The Loves of Charles II by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online Page A

brings self-pity; for self-pity is a terrible thing, dear Minette; it is the sword which is thrust against oneself; one turns the blade in the wound; one revels in one’s own pain, and that way lies folly.” He stopped, smiling at her.
    “More! More!” cried Henriette.
    “Ah, my little Minette, what will become of us … what will our end be, I wonder?” But it was not in his nature to be sad for long. He did not believe that his father could be victorious, but he still could turn a nonchalant face to the future. He could live in the moment, and at this moment he was discovering what a delightful sister was his; he was discovering the pleasures of family life. “Dearest Minette, you do not tell me I must go and court the haughty Mademoiselle, do you! You laugh at my maudlin talk as though it were precious wit. Small wonder that I love you, sweet Minette.”
    “Minette loves Charles,” she said, putting her arms about his neck.
    Then he told her of Mr. Fawcett who had instructed him and his brother James in archery. His mind raced on; he thought of his French master and his writing master, and the tutor who had made him read from his horn-book; he remembered, too, his mother, who had smothered him withher affection, and had impressed on him the importance of his position. “Never forget, Charles, that one day you will be King of England. You must be as great and good a King as your father.” He smiled wryly. Would the people of England now say that his father was a great and good King when they were doing their utmost—at least thousands of them were—to rid themselves of him? Would they ever welcome young Charles Stuart as their King?
    “Poor Mam,” he said softly, “I have a feeling that she will never be satisfied. She is one of the unlucky ones of this world. It is a comfort to talk to you, sweet sister, because you are too young to understand all I say.” He put his lips against her hair. “You are lovely, and I love you. Do you know, I would rather be with you than with all the fine ladies of the Court—or with the King and Queen, and Mam … all of them.”
    Then to amuse her he told her of the piece of wood which he always took to bed with him when he was a boy of her age. “In vain did they try to take it from me, for I would not let them. I loved my wooden billet, and I confess I kept it until it had to be taken from me by very force—and I knew then that I had long outgrown it. One day, Minette, I will tell you more. I will tell you of the fun we had—my brother and sister and I—and I’ll tell you how we thought we should go on forever and ever, laughing, playing our games; and then, suddenly, we grew up, all of us on the same day. It was worse for them, as they were younger than I; Mary only a year younger, James four years younger, and little Elizabeth five years younger. I was the big brother. Henry was the baby then, and there was no little Minette in our family, for she had not yet put in an appearance.”
    “No Minette!”
    “You cannot imagine a world without her, can you? Come, Minette, let us play a game together. I weary you with my talk.”
    “No. Stay like this!” she said.
    And thus it was that Mademoiselle, accompanied by his cousin Prince Rupert, found them.
    “Your mother would not be pleased that you should spend your time playing with a baby in the nursery,” said Mademoiselle coquettishly. She told herself that she had little time to spare for this boy whose fortunes were in the balance, but she was never averse to a light flirtation, and there was something about him—in spite of his youth and inexperience—which interested her more than his cousin Rupert did.
    “You must forgive me, Mademoiselle,” said Charles. “My French is not good enough to answer you in that language.”
    She tapped his arm with her fan. “Are you not ashamed, cousin? You cannot speak French!”
    “It is remiss of me. I fear I occupied myself riding and shooting at thebutts when I