Madame Serpent

THE DREAM OF NOSTRADAMUS

TWENTY-THREE YEARS of marriage― and her love for her husband had not abated. She was young yet― only thirty-seven― but she was beginning to grow fat; she had produced ten children in the last thirteen years; and she was still so passionately in love with Henry as she had been when a young girl.

Catherine knew― with that unerring instinct of hers― that there would be no more children. This year she had given birth to twins― little Jeanne, who had died a few hours after her birth, and Victoire, who had lived a few months before she followed her twin. But between the births of the twins and the beloved Henry had been born to Catherine two other children. One was Margot, now three years old and as enchanting a child as young Mary Stuart; the other was Hercule, born less than a year after Margot. Catherine could rest from childbearing now. She had lost three children, but she had a goodly brood of seven, and four of them were boys.

She felt that she could congratulate herself on her children, though Francis, the Dauphin, caused both Henry and herself a good deal of anxiety. He had had a bad attack of smallpox, and on finally recovering was even more delicate than he had been before. Short in stature and not always very bright at his lessons, he was completely under the influence of the scheming little Scots Queen. He was thirteen, but looked no more than eleven; she was only fourteen, but she appeared to be quite seventeen. Young Charles, who was six, adored her, jealous because she was to marry his brother; Charles had turned out to be quite a little musician; he liked to play his lute to Mary, and to read verses to her. She was willing to listen, the little coquette, always ready for adulation; and Heaven knew there plenty of that for Mary Stuart at the court of a France. The child’s airs and graces might have been intolerable but for her charm. They often were intolerable to Catherine― who was indifferent to charm, except in her two Henrys― but she bore with the girl, for she had decided that one day Mary Stuart should answer for her sins.

Catherine loved her daughters, Elizabeth and Claude, though mildly, for they were pretty, charming girls. Young Margot, even at three, showed signs of becoming a stronger personality. Lovely to look at, and imperious already, she had easily won the hearts of Diane and her father; she was bolder with her mother than any of the others― except Henry― dared be. Catherine admired her young daughter, but her great love was already given to young Henry.

He was five now, her beloved child― a Medici in every respect. He was entirely hers. She had one great regret regard and that was that he was her third son, and not her first; she would have given much to have made him Dauphin of France. He was delightful; his beautifully shaped hands were her hands; his features were Italian; his eyes were the flashing Medici eyes. He was not, like his brothers, fond of the chase, though he rode well; Catherine had seen to that.

An ardent horsewoman herself, she insisted that all her children should learn how to manage a horse. It was not lack of courage that made him less eager for the chase and outdoor games. He preferred to shine intellectually rather than by physical prowess. His manners were gracious and charming.

Everyone noticed how she loved this child, for, as it had been with her husband, where her love was concerned she threw caution away.

‘The. Queen loves the little Henry as she loves her right eye!’ it was said.

And it was true. When she embraced him, when she listened to his rather lisping, delightful way of speech, when he showed off in his fine new jacket― for he loved his clothes and was more interested in them than were any of the girls in theirs― when he brought his lap dogs for her to caress, she would think to herself: ‘Oh, my beloved son, you are all Medici. Would I could put you on the throne of France.’ h When she thought of the future, she would see him, in her mind’s eye, mounting the throne. Is it truth I see? she would ask herself; and be unable to discover whether what she had seen was a vision of the future or a picture conjured up from her own powerful desires.

‘If only he might be King!’ she would sigh; and then: ‘He shall be King!’

Her longing to see into the future increased, and when she heard reports of a certain prophet, she had him brought to court that she might question him.

This was a black-bearded Jew from Provence, a certain Michel de Nostredame, but he had Latinized his name as did other scholars, and he was known as Nostradamus. He had been a doctor before he discovered his powers, and had studied at Montpellier at the same time as that quick-wit Francis Rabelais.

Catherine told him that she wished him to foretell the future of her children, and for this purpose she had him brought to the royal nurseries; and as the court was at Blois at the time, he lived there in the household of the royal children.

Many were the conversations she had with him. She grew to admire him for his knowledge and to respect him for goodness. He was a clever talker; she enjoyed his company.

He quickly realized that although she had engaged him to foretell the future of her children, it was the future of Henry in which she was most interested. He pointed this out to her and she agreed.

‘Leave the others and get to work on Henry’s future,’ she said.

He did this, and after some weeks he had news for her.

He pledged her to secrecy, for what he had to say he felt to be of great importance. He was a man who hated violence; as a doctor he had faced death many a time in poor towns where he had worked among plague-stricken victims, wrapped in a tarred cloak and wearing a mask to protect him from infection; he was ready to face danger to save life; he loathed having any part in that which might take life.

Catherine met him in his apartment where he did his work.

‘It is of your son Henry I would wish to speak, if it pleases your Majesty.’

Catherine said nothing could please her more.

‘I beg of you, Madame, keep this matter to yourself. I have future. Your son Henry will one day wear the crown.

