Madame Serpent

THE KING’S INDISCRETION

CATHERINE LAY at Saint-Germain. Another boy had just been born. This was Charles Maximilian; and she had now three sons― Francis, Louis, who was more sickly than his elder brother, and Charles.

She should have been a happy woman, since that fertility for which she had once fervently prayed was hers; but her miserable jealousy persisted.

Only this morning, she had heard women talking beneath her window, and getting up from her bed, she had gone to the window and crouched there listening.

‘The King has gone to Anet.’

‘To Anet! At such a time! His place is here with his wife and new-born son.’

Catherine had imagined the lift of the shoulders, the sly smiles.

‘Oh yes, my friend, it is the custom, is it not, to be with his Queen at such a time? In all things deeply sensible to what is right and what is wrong. But when Madame de Valentinois beckons― ah then, it is another matter.’

‘Poor Queen Catherine! How sad she must be to find herself and her new son so neglected!’

‘The Queen?―’ The voice dropped so low that Catherine could not hear.

And then: ‘Something― strange about the Queen. I do not think she cares.’

Catherine laughed grimly. Not care indeed! And something strange? Perhaps they were right there. But what a cruel thing when a Queen must be pitied by her women!

Deliberately, then, the woman of Anet had lured Henry from Saint-Germain at such a time.

Catherine rose from her bed. Useless to remove the desk and rug and look into the room below. Instead she prayed; she; she wept; she cried out bitterly; and the subject of her prayers was: ‘Holy Mother of God, show me a miracle!’

Was this the miracle?

It was Madalenna who brought the news to her. ‘I have news, Gracious Majesty. The Duchesse de Valentinois lies sick at Anet.’

Sick at Anet! Catherine’s heart began to beat more quickly. This was it. Her prayers were answered.

‘The King is at Anet, Madalenna.’

‘Yes, the King is with Madame la Duchesse, but it is said that she is very sick indeed.’

Catherine could not wait to summon the Ruggieri brothers to her. It was dusk, and, putting on her cloak, she went to see them. She was as active as ever after the birth of five children all following close upon one another. She hurried to the house by the river.

She knew, as soon as she entered the house, that Cosmo and Lorenzo had heard the news. There was that stubborn look in their faces, that suspicion, as though they believed that in some way, although she had not long left her bed, she had contrived, in spite of their warnings and their care, to administer poison to the Duchess of Valentinois.

She was impatient with them, as they immediately closed all doors, drew the shutters and sent out their two servants, although they were Italians. They were afraid of the Queen’s obsession.

‘You have heard the news, I see,’ she said, not without a touch of scorn.

‘It is grave news,’ said Cosmo.

‘Grave news indeed! It is the best news I have heard for many years.’

‘Beloved and Most Gracious Majesty,’ begged Cosmo, ‘we implore you to be calm. The Duchess is ill and none knows the illness. Rumour spreads like fire on windy nights in this city.’

Catherine drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Oh yes, yes. There will be some to say that I have had something slipped into her wine, sprinkled on her food, spread over the pages of a book― I know. They will accuse me of poisoning her.’

‘It will be well for us all if the Duchess recovers.’

‘It will not be well for me.’ She stared first at one brother then at the other.

‘Lorenzo, Cosmo,’ she said piteously, ‘I would give all my worldly goods to hear that she was dead.’

‘Madame, in the streets they talk,’ said Cosmo.

‘Talk! Talk! I know they talk. They will always talk. They accused me of having the Dauphin poisoned. I tell you I had no intention of having the Dauphin poisoned. Yet they accused me.’

‘It is well that those whose death will bring advantage to us should not die,’

said Lorenzo.

‘Lorenzo, she will have to die one day. Why should it not be now?’ She stood up and faced them. ‘You have the means here. You have poisons― subtle poisons. Give me the key of your cabinet, Lorenzo.’

‘Beloved Majesty, my brother and I will serve you every way you wish― but we cannot let you destroy yourself.’

When she was with these men, she felt she had no need to hide her feelings; and now she was hysterical with― unsatisfied desire, with humiliation and frustration ‘You mean you would destroy yourselves!’ she cried angrily. ‘That is it, Lorenzo! That is it, Cosmo! You fear the Boot and the Water Torture― and horrible death! You are not afraid for me― but for yourselves. What could I lose by her death? Nothing! I have everything to gain. I cannot be displaced. I am the mother of the future King of France. I command you to give me the key of your cabinet.’

The two brothers looked fearfully at each other.

‘Madame,’ began Lorenzo desperately, ‘I implore you―’

‘And I command you!’

Imperiously, Catherine held out her hand.

Cosmo nodded, and Lorenzo drew out the silver chain from under his doublet, on which hung the key.

Catherine snatched it, and strode towards the cabinet. The astrologers watched her, without moving.

She stood, looking at the array of bottles; each contained a substance which she knew could produce death. These brothers had taught her a little concerning their secrets; she had insisted on their doing so; therefore she was by no means ignorant on this matter of poisons.

‘Give me something, Lorenzo.’ She swung round and faced them.

‘Something tasteless.’

The brothers did not move; they could only watch her with horrified eyes.

Their thoughts flitted from this room to the sickening horror of the salle de la question in the Conciergerie.

Catherine stamped her foot. ‘This!’ she said, and laid her hand on a bottle.

Lorenzo took a step forward. ‘Majesty, you could not do it. It would be necessary to take others into your confidence.’

‘I have my friends.’

‘The Boot makes a havoc of the strongest ties of friendship, Madame.’

