At this final outrage to her wounded feelings Henrietta's spirit—the spirit of the Bourbons—rose in revolt. Forgetful of her husband, forgetful of her queenly dignity, remembering only that those whom she loved were leaving her for ever, she rushed to the window, that thence she might obtain a farewell glimpse of her banished compatriots. Such was her eagerness that she broke the intercepting panes of glass. But even this poor comfort was denied her. The King pursued her and dragged her back with such ungentle force that her dress was torn, and her hands with which she clung to the bars of the windows were galled and grazed.

Elsewhere dismay and consternation reigned. Conway, the Secretary of State, announced their doom to the assembled French ladies, informing them that the King wished to have his wife to himself, and that he found it impossible to do so while she had so many of her own countrywomen about her. They were begged to retire to Somerset House, whence they would be sent to France. Madame S. Georges, acting as spokeswoman for the rest, said that they were the servants of the King of France, they could not leave their royal mistress without the orders of the Bishop of Mende, who was their superior. That gentleman arriving, in obedience to a hasty summons, did indeed at first assert with his usual hauteur that neither he nor any of the household would depart without the commands of their own sovereign. But he was soon made to understand, by arguments which not even his spirit could resist, that no choice was left to him. That evening saw the French at Somerset House and Henrietta desolate at Whitehall. It was probably during the few days that had to elapse before her friends were deported to France that the Queen wrote the following note to the Bishop, which vividly reflects her loneliness and sorrow:—

Such a letter was not calculated to soothe the excitable Bishop of Mende, whose spirit had already been roused to fury by hearing the cries and protestations of the poor young mistress whom he was not permitted to see. But it was little he could do. His captivity at Somerset House was broken in upon by the King of England himself, who, with the unfortunate desire for explanation which was always his, was anxious to point out with his own mouth to those whom it most concerned the reasons of his action. According to the Bishop, who occupied his leisure in writing angry letters to the King of France and the Queen-Mother, Charles acknowledged that he had no personal fault to find with his wife's servants, but said that it was necessary, to content his people and for the good of his affairs, that they should be expelled. This admission, which, if it ever existed outside the mind of the Bishop, was intended as a courteous softening of unpleasant truths, did not prevent the King from adding a command (which was obeyed) that all the French were to be gone within four-and-twenty hours.[52] It was perhaps some solace to them that before their departure a considerable sum of money and costly jewels were distributed among them.

It remained to bring Henrietta, who was still weeping angrily in her apartments, to a state of calm more befitting the Queen of England. Charles was not cruel, and when the first flush of anger was over he could feel for his wife's grief. At first he had determined that all the French, whether lay or ecclesiastic, should go. "The Queen has been left neither confessor nor doctor, and I believe that her life and her religion are in very grave peril,"[53] wrote the Bishop. But Charles, though he was not to be moved by such innuendoes, relented in some degree. In the end one of Henrietta's ladies, Madame de Vantelet, was permitted to remain with her, and two of the priests of the Oratory were granted like indulgence; one of whom was the pious and sagacious Scotchman, Father Robert Philip, who continued the Queen's confessor until his death, years later, in the days of the exile.[54]

The French were gone, and on the whole, in spite of the Bishop's protest, quietly; but Charles and Buckingham knew well that they had to face the wrath of France for this the audacious violation of the Queen's marriage treaty. Henrietta naturally looked to her own family to right her wrongs, and she wrote piteous letters to her brother asking for his help, which show the sad condition to which sorrow and unkindness had reduced the bright Princess who had left France little more than a year earlier. "I have no hope but in you. Have pity on me.... No creature in the world can be more miserable than I."[55] Mary de' Medici could not turn a deaf ear to such appeals nor to the complaints of the exiles who were pursued into France by aspersions on their characters not calculated to soothe their feelings, such as a charge of taking bribes, which charge their royal mistress, with characteristic justice and generosity, was at pains, even in the midst of her misery, to confute.[56] The Queen-Mother's remonstrances to her son-in-law were, indeed, quite unavailing, but they were dignified and expressed a surprise at his conduct which probably she did not feel, since, as the English took care to point out, it was not long since similar measure had been meted out to the Spanish attendants of Queen Anne. With her daughter she felt the warmest sympathy. "If your grief could be assuaged by that which I feel at the news of the expulsion of your servants and of the ill-treatment to which you are subjected, it would soon be diminished,"[57] she wrote, and she added, perhaps sincerely, that never had she felt such grief since the assassination of her husband, Henrietta's father. As for her son, his indignation was such that he would leave nothing undone that might procure for his sister redress and contentment. It is probable that Richelieu, with the Bishop of Mende at his elbow, shared these sentiments. Nevertheless, Carlisle was right. France had too much on her hands to pick a quarrel with England, even though her daughter had been insulted and her authority set at naught. All that could be done was to send another embassy, and this, it seems, was only decided upon at the instance of the Pope.

