Mayor; her French maids fared even worse, and at length they could bear
it no longer, and begged the queen to let them go back to France. This
was a great blow to her, but she did not blame them, though how to get
the necessary money she did not know, for the country grew daily poorer,
and the queen herself never had a penny to spend. Still, she felt she
must raise it somehow, and at length, to her bitter humiliation, had to
borrow it, probably from the French ambassador, though this we are not
told. When her French maids had departed for the 'charmant pays de
France,' which she herself was never again to see, she had no society
but that of the king and the Camarera Mayor, for the maids of honour
were forbidden to speak to her. Her naturally good temper became
irritable, and her high spirits began to settle down into melancholy.
The king, unobservant though he was, noticed this, and it troubled him,
though he was too much used to royal etiquette to guess the cause. It
was a trivial thing which, as generally happens, caused the smouldering
quarrel to break forth into a flame. The queen found the duchess spying
on some of her letters, in the hope that she might steal one or two from
France which it would be worth while to get interpreted. The queen was
quite aware of these practices—she had found her more than once
listening at the door when the king was talking over state affairs; but
the duchess had been more than usually rude that day, and Marie Louise
could bear it no longer. Standing perfectly still at the door till the
lady-in-waiting should turn round and see her, she waited in silence.
The duchess _did_ turn round, and, starting violently, began to stammer
out excuses. The queen took no notice; she did not even look at her, but
slowly left the room and walked straight to the king's apartments. Once
there her self-control gave way, and, her eyes blazing with anger, she
told the king that she would submit to the Camarera Mayor's insolence no
longer, and that she insisted on her dismissal at once.
'I don't understand,' answered Charles, in a puzzled way; 'what is it
you say? Dismiss the Camarera Mayor? But it is impossible! Such a thing
was never heard of!'
'It will have to be heard of now,' said the queen sternly. Then,
throwing her arms round his neck, she cried: 'Oh! Señor, don't you see
how unhappy she makes me? Surely you do not wish me to be sorry I came
to Spain? I thought you loved me, and yet you suffer me—me, the
queen—to be insulted and made miserable all the day long.'
Charles did not reply; but his face changed and softened, and he pressed
his hands upon her arms. 'My queen, my queen,' he murmured gently, 'I do
love you; and if the duchess makes you miserable, as you say, I will
dismiss her, and you shall choose a Camarera Mayor to take her place.
Only be careful, because next time it must be for ever.'
'Oh, thank you! thank you! how good you are,' exclaimed the queen. And
she returned to her own apartments, with her head held high, and an
expression which boded little good to the duchess, who was watching
behind a curtain. But weeks went on, and as no new lady-in-waiting was
appointed, the duchess began to hope that she would remain after all,
and as her spirits rose, one by one she tried to resume all her little
tyrannies. But, to her surprise, the queen no longer obeyed as she had
done before. She did not argue or scold—she simply took no notice, and
behaved as if the duchess was not there. And this angered the old lady
far more deeply than any other treatment could have done. The truth was
Marie Louise had laid to heart the king's warning, and was very careful
in making her choice. It was not easy, for she had her husband and his
mother to please as well as herself, and two or three ladies, to whom
she offered the post, returned humble thanks for the honour, but either
were too old or could not leave their children. The position of gaoler
to the queen was not one envied by everyone. At length, to the joy of
them all, the place was accepted by the Marquesa de Aytona, a lady of
great good sense and a charming companion. The Duchess of Terranova
shook with rage, and gave orders that her trunks should be packed. But
before she could leave the palace, or the marquesa enter it, the new
Camarera Mayor was seized with illness, and in a few days was dead. The
duchess was triumphant. 'The luck is all on my side,' she said to
herself, and desired her maids to put her clothes back in the great
wardrobes.
So the whole weary business had to be gone through again. But after much
talk the queen agreed to accept the Duchess of Albuquerque, a clever,
well-read woman, who could enjoy conversation with learned people and
knew what was being thought and done outside the bounds of Spain. The
king, who was greatly pleased at her appointment, sent for the duchess
to his own apartments, and told her that he was well satisfied at the
queen's, choice, but that he desired the new Camarera Mayor to
understand that her Majesty was to have more liberty and more amusement
than before; she was to drive out when she wished, and was to ride, and
go late to bed, as had been her strange custom when in France. For
himself, _he_ could never sit up after eight; but under the Duchess of
Albuquerque's rule he found so much to amuse him, that, by-and-by, he
did not say good-night till it was fully ten.