‘You think of nothing but torture. Have I not suffered uneasy torture in my apartments at Saint-Germain?’

‘Madame, allow us to have that hole filled in. It was a mistake that it should ever have been made.’

She felt tears in her eyes, and, looking from Lorenzo to Cosmo, she thought of them as two little boys whom she had known and who had been her friends in the Medici Palace when Alessandro was her enemy. They were her friends, true friends; and although they feared disaster for themselves, they also feared it for her. They were wise men.

They saw her hesitation and she was aware of their relief. Perhaps she herself was also relieved. She felt that storm of passion passing. She was preparing to be calm Catherine who had learned the art of patience, the wisdom of waiting, the benefits of working in the dark.

‘There is a ring the Duchess always wears,’ said Cosmo. ‘It is said that ring has strange properties.’

‘I know the ring,’ said Catherine. ‘A large ruby. The King gave it to Madame de Valentinois in the early days of their friendship.’

‘Why is it that whatever else she wears, the Duchess is never without it?’

said Lorenzo. ‘The spell may well be in that ring. It is not natural for a man of the King’s youth to remain faithful to an ageing woman. Only magic could do it.

It may well be that the answer is in that ring.’

‘If we could but lay our hands on the ring―’ began Cosmo.

‘It should not be impossible,’ said Catherine, allowing her attention to be drawn from the poison-cabinet.

‘Gracious Madame, she never lets it off her finger.’

‘But if she is sick it might not be impossible. If I might get one of my friends to help me― Yes, I begin to believe there is something in this story of a ring.’

The brothers became excited. Lorenzo turned the key in the lock with shaking fingers; he hung the key on its chain and buttoned up his doublet. Both brothers breathed freely now.

Catherine stared at the closed doors of the cabinet and wondered why she allowed herself to be lured away from the sure method of poisoning.

The answer was simple. The stake was too high. Diane’s death might not prove a stepping-stone to the love, but to his hatred.

There was no wisdom in loving as she did.

Diane was feeling very ill. It was the first time in her life that she had been ill, and she was alarmed. She had grown thin, and had no idea what was the cause of her malady.

She was listless and had no great desire for company.

The King, like a devoted husband, insisted on being with her; he was very anxious.

Diane found it a great effort to continue with the strenuous routine she had set herself. She was no longer fit to ride in the morning; she felt herself incapable of entertaining the King and she wished he would curtail his visit.

Looking in her mirror, she scarcely recognized herself. She was sure of the King’s devotion; he was the dearest and honourable of men; but no one, she reasoned in her practiced way, likes to be continually with the sick.

She decided that she would not keep him with her at Anet.

She said to him one day as he sat beside her bed: ‘Henry, it is dull for you here.’

‘My dearest, how could it be dull for me to be with you?’

‘Oh Henry, this is not the life we were wont to lead together.’

‘We shall return to that.’

‘I fear it is not good for you to remain.’

‘I am happier with you than anywhere else. I trust that you will soon recover from this mysterious malady. I long to see you well again.’

She thought: I am too old to wear illness with grace. He must not see me wan and listless. Far better for him to leave me. I trust him. I shall recover the quicker for not being anxious as how I seem to him. She was determined he should go.

A woman entered with a drink of herbs which his best physician had prescribed for her.

‘A thousand pardons, Sire,’ said the woman, curtsying as she saw the King.

‘It is time for Madame’s dose. I crave your forgiveness for the interruption.’

‘That is well enough, Marie,’ said Diane. ‘Give it to me and I will take the odious stuff.’

She drank off the liquid and handed the glass back to the woman with a smile.

‘It is a great inducement to get well,’ she said, ‘that I may be expected to take more of that.’

The woman curtsied and went out.

‘I have not seen her at Anet before,’ said the King. ‘Though she is not unfamiliar to me.’

‘She is a nurse the Queen kindly sent to me. It was good of her. She has a high opinion of Marie. It is said that she is skilled in the mixing of medicines.

Your physician thinks her a good and capable woman.’

‘I am glad Catherine was sufficiently thoughtful as to send her.’

‘Catherine is thoughtful, and my very good friend,’ said Diane. ‘I trust that she is managing the children well without me. I think that Fleming woman rather a silly creature. Much too foolish to be entrusted with the care of young Madame from Scotland.’

The King was silent; and Diane did not notice the slightly embarrassed look which had come into his eyes.

‘Indeed,’ went on Diane, ‘little Mary is inclined to be pert, do you not think?’

The King still did not speak, and Diane smiled up at him. ‘Do you not think she is inclined to pertness?’

‘Who was that, my dear?’

‘Mary Stuart.’

‘Ah! Very high-spirited and lovely enough to be thoroughly spoiled, I fear.’

‘Henry, my love.’

‘Yes, my dearest?’

‘You should not stay here. You should be at court. You forget, for my sake, I know, that you are King of this country.

‘I could not find it in my heart to leave you.’

“But you must. It worries me that you should neglect your duties for me.

You have given me everything I could desire. Henry, I beg of you, go back to court. I cannot get well while you are here because I am anxious. I cannot forget that I keep you from your duties. Go to court. Write to me every day. I shall get well all the quicker in my desire to be with you again.’

He shook his head. Passionately he declared he could not leave her. Nothing, he assured her, could mean to him what she did. Gladly would he neglect everyone, everything, for her sake.

But as usual, eventually she got her way. And after he had gone she grew very ill indeed, but she would not have him told.

Marie, the Queen’s nurse, continued most assiduously to care for her.

