Charles wrote that he wished she could be with him to reign as Queen over his Court. He had married a wife from Portugal. She was no beauty, he admitted to his sister, but he had the good fortune to be able to compare her favorably with her maids of honor who accompanied her—six of them, all frights, and a duenna who was a monster. He was amusing himself, he told her, playing the good husband and, somewhat to his astonishment, not mis-liking the role. He had the plays of Wycherley and Dryden with which to amuse himself, and Sir Peter Lely to paint the beauties of his Court. He lived merrily but there would always be one thing he lacked to make his contentment complete—the presence of his beloved sister at his Court.

News came to Henriette of the troubles between his mistress-in-chief, the brazen Castlemaine, and his Queen Catherine. Charles and Louis were alike in one thing, it seemed.

She had tried to be content, lacking two things which would have assured contentment: Louis and Charles as her constant companions; for these two she loved beyond all else in the world.

She had not come unscathed through the scandals which had surrounded her. There were many stories circulating concerning her and de Guiche.

De Guiche had been wounded in Poland and had almost met his death. The story was that a case, containing Madame’s portrait, which he carried over his heart, protected him from a bullet which would otherwise have cost him his life.

There had been many to notice the charms of Henriette, and since these scandals and her gay method of life suggested she was not inaccessible, many came forward to seek her favors. Among them were Monsieur d’Armagnac, of the house of Lorraine and Grand Ecuyer de France, and the Prince de Marsillac, son of the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. All were charming, all amusing, all certain that Madame could not prove continuously and tiresomely virtuous; but all were disappointed.

Then there was the Marquis de Vardes. Henriette found him more cultured, more amusing than any; and as a gentleman of the King’s bedchamber, he had won Louis’ regard, so she found herself often in his company.

He was a rake, but an extremely witty one, a companion of writers, artists and musicians; at this time he was the most popular man at Court. He had been involved in love affairs with Madame d’Armagnac and the Comtesse de Soissons, but he had now set his heart on the conquest of no less a person than Madame herself.

Henriette was at first unaware of this; indeed she believed him to be still involved with the beautiful Madame de Soissons who, since the King’s favor had turned to La Vallière, had accepted him as her lover.

As she lay in her bed, Henriette was thinking of Louis. She had seen little of him for some weeks and then only in the company of others; those pleasant confidences which were the delight of her life were no longer offered. There were times when she fancied his glances were more than indifferent; they were cold.

He had turned against her.

She felt wretched and alone. Her mother had gone to England and was residing at Somerset House. She missed her sadly, although Henrietta Maria, disturbed by the gay life her daughter led and the fact that she had incurred the displeasure of Anne of Austria, had lectured Henriette so incessantly that she had longed to escape. If she could have explained to someone, how much better would she have felt! But how could one explain to Henrietta Maria? How could the fiery little Queen ever understand this passion of her daughter’s? Henrietta Maria would never love as her daughter loved—secretly brooding, hiding her misery. Henrietta Maria had to parade hers that all might see it and commiserate with her.

Why had Louis suddenly turned against her? She had asked herself that question a hundred times. He had grown tired of their relationship and now he was not even taking the trouble to conceal that fact.

What satisfaction was there for her in the rounds of balls and fêtes? What did it matter if all complimented her on her elegant attire, her dancing in the ballet, her conversation? Louis had turned from her. He was not merely tired of her; he was beginning to dislike her.

And as she lay there, one of her women came to her and said that the Comtesse de Soissons, who was ill and seemed to be near death, wished to speak to her. Would she be so good as to go to the Comtesse’s bedchamber, as the Comtesse could not come to her?

Henriette rose from her bed then and followed the woman to the Comtesse’s apartment.

It was difficult to recognize the beautiful Olympia Mancini, the woman who had enslaved Louis before her marriage and had been his mistress after it, in the thin wasted woman who now lay on the bed.

Henriette, full of sympathy for the sick since she herself did not enjoy the best of health, touched the Comtesse’s hot forehead and begged her not to agitate herself.

