Across the water there had been another great day—an even greater one for England than this was for France.

In London, a few weeks before, the streets had been decked with flowers and tapestries, fountains had run with wine, the citizens had shouted derisive farewells to the old régime; the life of pleasure and revelry was back, and there should be, all declared, more merriment than there had ever been before. The Black Boy was back; the Merry Monarch had returned; and his restoration was due to the will of his people—all except a few miserable Puritans.

Such rejoicing there had been that Charles, while he yet reveled in it, while he rejoiced to be home again and to be received with such wild enthusiasm, had stroked his lined face and remarked with a slightly cynical smile that it must have been his own fault he had not returned before, since every man and woman he met now assured him with tears and protestations of loyalty that they had always wished for the King’s restoration.

So the exile was an exile no longer. He was back in Whitehall, full of gaiety and charm, delighting all who saw him—from the highest nobleman to the lowest fishwife.

The King had come home.

And what a difference the restoration made to his family abroad! No longer were Henrietta Maria and her daughter poor, exiled beggars depending on the hospitality of their relations. They were the mother and sister of the reigning King of England.

Now they sat beneath the canopy of crimson velvet on the balcony outside the Hotel de Beauvais, one on either side of Queen Anne. From other windows watched the ladies of the Court. Cardinal Mazarin also was at a window.

The procession passed along the streets—the gilded coaches; the mules with their silver bells; the magistrates in their red gowns; the musketeers in blue velvet with silver crosses; the company of light-horse in scarlet; the heralds carrying emblems the grand equerry who held aloft the royal sword with its scabbard of blue velvet and golden fleurs-de-lis. But all the brilliant color was eclipsed by the glory of Louis himself. Looking more handsome than even he had ever looked before, he rode his bay horse under a canopy of brocade. His face was benign as he moved forward, and the people roared in expression of their love and loyalty. Here was a King who was indeed a King. He was dressed in silver lace decorated with pearls and pink ribbons; his hat was kept on his head by means of an enormous diamond brooch, and the magnificent white plumes fell over his shoulders.

Behind him rode Philippe in a costume of silver embroidery; and behind Philippe came the Princes of the royal houses led by Condé.

Then came the bride—little Marie-Thérèse—in her coach, which was covered with gold lace. She was dressed in gold-colored cloth and was ablaze with jewels, so that eyes were dazzled as they looked at her. In those gorgeous garments, framed by the gold of her coach, she seemed like a fairy princess to the people of Paris; they cheered and exclaimed at her beauty.

Following her coach, Mademoiselle de Montpensier led the Princesses of France. Mademoiselle was trying to smile and to hide her bitter resentment. She should have been the Queen in that gilded coach. This should have been her day of triumph. She could smile—a little spitefully—to think of Marie-Thérèse, stripped of her finery. That was how Louis would have to know her, a silly little girl without that charm and wisdom which was an accomplishment acquired by those brought up in the Court of France.

A grand marriage with Spain! Let Louis enjoy it if he could.

Now the King had reached the royal balcony in which sat the two Queens and the Princess Henriette. Louis drew up his horse that he might salute the Queens and the Princess.

Henriette, her eyes dazzled with his beauty, suddenly understood her feelings for this man. She had grown up in that instant. She, a girl of sixteen, knew that she loved this man of twenty-two. Now she understood why she had wept so often after she had been in his company, why she had been hurt by his pity. It was not pity she had wanted from him.

Charles was now King of England; if he had been King of England last year … But Louis had never loved her; Louis would never have married her. But did he love little Marie-Thérèse?

Louis was looking into her eyes now. He saw the tears there and a faint flicker of surprise crossed his face. Why were there tears? he wondered. She had little to weep about now. Her brother was restored to the throne and it was very likely that Philippe would marry her; and what a suitable match this would be between the brother of the King of France and the sister of the King of England!

How pretty she was! He had never seen her dressed in such a grand fashion. He could realize now why Philippe was falling in love with her. Her beauty was not obvious as was that of Madame de Soissons … and others; but she had a certain charm, that little Henriette.