Before the King returned to court, little Louis died. It was saddening, but not heartbreaking, for he had been ailing since his birth, and the tragedy was not unexpected. His life had flickered like a candle in a draught, and it had seemed inevitable to all that the flame should be early extinguished.

Gloom hung over the court. The death of the little Prince, together with the sickness of his mistress, filled the King with melancholy. Catherine was filled with secret exultation. Louis’ death had been expected, and the love she had for her children was a pale thing compared with this passion for her husband.

Louis was dead; but Henry was back; and in her possession was the magic ruby ring. She had it carefully locked away; it would never do for the King to see it; and yet, when he was with her, she must wear it. She had forced herself to a pathetic belief in the ring, and this belief had been nourished by the Ruggieri brothers.

In her heart she knew they thought: Let us keep her mind on the ring in order that it may not stray to our poison closet.

A week after Louis’ death, Henry came to her. He was very gentle and courteous. Doubtless he thought: Poor Catherine! She has lost a child, and what has she but her children?

He sat on the chair which was kept for his use. She thought how handsome he was in his coat of black velvet with the diamonds which decorated it, flashing in the dim light from the candles. The graying hair and beard, while robbing him of youth, gave him dignity. His long white jewelled hands rested lightly on the rich fabric of the arms of the chair, while his head lay against the silver brocade that was embroidered with the golden fleur-de-lys. Looking round that room with its rich hangings, its costly bed, whose curtains were embroidered in red and purple, with its furnishings worth a fortune, Catherine thought again how happy she would be if Henry would but love her.

‘You are filled with melancholy, Henry,’ she said; and she went to him, standing behind him, timidly laid a hand on his shoulder. She longed for him to take the hand, but he did not. She thought of the ring, lying ready in a drawer.

The drawer was now unlocked; all she had to do was open it and slip the ring on her finger.

‘My thoughts are with our son,’ said Henry; he did not add ‘And at Anet.’

But she knew that they were, and the knowledge filled her with bitterness.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It is sad indeed to lose a child, and that child a son.’

Her fingers pressed hard on his shoulder; she was now restraining that mad impulse, which his near presence always inspired in her, to throw her arms about his neck and speak to him of her wild love for him, of her burning desire.

‘Poor little Louis,’ murmured Henry. ‘His coming into the world seemed so pointless, since so soon he has been taken from it.’

She must wear the ring. Now was the time, He would not notice that she wore it, for he hardly ever noticed what she wore. Yet if he became enamoured of her as her as he had been of Diane― She felt dizzy with joy at the thought, taking her hands, kissing each finger. But what would it matter then if he noticed the ring? The magic ornament would by that time have worked its spell.

‘I have wept for him until I have no more tears left.’ she said; and she sped to the drawer, and, taking out the ring, slipped it on her finger.

Her heart hammering, her eyes gleaming, she went back to the King’s chair.

He had not moved, but sat quietly, still staring blankly into space.

The magic will take a little time to work, she thought.

‘Henry, we must not grieve.’ She stood behind his chair; she felt as if her excitement would choke her. She laid her hand on his graying hair and stroked it; the great ruby light caught the light from the candle and winked back at her.

The King coughed in an embarrassed way and rose. He walked to the window and stood there uncertainly, his figure silhouetted against the hangings, infinitely desirable to her in all its virile manhood.

He had not changed at all. He did not wish her to touch him. Demonstrative affection on her part embarrassed him now as it ever did.

The magic was slow in working.

She twisted the ring on her finger.

‘Francis is not as strong as I could wish,’ she said. ‘We must get ourselves more sons.’

He nodded, grimly, she thought, as if he was wondering when there might be an end to this unpleasant duty.

Nothing was changed. He sat and fiddled with the jars upon the table; she could see his face reflected in the mirror, gloomy, embarrassed.

She got into the magnificent bed, and waited, twisting the ring round and round on her finger, biting her lips to keep back her tears.

One October day, a few weeks after the death of little Louis, Anne de Montmorency begged an audience of the Queen.

Catherine wondered what the harsh old man could want of her. She had never really liked him; she did not even admire him. He was too easy to understand, too straightforward to win― in her estimation, he was not even a good soldier. He had come to dishonour in the reign of the previous King; and if he were not careful the same thing might happen to him again. He was flouting Diane openly, which was absurd.

He should have done what wise people did― work against her in the dark.

Sooner or later there was going to be a battle between the King’s mistress and the Constable. Silly old man! thought Catherine. It was sadly obvious who would win such a battle. If he wished to hold his place he should do as his betters did, and appear to be Diane’s ally.

Still, she was interested to hear what he had to say. She was depressed and unhappy. The ruby ring had proved to have no magical properties whatsoever.

She had worn it for a week and the King’s feeling for her had not changed one little bit. Her hopes had been raised and proved futile; and she had at first been furious with the Ruggieri brothers, who, she was sure, deliberately misled her.

They were right, of course; there was nothing she could do just yet. The destruction of Diane must wait awhile; she must continue to use less sure methods than poison― just for a while. She had wanted to fling the ring into the river, but even then her caution got the better of her. She sent it back to Anet so that Marie might find some way of returning it to Diane’s finger.

There was one bright spot in the whole sorry affair. Diane’s health was not improving, and she still forbade the King to visit her at Anet.

The suggested interview with Montmorency therefore promised to relieve the tedium, and she eagerly attendant to bring him to her.

The Constable bowed low over the Queen’s hand. He had come, he said, to pay his respects to the new baby. As she took him to the nursery where Charles was sleeping peacefully, and watched him prod the baby’s satiny cheek with finger until he awoke and whimpered, she knew that Montmorency had not asked for an interview merely to do that.