The nomination of the Duchess of Albuquerque had taken place so secretly
that the old lady-in-waiting was in ignorance of it, and had by this
time persuaded herself that the king could not do without her. Her
numerous relations also took this view, and by their advice she
determined on a master-stroke of policy to render her position securer
than ever. One day, while the king and queen, surrounded by the court
officials, were waiting for dinner to be announced, the duchess came
forward as the king rose to pass into the dining-room, and, dropping a
low curtesy, asked leave to retire from her post about the queen's
person. She imagined—and so did the courtiers who watched breathlessly
for the result—that his Majesty would bid her continue in her charge;
while the queen's heart stood still, fearing that the king's courage
might fail before the woman who held the chains of custom in her hands;
that his promise to her would be broken, and her last chance of
happiness and freedom thrown to the winds. But 'it is always the
unexpected that happens,' so says the proverb.
'Go as soon as you like, Señora,' answered the king; 'you have my
permission to retire immediately, as you wish it.' The duchess was
struck dumb for an instant with surprise, then, recovering herself,
began to stammer out some excuses; but the king did not wait to hear
what they were, and walked on to his dinner.
Whatever the duchess's wrath might be, she went all through that evening
(which must have seemed endless) without showing her feelings. She knew
she was hated by every creature in the palace, and would not give them
the satisfaction of noting her humiliation. The night was passed in
feverishly walking up and down, and in giving directions to her maids to
pack her boxes afresh. Quite early she entered the queen's room to take
farewell of her mistress, and when Marie Louise, who felt some pity for
her mortification, tried to say a few good-natured words, the duchess
only answered haughtily that she hoped her successor might please her
Majesty better, and left. When she returned to her own apartments she
found them filled with ladies, who condoled with her on the ingratitude
of the queen and the weakness of the king.
'I have no need at all of your compassion,' replied the duchess, who
probably did not believe in their lamentations. 'I am thankful to quit
this place, where I shall never more set foot, and to be going to
Sicily, where I can enjoy the rest and peace which Madrid could never
give me.' But as she spoke she picked up a beautiful fan that was lying
on a table, and breaking it in two, threw the pieces on the floor and
stamped on them.
[Illustration: The Queen envies the Flemish skaters]
The winter of 1680 was very cold, and the poor people suffered
dreadfully. The queen did all she could to help them, but it was not
much, for money was scarce, and though great galleons still sailed into
Cadiz laden with nuggets of gold and silver, as in the palmy days of the
Emperor Charles V. (Charles I. of Spain), most of them belonged to the
merchants, and only a small part reached the king. The days passed
heavily for the queen, who had in great measure lost the love of books
which had marked her childhood, and had been an inheritance from her
Stuart mother. She did read sometimes, but she loved far better to be in
the open air, riding or hunting, and now this was impossible. So she
welcomed joyfully the news that some Flemish ladies and gentlemen were
skating on a lake near Buen-Retiro, and instantly ordered her coach, to
go and watch them from the windows of the palace. _They_ did not look
cold, as they swept round in curves, with shining eyes and glowing
cheeks; and how Marie Louise longed to be skimming about with them! But
this would not have been permitted even in France, and after a while she
remembered that it was growing late, and returned to Madrid. That
evening a message was brought to her, through the Duchess of
Albuquerque, that some Spanish ladies had come to request her Majesty's
leave to skate in masks the following day. They did not wish their names
to be known, they said, but they were quite sure they could prove
themselves as much at home on the ice as any of the Flemings. The queen
not only granted permission to wear the masks, but sent word that she
would come and watch them and judge of their skill. It was certainly
very surprising, and the fact that Spanish ladies could at that time
skate at all was still more so. They all wore short skirts, which showed
their beautiful feet, and had black velvet masks under their plumed
hats. They danced the _branle_, and the _sarabande_, their castanets
sounding merrily through the air, till Marie Louise gulped down a sob of
envy as she recollected sadly that 'a queen of Spain has no legs.'
