He had written in the verses he had shown her:

“… I think that no joys are above

The pleasures of love.”

Yet she had betrayed him, and because of that she knew she would never be happy again.

Now those about her noticed the effect of the sleepless nights. She was too thin, too fragile for a young woman barely twenty-seven years of age.

Philippe worried her continually. Her influence with the King was great, he reminded her; she must bring about the return of Lorraine; he would make her very sorry if she did not.

She turned wearily away from him. He forced her to go alone with him to Saint-Cloud where he continued to make her life miserable, and only the command of the King could induce him to bring her back to Versailles; but as soon as possible he forced her to return once more to Saint-Cloud.

There she must endure his company, his continual complaints, and this she suffered, together with the reproaches of her own conscience.

She was coughing a good deal, and there were times when she felt almost too weary to care what became of her.

One evening, only a few weeks after her return, she was dining with Philippe and her ladies when she felt a strange lassitude come over her. When the meal was over she lay down on some cushions because, she said, she felt unusually tired. The day had been hot and she now slept, and while she slept she dreamed. She dreamed she was sailing towards Dover, and her brother was holding out his arms to her, but that she was turning away and crying because she was ashamed to go to him.

Coming out of her dream she heard voices. “How ill Madame looks! Do you see?”

Then she heard Philippe: “I have never seen her look so ill.”

“It is the journey to England which has done this. She has not been well since she returned.”

“Ah, that journey to England!” said Philippe. “I was a fool to allow it.”

Henriette opened her eyes and said: “I want a drink.”

Madame de Gourdon, one of her ladies, hurried away to bring her a glass of iced chicory water, which she drank; but no sooner had she done so than she was seized with violent pains in her side.

She cried out in agony: “I have such pains! What was in that glass? I believe myself to have been poisoned.” As she spoke she fixed her eyes on Philippe, who had hurried to her side.

Her ladies unlaced her gown as she fell fainting onto her cushions.

She opened her eyes at length and murmured: “This … pain. I cannot endure it. Who has poisoned me?” Once more she turned to Philippe. He fell on his knees beside her.

“You must get well,” he said. “You will get well, Henriette.”

“You have ceased to love me, Philippe,” she said. “You never loved me.”

Philippe covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

One of the ladies sent for her confessor; another saved the chicory water that it might be examined.

“Madame,” murmured one of the women, “the doctors will soon be here.”

“I have greater need of my confessor,” she answered.

The ladies were looking at her with concern. Henriette, through the haze in her mind, which was the result of pain, was aware of their suspicions of her husband. They were sure that she had been poisoned, and they suspected Philippe of murder.

A few hours passed. Philippe showed great distress, but Henriette was skeptical. She said to herself: “He has then tried to rid himself of me as he threatened he would. Did he plot this then … with Lorraine?”

“Madame … Madame … take this soup,” begged one of her ladies. “It will make you stronger.”

“Nothing will make me stronger now. I shall not be here by morning. I know it.”

She closed her eyes and thought: Nor do I want to be. I do not want to live continually to reproach myself.

After a while she said: “There is one who will be heartbroken when he hears the news of my death. Do you know who that is? Do you know who loves me more dearly than any? It is my brother of England.”

“Madame,” she was told, “the King is on his way to see you.”

When Louis came she was lying back exhausted, and he could scarcely recognize her; she looked so small in her nightdress which had been loosened at the neck to allow her to breathe. Her face was deathly pale, her beautiful eyes sunken; already she appeared to be more dead than alive.

She found it difficult to see him. He seemed to swim before her eyes—tall, commanding, the most handsome man in the world.

“Louis …” Her lips managed to form the words.

“Henriette … my dearest.”

“Louis … I am going … I am going fast.”

“Nay!” he cried; and she heard his sobs. “Nay, you will recover. You must recover.”

“The first thing you will hear in the morning is that I am dead.” “It shall not be. It must not be.”