She said: ‘He is young yet, Constable, to realize the honor you do him.

Come and see the other children. They will be delighted to see you.’

Francis and Elizabeth made the Constable pretty curtsies and young Mary offered him an exhibition of her pert dignity.

After he had exchanged a few pleasantries with the children, the Constable said that the afternoon was mild, and he would deem it a great honour if the Queen would take a turn in the gardens, where they could chat undisturbed.

The last words excited Catherine, for she knew at once that Montmorency had something to say to her which he did not wish anyone to overhear; so, stimulated always by thought of intrigue, and guessing that this might have something to do with the absent Diane, Catherine readily consented to accompany him.

As they walked round the most private of the closed-in gardens, Montmorency said: ‘Your Majesty will agree with me that it is peaceful here since some have been forced to leave it.’

Catherine, feeling her way cautiously, inquired: ‘Whose absence has made the palace of Saint-Germain more peaceful to you, Constable?’

The Constable prided himself on being a blunt man. He was not one to prevaricate. ‘I speak, Your Majesty, of the Duchess of Valentinois, now confined to her bed in the Château of Anet.’

‘You are pleased that she is absent then, my Lord Constable?’

Montmorency frowned. Name of God, he thought. Was the Italian woman going to pretend she was surprised by that? The woman was a fool. Look at her meekness! She sat and smiled, and bore no malice towards a woman who was as much her enemy as Spain was to France. What milk-and-water creature was this? Still, even such a one must have a spark of jealousy.

‘I am pleased indeed, Madame,’ he said gruffly. ‘The lady has become overbearing of late.’

Catherine was delighted. It was pleasant to have the Constable of France on her side. But she must go carefully, and remember not to disclose her true feelings, even to those who be her friends.

‘Did it seem so to you?’ she asked.

‘It seems so to many, Madame. May I speak frankly to you?’

‘I beg that you will.’

‘Well then, the King has been much enamoured of this lady, but the King is human. Madame la Duchesse de Valentinois is indisposed and cannot amuse the King. Why should there not be others to do so?’

Why not indeed! she thought. Why not his desirous and most jealous Queen!

She said coolly: ‘That seems sound sense, Constable.’

‘The King is not one to move towards pleasure unless assisted, Madame.’

‘Unless assisted,’ repeated Catherine, with that sudden loud laughter which she usually managed to suppress because it belonged to the hidden Catherine rather than to the one she wished everyone to know.

‘I repeated― unless assisted, Madame. There is a woman who attracts the King, and one I think who, were she given opportunities, might take the place of the absent Duchess.’

‘Oh?’ It was difficult now to hide her feelings; all the jealousy, all the bitterness was rising to the surface of her emotions. She said to herself: This man must not guess. No one must guess.

Montmorency was impatient. Enough of this side-stepping! he thought. If we decide to speak with bluntness, then let us speak with bluntness. ‘I refer to the Scots woman Lady Fleming. The King has a fancy for her.’

‘Lady Fleming! But― she is an old woman―’

‘The King fancies old women. In any case, she is not as old as the Duchess.’

Catherine closed her eyes and looked away from the Constable. He must not see that she was almost in tears. She said uncertainly: ‘The King has noticed her, I grant you. I thought it was because he interests himself in the education of the little Scot. It seems to me that if he has been seen talking to her, that is the reason.’

‘Lady Fleming is an attractive woman, Madame. She is― different from our women because she is a foreigner. The King is human. Everyone at court is enamoured of the little Scots Queen. Why? She is pretty as a picture; she’s full of witchery. But that is not all. She is― different. Half-French; half-Scot. It is the strangeness that attracts. His Gracious Majesty, with a little direction, could become enamoured of the Lady Fleming. It is to your own advantage as well as mine to unite him with a silly woman and separate him from the wily one of Anet.’

Catherine’s eyes were shining now. A brief affair with the silly Scots widow― a break with Diane― and then? Waiting for him would be his true and loyal and most forgiving wife, who was, after all, the mother of his children.

Here was a way to work a miracle which a silly ring could not give her.

She said, almost choking with the loud laughter, ‘We could arrange a masque. The King could partner with the widow. The wine― the music― and the absence of the Duchess―’

Montmorency nodded. ‘The Fleming will do the rest. She only awaits the opportunity. The King may have been thinking of young Mary’s education when he chatted in such friendly fashion with the governess, but the governess was thinking of the King.’

‘I shall consider this, Monsieur de Montmorency,’ said Catherine. ‘And now, I beg of you, lead me back to my apartments.’

The court was amused. The Constable had suggested a masque. What next?

The grim old soldier planning gaiety! What could be behind that.

The Queen was taking upon herself the management of this affair― usurping the place of the absent Duchess of Valentinois. What sort of entertainment would harsh Montmorency and Catherine contrive between them?

Everyone had to admit that the idea was a novel one. The Queen would decide which characters were to be represented and, in secret, she would tell each person which of these characters had been allotted to him or her. Therefore the Queen alone would know, as she mingled with the guests, who it was beneath the masque and the elaborate costume. The Queen was to attend as herself; and she would give a jewel as a prize for what she considered the best costume. Each guest was in honour bound to keep his or her identity secret. It was a masque with a difference; there must be real surprise when masques were removed at midnight.

The Queen summoned the Lady Fleming to her presence.

The woman curtsied, while Catherine’s keen eyes noticed that she was a little uneasy. Could it be that Henry had been a little more than friendly already?