Suddenly, in the dance, the most graceful skater of them all backed on
to a piece of thin ice; it gave way under her, and she fell in,
screaming. The gentlemen at once came to her aid, but the ice broke
beneath their weight, and soon several of them were struggling in the
water together. At last the poor lady was brought dripping to the bank,
and as she had lost her mask the queen could see that she was about
sixty, and very ugly. 'Ah, she did well to wear a mask,' said Marie
Louise, with a laugh, to her Camarera Mayor.
If the queen could not skate she could by this time dance the Spanish
dances as well as anybody, and especially she delighted in the _canaris_
and the _sarabande_. One evening Don Pedro of Aragon gave a ball for
her, and she proved herself so graceful and so spirited in all the steps
and figures, that the king came up when it was over and, taking her by
the arms, he repeated more than once: 'My queen! my queen! you are the
most perfect creature in the whole world.'
And so he thought, not only till her death, but after it. As long as she
lived her brightness and enjoyment of everything that she was allowed to
enjoy seemed to kindle some answering sparks in him; but when she died,
at the age of twenty-seven, he ceased to make any efforts, and sunk more
and more into a state of semi-idiocy. They had no children, and the dogs
which the queen petted and spoilt did not make up for them. It was not
the custom in those days for royal people to travel about from one
country to the other, and in spite of her real affection for her husband
and his mother, Marie Louise was very much alone. She had no one to
laugh with, no one to whom she could talk freely, no one who cared for
the things she cared for. She was young, yet life was one long effort,
and perhaps she was not sorry when the end came.
_HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY_
ON a hot June day in the year 1644 a baby lay by her mother's side in
Bedford House in Exeter. The house itself is gone now, but its name
still remains behind in 'Bedford Circus,' which lies between quiet,
old-fashioned Southernhay and the busy High Street. It seems a strange
far-off birthplace for a daughter of a king of England, but the Civil
War was then at its height, and Charles I. had bidden the queen leave
Oxford, where she had taken refuge, and seek for safety in the loyal
West. So on a bright spring morning, just before the battle of Newbury,
Henrietta Maria set out on her journey, saying farewell to her husband
for the last time, though this she did not know. The baby, a tiny
delicate creature, had for its lady-in-waiting a niece of the famous
duke of Buckingham, who had been stabbed sixteen years before. She had
been married as soon as she grew up to lord Dalkeith, the son of the
earl of Morton, but had left her own children at the prayer of the
queen, who felt that the baby would be safer anywhere than with its
mother. Indeed, not a fortnight after the birth of the little girl a
messenger rode in hot haste into Exeter, saying that an army under Essex
was marching upon the town. To remain in the city was only to attract
danger to her child, so, weak and ill as she was, the queen laid her
plans for a speedy flight. There is a letter from her to Charles, dated
June 28, telling him that it is for his sake she is seeking shelter in
France, as well she knows he would come to her help, which would only
place him in the more peril. Then she kissed her baby, and, with three
faithful attendants, started for Falmouth.
[Illustration: "If capture is sure blow up the vessel" she said]
It was mid-summer, yet when we read of all that the queen suffered it
seems wonderful that she ever lived to reach the town. Hardly had the
party got out of sight of the Cathedral towers of Exeter when they saw a
troop of men in glittering armour riding towards them. Luckily in a
wooded hollow near by was a small hut, half in ruins, and here they hid
themselves, scarcely able to breathe from fear, as the loud voices of
the soldiers broke the stillness, jesting over the queen's fate. But
they passed in a cloud of dust, never guessing that only a few feet of
grass had lain between them and their prey, and when darkness fell the
fugitives crept out and were soon making their way over Dartmoor. Here
they were joined by lord Jermyn, who till her death loyally followed the
queen's fortunes, and by the little dwarf Sir Geoffrey Hudson, who in
happier days had been made a knight by Charles I. This terrible journey
had lasted for a fortnight before the queen found herself on board a
small Dutch ship bound for France. Half-way across the Channel the ship
was spied by an English vessel on the lookout for French cruisers, which
immediately gave chase. At one time escape appeared impossible, and all
the fighting blood of Henri IV. beat high in the veins of his daughter.