She was overcome with joy, and promised that she would tell no one what she had heard. But when she was alone she began to think of the lives between.

Henry― beloved husband, whom she adored― was one, and the thought of his being supplanted, even by young Henry, was agony to her. This love for her son was great, but it could not be compared with her love for her husband. Young Henry was but compensation for the loss of greater joys. But, she assured herself, the King is young yet; he is strong and healthy― far more so than any of his children many years before him.

It is not of the King I must think. It is of the future of my darling Henry. Yet there was Francis to come before Charles and Charles before Henry.

What of them? They were young, only a few years older their brother. And yet― Nostradamus had said that Henry should wear the crown.

She was obsessed with a desire to see into the future. She set the brothers Ruggieri working; they must find out if Nostradamus had really glimpsed the future or was merely telling her what he must guess she wished to hear. The brothers worked eagerly, delighted to find the Queen’s thoughts diverted from her husband’s mistress to the future of her favourite son.

They were able to tell her that they also believed young Henry would wear the crown of France.

Then, often her eyes would grow bright as they fell upon the pock-marked face of Francis; and eagerly she would watch Charles toying with his food. Both these boys ate sparingly and were quickly out of breath.

Catherine watched the children at their studies. They were growing up fast.

In the last year or so young Francis, as Dauphin, had had his own establishment; very soon now he would do what he wished to do more than anything else in the world: marry Mary Stuart.

How sick he looked. He could not last long. And yet― Nostradamus had hinted that he would wear the crown; and the brothers had supported Nostradamus. Perhaps he was not so sickly as he looked. He was not attending now; he was in that state of excitement which Mary always aroused in him. He was longing for his marriage; Mary was nothing loth, sickly as he was. She loved his adoration; it was so complete.

They were all in awe of Catherine― even Mary. She had but to turn her brilliant eyes upon them and they would obey her.

She said sharply now as Mary was turning to whisper to Francis: ‘Now, Mary, you will translate for me.’

Mary translated the Latin prose in her quick and clever way. The child was so alert, so brilliant that it was not easy to find fault with her. Francis and Charles watched her with great admiration.

Need they both adore her so blatantly, wondered Catherine. Was that how it would be all through her life? Catherine believed so. The child herself believed it. Flushed and excited, she quickly reached the end of the passage Catherine had set her to translate.

‘Bravo!’ cried Francis.

‘Silent, my son,’ said Catherine sharply. ‘There was a mistake.’

‘But no!’ cried Mary indignantly.

‘But yes!’ said Catherine, and she pointed it out.

Mary was angry; and Francis and Charles were angry with their mother.

Even Elizabeth and Claude were on Mary’s side, although more in awe of their mother than were the boys, so they did not show it.

‘You did well, Mary,’ said Catherine, ‘but not quite so well as you thought.

If you had gone more slowly, taken more care, you would have done better. It is well to remember that too much pride often brings disaster.’

The girl flushed and went through the passage again. This time she was word perfect. There was no denying that she was a clever little thing.

‘Thank you. You elder ones may go now. I will hear Henry and Margot.’

But while she taught the younger children, she was aware of the older ones in a corner whispering together. Francis hung on Mary’s words, kept hold of her hand; all his yearning for her was in his eyes. And Charles was hating his elder brother, because he would have the honour of marrying Mary, and had Charles been born first, that honour would have been his.

Poor little Princess! thought Catherine. They were born to envy, to fear, and to hate. As for Mary Stuart, she was born to make trouble for those about her― and mayhap for herself, for the child would have to learn that she was not quite so important to others as she was to herself.

Before Catherine now were her two best-loved children, for although she sometimes thought that young Henry, with the older Henry, had all the affection she had to give, she could not help but be fond of this bright and beautiful little daughter of hers. It was such a pleasure to listen to her three-year-old impudence, to contemplate her beauty and to remind herself that this little Margot was her daughter.

But her attention strayed again and again to the older children, and while she took Henry on to her lap and put her arm about Margot, and appeared to pay attention to them, she was really listening to the group at the window.

Mary was on the window-seat, while Francis sat on a stool, holding her hand, which she allowed to lie limply in his while he gazed up at her. Charles was stretched out on the floor also looking up at her with rapt attention; while Claude and Elizabeth sat on stools close by.

Mary talking of religion, and Catherine frowned, for she considered the subject unsuitable.

During the last years the blood of many had stained the land of France.

Henry had sworn, after the tailor’s death, that he would never witness another burning, but that had not prevented many from being thrown to the flames. The Chambre Ardente had been busy during those years; heretics filled the damp and mouldy Conciergerie and the cruel Bastille; their groans had echoed through the hideous Salle de la Question: thousands had been left to fight the rats and die of starvation in the oubliettes of the Great and Little Chatelot. Many had met horrible deaths by the wheel and wild horses; some had their flesh torn with pincers and molten lead poured into their wounds; some were hung to roast over slow fires. The tongues of these victims were cut out so that the spectators could not be moved by their hymns and prayers. And all of this been done at the King’s command in the name of Holy Church.