It seemed incredible.

Catherine dismissed her attendants.

She made the woman stand while she talked to her. Catherine’s glittering eyes took in each detail of her appearance. The woman was pretty in a conventional way― red hair, widely parted lips that gave to the face a vacant air. She was plump; she was weak and helpless, appealing, Catherine supposed, in what Henry would see as her womanliness. Catherine could imagine her coquettish, eager, a partner in a romantic intrigue.

Imagine it, or was there now something insolent about the woman? She was older than Catherine. It was incredible and maddening. What had these women that the Queen had not?

‘Your Majesty wished to see me?’

Catherine said: ‘It concerns your costume for the ball. You know my plan.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘You are to come as Andromeda. You know the story of Andromeda? She was chained to a rock and given up to a monster. Perseus came to the rescue with the Medusa’s head, the sight of which turned the dragon to stone. He freed Andromeda and married her.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘If you are in any doubt as to your costume you may consult me.’

‘I am deeply grateful, Madame.’

‘There is one other matter. For the purpose of the masque, you will need to be at the side of Perseus for the evening. You understand that. I wish to tell you this: who is who at the masque is to be a great secret, but in your case I am going to let you into the secret. You will understand the reason when I explain it to you. The part of Perseus is to be played by a very exalted person indeed; I would not wish you, Lady Fleming, to commit an indiscretion by― shall we say an over-familiarity.’

How the wanton creature’s eyes sparkled! She knew what this meant. She was delighted. She was longing for the King even as the Queen longed.

Catherine could have slapped her silly face.

‘Your Most Gracious Majesty, you may rely upon me.’

Gracious, I am indeed, thought Catherine grimly, to hand my husband over to such a ready wanton! And I know, Madame Fleming, that I may rely upon you to play the part Monsieur the Constable has chosen for you. ‘You may go, Lady Fleming. Do not forget if there is any matter on which you wish to consult me concerning your costume. I shall be ready.’

‘Your Gracious Majesty is very good to me.’

Catherine stared after the woman as she bowed herself out. One could not hate such a simpering fool. She was all eagerness now, preparing herself to seduce the King.

Why should I let her do this? Catherine demanded of herself.

Why should I myself not wear the costume of Andromeda? Why should it not be the Queen who must lure the King from his sick Duchess? Because the Queen could never do it. He knows her too well. No costume, no mask, could disguise the Queen in the King’s eyes. Moreover, as Montmorency knows, as Lady Fleming herself knows, the King is attracted by the fool, and only needs the stimulation of wine, sensuous music, the inevitable romance of a lady in disguise― together with the prolonged absence of his mistress― to be tempted into committing an indiscretion.

The King was adequately disguised in the armour of Perseus; wits of cloth of silver instead of mail. His graying hair was hidden and his eyes peered out through slits in his silken visor.

He was enjoying the masque more than he had enjoyed anything since Diane had lain sick at Anet; and even his sorrow at his mistress’s sickness was not so great, for the last few days had brought better news of her.

Andromeda pressed close to him. He was excited because he knew whose enticing form was beneath the costume of Andromeda; he had seen a red ringlet beneath her wig; moreover, that halting French of hers was unmistakable. The Scottish governess spoke the language of his country with some difficulty and great charm.

Catherine had chosen the music― Italian music. It was soft music, deeply sensuous; it was the sort of music to put ideas into a head that was usually a sober head.

Andromeda flirted gaily, pretending not to know who her partner was. He found himself responding― awkwardly, it was true― and enjoying it. After all, it was very enjoyable to be foolish, incognito.

‘How happy I am that I was chosen to be Andromeda,’ she murmured, ‘since you are Perseus.’

She pressed against him as they danced. He felt younger than he had for a long time. He was reminded of a charming young girl in Piedmont; he was experiencing all he had experienced there― the same violent feelings, the same uncontrollable desire to kiss the woman and make love to her.

The image of Diane was fading, although it could never fade entirely.

This was nothing, he hastened to explain to himself.

Diane would understand. This was just a frivolous masque which the Queen had arranged because he was so melancholy since his little son had died and his mistress was sick. It was nothing but an evening’s frivolity.

Andromeda, warm and clinging, chattered on merrily. Her fingers clung to his, and she lifted her face, obviously expecting him to kiss her. He found himself doing so― while he explained to Diane:

This is nothing, Diane. Just a silly masque. The Queen arranged it because I was so wretched― anxious on your account. Andromeda whispered: ‘The wine I have taken would seem to have gone to my head. What of you― Perseus?’

‘To mine also,’ he answered.

That was true, he supposed. Catherine had most assiduously arranged that his cupbearer should keep his goblet replenished.

Andromeda called his attention to a laughing Daphne who went by with Apollo.

‘Did it not seem to you that Apollo had a look of de Guise?’ whispered Andromeda.

‘It did indeed.’

‘There are some who cannot hide themselves whatever the disguise,’

laughed Andromeda. She added quickly: ‘And if we are right, and Apollo is Francis de Guise, I greatly doubt whether that Daphne will turn into a laurel before her Apollo has had his will.’

Henry laughed, and wondered what had happened tonight.

Diane’s image was growing fainter. When he did think of her, he was sure that she would fully understand that flirtation with the gay little Scot was not of the slightest importance. He was indulging in it merely because, missing Diane, he wished to lighten the melancholy of one evening without her. He refused to remember that he had reasoned similarly during his infidelity at Piedmont.

‘Let us dance no more,’ said Andromeda. ‘I am weary of dancing.’

