“I’ll set it right, Mary. Think no more of it. I shall speak to Mam. I’ll set that matter right. And Anne Hyde shall know that at the end you were her friend.”

“Thank you, Charles. Thank you, my favorite brother.”

He could not bear to look at her. He dashed the tears from his cheeks. They were giving her the sacrament, and she took it eagerly.

Afterwards she lay back on her pillows and quietly she died.

That Christmas at Whitehall was a sad one, and arrangements were made for the return to France of Henrietta Maria and her daughter, for Philippe was urgently requesting that his marriage should be delayed no longer.

The King sought his mother in private audience soon after Mary’s death; his face was stern, and Henrietta Maria was quick to notice the lines of obstinacy about his mouth.

“Mam,” he said without preliminary ceremony. “I have come to ask you to accept James’ wife as your daughter-in-law.”

The Queen set her lips firmly together. “That is something I find it hard to do.”

“Nevertheless you will do it,” said the King.

She looked at him, remembering the stubborn boy who had taken his wooden billet to bed and refused to part with it, not with tears of rage, as most children might have done, but with that solemn determination which made him hold the piece of wood firmly in his small hands and look at those who would take it from him as though he was reminding them that he would be their King one day. He was looking at her like that when he said: “Nevertheless you will do it.” She remembered that he had settled her yearly allowance and that she depended upon him for much. She knew that she would have to give way.

He was ready, as ever, not to humiliate her unduly. He did not want acknowledgment of his triumph. He merely wanted peace in his family. He said: “The rumors concerning poor Anne have been proved to be false. James loves her. They have a child whom I have proclaimed heir-presumptive to the crown. There remains one thing; you must receive her.”

Henrietta Maria still did not speak.

“In view of all that has gone before,” Charles continued, “it will be necessary for you to make public recognition of her. We are too unlucky a family not to be happy when we can be together. Fate deals us enough blows without our dealing them to each other. Mary realized that. On her deathbed she wept bitterly for the hurt she had done Anne Hyde. There will be a farewell audience at Whitehall before you leave, and during it James shall bring his wife to you. You will receive her, and do so graciously. I would have it seem that there has never been ill feeling between you.”

Henrietta Maria bowed her head; she was defeated.

But she knew how to accept defeat graciously—in public at least, and when Anne Hyde was brought to her, she took her into her arms and kissed her warmly, so that it was as though there had never been aught amiss between them.

The next day they left for France. As their ship tossed on the stormy seas, Henriette grew frightened—not of the death which the roaring winds and the angry waves seemed to promise, but of marriage with the Philippe who had become a stranger to her.

The visit to England had been a connecting bridge between childhood and womanhood. She had known it, and she was afraid of what was waiting for her.

Tossing in her cabin, she felt that her body was covered in sweat as she lay there, and suddenly it seemed to her that she was not in a boat at all. It seemed that she was flitting from one scene to another, and always beside her were the two brothers, Louis and Philippe. Philippe was embracing her, laughing slyly at her because she had believed he loved her; and Louis was turning away from her, looking with eager eyes at Madame de Soissons, Madame de Beauvais, Olympia and Marie Mancini—and dozens of others, all beautiful, all voluptuous. He was turning away from her, refusing to dance, and she was afraid because Philippe was waiting to seize her.

“Charles!” she cried. “Charles, save me, and let me stay with you.”

Charles was somewhere near, but she could not see him, and her cries for help could not reach him.

Her mother was calling to her. “Henriette, my dearest. They have turned the ship. Thank God we have come safely in. You had a nightmare. We are back in England now. The Captain dared not continue the journey. My child, are you ill?”

Henriette closed her eyes and was only vaguely aware of being carried ashore. For fourteen days she lay at Portsmouth close to death.

But she did not die. She refused to be bled as her brother and sister had been, and her malady proved not to be the fatal smallpox but only measles.

As she grew well she seemed to come to terms with life. She must marry. All royal persons must marry, and Philippe was a good match. The real Philippe was quite unlike the creature of her nightmare.