And now little Catholic Mary― primed by uncles, the de Guises― talked to the Princes and the Princess of these things.

Catherine called them to her and they came defiantly. ‘It is not meet to speak of such things,’ she said severely.

‘Is it not meet to speak of what is, then?’ asked Mary.

‘I would have you know that it is not good manners to speak of what is not pleasant.’

‘Madame,’ said Mary slyly, ‘do you think it is not a good thing to rid our country of heretics?’

‘I said that it was not a subject for the lips of children. That is all that concerns you. Go, and remember I forbid you to speak of such matters.’

So they went, and Mary Stuart, as impudent as she dared be, began to talk flippantly of the newest dance, in tones of contempt which she meant the Queen to hear. It was irritating and worse still that the two boys and two girls should admire her for it.

Catherine had an impulse to take the insolent girl, throw her across a stool and whip the insolence out of her, and to do it before the others that they might witness her humiliation. Should she? No! It was not dignified for the reigning Queen of France to whip her successor.

It was the hour which Catherine enjoyed more than any― that in which she held her cercle. During this, it seemed to her as though she were the Queen in truth.

It was graciously allowed her by the King and Diane― a reward for a meek and complaisant wife. She let it be known that she had instituted the cercle that she might receive men and women of the court and so become better acquainted with them; the talk must be of an enlivening and cultural nature and it was considered an honour to attend and a slight to be shut out of the Queen’s cercle.

The King often attended; he looked upon it as a courteous duty, and unless he was ‘at home’ at Anet, or there was a hunting party― in which case Catherine herself would usually be of it― he would come. Diane, of course, as first lady to the Queen, must be there. Montmorency made a point of occasional visits, although he declared that he was not at home in a lady’s apartment and came because he liked to talk to the Queen about the royal children, for whom he professed great fondness. The Guises came, and Catherine was glad to have them there, although she greatly feared them, knowing them for the ruthlessly ambitious men they were, priming their niece, Mary Stuart, in all she did and said. It horrified Catherine to think of Francis as the slave of Mary, and Mary the tool of her uncles. Pray the saints, there would be many years before Francis, with Mary, mounted the throne. The King was robust and not one of his sons equalled him in physique. Catherine often remembered that Francis the First and her own father had died of the same terrible disease. She and Henry were healthy people, but had they escaped the taint only to pass it on to their children? Young Francis and Charles were weaklings. She smiled suddenly. But her own darling Henry should not be. She was back at an old theme.

She could now look round the members of her cercle with pleasure and gratification. The poets Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay argued together; one of the three Coligny brothers was talking animatedly to Henry’s sister Marguerite, for whom a husband had not yet been found, although she was advancing into her thirties; lovely Anne d’Este, the Italian woman whom Francis de Guise had married, was with the other two Colinys. All the most important personages of the court found it expedient to attend the Queen’s cercle.

There was one thing she could not do, and that was exclude Diane. All her triumph turned to bitterness when she looked around and saw her enemy. As she received the homage of those about her, Catherine could not prevent pictures flashing in and out of her mind: little vignettes, scenes from the chamber below hers at Saint-Germain. Engraved on her memory were the tender gestures, the passionate love-making. There were many scores to be settled with Diane.

Never would Catherine forget how, some years ago, when it had been necessary to appoint a Regent, Henry having gone in person to battle, and tradition demanding that the Regent should be the Queen, Henry had, at Diane’s instigation, so hemmed her in with councillors that her power had been completely nullified. Catherine had accepted that state of affairs without protest, not wishing the people to know how, at his mistress’s command, her husband would humiliate his wife. She did not forget it. She would never forget it; it was almost as bitter a memory as those that had come to her by way of the hole in the floor.

Montmorency was beside her now. He had brought a new medicine for little Hercule, as he had heard the child was ailing.

‘Monsieur, you are too good!’ said Catherine. ‘The elephant’s tooth you brought me proved beneficial to Charles.’

‘You dissolved it well, I hope, Madame.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘This is a special herb. I have tested it on my servants.’

The Constable’s eyes were on Diane, who was talking with the Duc de Guise and Mary Stuart, together with the Dauphine. He and Diane were enemies, in secret, though they did distress the King by proclaiming their enmity; but Diane had never forgotten the part the Constable played in the affair of the Scottish governess.

Catherine turned to find Francis de Vendôme at her side. She smiled warmly, for this man had a special claim to her favour.

He was handsome― indeed, he was one of the handsomest men at court― and was of royal blood, having Bourbon connections; he had always made a point of being very courteous to the Queen; but, most important of all, he had been cool to Diane. This had happened when she was looking for husbands for her daughters and had considered Francis de Vendôme being of royal blood, a suitable parti. Francis de Vendôme entitled Vidame of Chartres, had haughtily declined the alliance with the girl whom Diane afterwards succeeded in marrying to one of the Guises. Catherine had liked the young man for that; and in his turn he had made a habit of humbly seeking her out and giving her his respectful admiration. She was pleased to see him at her cercle.