She drew him from the throng, and it was comforting knowledge that no one would know that the King had left the dancers In the cool of an antechamber off the main hall, Lady Fleming turned to the King suddenly, and throwing her arms about him, kissed him passionately on the lips. The silk of his vizor was in her way and, laughing, she lifted it.

‘That― was very forward of me, was it not?’ she murmured coquettishly, waiting for his response.

‘Indeed not!’ said the King haltingly; and he returned her kiss.

He realized now that he had always been attracted by the Scottish governess, not because of her interest in the education but because of her red hair, her white skin, and her pretty foreign ways. He knew too that she had been attracted by him and the reverent glances she had sent his way had also been inviting.

Her small white hands stroked his face, and he felt his blood racing. This was Piedmont all over again.

She said: ‘I know where we can be quite alone― for an hour or so―’

In and out among the sweating dancers went the Queen, her alert eyes missing nothing. She saw them leave the ballroom, and, in spirit, she was with them, every passionate moment.

Her eyes were hard and angry. Hatred, jealousy, and cunning battled in her heart. Was she right to have done this thing? Did it not hurt as much to picture him with the sly Scot as with Madame de Valentinois?

But patience! He will soon tire of that silly creature. One must be grateful for the small blessing. Remember, Diane cannot keep him faithful.

All these people were watching her, wondering at her. What a fool she was, they were thinking. She had organized the most amusing masque the reign had known, and she herself was taking no part in it. Why had she not played Psyche to the King’s Cupid or some such role? That was what Madame d’Etampes would have done in her day. Surely, Queen Catherine did not enjoy being humiliated and now the monster Valentinois was out of the way, here was her chance.

They did not know how little her husband cared for her, thought Catherine.

Thank the Virgin that none but herself witnessed those embarrassing moments of his when he visited her.

Her head ached. She hated this masque. She longed for midnight.

What a fool she was to have put the love potion in his wine that he might become enamoured of the governess! But was it the love potion, or was it the governess’s red hair and white skin? How many love potions had she used in vain endeavour to win him for herself?

Again and again she asked herself why he should want this silly woman’s love-making and turn from her own which would be given with her heart and soul instead of in a drunken frolic.

She could never find the answer to that question.

Midnight came.

She was glad that they had returned to the ballroom. It had happened already. That much she sensed from their demeanour. She felt bitterly humiliated, for with Diane, who was clever and beautiful, it was understandable; but with this red-haired slut with her parted lips and lascivious eyes― But― it had happened; and Catherine guessed, by the look of them both, that it would happen again.

‘Unmask!’ She gave the order; she listened to the gasps of surprise. ‘So it was you!’ The giggles. ‘I had no idea!’

Perseus and Andromeda were looking at each other as though they were intoxicated with something other than the wine they had both taken.

Montmorency’s plan had succeeded admirably, thought the Queen.

Moreover, tonight would not see the end of the King’s indiscretion.

‘I wish Lady Fleming to come here,’ she announced.

The woman started; she blushed to the roots of her red hair which was loose about her shoulders now that she had removed Andromeda’s wig with her mask.

All eyes were on Lady Fleming. Catherine’s glittered coldly.

She knows, thought the guilty Lady Fleming. She is going to denounce me now― here― before them all. I shall be banished― I shall never be allowed to see him again. She looks so strange. She frightens me. Her eyes are like a serpent’s eyes. ‘Lady Fleming, you have given a very good performance this night.’

Lady Fleming could not speak. She felt her knees knocking together. Their cold eyes continued to regard her.

‘The most distinguished couple in the room is Andromeda and Perseus,’

went on the Queen.

Everyone applauded, for now everyone knew who Perseus was.

‘I could not take my eyes from you,’ continued Catherine, and watched the colour rush into Lady Fleming’s cheeks.

‘Your Majesty― is gracious―’ stammered the guilty creature.

‘The prize is yours, Lady Fleming.’

Catherine took a ring from her finger and slipped it on to the trembling one of her husband’s new mistress.

The silly little governess was giving herself airs. It was noticed throughout the court.

It was already being whispered that the governess’s elevation was due to the absence of Diane. What was going to happen, it was discreetly asked, when Madame la Duchesse returned? Would Madame Fleming be sent away, or would the King find the redhead more suitable to his taste?

Mary Stuart, whose eyes were none the less sharp for being beautiful, had already whispered to young Francis that their governess was in love. Mary said they must trap her into an admission.

Catherine overheard them teasing the silly creature when she came into then nurseries one day.

‘I declare,’ said Mary, ‘you do not listen to us. Your thoughts are far away. I think they were with your lover.’

‘Hush. You must not say such things.’

‘But I will. I will. You must confess, must she not, Francis, that she has a lover.’

‘Indeed, she must!’ declared Francis.

‘Now come. It is lesson time. You seem to forget.’

‘It is you who forget to whom you speak. We ask a question― and demand to be answered. Lady Fleming, please remember that one day Francis will be the King and I the Queen. When we ask questions we expect answers, and if you do not answer us― or treat us with the respect due to our rank, we shall― we shall―’ The saucy creature paused for a while; then she added ominously: ‘We shall not forget when we are on the throne.’

‘I will not be treated thus―’ said the stupid woman.

‘Have you a lover? Have you a lover?’ chanted Francis.

‘Well― and what if I have?’

‘Have you?’ demanded Mary.

‘Well― yes―’

Catherine turned away in disgust. It was time this folly was done with. Did not the silly creature understand that the only love affair she could enjoy with the King must be a secret one.