Two persons were joined in the embassy, the Count of Tillières, whom the English were believed greatly to fear, and his brother-in-law, the Marshal de Bassompierre, an elderly diplomat of great experience, whose old-fashioned elegance of manner was already making him a little ridiculous in the eyes of younger men who despised the Italian grace of the days of Catherine de' Medici. In the end this exquisite person had to go alone, for it was intimated that the King of England would not receive his colleague; he was rather unwilling to undertake the embassy, and his dissatisfaction was not decreased by the coolness of his reception in London, which coolness, as he reminded himself, it was clearly a duty to resent as an insult to the Crown of France.

He found matters in bad case. The King was inflexible in his refusal to come to terms, and the Queen, though she was still depressed and bitterly angry with Buckingham, showed herself, since the cession which permitted her to retain Madame de Vantelet and her old nurse, more reconciled to the change. About her spiritual welfare the Ambassador expressed himself much concerned, for she was surrounded by heretics, and in place of the irreproachable ecclesiastics appointed by her brother she had been forced to receive two English priests, by name Godfrey and Potter, who belonged to a school of thought which in his eyes, and in those of the Bishop of Mende, was little less than heretical, for they had both taken the oath of allegiance, and they had both assured the Earl of Carlisle that they did not belong to the Church of Rome, but to that which was Catholic, Gallican, and "Sorbonique," an assertion which particularly enraged Bassompierre, who saw in it an insult to the French Church and nation. He was probably little more moved by the accusation brought against one of them by the Bishop of bracketing together "the three Impostors, Mahomet, Jesus Christ, and Moses."[58] Only one person showed any cordiality to the unfortunate Ambassador. Buckingham, thinking on the Queen of France in Paris, felt that he had gone too far, and decided that it would be well to conciliate Henrietta. With this purpose he came secretly, through the darkness of the night and attended only by his young friend Montagu, to wait on Bassompierre. He complained bitterly of the hatred of which he was the victim, and inquired plaintively whether M. de Mende were saying as many disagreeable things about him on the other side of the Channel as he had been wont to do in England. To the last question the polite Frenchman must have found it difficult to frame an answer at once courteous and true, but he promised to use his influence as intermediary with Henrietta, and he was so far successful that the young Queen was induced to regard the Duke, at any rate outwardly, with greater favour.

But the situation, as regarded its real objects, was foredoomed to failure. Madame S. Georges, the Bishop of Mende, and the Fathers of the Oratory had so prejudiced Charles' mind that he refused to receive Frenchmen, bishop or religious, at the Court of his Queen. There was a deadlock, and Bassompierre, who had made matters worse by his grave indiscretion in bringing as his chaplain the Queen's late confessor, Father Sancy, with all his diplomacy could do no more. He was indeed anxious to be gone. The account of his embassy in England, which he included in his memoirs, is penned in no flattering spirit towards this island, but the full irritation of his feelings can only be gathered from the private letters which, during his sojourn in London, he dispatched to the Bishop of Mende, who was with Richelieu at Pontoise, watching the course of events.

"I have found," wrote the enraged diplomatist in one of these epistles, "humility among the Spaniards and courtesy among the Swiss during the embassies which I have carried on there on behalf of the King, but the English have abated nothing of their natural pride and arrogance."[59]

The Bishop sent a sympathetic answer, commenting on our national character in a manner which is worth quoting, as it serves to explain the unpopularity of that fascinating person in English society.