Montemorency moved off, and she gave the Vidame permission to sit beside her.

The young man was amusing; he was always ready with the latest gossip, and she had found more than once that he soothed her wounded vanity. People glanced their way, and she knew they wondered whether this was the beginning of a love affair― although there had never been anything of this nature in the life of the Queen.

‘Your Majesty is looking charming this evening.’ The young man’s handsome head moved closer to that of the Queen, who tried to show that the flattery did not interest her; she could not be blamed if it did, she reminded herself, since she had received so little in a lifetime of humiliations at the court of France.

‘Poor old Montmorency seems troubled tonight,’ she said.

‘It is this affair of his son’s. The old man is ambitious for the boy, and the boy, the saints preserve him, is ambitious for love.’

‘I think the boy has spirit,’ said Catherine.

‘What we would call spirit, Madame, the old Constable calls folly.’

Catherine smiled. The whole court was talking of the Montmorency affair at the moment. The King had offered his daughter, Diane of France, to the Constable’s son, and the Constable’s son had already promised marriage to one of Catherine’s ladies. Montmorency was furious to think that the man had, by his impetuous act, spoiled his chances of linking his family with the King’s. He had had the girl whom his son wished to marry shut up in a convent, and was endeavoring to get the Pope to annul the promise of marriage.

‘Ah well,’ went on the Vidame, ‘it is a great temptation. The old Constable would rejoice to see his son make such a noble marriage. One understands.’

‘One understands the Constable’s feelings and those of his son. The latter is not the first to refuse a match that would bring him advantage.’

They exchanged smiles. Catherine was referring to the Vidame’s declining the hand of Diane’s daughter.

‘Madame,’ whispered the Vidame, ‘there is one here who greatly enjoys the Constable’s discomfiture.’

Again they could smile together, cosily, intimately. It was very pleasant to chat with someone who had proved that he had no wish to serve Diane.

‘How well they hide their enmity from the King!’ said the Vidame.

The Queen was silent, and he wondered if he gone too far. He was ambitious; he had not thought ageing Diane could hold her influence at court as long as this; and even now, he looked at her silver hair― though she was beautiful in spite of it― and he felt, as all did, that she would hold the King’s attention until she died, he was sure that he had done the right thing in winning the good graces of the quiet Queen instead of those of Diane. His was a waiting policy and the Queen was comparatively young. When he had looked into those dark eyes that could seem so mild, he had seen something which others had failed to see; he had discovered that Catherine was not the insignificant person many believed her to be. He remembered the death of Dauphin Francis which had made her Queen. Ah, Madame Serpent, he thought, could you solve that mystery? But sly she might be, subtle too, yet she was also a neglected wife; he was not rich, but his face, his breeding, his charming manners were his fortune, and he had always been a great success with women.

‘How beautiful she looks,’ said Catherine, ‘in her black-and-white. I declare it becomes that silvery hair of hers more it did the raven locks.’

‘Beautiful, yes. What health she enjoys! There must be sorcery in it. But even sorcery cannot hold off the years indefinitely.’

‘Yes; she has aged much since I first set eyes on her.’ He had come close and she moved slightly.

‘A thousand pardons, Madame,’ he said. ‘For one blessed moment, I forgot you were the Queen.’

She looked away with a hint of impatience, but he knew that she was not displeased. The Vidame began to wonder seriously about the possibility of a love-affair with the Queen. He was sure it would be a most profitable love affair, and the poor Bourbons with the King’s four sons standing between them and the throne, could not afford to ignore any opportunity.

Catherine, too astute not to read his thoughts and to suspect his motive, was wondering how she might use the Vidame. Diane was ageing. The King was inclined to simplicity. He had never thought of his wife as an attractive woman.

Would it be possible to gain his attention by letting him think that one of the handsomest men at court was interested in her?

It was a thought worth considering. Therefore she allowed the Vidame to stay at her side, and listened with apparent lightheartedness to his veiled compliments which he knew so well how to phrase.

She was watching the two lovers― Francis and Mary― on the window-seat.

Francis de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine were still with them; the wily pair were talking merrily, and the children were going off into fits of laughter at their presumably witty conversation. Young Francis was staring up at the scarred face of Francis de Guise with adoration. Of what was the Duc de Guise speaking? Of Metz, where he had routed Spaniards? Of his entry into Paris, where the people adore him even as young Francis was preparing to do? Even that terrible scar on his right cheek which had earned for him the name of le Balafé― hideous though it was― he had turned to advantage. The terrible Duc de Guise, the greatest soldier in France, the idol of Paris, the most scheming of a scheming family, the uncle of her who might one day be Queen! In that event it would be the Guise brothers who would become the power behind the throne. Now, as he talked, he was drawing others to him; and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was there to help him.