Then one day― as Catherine knew she would― Lady Fleming achieved her own dismissal.

She confided in Madalenna.

Catherine went off into loud laughter when Madalenna reported this to her.

How like the woman to choose Madalenna!

‘She asked me if I could keep a secret,’ said Madalenna.

‘And you said you could. Yes, Madalenna. Then she told you that the King visits her at night. And did you tell her that you knew; that you have been an unseen guest in their chamber; a witness to their lechery?’

‘I― said nothing of that.’

‘That was well. Come, Madalenna, waste no more time. What said she?’

‘I carefully noted her words that I might give them exactly as they were said: God be thanked, she said. I am child.’

‘With child!’ cried Catherine. ‘She said that?’

‘She did, Madame. She said: It is the King’s child, and I feel honoured and happy about it. I am in such excellent health. I think there must be some magic in the royal blood to make me feel so well. ‘

Catherine stood by the window looking out on to the gardens below. A child. This was carrying that plan of Montmorency’s too far.

Watching the King closely, she believed he was fast tiring of the silly creature. He was getting anxious; Catherine guessed that he was thinking of Diane. Never mind. He would hate having to confess his infidelity. Who knew, after her illness, Diane might not be quite so beautiful, quite so alert of mind.

Perhaps Montmorency’s plan had worked. Perhaps Lady Fleming had played the part allotted to her well, and now it was the Queen’s turn to step in.

Diane was fast recovering, so came the news. Catherine must act quickly before she returned to court. She must remember the lesson Diane had taught her at the time of the Piedmontese lapse. She must show the King that if he was in an embarrassing position his wife could help him as his mistress had often done.

She sought him immediately and found him with the children.

‘Henry, I would speak with you. It is a matter of some importance.’

‘I will join you in your apartment shortly,’ he said.

‘Oh please, Sire,’ said Mary, ‘do not leave us yet. You have been with us such a little while.

Catherine looked sharply at Mary. She was not so enamoured of the little Queen as everyone else seemed to be. Beauty and grace were no compensation, in Catherine’s eyes, for that pertness and insolent manner.

You are ill-advised, my Queenlet, thought Catherine, if you think you may provoke me with impunity. There was the insolent creature lifting her big beautiful eyes almost coquettishly to Henry, imploring him to ignore his wife’s request.

Henry touched the golden hair lovingly. ‘Well, a few moments more; then I must hear the Queen’s business.’

Catherine swept out. Mary Stuart must be taught that she could not always behave thus. Already she had taken Catherine’s son and made him hers completely. There was no one in the world for Francis now but his beautiful and beloved Mary.

The King was not long in coming to her, and Catherine made sure that they were alone before she spoke.

‘I have disquieting news, Henry.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘It is Lady Fleming,’ she went on.

The King flushed. ‘The Scottish woman?’ he said.

Catherine nodded. She would not risk his displeasure letting him think she was aware of his secret meetings with the governess. He was a man who liked to keep his weaknesses hidden from prying eyes. Did he not wish people to believe that his relationship with Diane was a platonic one? What Catherine wished to imply more than anything was: You may trust me. I wish you always to know that you may rely on your wife. ‘She has whispered to one of my women that she is with child.’

Henry drew back as though she had struck him. It was obvious that he had heard nothing about this new development in his little love affair.

He sought refuge in hauteur. ‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘the private affairs of a governess are no concern of ours.’

This was Henry at his least noble. He was in a position which he loathed, and because he could not rely on his wits to extricate him from a difficulty, he was an angry, rather petty Henry.

Yet thus Catherine loved him most tenderly.

‘She should be no concern of ours, admittedly,’ went on Catherine smoothly, ‘but I gathered from my woman that the governess is with child by some personage of position in the court.’

‘She was discreet enough to mention no names, then?’ said the King with obvious relief.

‘As yet,’ said Catherine, I think the scandal has not travelled far. I cautioned my woman to silence and I think will obey me.’

‘I like it not,’ said Henry, his mouth prim and tight, ‘that such matters should be bruited about the court.’

Catherine went to him swiftly and impulsively aid a hand on his arm. ‘My lord husband, you may rely upon me to keep this matter where it belongs.’ Her eyes pleaded with him: can you not see that I would do everything you asked of me? Confide in me. Let me tell you of this overwhelming passionate love of mine. Let me have done with plots. Let me enjoy love with you. But he was already turning away uncomfortably. ‘Yes,’ he said uneasily, ‘See to that, please, Catherine.’

He went out and she knew that the interview was a failure. This time, was it that she had not said enough? The head of Catherine de’ Medici was strong, but weak it became when her heart was involved.

A few days later Diane sent a message to the King telling him that she was ready to return to court; and he himself rode to Anet that he accompany her.

The story of the Scotswoman was common knowledge now. While Diane was away, the King must play, it was whispered. But was it not rather foolish to have chosen such a silly woman for his indiscretion? Now it would be seen what Madame Diane had to say about the matter. Was it the end of the King’s devotion to his aging Duchess? Hardly! Since he rode to Anet to bring her back to court! But it must be remembered that the ravages of sickness could ruin an ageing woman’s charms. What an interesting situation: Diane returning with her royal lover, while the Scottish governess grew in importance― in her own eyes at least― as she grew in size.

The King returned to Paris with Diane. Though she was paler, and thinner, there were many who agreed she was as charming as ever; and moreover, the King’s devotion was obvious Wretchedly, Catherine, watching him more closely than any, detected in his demeanour a remorse― a secret remorse― and she knew that his infidelity worried him greatly and that he had not yet confessed it to Diane.

