Philippe was also moved. She had loved him too in her way, but, being a simple woman, she had not been able to disguise from him the fact that almost all the affection she had to give must go to her glorious firstborn.

Philippe took the hot hand and kissed it.

“Be good, my children,” murmured Anne.

Henriette turned away because she could no longer bear to look on such suffering. She wished that she had not flouted Anne’s advice; she wished that there were time to tell the dying Queen that she now understood how foolish she had been in pursuing gaiety, and so giving rise to scandals such as those concerning de Guiche and de Vardes. But it was too late.

“Louis … beloved …” whispered the Queen.

“My dearest Mother.”

“Louis … be kind to the Queen. Do not … humiliate her with your mistresses. It is sad for a little Queen … so young …”

Marie-Thérèse, who was kneeling by the bed, covered her face with her hands, but Louis had placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I ask your forgiveness,” he said, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I ask both of you to forgive me …”

“Remember me when I am gone,” said Anne. “Remember, my dearest, how I lived for you alone. Remember me …”

“Dearest Mama … dearest Mama …” murmured the King.

And all four about the bed were weeping as Anne of Austria ceased to breathe.

Very soon after Anne’s death, gaiety was resumed at Court. Louis was now free from all restraint. He planned a great carnival; it was to be more magnificent than anything that had gone before.

Henriette arranged the ballet.

The Queen came to her at the Palais-Royal, and when they were alone together she wept bitterly and told her sister-in-law how galling it was for her to see La Vallière and Montespan at Court.

“La Vallière is at least quiet,” said Marie-Thérèse. “She always seems rather ashamed of her position. It is a different matter with Montespan. I believe she deliberately scorns me.”

“Have no fear,” soothed Henriette. “Remember the deathbed of the Queen Mother. Louis has promised to reform his ways. There will certainly be a part for you in the ballet.”

“I am no good at dancing.”

There will be little dancing for you. You will be seated on a throne, magnificently attired to receive homage.” “It sounds delightful.”

“And La Vallière and Montespan will find that there are no parts for them.”

“You are my good friend,” said Marie-Thérèse. “I am glad of that, for you are a good friend of the King’s, I know.”

They embraced, and Henriette looked forward to her new friendship.

Through the window at which she sat with Marie-Thérèse she could see Philippe in the garden with his friend the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was a younger brother of Monsieur d’Armagnac. Lorraine was very handsome and Philippe was enchanted with him. They strolled through the grounds, their arms about each other, laughing and chatting as they went.

Henriette did not like Lorraine; she knew that he was determined to make mischief. He was insolent to her and it was clear that he wished to remind her that as Monsieur’s bel ami he was more important to him than his wife. He was also the lover of one of her maids of honor, Mademoiselle de Fiennes, and scandalously he used this girl to make Philippe jealous. It was an unpleasant state of affairs.

Sometimes, thought Henriette, I feel I am married to the worst man on earth. What is the use of saying: If only I had married Louis, how different, how happy and dignified my life would have been!

Louis himself called at the Palais-Royal next day.

He was angry and did not bother to command a private audience. He came straight to her.

“I see, Madame,” he said, “that there are no parts in the ballet for Mademoiselle de la Vallière and Madame de Montespan.”

“That is so, Sire,” answered Henriette.

“But you know our wish that these talented ladies should have parts.”

“I understood from your promise to the Queen, your mother, that you had decided no longer to receive them at Court.”

“Then you misunderstood my intentions, Madame.”

Henriette looked at him sadly. “Then there is no alternative but to rearrange the ballet,” she said quickly.

“Thank you, sister. That is what I would have you do.”

“Mademoiselle de la Vallière is now scarcely in a condition to appear in the ballet, Sire.”

“Let her take a part where she may sit down, and wear such a costume that shall disguise her condition.”

“There is the Queen’s part …”

“Yes, the Queen’s part. Let that be given to Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

“But the Queen?”

Louis looked at her testily. “The Queen has no great love of the ballet.”