The Cardinal was the cruellest of men, the most cunning, the most witty, the most ambitious and immoral man who ever strove for his own ends under the sanctifying robes of the Church. He was as ready with a quotation from the Bible or the classics as he was with a risqué story; he was completely unscrupulous. And this man, with Francis de Guise, stood behind the Scots Queen and the boy Francis awaiting the death of the King, that they, through these children, might rule France. And on whom did these men turn their flattery― on the pale-faced, delicate boy Dauphin or the girl with that shining mass of hair and the most charming smile in France? The wily uncles would direct their niece, for she adored them, and the girl in turn would rule the Dauphin since he was passionately in love with her.

Catherine stood up suddenly; she was determined to break-up the conference by the window.

‘Let us play a game,’ she said. ‘Let it be Pall-Mall.’

The ladies and gentlemen could all join in this, and better to have them playing than engaging in dangerous conversation.

Mary Stuart’s eyes met those of the woman who was to be her mother-in- law, and the girl’s mouth hardened. She knew that the merry conversation she was enjoying had been deliberately broken up.

So! thought Mary. She is jealous. I and the Dauphin surround ourselves with all the most important people in the land, and that makes her angry. The daughter of tradesmen is afraid that she will lose what little dignity she has! Catherine noted the girl’s pout, and laughed inwardly. Silly little Mary Stuart! She thought it was for her charming beauty that those uncles of hers flattered her. She did not realize that even to such rakes as the Guise brothers there were more important matters than beautiful women.

The King joined in the game of Pall-Mall, playing with enthusiasm which he gave to all games, and with that fine sportsmanship which made a game he played in as informal as any played without him.

How noble he looked at play! thought the Queen, and wondered when and if old age would ever ease her longing for him.

She passed among the players, and in doing so could not help but hear an ill-timed remark of Mary Stuart’s:

‘She likes not to see you gentlemen more interested in Francis and me than in herself. Is not that what one would expect from a daughter of tradesmen?’

Catherine’s face was impassive. Let the insult pass for the moment; it would not be forgotten.

But, watching the King, she had little thought to spare for the girl. She could not live without the hope of one day luring him from Diane.

Would it be possible to kindle a spark of jealousy? And if so, not might not slumbering passion be awakened?

Her speculative eyes sought the tall, handsome figure of the Vidame of Chartres.

In Catherine’s apartments her women were robing her for the wedding of her eldest son. She could hear the bells ringing out the city and the people were already shouting in the streets.

As they slipped her jewel-studded gown over her head, she thought of the events which had befallen this land thick and fast in the last few months — events which had culminated in marriage which neither she nor Diane and the King had wished to take place so soon. Francis and Mary were children only fourteen and fifteen. They were madly in love― at least Francis was, and Mary was ready to pet him and love him because of the eagerness with which he did everything she of asked him.

In these last months, those uncles of Mary Stuart had grown in importance.

The idol of Paris had become almost the King of Paris. Even Diane, who had once worked steadily to advance them, was appalled by their rising power, and had even sunk her differences with Montmorency to work against their further rise.

Whatever happened at court, it seemed that wars must come and go, and this time the enemies of France had been both the Spaniards and the English― allies because the King of Spain was the husband of the Queen of England. The Spaniards had reached Saint-Quentin, surrounded it, besieged it, and the town had fallen to King Philip’s men while Montmorency himself had been taken prisoner. Paris was threatened, and the country was in despair. The terrified Parisians were showing signs of panic, and there had been a few outbreaks of rioting.

Catherine could smile now as the jewels winked back at her, for out of this disaster had she achieved great triumph. She had been Regent in Henry’s absence; and this time, sweeping aside all those who would hamper her, she gave the citizens of France a glimpse of the real woman behind that submissive façade. She had seen clearly that Paris must be lifted from its apathy and fear unless the whole of France was to be lost; and she had made her way to the Parliament and there demanded money for the armies, and had commanded that the people should not be told that the war was lost. So eloquently did she speak, so skilful were her arguments, so courageous her manner, and above all so calm was she, that she won the admiration those who had previously regarded her as a nonentity. Paris became hopeful. Funds were raised for the armies. Catherine was proved right. The war was not lost.

Then Francis de Guise― le Balafré― saw an opportunity of saving his country and winning fresh honour for himself. He took Calais from the English.

It was an unimportant little town but the moral effect was tremendous, for the English, after two hundred years, were at last expelled from Franc; and the humiliation of having foreigners on French soil was at last removed. What mattered it that the Constable de Montmorency was a prisoner when there was Francis de Guise to fight the battles of France.

The Spaniards could not extend their lines of communication beyond Saint- Quentin; their armies were disbanded and withdrawn, and it became obvious that the Queen’s bold action in demanding money to continue the fight had saved France from ignoble and unnecessary surrender.

Thinking back, Catherine could smile with more than elation, with hope of achieving her heart’s desire. It was longer possible to regard the Queen with indifference. The King showed in his manner a new respect for his wife. And there was the young Vidame de Chartres waiting to pay her his respectful admiration, which, at a sign from the Queen, could kindle into something deeper. Catherine thanked the saints nightly for the miracle of Saint-Quentin.

