some success he found himself in his present position of power.
But when he looked at the poor suffering Queen of England, stoically shivering by the bed of her daughter, and thought of what was happening to her husband and other children, he was filled with pity for her.
“Madame,” he said, “you suffer much.”
“Monsieur le Coadjuteur,” she replied, “if you have news for me, pray give it—I mean news from England.”
“That I cannot give, Madame, but I can give some comfort. I can have food sent to you—food and firewood.”
She said: “Monsieur, if you know anything, I beg of you give me news.”
“I have no news. But it shall not be said that I stood by and allowed the daughter of Henri Quatre to starve.”
Henrietta Maria shrugged her shoulders. “It is six months since I received my pension, and no one would supply me with food and the means to keep my apartment warm because I could not pay.”
“But this is terrible!”
“I keep my little daughter company. It was too cold for her to rise today.”
“Madame, I shall myself see that your daughter does not have to stay in bed for want of a faggot.”
“What can you do, Monsieur?”
“First I shall have comfort sent to you; then I shall put your case before the Parliament.”
“The Parliament!” Henrietta Maria laughed aloud and bitterly. “Parliaments do not love kings and queens these days, Monsieur.”
“Madame, the Parliament will not allow it to be said that it denied food and firewood to a daughter and granddaughter of Henri Quatre.”
The Queen wept a little after he had gone.
“Why do you cry, Mam?” asked the little girl. “Was the man cruel to you?”
“No, my sweetheart. He was not cruel; he was kind.”
“Then why do you cry?”
“There are times, dearest, when unexpected kindness makes us cry. Ah, you look at your poor Mam with those big black eyes and you wonder at my words. But there is much you do not yet know of life. Yet you are learning; you are learning fast for a little one.”
Paul de Gondi was as good as his word. That very day firewood and food were brought to the Louvre, and a few days later, at the instigation of de Gondi, the Parliament ordered that 40,000 livres should be sent to the Queen in memory of Henri Quatre.
In memory of Henri Quatre! Henrietta Maria could not help comparing her father with her husband. She could not remember her father, yet she had heard much of him; she had seen pictures of that great man, depicting the full sensuous mouth, the large nose, the humorous eyes and the lines of debauchery. She remembered stories she had heard of the stormy relationship between her father and mother; she had heard of the continual quarrels and the ravings of her mother whose temper she knew to be violent. She could imagine that angry temper roused to madness by the cynically smiling King; she knew that many times her mother had struck him, and she had heard how such blows reduced him to helpless laughter in spite of the fact that she was, as he himself said, “terribly robust.” He had been called the ugliest man in France, but people would always add “and its bravest gentleman.” They had loved him as they had loved no other King; the lecher (who, at the time of his assassination in his fifty-seventh year had been courting Angelique Paulet, a girl of seventeen) had declared, old as he was,that conquest in love pleased him better than conquest in war—and he was the most popular King who had ever ruled France.
This ugly man, this cynic, without any deep religion, ready to turn from the Huguenot faith to the Catholic faith (for “was not Paris worth a mass?”) was the hero of France; and even after his death those who had rebelled against the Court remembered him, and for his sake would not let his daughter starve.
When he had been stabbed by a fanatical monk, all France had mourned him; his assassin had died the horrible death which the nation demanded as the penalty of such a
But when he looked at the poor suffering Queen of England, stoically shivering by the bed of her daughter, and thought of what was happening to her husband and other children, he was filled with pity for her.
“Madame,” he said, “you suffer much.”
“Monsieur le Coadjuteur,” she replied, “if you have news for me, pray give it—I mean news from England.”
“That I cannot give, Madame, but I can give some comfort. I can have food sent to you—food and firewood.”
She said: “Monsieur, if you know anything, I beg of you give me news.”
“I have no news. But it shall not be said that I stood by and allowed the daughter of Henri Quatre to starve.”
Henrietta Maria shrugged her shoulders. “It is six months since I received my pension, and no one would supply me with food and the means to keep my apartment warm because I could not pay.”
“But this is terrible!”
“I keep my little daughter company. It was too cold for her to rise today.”
“Madame, I shall myself see that your daughter does not have to stay in bed for want of a faggot.”
“What can you do, Monsieur?”
“First I shall have comfort sent to you; then I shall put your case before the Parliament.”
“The Parliament!” Henrietta Maria laughed aloud and bitterly. “Parliaments do not love kings and queens these days, Monsieur.”
“Madame, the Parliament will not allow it to be said that it denied food and firewood to a daughter and granddaughter of Henri Quatre.”
The Queen wept a little after he had gone.
“Why do you cry, Mam?” asked the little girl. “Was the man cruel to you?”
“No, my sweetheart. He was not cruel; he was kind.”
“Then why do you cry?”
“There are times, dearest, when unexpected kindness makes us cry. Ah, you look at your poor Mam with those big black eyes and you wonder at my words. But there is much you do not yet know of life. Yet you are learning; you are learning fast for a little one.”
Paul de Gondi was as good as his word. That very day firewood and food were brought to the Louvre, and a few days later, at the instigation of de Gondi, the Parliament ordered that 40,000 livres should be sent to the Queen in memory of Henri Quatre.
In memory of Henri Quatre! Henrietta Maria could not help comparing her father with her husband. She could not remember her father, yet she had heard much of him; she had seen pictures of that great man, depicting the full sensuous mouth, the large nose, the humorous eyes and the lines of debauchery. She remembered stories she had heard of the stormy relationship between her father and mother; she had heard of the continual quarrels and the ravings of her mother whose temper she knew to be violent. She could imagine that angry temper roused to madness by the cynically smiling King; she knew that many times her mother had struck him, and she had heard how such blows reduced him to helpless laughter in spite of the fact that she was, as he himself said, “terribly robust.” He had been called the ugliest man in France, but people would always add “and its bravest gentleman.” They had loved him as they had loved no other King; the lecher (who, at the time of his assassination in his fifty-seventh year had been courting Angelique Paulet, a girl of seventeen) had declared, old as he was,that conquest in love pleased him better than conquest in war—and he was the most popular King who had ever ruled France.
This ugly man, this cynic, without any deep religion, ready to turn from the Huguenot faith to the Catholic faith (for “was not Paris worth a mass?”) was the hero of France; and even after his death those who had rebelled against the Court remembered him, and for his sake would not let his daughter starve.
When he had been stabbed by a fanatical monk, all France had mourned him; his assassin had died the horrible death which the nation demanded as the penalty of such a
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