“There is something I must tell you, Madame,” said the Comtesse.

“Later will do.”

“No, Madame. Later will not do. I feel so ill that I believe death to be near me, and I must warn you while it is in my power to do so.”

“Of whom is it that you would warn me?”

“De Vardes.”

“De Vardes! But he is my friend and your lover!”

“He was my lover, Madame. That was before he was determined to make you his mistress. When that determination came to him he vowed he would let nothing stand in the way of its fulfilment.”

“It seems that I stood in the way, Madame de Soissons.”

“Yes, Madame, you stood in the way. It is he who circulated the scandals about yourself and Monsieur de Guiche. He has carried these tales to the King.”

“I … see,” said Henriette.

“He believes that you love de Guiche, and has sworn to ruin you both.”

“And how … does he propose to do this?”

“Madame, he has the ear of the King.”

Henriette put her hand to her heart in a sudden fear that the violence of its beating might be betrayed to the sick woman.

“Does he think that the King would turn his favor from me if he believed I loved Monsieur de Guiche?”

“No, Madame.” That answer hurt Henriette more than one in the affirmative would have done. “No, Madame; it is not the scandals he has uttered against Monsieur de Guiche. It is … the letters you receive from your brother.”

“The letters of the King of England!”

“He says he has seen some of them.”

“It’s true. They are often witty. I remember being so amused with something my brother wrote that I showed the letter to de Vardes.”

“Madame, de Vardes has accused you of betraying French secrets to your brother of England.”

“But this is impossible!”

“Nay, Madame, it is true.” “And the King believes that … about me!”

“He knows how you love your brother. If Charles asked you to do little things for him it might be hard for you to refuse him.”

“So Louis thinks I am my brother’s spy! He thinks I would betray him to Charles!”

“He thinks you love your brother dearly.”

Henriette turned her head away, but Madame de Soissons was stretching out her hand. “You will forgive me, Madame? You see, I loved the King … and then de Vardes. I should have told you how de Vardes determined to ruin both you and de Guiche. I should have told you before.”

Henriette turned back to the sick woman. “You have told me now. That will suffice.”

“Then, Madame, I have your forgiveness?”

Henriette nodded; she hurried from the sickroom.

She must see Louis as soon as possible. Those doubts and suspicions must not be allowed to remain between them.

But before she saw him her child was born. This time it was a boy.

As she lay with the child in her arms, she felt that the boy would, in some measure, make up for all she had suffered.

Philippe was delighted; the King sent his congratulations and promised the boy a pension of 50,000 crowns. Anne of Austria declared her satisfaction at the birth of the boy, since the Dauphin was but a sickly child and his sister had recently died. Henrietta Maria was filled with more delight than she could express. As for Charles, he himself was suffering from a chill, having taken off his wig and pourpoint on a hot day, and was unable to write until almost a week later. Then he wrote of the extreme joy he felt because she had a son. Nothing, he said, could give him greater pleasure than that news.

She wanted to reply, telling him that she had fallen into disfavor with the King, and how unhappy this made her. She doubted whether he would understand. He would call her devotion to the King, folly. He loved easily and lightly—not one but many. Here again, Charles, perhaps, showed his wisdom.

It was not until she was up from her bed that she was able to secure the desired audience with Louis.

“I must,” she insisted, “speak with Your Majesty alone.”

Louis bowed his head in acknowledgment of her request, and she noticed with dismay how cold his eyes were.

As soon as they were alone, she cried out: “Louis, there has been a terrible misunderstanding, and I must make you see the truth.”

He waited impassively.

She continued hurriedly: “It is quite untrue that I have conspired with my brother against you.”

He did not answer, and she went on imploringly: “Louis, you cannot believe this to be so?”

“You are very fond of your brother.”

“That is true.”

“The affection between you has been marked by many.”

“I know it.”

“Brothers and sisters should have a certain regard for each other, but this affection between you and the King of England is unusual in its intensity, is it not?”