But the hero of the day was Francis de Guise, and to him must go great honour. Henry began by giving an Oriental masque for him in the Rue Saint-Antoine. It was lavish, colourful, expensive; worthy, said the Parisians, of their beloved le Balafré. But the cunning Duke was after more glory than the Oriental masque could give him. He and his brother the Cardinal pressed for the marriage of their niece to the Dauphin; and, being well aware of the immense popularity― swollen now by the gain of Calais― of the impudent Guises, the King, with Diane, agreed that the marriage should take place at once.

‘Bring me my pearls,’ said Catherine; and they were brought placed about her neck.

‘Now, send in my children, that I may inspect them,’ she ordered.

They came― all except the bridegroom, who was being prepared for his wedding in his own establishment.

Catherine embraced first Elizabeth and Claude and complimented them on their charming appearance. ‘My dears, you are excited, I can see, to witness your brother’s marriage. Well, we shall soon be finding husbands for you, eh?’

‘And for me also,’ said saucy Margot, pushing forward out of her turn.

‘If we can find someone who will put up with your wickedness, Mademoiselle Margot!’ said her mother, trying to look severely at the brightest of all the faces before her.

‘It is easy to find husbands for princesses,’ said Margot, with wisdom beyond her five years. ‘So one will be found for me, I doubt not.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Papa’s sister, Aunt Marguerite, has no husband, and she is a princess.’

‘Hush, my children, this is most unseemly talk,’ said the Queen. ‘The wedding has made you forget your manners.’ Then her eyes went to her darling boy. He returned that special secret smile they kept for each other. ‘And how Henry today? Excited, wishing for a wedding of his own?’

He skipped towards her; his movements were graceful, like a girl’s than a boy’s. The others noticed that he was not reprimanded for forgetting the respect owed to the Queen, even though she was his mother.

Catherine stooped and kissed her beloved child, first on cheek, then on the other.

Seven years old and growing in grace and beauty every day! Oh my darling, she thought, I would it were your wedding today and that you were the Dauphin! You would not care more for the flighty fair-haired beauty than for your Maman.

‘I would rather have a new clip for my coat, Maman, than a wedding,’ said Henry seriously. ‘I have seen a beautiful one in gold set with a sapphire.’

‘So you wish for yet another ornament, my proud popinjay?’

She would give an order for the clip. He should have it for his birthday.

He showed her his coat. Was it not magnificent? Did she not like it better than that of Hercule or even Charles? He, himself had ordered the alterations to be made.

She pinched his cheek. ‘So it is a little dressmaker you have become then?’

But she must remember the others waiting expectantly for notice.

She made Charles turn round that she might see the set of his coat. Silly, sullen little boy! He was angry and jealous because Mary was marrying his brother. His eyes were weeping. How stupid of a boy of eleven to think he had lost the love of his life!

Little Hercule, the baby, was four and very pretty though Mademoiselle Margot outshone them all― except Henry, in Catherine’s eyes― with her gay spirits and bright red cheeks and flashing eyes. She must pirouette and curtsy and take little Hercule by the arm and pretend that he was her bridegroom and that they were bowing to the crowds. The children were so comic that Catherine found herself bursting into loud laughter.

‘We forget the time,’ she declared at length. ‘It will not do for us to be late.’

She signed to the attendants. ‘Take them now and see that they are ready when the time comes.’

The royal party had spent the night at the palace of the Bishop of Paris, and a gallery had been erected which ran from the palace to the west door of Notre Dame. This gallery was fitted with tapestries and cloth of silver and gold, wherever possible ornamented with the fleur-de-lys.

It was now time to join the party which was to make its way through the gallery to Notre Dame, and the King’s gentlemen led the way, followed by princes, cardinals, archbishops, and abbots; then came the Papal Legate with the Dauphin and his brothers, the Bourbon princes following; and after that, the most enchanting sight of all― young Mary Stuart, dazzling all eyes in a white gown with a long train, while on her fair curling hair, she wore a golden crown, decorated with pearls and coloured precious stones. The people gasped and could not take their eyes from her as the King himself led her into Notre Dame.

And after the King and the little Queen, came Catherine and her ladies.

Catherine’s alert eyes missed nothing. Francis de Guise, she noted, was much in evidence― diabolically attractive with that hideous scar and his rich garments. He had taken Montmorency’s place as Grand Master of the King’s Household, and Catherine admired his cleverness in playing to the crowd. He had allowed the common people to use the scaffolding which had been erected for the occasion.

‘Le Balafré!’ called the crowd. He knew well how to play to the humble people of Paris, he was their idol, determined to be their King.

Cardinal de Bourbon greeted the royal party as they entered the church.

