemmy was not listening. He was fingering his sword and thinking of what he would do in London.

“You’ll have to curb our young Royalist, Lucy,” Charles told the boy’s mother. “We have talked too freely before him, I fear.”

So they had gone, and here he was riding on to Breda.

His sister Mary joined him in the little town. She had left the French Court in haste on hearing news of her son’s illness, but now cheering messages were reaching her. Her little William was merely suffering from an attack of measles, and not the dreaded smallpox as had been feared.

Mary, released from fear, was full of gaiety. She declared she could not come near Breda without meeting her favorite brother.

They embraced affectionately, and Charles made her tell him in detail all that had befallen her at the Court of France. He was particularly eager for news of Minette.

“I wonder who loves the other more—you or your little sister,” said Mary.

“Tell me—is she well?”

“Yes—well and charming; but she grows too fast; and life at the Court is not very happy for her and our mother. Mademoiselle makes herself unpleasant, demanding precedence whenever they meet.”

“A curse on Mademoiselle!”

“I thought you wanted to marry the woman.”

“Mam wanted it, you mean, and as for myself, I would marry her, I dare swear, if she would have me. I’m not enamored of her, but her fortune is too great to be turned lightly aside.”

“Poor Charles! Is your purse quite empty?”

“Very nearly.”

“I have brought twenty thousand pistoles for your use.”

“Mary, you are an angel! One day I shall pay you back. That’s a promise.” He smiled wryly. “I would give you a fortune if I had one; alas, all I have to lay at your feet is a promise.”

“One day you will in truth be King of England. I am sure of it, Charles. One day you will be restored to the throne. The people of England are not pleased with Puritan rule. How could they be? You know how they love gaiety. Now the theaters are closed; there is no singing, no dancing, nothing to do but contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. It is not the English man’s or woman’s way meekly to accept such constraint. They love pageantry above all things. They will soon decide to have no more of puritanism. They decided they would have no more Catholic rulers at one time; they will be equally firm, when the time comes, to ban puritanism. The Englishman does not like his religion to interfere with his pleasure.”

“I am beginning to think,” said Charles, “that I make a very good Englishman.”

“You do indeed. And soon the English will realize this. Then they will implore you to return. They’ll go down on their knees and beg you to return …”

“They will have no need to. They have but to lift a finger, to throw a smile to poor Charles Stuart, and he will be entirely at their service. Now let us talk of the family. It is so rarely that we meet and can be alone together. Let us indulge ourselves, Mary.”

“I wish it were a happier subject. I am a little disturbed about James and Anne Hyde. Perhaps I should never have taken the girl with me.”

“James … and Anne Hyde?”

“He has a fancy for her. She is a good girl, Charles.”

“And James … is not so good?”

Mary sighed. “I can only hope that no ill comes of it. I think of our mother and what she would have to say.”

“Poor Mam! We do not want her declaring that she will not see James’ face again.”

“She is so ambitious for us all. She has been plaguing Mademoiselle … trying to persuade her to take you.”

Charles groaned. “No! Not again!”

“And Mademoiselle spoke quite emphatically. I think, Charles, that you have fascinated her a little. If you were not an exile, willingly would she marry you.”

“There are hundreds who would willingly marry the reigning King of England, Mary. It is only when they consider Charles Stuart the exile, that they find him such an unattractive fellow.”

“Never that!” said Mary fondly. “Threadbare and empty of purse you may be, but you are the most fascinating man in Europe. Mademoiselle’s problem is that she would like to marry you, but her pride won’t let her.”

“True! And I thank God that Mademoiselle’s pride is there to protect me from Mademoiselle.”

“And, of course, our mother has hopes of Louis for Henriette.”

“That is what I would wish for, Mary. It is a cherished dream of mine. Dear sweet Minette … the Queen of France! How think you she would feel about it? I should not care to see her unhappy.”

“Louis is magnificent, Charles. He is physically perfect … a little stupid perhaps, by Stuart standards.” They laughed together. “But he is so beautiful and not unkind. I think Henriette is fond of him. In fact I do not see how she could help being fond of him. She compares him with you. I know it. I know of it by the manner in which she speaks of you both in the same breath.”

“Then must Louis’ perfections be more obvious than ever!”

“No, Charles. That is not so. In her eyes you are perfect. I said to her: ‘How perfectly Louis dances!’ She answered: ‘He dances well, but he is not so graceful as Charles.’ I said: ‘Louis is surely the most handsome man in the world.’ She smiled and said: “That may be so. I am no judge. But he has not the wit of Charles.’ It is always Charles. It should not be so: a Princess so to love her brother!”

“Dear Minette! She should not. I shall write to her and scold her for loving me too well. But I do not think she loves me one whit more than I love her. If ever I become King I shall bring my family home. We shall all be together. That is what I long for more than anything.”

“But,” said Mary pensively, “I do not think she is untouched by Louis’ charm. Indeed, I think she is very fond of him. He is a charming boy and of good character. He must be, for never was one more flattered, and yet his arrogance is not overpowering, and he always gives the impression of wishing to do what he considers right.”

“I doubt that he would marry Henriette while I am still an exile. Oh, Mary, if I regained my kingdom, what a difference that would make, eh? I doubt not that then my little Minette would become the Queen of France. What an excellent thing that could be for our two countries! What an alliance! For I would love the French more than ever if Minette were their Queen.”

“And you would take Mademoiselle for wife?”

“Ah! I doubt it. I doubt it very much. There is a great obstacle which I feel may prevent Mademoiselle and me from joining hands at the altar. While I am an exile she cannot contemplate marrying me; and if I had a crown fixed firmly on my head I could not bring myself to take her. Now let us drink to the future. Let us hope that our dreams will come true.”

“Our first step will be to put you on the throne of England, where you belong.”

“Our first step! But what a step! Yet, who knows … one day it may come to pass.”

When Lucy arrived in London she found that a great change had taken place in the city since she had left it.

Now the clothes of the people were drab, and the people themselves were, for the most part, suppressed and sullen. Those who were not, seemed to wear an air of perpetual complacency. All the ballad singers had disappeared, and there were no spontaneous outbursts of pageantry which had been a feature of the old days. The only places which still flourished were the brothels, and their inmates still chattered to each other from windows of rooms which projected and almost met over the cobbled streets.

Lucy found rooms over a barber’s shop near Somerset House. She was warmly received by the barber and, as she called herself Mistress Barlow, no one knew of her connection with the King, nor that the bright-eyed little boy was Charles’ son.