“Oh Louis, you are the King and accustomed to command, but you cannot command death to stay away when he has made up his mind to come for me.”

Louis turned to the doctors. “Will you let her die without trying to save her?”

“Sire, there is nothing we can do.”

“Louis!” she cried. “Louis, come back to me. For the last time, hold my hand.”

His eyes were so blinded with tears that he could not see her. “Henriette,” he murmured, “Henriette, you cannot leave me. You cannot leave me.”

“I must leave you … both you and Charles … you two … whom I have loved so much. Louis, there will be many to comfort you … I grieve for Charles. I grieve for my brother. He is losing the person he loves best in the world. Louis, you will write to him. You will tell him of my end? Tell him how at the end I spoke of him. Tell him that … if in any way I wronged him … I loved him … I always loved him.”

“I shall send word to him. I shall send him comfort. I shall send him that Breton girl who was with you … You told me how he wished her to stay. She will comfort him … She will remind him of you. I shall send her to his Court with my wishes for his comfort.”

Henriette tried to shake her head. She understood the meaning behind those words. He would send the girl to do what she had done—spy for France.

“Louis …” she gasped. “No … no!”

“But you will get well,” persisted the King stubbornly. “I command you to get well. You cannot leave me. I’ll not allow it.”

The Curé of Saint-Cloud arrived, bringing the Host with him. She received the Viaticum and asked for Queen Anne’s crucifix to hold in her hand as she left this world.

All knew now that she could not live long.

Men and women, courtiers and servants, were crowding into the great hall, for the news that she was dying had spread through the Court.

And there at her bedside stood the King, the tears falling and great sobs racking his body.

“Kiss me, Sire, for the last time,” whispered Henriette. “Do not weep for me, or you will make me weep too. You are losing a good servant, Louis. I have ever feared the loss of your good graces more than anything on earth … more than death itself … and if I have done wrong … so often it has been that I might serve you. Louis … remember me …”

He kissed her tenderly. He knelt by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

Charles was stunned by the news. Henriette, who had been with him a few weeks before, dead!

Minette, his beloved sister, who had seemed to be ever present in her letters to him! Minette, whom he had loved beyond all others; for his passion for his mistresses was fleeting, whereas his love for his sister had endured all through his life. Minette … dead!

Rumors spread that she had been poisoned. Philippe and the Chevalier de Lorraine were suspected.

Charles, in indignant rage, demanded the satisfaction of an autopsy. Louis was only too glad to grant this.

“It is a sorrow we share,” he wrote to Charles. “If a foul deed has been done, I am as eager to find and punish her murderer as you are.”

The chicory water had been examined and even drunk by others, who suffered no ill effect; at the autopsy no poison was found in her body; it was remembered that it was long since she had enjoyed good health.

Were there not always rumors of poisoning when notable people died?

Charles was unable to control his grief. He could not bear to speak of her; he shut himself away from the pleasures of his Court.

Never has the King shown such grief, it was said.

Then there came to his Court one who, the King of France felt, would, while she reminded him of his sister, bring some comfort to Charles. She was the jewel he had coveted, said Louis, and it would have been Henriette’s wish that her brother should possess this coveted jewel. It was hoped that the King of England would show his sister’s maid of honor “a piece of tenderness” and cherish her at his Court.

In the lovely young Breton, Louise de Kéroualle, both Kings saw a substitute for Henriette.

Louis saw her as his spy at the court of England, who would serve him as Henriette had done. Charles delighted to see her again and, in his appreciation of her fresh young beauty, was able to subdue his grief. He would show her that “piece of tenderness,” and she would remind him of Henriette, even as Lucy’s boy—Monmouth—reminded him of Lucy.

There was pleasure in love, he had always said, and for him there always would be. There were many years ahead for him and for Louis, to indulge in the pleasures of love. There would be many women, the memory of whom would become as hazy as his hours with Lucy had now become; yet as long as he lived he would cherish the memory of his sweet Minette.