While he was delivering his oration, gold and silver coins were thrown to the crowds. Even in the church it was possible to hear the shouts of the people, shouts of delight from those who secured the money, shouts of protest and from those who were almost trampled to death in the struggle. All through the ceremony the shouting persisted, mingled with screams of the injured.

Catherine was glad when they left the church, for by time the weak had prevailed on the heralds to stop the scattering of money, crying out that unless they did, there would be many deaths to celebrate the wedding of their Dauphin, Back at the Bishop’s Palace a banquet awaited them, and after this the King led the bride in a dance; watching them, Catherine remembered her own wedding and magnificent Francis with the kind, debauched eyes holding her hand telling her that she was Catherine of France now, not Caterina of Italy.

There was a lump in her throat; it was born of pity for poor ignorant little girl from Italy. If only she could have been as wise as the present Catherine, what a lot of misery she would have saved herself!

But here was Francis, the hero of the occasion, bowing before his mother, and begging for the honour of her hand in the dance.

She smiled at him.

‘Come, my dear Dauphin, let us dance.’

All eyes were on the four of them now― the King and Mary; herself and Francis. On such occasions as this she felt that she took her rightful place in the land.

‘You are looking well, my son,’ she said, for indeed he was.

‘It is the happiest day of my life,’ said the bridegroom.

‘You are fortunate, my son. You love your wife. It is a wonderful thing― providing, of course, that there is love on both sides.’

The boy looked at her with pity. He understood. She was thinking of her love for his father, and his father’s for his mistress. Poor Maman! He had never thought of her ‘poor Maman’ before.

But his own life was so wonderful that he could not brood on the sadness of others. Catherine saw how his eyes followed his dazzling young wife round the ballroom.

She laughed.

‘It is with Mary that you should be dancing, my son.’

‘Maman, tell me this: did you ever see anyone more beautiful?’

‘No. I do not think I have. But I will tell you something, Monsieur le Dauphin. Your sister Margot may yet outshine her.’

‘Nay, Maman, that would not be possible.’

She smiled, glad to see him happy, for he was her son. Let him enjoy his happiness, for she was convinced he could not live very long. He could not do so, for he had to make way for Charles and then for Henry. He must not do so!

Just after four o’clock in the afternoon that ball was over, for the party must now make its journey across the Seine to the Palais de Justice for the day’s final festivities. The King and the Princes rode on beautiful prancing horses, the Queen and Mary Stuart in litters, while the Princesses rode in coaches, the ladies-in-waiting on white palfreys; and everywhere were rations of rich cloth splashed lavishly with the golden lilies of France.

Supper was served in the Palais de Justice, and the civic authorities had decorated the place so fantastically, so magnificently, that people said it was comparable with the Elysian Fields. Each course was accompanied by the sweetest music, and, as the banquet progressed, merriment increased, and there a much lively conversation and gay laughter.

Yet another ball followed.

The Vidame de Chartres sought out the Queen. Catherine had caught the general excitement; the wine she had drunk made her flushed and excited; she seemed to see the world in more beautiful colours than ever before, and hope was high in her heart.

Her eyes never left the King, who too seemed excited and happier, so that he looked younger and reminded her of their earlier days together.

While he lives, thought the Queen, I shall continue to need him. Nothing else can seem important to me while his love is given elsewhere. ‘What a lovely Queen the little Scot will make!’ she said.

The Vidame answered. ‘There is a lovely Queen now on the throne.’

His eyes were bright; he had drunk too freely.

Catherine laughed at the flattery, but she was not displeased.

She kept the Vidame at her side. She allowed him to her hold hand overlong in the dance, and she was sure that it was noticed.

Did Henry notice? She fancied so.

He respected her because of her prompt action over Saint-Quentin. Would he learn to desire her because the Vidame de Chartres was showing them all that he thought her an attractive woman?

She danced with the King; she danced with the Dauphin; and her only other partner was the Vidame.

When they returned to the Louvre after the ball, Catherine looking into her mirror, saw that her eyes were brighter, cheeks flushed. Hope had made her look ten years younger, She wondered if the King would come to her. She imagined a little scene in which he upbraided her for her conduct with the Vidame. Happily, in her thoughts, she answered him: ‘Henry, can it mean that you are jealous?’

She scarcely slept that night; even in the early hours of the morning, she was still hoping that he would come.

But, as so many times before, he did not do so. Yet hope stayed with her.

‘One wedding begets another,’ said Catherine to her eldest daughter.

Poor little Elizabeth! How small she looked. She was only fourteen― so young to be married.

Catherine had sent for the girl that she herself break the news.

‘My dearly beloved daughter, I wish to speak to you of your marriage.’

The girl’s big dark eyes were fixed on her mother’s face.

I grow soft, thought Catherine; for she was feeling uneasy, remembering a long-ago occasion when a girl of about this one’s age was summoned to the presence of the Holy Pope who wished to talk to her about a marriage.

‘Yes, my gracious mother?’

‘You knew, did you not, that when Francis married, it would be your turn next?’

The child swallowed hard. ‘Yes, gracious mother.’