Henriette’s thoughts went to the sad little Queen who had wept so much because she must stand aside for the King’s mistresses. She thought, too, of poor little La Vallière, who would soon be outshone by the more dazzling Montespan; it would be no use hiding in a convent then, for, if she did, Louis would not hasten to find her.

There he stood—magnificent even when peevish. Woe to those who love the Sun King! she told herself soberly.

Louis was saying: “There is another matter of which I would speak to you. It concerns my son.”

“The Dauphin?”

“No. Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s son. I would have him brought up at Court … perhaps here at the Palais-Royal or at the Tuileries. He should not live in obscurity since he is my son. He should enjoy royal honors. It is my wish that he should do so.”

Henriette bowed her head. “I will do all that you command for him,” she answered.

She saw now that the Queen’s death was having its effect, even as had that of Mazarin.

Louis was in complete control now. La Vallière, large with child, should be in attendance on the Queen. La Montespan, brazen in her accession to the King’s regard, would become Queen of the Court.

Henriette was anxious. Charles was at war with Flanders, and relations between her brother and brother-in-law she knew to be very strained.

The Hollanders were holding out tempting promises to Louis; she, who was in his confidence in these matters, knew that a state of war between France and England was threatening.

Henrietta Maria, who had returned to France at the time of the great plague, was, with her daughter, horrified at the idea of hostilities between France and England.

The Queen and her daughter spent many hours together talking of state matters, and it seemed possible that Henriette’s anxiety brought about her miscarriage.

The Queen nursed her daughter through her illness; she herself was ageing fast and suffered from a weak heart and sleeplessness. She was scarcely the most cheerful of companions, talking as she did continually of the old days and how her stay in England had revived her memories.

The news grew worse. Louis decided that Charles was no longer his friend, and French troops were sent into Holland against England’s ally, Christian Bernard von Galen, Bishop of Münster.

Never in her life had Henriette been so wretched.

Her brother, whom she loved dearly, and the man whom she had longed to marry, were enemies, and each was expecting her to be his friend.

“Now,” said Louis, “you have to decide between us. Which is it, Henriette?”

She looked into his handsome face. She said: “He is my brother, and nothing could make me do anything but love him. But I love you also, and you are my King.”

Louis was well pleased with that answer. She would be useful when he made peace with England.

These warlike conditions between the two countries did not long persist, and by the May of that year both Kings were ready for peace. Henriette and her mother had done much to bring about this state of affairs.

“I hope and pray,” said Henriette, “that I shall never see you two at war again.”

Louis kissed her hand. “You will be loyal to me always, Henriette. That is so, is it not? You will remember our love, which is beyond earthly love, the noblest affection that was ever between two people.”

“I will remember,” she told him firmly.

She wished that she could have stayed at Colombes with her mother, and that there was no need to go back to Philippe.

Sitting on a raised dais, Henriette, exquisitely dressed, her white and tan spaniel, Mimi, in her arms, was the central figure in the Ballets des Muses. She listened to the chanting of verses written by Molière; she watched the graceful dancing; and, as usual, her eyes rested on one figure, taller, more magnificent than all others—Louis, gorgeous and aglitter with jewels, his velvet dalmatica sewn with pearls, his high heels accentuating his height so that he stood above all, the Sun King, the Sun God, beautiful as Apollo himself.

She looked about and saw Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was no longer Mademoiselle of the Court now that Philippe had a daughter to assume that title. Poor Mademoiselle! She was less proud now than she had been in her youth. None of those glorious marriages, whose worthiness she had doubted, had come her way. Now it was rumored that she was passionately in love with Lauzan, the dashing military commander, but a marriage between them would never be permitted.

Surely Mademoiselle was feeling sorry for herself, and yet perhaps even more sorry for Henriette. She had said that she would rather have no husband at all than one such as Philippe.

La Vallière was at Court again, recently delivered of a daughter, not entirely happy. She was very jealous of Montespan and greatly feared her rival. In protest she had retired from Court and gone into a convent; this time the King sent for her but did not go after her in person. Poor La Vallière! It seemed possible that her days as King’s favorite were numbered.