As soon as she was well enough to travel, they crossed the sea on a calm day, and on the way to Paris they were met by a royal party, at the head of which rode Philippe.

Henriette was received in Louis’ welcoming embrace without betraying her feelings. She knew that her visit to England had not changed her love for him; growing up had but strengthened that.

She overheard him mention to his mother that poor Henriette was thinner than ever.

To her he said: “Now that you are in Paris, we shall soon have you strong, Henriette. We have some royal entertainments ready for you. I have a new ballet which I myself prepared for your return. Would you like to know the title?”

He was like a boy, she thought—youthful, eager to be appreciated, hoping that on which he had spent so much pains, would give her the enjoyment he had intended it should.

“Your Majesty is gracious to me,” she told him with tears in her eyes.

“Well, you will be my sister in a few short weeks. It is fitting that I should welcome my sister on her return. The ballet is about lovers who have been separated too long and yearn for reunion. I have called it L’Impatience des Amoureuxl.”

“I am sure it will be very entertaining,” said Henriette.

And the King was satisfied.

The dispensation had arrived from the Pope; the wedding was arranged; but there was a postponement because of the death of Mazarin. Louis and his mother insisted on two weeks’ Court mourning, during which time it was impossible for a Court wedding to take place. Buckingham, who had accompanied the Princess and her mother from England, was too obvious in his attentions to Henriette, and Philippe showed his jealousy. The Court was amused; so was Louis. It was amazing to see Philippe in love with a woman, and that woman his future wife.

Philippe insisted on Buckingham’s being recalled to England, and Charles complied with his request. And all the time Henriette seemed to be in a dream, hoping that something would happen again to postpone the wedding.

But this time all went smoothly, and at the end of March the contracts were signed at the Louvre, and later that day at the Palais-Royal the betrothal took place before the King and Queens Anne and Henrietta Maria. All the nobility of France was present and, although owing to the recent deaths of the bride’s brother and sister and the bereavement the royal family of France had suffered in the loss of Cardinal Mazarin, there were no balls and pageants such as were usually given to celebrate a royal wedding, the country showed itself delighted with the union, for all felt sure that it would bring peace between England and France, and moreover, the little Princess with her romantic story had always been a favorite in the land. La Fontaine wrote verses in which he told the story of her escape from England and the years of exile which had culminated in this brilliant marriage.

Charles was delighted; so was Louis. Philippe seemed completely happy; only the bride was filled with foreboding.

So she was married. She was no longer the Princesse d’Angleterre, a shy young girl to be ignored and humiliated; she was Madame of the French Court and, after the little Queen Marie-Thérèse and Anne, the Queen Mother, she was the most important lady of France.

Terror had seized her when it was necessary for her to leave her mother and go with Philippe to the Tuileries.

He had been tender and by no means a demanding lover. She believed she had to be grateful to Philippe. He was kind during those weeks of the honeymoon; he had begged her not to be afraid of him. Did he not love her?

She reminded herself that all royal princes and princesses must face marriage. It was a duty they were called upon to perform. If there were love in their marriages they were indeed fortunate; it did not happen to many.

Philippe, she sometimes thought, was more in love with himself than with her. He liked her to admire his clothes and jewels. She believed it would not be difficult to live with Philippe. He was not very much older than she was, and she began to think she had been childish to feel so fearful.

Sometimes she would find his eyes upon her—alert, watchful, as though he were searching for something, as though he found her fascinating in a way he could not understand.

Once he said: “My lovely Henriette, you are charming. But yours is a beauty which is not apparent to all. They must look for it. They must seek it out. And then they find how very charming it is, because it is so different, so enchanting that the voluptuous beauties of the Court seem merely fat and vulgar when compared with you.”

She said: “You are fond of me, Philippe, and thus you see perfection where others see what is imperfect.”

He smiled secretly and after a while he said: “Now that all these perfections are mine, I should like others to see them and envy me my possessions.”