But what did that matter? Catherine had at last understood. She and Montmorency had wasted their time. Nothing could come between the King and the Duchess. No brief love-affair with a red-headed governess, no scheming of a clever woman could break up this surely most enduring love affair in the history of France.

Still, Diane would have some discomfiture to bear; and Catherine, since she could not break the King’s devotion, must content herself with this.

Diane had lost none of her subtlety. It was to Catherine she came when she heard the news.

‘I hear that the Lady Fleming is to become a mother,’ said Diane.

‘I have heard it also, Madame,’ said Catherine mildly.

‘The woman is a fool,’ said Diane. ‘She talks too much. Did Your Majesty know that the child is the King’s?’

‘I had heard that also. I fear it is a matter to grieve us both.’

‘When a stupid woman’s tongue begins to clack, it is a matter to grieve all concerned. I think you should insist on her banishment from court.’

‘I see,’ said Catherine. ‘Have you spoken of this to the King?’

Diane shrugged her shoulders as though to say she did not consider the matter worth the King’s attention. How clever she was! So she was going to let Henry see that she did not consider this infidelity― occurring while she herself was unavoidably kept from him― of the slightest importance. It was the same attitude that she had adopted over the Piedmont incident. How easy it was to manage a lover when you did not love with a fierce desire, a burning passion that robbed you, calm as you habitually were, of all good sense.

Catherine said slyly: ‘The King loved this woman. Doubtless, that was why she gave herself airs.’

‘Madame, the brief attention of the King is no indiscretion.’

Oh, she was clever! She gave herself airs; but she had never been indiscreet.

‘The King may not give his consent to her banishment,’ said Catherine maliciously. ‘It may be that he wishes to keep her at court.’

‘He longer wishes to keep her at court.’

The two women surveyed each other. Do as you are told! the uncrowned Queen of France was saying . The King amused himself because I was not here. Remember that. You could not prevent his straying. That is understandable. But now I have returned, and the governess who diverted him for a little while may be sent away. Catherine used her lids as hoods to hide her glittering eyes; she feared they might betray her hatred of this woman.

‘I doubt not, Madame,’ she could not prevent herself saying, ‘that you know the desires of the King’s mind as well as you know those of his body.’

How foolish that was, she realized at once. But I am the Queen, she thought weakly. Let her remember that.

Diane turned a shade paler, but gave no other sign of her anger.

She said calmly: ‘As Your Gracious Majesty knows, it has it has been my constant care to devote myself to the King, yourself, and your children. That is why we are such excellent friends.’

That was like a queen talking to her woman. And yet, what could Catherine do? She must remember that every smile she received from her husband came by way of this woman; and now she believed herself to be once more with child, and this she owed to Diane. Her comparatively strong position at court had been given to her by Diane. However provoked, she must not forget that.

She lifted her eyes to Diane’s face. ‘Madame, as usual you are right. The woman’s mistake was to talk too much. I will see that she leaves the court immediately.’

‘That will be well,’ smiled Diane. ‘We must see that she lacks nothing, for we must not forget whose child it is she carries. Her indiscretion, though, makes her immediate banishment necessary.’

The interview was over. The little plot had failed. There might never have been a cleverly devised masque, a passionate Andromeda in pursuit of Perseus.

Henry was reassured that his mistress understood and forgave his brief lapse. She was even glad that he had found a temporary solace. Their love was not to be considered as merely on a physical plane. Did they not both know this?

Henry enchanted by this explanation of his folly; he seemed more devoted, more in love with Diane than ever.

But Diane was not so forgiving to others as she was to her royal lover. The walk together of the Queen and the Constable in the gardens had not gone unnoticed by Diane’s spies; and out of that walk had grown the masque; and was it not at the masque that Henry had been given as partner the Scots governess? Diane felt she knew how to deal with the Queen; she knew equally well how to deal with the Constable.

To show how lightly she regarded this affair of the King’s, she deliberately reminded the court of that other lapse of his by bringing into the royal nursery Henry’s daughter by the Piedmont girl. She was a beautiful child, this daughter of Henry’s, and more like her father than any of Catherine’s children. Now fourteen, she was sweet-natured and charming. She was called Diane of France and was an example of what a girl could be when her education was supervised by the Duchess of Valentinois.

It was useless, Catherine realized, to fight for the King against such a one.

And there began again, when they were at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the misery of watching the King and his through the spy-hole in the floor.

In September of the following year a significant event took place. This was the birth of another boy to Catherine. There was nothing very special, one might have thought, in the birth of another child; Catherine had had six already, and five were left to her. This was a boy, it was true― but she had two boys already.

Yet, there was something about this child which moved her deeply. Was it a likeness to his father? For one thing, he was a bigger, healthier baby than Francis, Charles, and dead Louis had been. Catherine knew, with that curious prevision of hers that this child was going to mean more to her than any of the others.

He was christened with pomp and ceremony such as had attended the christening of other members of the royal family. His names were Edward Alexander; but right from the first she called him Henry and he became known by that name.

‘It is because he reminds me so of his father!’ she said.

She tended to him more than she had any of the others and he did much to soothe her. There was less watching through the floor, less spying generally, less mingling with the crowds in the city, than there had ever been before.

Young Henry compensated her in some measure for the pain the older Henry caused her. She adored the child. It was to her he turned; he had cried when Diane took him into her arms. He did not stare wonderingly up into the King’s face, but he clung to his mother.

At last there was a second love in her life, this child who comforted instead of tormented, and who gave something in return for what he took, love for love.