"I am not surprised," so ran the letter, "that you have found more courtesy and satisfaction among the Spaniards and the Swiss than in the island on the shores of which the tempest has thrown you. I myself have always considered the English less reasonable than the Swiss, and at the same time less faithful, while I think they are just as vainglorious as the Spaniards, without possessing anything of their real merit."

This was not all. A report was about that the Bishop wished to return to England, and he thoughtfully seized the opportunity to set everybody's mind at rest on the subject. The English were to have no uneasiness, he was only too willing to fall in with their wishes. "They will not have much difficulty in carrying into effect the resolution which they have taken to prevent my return," he wrote, "for both parties are quite of one opinion on that matter, my humour (setting aside the interests of my mistress) being rather to fly from than to invite another sojourn in England. It would need a very definite command to induce me to live there again, while to persuade myself to remain here I have only to consult my own inclination."[60]

So Bassompierre departed, taking with him, as a slight compensation for his trouble, some English priests who had been released from prison in compliment to the King of France. And thus ended the last stage of this sordid struggle which came near to wrecking the happiness of what was to prove one of the most loving of royal marriages.

It is hard in such a matter to apportion blame. Charles cannot be acquitted of harshness and of a certain degree of subservience to Buckingham, while the act of expulsion was a flagrant breach of the faith plighted only a year before to a brother-sovereign. But it must be remembered that most of the information comes from French, and consequently hostile, sources. After all, the King of England's real fault was that, by his marriage contract, he had allowed himself to be placed in an impossible position, from which only violence could extricate him. On their own showing it is difficult to see how any self-respecting husband, let alone a great king, could have endured the Bishop of Mende, Madame S. Georges, or even Father Bérulle. They, for their part, had much to complain of, and they saw in every approximation of their mistress to English customs and ways of thought a menace, not only to the interests of France, but to the immortal soul placed in their charge. As for Henrietta herself, she can hardly be blamed. She was but a child, and it is not surprising that she followed the counsel of those whom her mother had set over her. The severest thing that can justly be said of her is that, at the age of sixteen, she had not completely learned the lesson of a wife, and, above all, of a royal wife, "to forget her own people and her father's house."

CHAPTER III
THE QUEEN OF THE COURTIERS

"I was," Henrietta Maria[61] was accustomed to say in the days of her sorrow, "I was the happiest and most fortunate of Queens. Not only had I every pleasure which heart could desire, but, above all, I had the love of my husband, who adored me." The expulsion of her French attendants was the foundation of the Queen's married happiness. Away from the insinuations of Madame S. Georges and the gibes of the Bishop of Mende, she began, in an amazingly short time, to appreciate the good qualities of her husband, to which indeed she had never been totally blind; and, in the words of Madame de Motteville, to "make her pleasure of her duty." "The incomparable virtues of the King," wrote Holland at this time, "are working upon the generosity and goodness of the Queen, so that his Majesty should soon have the best wife in the world."[62] And somewhat later an exceptionally well-qualified witness[63] was able to say that the royal couple lived together with the satisfaction which all their loyal subjects ought to desire.

But still one thing was lacking to her full content. Her husband's nature was such that his full confidence and affection could only be bestowed upon one person at the time, and she knew well who held the first place in his heart and counsels. But she had not long to wait. On August 23rd, 1628, the knife of Felton ended, in a few moments, the dazzling career of the Duke of Buckingham. Charles' grief was deep and lasting. He had loved his favourite like a brother, and he never had another personal friend. But to Henrietta the news, though shocking in its suddenness, cannot have been unwelcome. She showed all due respect to his memory, but, as one of her friends wrote to Carlisle, her lamentations were rather "out of discretion than out of a true sensation of his death. I need not tell you she is glad of it, for you must imagine as much."[64]