Louis was no longer sorry for her, and his pity had been replaced by another emotion which he did not fully understand, and as he rode on to receive the ceremonial congratulations of the Parliament on his marriage, it was not of Marie-Thérèse he was thinking, but of Henriette.

Philippe was giving a ball at Saint-Cloud. He was pleased with himself. Saint-Cloud was a beautiful mansion, which Louis had recently brought from Harvard, his Controller of Finances, and presented to his brother. Moreover, Philippe’s uncle Gaston had died that year, and on his death the duchies of Orléans, Valois and Chartres as well as Villers-Cotterets and Montargis, had fallen to Philippe.

He was young and handsome; he was rich; he was the brother of the King; it was his lot to be courted and flattered. Had he but been born a few years earlier, he would have been completely content.

But he was smiling to himself as, with his special friends about him, he was preparing himself for the ball. His valets loudly proclaimed that they had never served a more handsome master; some of his friends—far bolder—whispered to him that there was no one, simply no one, to equal him in beauty. They did not admire those pink-and-gold men who excelled at vaulting and the like; they preferred the subtler kind of masculine beauty—agility of mind, rather than body.

Philippe laughed. It was pleasant to be assured that not everyone found Louis more charming than his brother.

His head on one side, he criticized the set of his dalmatica. Was the sapphire brooch quite right? Would his dear Monsieur de Guiche decide whether ruby ornaments would be better? He thought after all that he would wear more emeralds.

Tonight was important. He would open the ball by leading the Princess Henriette out to dance. Henriette! He looked slyly at de Guiche. De Guiche was the cleverest man he knew. He saw further than did ordinary men. Henriette was charming. He realized that now. Occasionally he would be treated to those quick flashes of wit; he would see the sudden sparkle in her eyes. The restoration of her brother had acted as a tonic. She was no longer the plain little sit-in-a-corner. She had been too sensitive of her position; that was all that had been wrong with little Henriette.

And when he compared her with Marie-Thérèse he could laugh aloud. Marie-Thérèse might be the daughter of the King of Spain, but Henriette was the daughter of a King of England and now sister to the reigning King. There was no difference between the two girls in rank; but there were other differences. And what delight Philippe would enjoy when Louis became aware of the charms of Henriette!

“Come!” he said. “It is time I was greeting my guests. Do not forget that this is my ball. Tonight I am the host to His Majesty my brother, to his Queen and … the Princess Henriette.”

Henrietta Maria was in a flutter of excitement. She dismissed all their attendants and was alone with her daughter.

“My dearest,” she said, “what joy is this! Sometimes I find it difficult to assure myself that I am not dreaming. Can this be true? Your brother has regained his crown! Oh, would I had been there to see him riding through the streets of London. What joy! If only his father had been there to see him proclaimed their King!”

“Then it would not have been Charles who was their King, Mam. Oh, I beg of you do not weep. This is too happy a time.”

“Tears of joy, dearest daughter. Tears of joy. I must go to Chaillot and thank God and the saints for this happiness which has come to me. And, dearest, I wish to go to England. Charles wishes us to go. He wants us all to be together for a little while at least. It is his wish. It is his command—as we must say now.”

“Oh, Mam! To go to London. That would be wonderful.”

“To be received in London as a Queen, and to remember how I fled from England all those years ago!”

“Mam … I beg of you, look forward, not back.”

“Yes, I must look forward. Dearest, you are the sister of a King who is indeed a King. You know that there has been talk of your marriage?”

“Yes,” said Henriette, and her eyes as well as her voice were expressionless.

“It fills me with pleasure. It is a wonderful match. Few could be better.”

“Philippe …” said Henriette slowly.

“Yes, dearest Philippe. The little playmate of your childhood. Oh, how happy you will be! Think, dearest. You will spend the rest of your life here … in great honor. You will be ‘Madame’ of the Court. You do not realize the extent of your good fortune. Your face tells me that. Do you know that there is no Court in the world to equal that of France … for elegance, for culture, for luxury? I can think of none other at which I would care to live except …”