'If capture is sure, blow up the vessel,' she said to the captain, who
stood at the prow, keeping an anxious watch. 'As for death, I fear it
not at all, but alive they shall never have me.' Fortunately a crowd of
French boats now appeared in the offing, and the English ship altered
her course and steered for the coast of Devon. Then a gale sprang up and
again they were all in peril. When morning broke the friendly fleet had
been scattered far and wide, and the Dutch captain placed the fugitives
in a small boat, which was rowed to shore. Oh how thankful Henrietta
Maria was to hear her native language once again and to feel herself in
France! She had only a peasant's hut to sleep in and peasant's food to
eat, but for the first time during many months she was able both to
sleep and eat without a dread, of being roused up to fly. By and bye all
her terrors would awake on behalf of those whom she had left behind her,
but at present she was too exhausted to be able to think at all. And so
she rested till the news of her arrival reached Paris, and the king of
France's mother, Anne of Austria, sent carriages and an escort to bring
her unfortunate sister-in-law home to the Louvre.
Now the queen had been quite right when she said that when the king
heard of her plight he would march with all speed to her deliverance;
but the messenger to whom she had entrusted her letter was forced to go
warily for fear of being captured, and the royal army was already far on
the road to Exeter before Charles learned that Henrietta Maria was safe
in France. It was then too late to turn back, and, besides, was there
not the child to think of? So onward he marched, Charles, prince of
Wales, then fourteen, riding beside him. Right glad was lady Dalkeith to
see the royal standard floating from the walls of Exeter Castle, for the
Parliamentary forces had long since gone elsewhere. The king was
delighted with his baby daughter, who had been christened a few days
before his arrival by her mother's name; for the child was so delicate
that it was doubted whether each fresh attack of convulsions would not
be her last. He made what arrangements he could for her comfort and
safety, and then bade good-bye to her for the last time. 'You are safer
here than you would be with me,' he said as he bent over her cradle;
then he mounted his horse and galloped away, for the tide of battle had
rolled east.
---------------------
A year later Exeter had to suffer a real siege, which lasted all through
the winter. It was in vain that lady Dalkeith formed plans for escaping
with the baby into Cornwall; Essex and Waller laid their schemes better
than that, and she soon found that it was quite impossible to get
through the lines. By April all the supplies were exhausted, and Sir
John Berkeley, governor of the city, as well as guardian of the
princess, was obliged to surrender. Faithful to the end, he had obtained
leave from the Parliamentary generals to carry away all the goods that
belonged to his charge, and then accompanied her and lady Dalkeith to
Salisbury. The Parliament, however, had other uses for their money than
the payment of Henriette's pension, which had likewise been agreed on,
and if lady Dalkeith had not taken her and her attendants to her own
house on the Thames the poor child might have fared badly. When,
however, the rulers of the nation had time to think about the matter,
they desired that the princess should be taken away from her governess
and placed with her brother and sister, Henry and Elizabeth, in St.
James's Palace. But this was more than lady Dalkeith could bear. Finding
that all her letters were unnoticed and unanswered, she made up her mind
what to do, and one July morning she rose early and put on a suit of
ragged old clothes that lay ready for her and fastened a hump on her
shoulder. Then, waking the little princess, she quickly dressed her in a
set of boy's garments as dirty and ragged as her own.
'Now you are my little boy Pierre,' said she; but Henriette cried and
declared she wouldn't wear such ugly things, and that she was not Pierre
but a princess. Happily she was only between two and three and could not
speak plain, for she never failed to repeat this to every kind soul who
stopped to give them a groat or a piece of bread. With the child on her
back lady Dalkeith walked the whole way to Dover, stopping every now and
then to rest under the green hedges, and seeking at night the shelter of
a barn. The farmers' wives were very good-natured, and praised the
baby's beauty and curling hair, and gave her warm milk to drink and soft
sweet-smelling hay to lie on.
'Dear heart! What bright eyes he has,' they would say, 'and what might
his name be?'
'Pierre! he is a French boy,' answered lady Dalkeith in broken English;
and then the child would frown and say something about 'Pierre' and
'ugly clothes,' which nobody could make out.
'Hearken to him, then,' they would murmur with admiration, 'don't he
speak pretty?' But the governess, fearful lest someone quicker witted
than the rest might understand his prattle, hastened to thank them
heartily and to go on her way. Weary and worn was she when the walls of
Dover hove in view, but the sight gave her fresh courage, and she went
straight to the harbour, where a French ship lay at anchor. Here she was
joined by Sir John Berkeley, who had never lost sight of her all through
her journey, and now came forward and placed her under the charge of the
captain, whose vessel was ready for sea. The wind was fair, and in a few
hours lady Dalkeith and the child were standing on the French shore,
safe at last.