Thenceforward there was nothing to check the growth of an affection which became the admiration of Europe. Charles' artistic eye had always dwelt with pleasure upon his wife's beautiful face, and her wit and readiness relieved his sombre nature much as Buckingham's bright audacity had, and now that the latter's hostile influence was removed, he was so completely captivated that the watchful courtiers soon perceived that the advent of another favourite was not to be feared, "for the King has made over all his affection to his wife."[65] The tokens of his love were innumerable. He delighted in making her gifts of jewels, of religious pictures, of anything which he thought would please her. He caused her portrait, painted by the hand of Van Dyck, to be hung in his bedroom, and as early as 1629 it was remarked that he wished always to be in her company. Nor was she behindhand in affection. It is pleasant to read that when the King was away for a few days his wife lay awake at night sighing for his return, and that, on another occasion when she was at Tunbridge Wells drinking the waters which were just coming into fashion, she was so home-sick for her husband after a few days' separation that she cut short her visit and went home to him, arriving after a long journey quite unexpectedly. Such little incidents show that Charles was not exaggerating when, in 1630, he wrote to his mother-in-law that "the only dispute that now exists between us is that of conquering each other by affection, both esteeming ourselves victorious in following the will of the other";[66] and that the virtuous Habington, the poet of wedded love, was not paying one of the empty compliments of a courtier when he appealed to the example of his sovereign to enforce the lessons of virtue:

Of course the Queen's great wish was to give the King, her husband, an heir to his throne. But for several years no children appeared, and it was not until the early spring of 1629 that Henrietta retired to Greenwich for her first confinement, and even then her hopes were disappointed, for the boy who was born only lived long enough to receive his father's name. She herself was very ill; but she showed the brave spirit which never deserted her in suffering, and her physician was able to report that she was "full of strength and courage."[68]

But the next year she was more fortunate, perhaps because, owing to her mother's representations, she had been induced to take great care of herself and to avoid exertion. This time she chose to remain at St. James's Palace, which was considered a very suitable place as being near London, and yet quiet and retired; and there, on May 29th, 1630, the boy was born who was afterwards Charles II. The delight of the parents and of the Court may be imagined, while the people at large, who had not been very anxious for the birth of an heir to the Popish Queen, now remembering that the baby was the first native-born prince since the children of Henry VIII, entered with zest into the public rejoicings, which took the usual form of bell-ringing, bonfires, and fireworks, and which were increased by a general pardon and release of prisoners. The christening, though it was a private ceremony, was worthy of the rank of the child who was the first prince to be born heir, not only of England, but of Scotland also. It took place in the chapel of St. James's Palace, in the middle of which a dais was erected bearing the silver font which the loyalty of the Lord Mayor of London had provided. The chapel and every room through which the christening procession had to pass were hung with choice tapestry, while the greatness of the occasion was marked by the munificent gift of £1000 which was offered to the nurse.

It was a happy day for Henrietta, but marred by one disappointment, and that a great one. It was the King of England's wish that, against the spirit of the stipulations of his marriage treaty,[69] his heir's christening should follow the rites of the Established Church. Nevertheless, two of the baby's sponsors, the King of France and the Queen-Mother, were Catholics. These and the second godfather, the Prince Palatine, were represented by three noble Scots, the Duke of Lennox—a member of a family that the Queen particularly disliked—the Duke of Hamilton, and the Duchess of Richmond; and the King, with characteristic unwisdom, desired to pay yet another compliment to his native land by appointing another Scotchwoman, Lady Roxburgh, to the office of governess to his infant son. But this lady, who was a Catholic and who, as lady of the bedchamber to the consort of James, was supposed to have exercised a baleful religious influence over her mistress, discreetly refused the offered dignity, which was passed on to the Countess of Dorset, whose husband was to fill the complementary position of governor to the royal child.

The baby inherited neither the stately beauty of his father nor the vivacious prettiness of his mother, though he was rather like his grandfather, Henry IV, whom Henrietta so greatly resembled. But his size and forwardness atoned for his lack of beauty. "He is so fat and so tall," wrote the happy mother to her old friend Madame S. Georges, "that he is taken for a year old, and he is only four months. His teeth are already beginning to come. I will send you his portrait as soon as he is a little fairer, for at present he is so dark that I am quite ashamed of him."[70] And again, somewhat later, her humorous delight in her baby comes out in another letter to the same correspondent. "I wish you could see the gentleman, for he has no ordinary mien. He is so serious in all he does, that I cannot help fancying him far wiser than myself."[71]

Henrietta's happiness was crowned by the birth of her son, which was followed as the years went on by that of other sons and daughters.[72] But apart from these domestic joys, in which she delighted with all the strength of her healthy nature, her life was a very happy one. To the pleasures of love she added those of friendship, and she had the art, all too rare among the great, of treating her friends with openness and confidence without losing her royal dignity. No sooner were her French ladies gone than she turned to those of her new country to fill their place, and perhaps her principal choice was not altogether a happy one.

