Chapter XXXVI.
A Letter from Charles the First.
The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to the door
of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques. It is eleven o’clock
in the morning and the pious sisters have just finished saying mass for
the success of the armies of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a
woman and a young girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the
other as an orphan, have re-entered their cell.
The woman kneels on a _prie-dieu_ of painted wood and at a short
distance from her stands the young girl, leaning against a chair,
weeping.
The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow have aged
her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only embellish her; the
lady appears to be about forty years of age, the girl about fourteen.
“Oh, God!” prayed the kneeling suppliant, “protect my husband, guard my
son, and take my wretched life instead!”
“Oh, God!” murmured the girl, “leave me my mother!”
“Your mother can be of no use to you in this world, Henrietta,” said
the lady, turning around. “Your mother has no longer either throne or
husband; she has neither son, money nor friends; the whole world, my
poor child, has abandoned your mother!” And she fell back, weeping,
into her daughter’s arms.
“Courage, take courage, my dear mother!” said the girl.
“Ah! ’tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one
thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own
affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is
gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your
father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to
pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this
sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters
of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.”
“But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the
girl.
“Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another
reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this
is.”
“Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know
how much he loves me, my mother.
“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us
twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”
“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.
The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and
grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and daughter of Charles I.
They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at
the door of the cell.
“Enter, my sister,” said the queen.
“I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations,
but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor,
demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.”
“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from your father,
do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this lord?”
“Lord de Winter.”
“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband. Oh,
bid him enter!”
And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized
affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her,
contained in a case of gold.
“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have
not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the
king, our husband and master.”
De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion.
On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a
window to read eagerly the following letter:
“Dear Wife,—We have now reached the moment of decision. I have
concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources Heaven has left me,
and I write to you in haste from thence. Here I await the army of my
rebellious subjects. I am about to struggle for the last time with
them. If victorious, I shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am
lost. I shall try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must
provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of France. But
can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who will bring such a sad
story into a country already agitated by civil discord? Your wisdom and
your affection must serve me as guides. The bearer of this letter will
tell you, madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks
of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect you to
pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my children and with the
sentiments of my soul for yourself, my dearest sweetheart.”
The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but of
“Charles—still king.”
“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen. “Let him be
conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives. Alas! in these
days the throne is too dangerous a place for me to wish him to retain
it. But my lord, tell me,” she continued, “hide nothing from me—what
is, in truth, the king’s position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”
“Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has so good a
heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so loyal that he does not
suspect treason! England is torn in twain by a spirit of disturbance
which, I greatly fear, blood alone can exorcise.”
“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his great and
rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said that he was marching
to the frontier to join the king.”
“Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he had tried
victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now victory has abandoned
him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to disperse the
remains of his army and to fly, disguised as a servant. He is at
Bergen, in Norway.”
“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a consolation to
know that some who have so often risked their lives for us are safe.
And now, my lord, that I see how hopeless the position of the king is,
tell me with what you are charged on the part of my royal husband.”
“Well, then, madame,” said De Winter, “the king wishes you to try and
discover the dispositions of the king and queen toward him.”
“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and the queen a
woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is everything.”
“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell plays in
England?”
“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though he very
likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and unlike Cromwell, who
disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen to support him in
his struggle with the parliament.”
“More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by parliament.”
The queen shook her head despairingly.
“If I judge for myself, my lord,” she said, “the cardinal will do
nothing, and will even, perhaps, act against us. The presence of my
daughter and myself in France is already irksome to him; much more so
would be that of the king. My lord,” added Henrietta, with a melancholy
smile, “it is sad and almost shameful to be obliged to say that we have
passed the winter in the Louvre without money, without linen, almost
without bread, and often not rising from bed because we wanted fire.”
“Horrible!” cried De Winter; “the daughter of Henry IV., and the wife
of King Charles! Wherefore did you not apply, then, madame, to the
first person you saw from us?”
“Such is the hospitality shown to a queen by the minister from whom a
king demands it.”
“But I heard that a marriage between the Prince of Wales and
Mademoiselle d’Orléans was spoken of,” said De Winter.
“Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so. The young people felt a mutual
esteem; but the queen, who at first sanctioned their affection, changed
her mind, and Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, who had encouraged the
familiarity between them, has forbidden his daughter to think any more
about the union. Oh, my lord!” continued the queen, without restraining
her tears, “it is better to fight as the king has done, and to die, as
perhaps he will, than live in beggary like me.”
“Courage, madame! courage! Do not despair! The interests of the French
crown, endangered at this moment, are to discountenance rebellion in a
neighboring nation. Mazarin, as a statesman, will understand the
politic necessity.”
“Are you sure,” said the queen doubtfully, “that you have not been
forestalled?”
“By whom?”
“By the Joices, the Prinns, the Cromwells?”
“By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer! Ah! I hope, madame, that the
cardinal will not enter into negotiations with such men!”
“Ah! what is he himself?” asked Madame Henrietta.
“But for the honor of the king—of the queen.”
“Well, let us hope he will do something for the sake of their honor,”
said the queen. “A true friend’s eloquence is so powerful, my lord,
that you have reassured me. Give me your hand and let us go to the
minister; and yet,” she added, “suppose he should refuse and that the
king loses the battle?”
“His majesty will then take refuge in Holland, where I hear his
highness the Prince of Wales now is.”
“And can his majesty count upon many such subjects as yourself for his
flight?”
“Alas! no, madame,” answered De Winter; “but the case is provided for
and I am come to France to seek allies.”
“Allies!” said the queen, shaking her head.
“Madame,” replied De Winter, “provided I can find some of my good old
friends of former times I will answer for anything.”
“Come then, my lord,” said the queen, with the painful doubt that is
felt by those who have suffered much; “come, and may Heaven hear you.”