'Now you are not "Pierre" any more but princess Henriette,' said lady
Dalkeith as the vessel cast anchor, and she drew out a beautiful blue
satin dress and lace cap from a small bundle which Sir John Berkeley had
handed to her. Henriette's face brightened into smiles as she looked,
and she stood quite still while they were put upon her. A messenger was
hastily sent off to Paris to inform the queen-regent, Anne of Austria,
of the escape of her niece, and as soon as possible carriages were again
to be seen taking the road to the sea-coast. Great, heavy, lumbering
vehicles they were, needing six or even eight horses to drag them
through mud or out of ditches, but they seemed like the softest of beds
to poor lady Dalkeith, after all she had undergone. When they reached
the palace of St. Germain, where Henrietta Maria was awaiting them, she
fell seriously ill.
[Illustration: Lady Dalkeith's journey to Dover]
The gratitude of both Charles and Henrietta knew no bounds, and poets
made songs about the wonderful escape. At the urgent wish of the poor
queen, lady Dalkeith, or lady Morton as she had now become, went with
them to Paris, and found there that she was almost as much a heroine as
Henrietta Maria. But, indeed, misfortune only appeared to have doubled
their friends, and everyone at court tried to see how much kindness they
could show them. Queen Anne, her two sons, Louis XIV., then about eight
years old, and his brother Philippe, duke of Anjou, drove to the gate of
Paris to meet them, and, assisting the royal exiles to mount the state
coach which was in readiness, they escorted them through the crowded,
shouting streets to the Louvre. This was to be their home, when they
were not at St. Germain, and a large sum of money was given them for a
pension. For a little while Henrietta felt that she was a queen again.
English poets and nobles, and English royalists waiting for brighter
days, flocked around her, and played with the little princess. At home
she had as many servants and attendants as of old, and when she took an
airing soldiers and running footmen escorted her carriage. But later
things began to change. Affairs in England grew worse and worse. The
king needed more money than ever, and who should send it—as long as she
had it—but his wife? Besides this, the civil war, called the Fronde,
soon broke out in France. The pension allowed the English queen was paid
more and more irregularly, and by and bye ceased altogether. Her own
plate had been melted down, her jewels sold for her husband's cause; at
last a little golden cup, which she used daily, was the only piece of
gold she had left. The queen-mother and the king were no better off than
she. 'I have not a farthing with which to procure a dinner or buy a
dress,' says Anne of Austria, while at St. Germain the beds were bare
and without hangings.
The winter that followed was bitter for all—for Henrietta and the
little princess no less than for the poor of Paris. Three weeks before
the execution of Charles I. the cardinal de Retz went to pay a call on
the exiled queen at the Louvre. It was snowing fast, and his carriage
wheels frequently stuck in the drifts, yet when he entered the room
there was no fire, and the air struck chill in his bones. The child was
lying in bed and her mother was sitting by, telling her stories. The
queen received the cardinal cheerfully, but he was almost too shocked
and distressed to speak at first, then bit by bit he found out that they
were not only frozen but almost starved. They could not pay for food,
and the tradespeople would not trust them. Instantly taking leave, the
cardinal hastened home, and loaded a cart with all that they could
possibly want, while as soon as possible he induced the Parliament of
Paris to vote the exiles a sum of money large enough to keep them till
better times came. Meanwhile it was well indeed for little Henriette
that lady Morton was with them. Her mother's heart grew heavier and
heavier as the days passed on without news from England. She would sit
by the fire for hours together, staring straight before her, seeming
neither to hear nor to see. Even the child's voice failed to rouse her.
At length, towards the end of February, the blow fell. Charles was
dead—had been dead three weeks—and not a whisper had ever reached her.
Silent as before, she rose up, and leaving the princess in the hands of
lady Morton and her confessor, father Cyprian, she fled for solitude and
prayer to a Carmelite convent. When the queen returned, dressed in the
deep mourning of those times—even the walls were hung with black—her
little daughter felt that a change had come over her, though she could
not have told exactly what it was. But lady Morton knew. It was that all
hope had died out of her face, and to the end she would be, as she often
signed herself, 'the unhappy queen, La Reine Malheureuse.'