No woman of that time was more brilliant than Lucy, Countess of Carlisle, whose romantic friendship with the great Strafford, which the imagination of a modern poet has immortalized, is only one of her claims to remembrance. A member of the border House of Percy, she incurred, by her marriage with a Scotch nobleman, the serious displeasure of her father, who, as he said, could not bear that his daughter should dance Scotch jigs. But her union with the distinguished Lord Carlisle, whom Henrietta speedily forgave for his share in her early troubles, was to her advantage at Court, where, in virtue of her ten years' seniority over the young Queen, she wielded the influence which often belongs to a married woman, who, though still in the bloom of her beauty, has had time to acquire a knowledge of life. That she was beautiful her portraits remain to testify; that in the mingled arts of coquetry and diplomacy she was so proficient as to challenge comparison with Madame de Chevreuse herself there is ample evidence in the fascination which she exercised, first over Strafford and then over Pym, who, neither of them were men to be caught by mediocre ability or charm; that she was cowardly, false, treacherous to her heart's core Henrietta's simple and affectionate nature had as yet no means of discovering.[73]

There was another man of less intellectual distinction whom she had once been able to lead captive by her charms, but who had deserted her for a royal mistress across the Channel. The story of her frustrated revenge, though it rests upon the authority of gossiping memoirs,[74] is so characteristic of the lady herself and of others who played a part in Henrietta's life, that it carries with it some degree of conviction, and moreover has an illustrative value apart from its literal truth.

Lady Carlisle was not a woman to forgive a faithless lover, even though that lover were the favourite of her King and had left her for the smiles of a foreign Queen. She determined to take a delicate revenge which should punish both the Duke of Buckingham and the Queen of France; and to compass this end she became one of the earliest of the English spies of Richelieu, who would be only too glad to welcome any proof of the levity of Anne of Austria.

The Countess laid her plans well. She noticed that Buckingham, after his return from France, was accustomed to wear some diamond studs which she had never seen before, and which she conjectured correctly to have been given to him by the Queen of France. She determined to gain possession of one of these jewels, that she might send it to Richelieu, who would be at no loss to draw his own conclusions. A Court ball gave her an opportunity, and before the evening was out she held in her hand the compromising ornament.

But she was to be outwitted after all by Buckingham, who, whatever his failings, was neither a tepid nor a dull-witted lover, and who was able to gauge, pretty correctly, the spite of the woman he knew so well. Taking advantage of his unbounded power with the King, he obtained the closure of all the ports of England for a certain time, during which interval he caused an exact replica of the stolen stud to be made, which, together with the remaining studs, he dispatched to Anne. The Queen of France was thus able to produce the jewels when her husband, their original donor, asked for them, and the accusing stud which the malice of her enemies sent to Paris was deprived of power to injure her.

It is not surprising that there were people at the Court of England who disliked the young Queen's intimacy with Lady Carlisle. That lady, whose talk with those of her own sex was ever of dress and fashion, had already, it was rumoured, taught Henrietta to paint, and she would, no doubt, lead her on to other "debaucheries"; but her influence seemed established. By the royal favour she enjoyed a pension of £2000 a year, and Henrietta's affection was so great that even when the Countess had the smallpox she could hardly be kept from her side. The Queen was the convalescent's first visitor, and a little later she permitted her favourite to appear at Court in a black velvet mask, so that she might enjoy her society at an earlier date than otherwise would have been possible, for it was not to be expected that Lady Carlisle would show her face in the circles of which she was one of the brightest ornaments until its beauty was fully restored. Such a woman could not fail to arouse jealousy. Buckingham's relatives, who served the Queen, feared and distrusted her, and perhaps her most formidable rival in Henrietta's affection was the Duke's sister, the pious and cultured Lady Denbigh, who, distasteful at first, had won her mistress' heart, and whose long fidelity, which neither years nor exile could diminish, contrasts favourably with the self-seeking of the more brilliant Lady Carlisle.

But the society of friends of her own sex was only one among the many joys which were Henrietta's during the happy years which elapsed between the troubles of her youth and the storm of the Civil War. For a few months after the departure of the French her husband seems to have kept her short of money,[75] but in 1627 she enjoyed the income of £18,000, which was guaranteed to her by the terms of her marriage contract. Moreover, large grants of manors and lands were made to her. Thus came into her possession the park of East Greenwich, whither she was wont to retire when she wished for country air and quiet, and yet could not be far from town; thus she acquired Oatlands in Surrey, the pleasant country-house of which nothing now remains, where she spent many happy days with her friends and children; thus she was able to call her own Somerset or Denmark House, her much-loved and beautiful London home which stood with other noblemen's houses facing the Strand, while behind lovely pleasure gardens sloped down to the still silver Thames. None of her other houses, probably, was as dear to her as this, where she kept an establishment befitting her rank as Queen-Consort, and where she frequently gave entertainments which reflected the taste and grace of their hostess, and to which she had the pleasure of inviting her husband, the King.

Henrietta was not a lady of literary tastes, and in spite of the fact that the Scotch poet, Sir Robert Ayton, was her private secretary, her patronage of general literature was confined to smiling on poets, such as Edmund Waller, who presented her with copies of complimentary verses, and to receiving the dedication of devotional works, usually translated from foreign originals. But to the drama she was devoted, and she specially liked the pretty and fashionable plays known as masques, of which the veteran laureate, Ben Jonson, wrote a number, and of which a younger poet, John Milton, produced in Comus, the most famous example. Henrietta was delighted with the great pageant and masque offered to their Majesties by the Inns of Court in 1633,[76] and even the grave Laud, when he entertained royalty at Oxford in 1638, provided a play, Cartwright's Royal Slave, for the amusement of his guests. But the Queen's pleasure was not only as a spectator. As a child she had been accustomed to take her part in private theatricals acted in the spacious salons of the Luxembourg, where Rubens' voluptuous women looked down upon the royal actresses. She brought the taste for these amusements with her to England. The first Christmas after her marriage she and her ladies acted a French pastoral at Somerset House, in which she took the leading part. "It would have been thought a strange sight once,"[77] commented sourly her new subjects.

But she was not to be deterred from her pleasures. She was always too careless of public opinion, and, as an acute and sympathetic observer remarked somewhat later, she was a true Bourbon in her love of amusement. To a lady whose dancing was something quite unusual, and whose sweet voice and skill in touching the lute testified to real musical taste, dramatic representations were naturally attractive. Her second English Christmas was enlivened by a masque, in which, as her French attendants were gone by this time, she had the assistance of her English friends. Her own band of players was always ready, and played for her amusement, now at Hampton Court, now at Somerset House, and it was owing to her influence and patronage that theatres increased to such an extent in the capital that the Puritan feeling of the City was aroused, which produced an order in Council "for the restraint of the inordinate use and company of playhouse and players." The playgoers were to content themselves with two theatres, of which one was to be in Middlesex and the other across the river in Surrey, while no plays were to be acted on Sunday, in Lent, or in times of common infection.

But the merrymakings of the Court became more instead of less as the years went on. In 1631 the Queen was so taken up with her Shrovetide play that she had no thoughts to spare for important news which came from France, and the next year she took the principal part in an elaborate play, The Shepherd's Paradise, which was written for her by Walter Montagu, who added to his fine manners and diplomatic skill some pretensions (if nothing more) to literature. This play, which is of the allegorical type so dear to the heart of the seventeenth century, is indeed a very poor one, and hardly contains a line which rises above the level of an indifferent verse-maker. It is, moreover, fatiguingly long, and the Queen must have found her part a great labour to learn, specially as, notwithstanding her seven years' residence in England, she was not yet perfect in the English tongue, and indeed was acting partly in order to improve herself in this necessary accomplishment.[78] Her companions in the play were her ladies, for not a man was admitted even to take the male parts. But in spite of difficulties, when the night of the representation came, everything went off merrily at Somerset House; all acted with great spirit, and the Queen was able to speak with playful conviction the oath of the new queendom to which she had been elected:—