‘Why, you must not look sad, for this is great and wonderful news. Here is a fine marriage for you.’

The young girl waited. Who was it? She was thinking of the young men she knew. It might be one of the Bourbons, because they had royal blood. On perhaps one of the Guises, who had lately become more than royal. There was the son of the Duc de Guise― young Henry. A rather frightening but entirely exciting prospect. Young Henry was going to be his father all over again.

‘Oh, Maman, ’ she burst out suddenly, ‘do not keep me in suspense. Who is it? Who?―‘

‘You are going to Spain, my child. You are going to be the wife of his August Majesty, King Philip of Spain.’

The girl grew white, and looked as though she were about to faint. To Spain!

Miles away from home! To the King of Spain. But he was an old man.

‘You do not seem sensible of this great honour, my daughter.’

‘But, Maman, ’ whispered Elizabeth, ‘it is so far from home.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Catherine, forcing out her loud laugh. ‘Think, my child, you will be a Queen― Queen of what many would say was the greatest country of all. Just think of that!’

‘But I do not want to go.’

‘Not want to be Queen of Spain?’

‘No, Maman. I wish to stay a Princess of France.’

‘What! And be an old maid like your Aunt Marguerite?’

‘Well, she also is going to be married now. Why cannot I wait until I am as old as Aunt Marguerite?’

‘Because, my dear, it is ordained that you should marry the King of Spain.’

‘I hate the King of Spain.’

‘Hush! Is this what you have to say after all my care in bringing you up, in guarding you, in teaching you what is expected of a princess?’

‘He is an old man.’

‘He is just past thirty.’

‘But he is married to the Queen of England, Maman.’

‘You surely knew that the Queen of England is dead?’

‘But I heard he was to marry the new Queen of England.’

‘Then you, who have listened to gossip, must now listen to good sense. You, my dear daughter, are to marry King Phillip.’

‘ Maman― when? ‘

‘Oh, it will be arranged soon, never fear.’

‘But that is what I do fear. Will he come here― for me, or shall I be sent to him?’

‘You will be married here in Notre Dame just as Francis was.’

‘So― he will come for me?’

Catherine smoothed the hair back from her daughter’s brow. ‘Why, what airs you give yourself! Do you think the mighty King of Spain would make such a journey merely for a wife? No; you will be married by proxy. The Duke of Alva will take the King’s place. You enjoyed Francis’s wedding, did you not?

Well, now it is your turn.’

Elizabeth threw herself at her mother’s feet. ‘Oh, Maman, Maman, I do not want it. I cannot go. I do not want to leave my home for that old man.’

Catherine, softened, drew the girl up to her; she led her to a couch and sat with her arms about her; and, sitting thus, she talked to her as she had never before talked to any of her children, except Henry. She told her of her own childhood her ambitious, scheming relative, the Pope of Rome; she told of the Murate, and how the people had shouted for her to thrown to the soldiery; and she told finally of her coming to France― how she had dreaded it, and how she had grown to love it.

The young girl listened, and was, in some small measure, comforted.

‘But Spain is where my father went,’ mourned Elizabeth. ‘He was a prisoner there. There he spent his most unhappy years.’

‘My dear,’ said Catherine, ‘it is not for us to choose, but to obey.’

‘Yes, dear Maman.’

‘We have all suffered as you think you do now. It may be you will find the King of Spain such another as I found your father. There is not a better man in the whole world than your dear father, and yet I felt towards him once as you now feel towards King Philip.’

‘I hope so, Maman, but I am filled with foreboding.’

Catherine embraced her daughter tenderly; she also was uneasy.

The King came into the Queen’s private chamber, and she dismissed her attendants.

‘I wish to speak to you, Henry.’

He turned towards her so that the sun shone full on his face. aged since the Siege of Saint-Quentin; he was passing his prime. Catherine reminded herself that his splendid youth had been spent on Diane, and bitter resentment flared up within her.

‘It is about Elizabeth,’ she said.

He looked relieved. ‘Elizabeth,’ he repeated.

‘She goes about tight-lipped and pale. I am afraid she will be ill. She has never been very strong.’

‘It is an ordeal for a child to be told suddenly that she is to married,’ said Henry gently. ‘It can be upsetting.’

He was thinking of the day, long ago, when he had been told he was to have an Italian bride.

She went to him, for she found herself unable to keep away him; she slipped her arm through his. ‘We understand Henry, do we not?’

‘Indeed we do.’

She pressed his arm. ‘And some of us learn that it is not so bad as we thought it might be.’

‘That is so.’

She laughed, and laid her cheek against his sleeve. ‘We have been fortunate, Henry.’

Now he was uneasy; was he reminded of those days when she forsaken caution and begged that he return some of the fierce, demanding affection that she gave him?

He has not changed, she thought wretchedly.

But he must feel differently towards her. In the old day he had thought her a nonentity; now he was aware that she could be strong, could sway his ministers.

Saint-Quentin was between the past and the present.

She stood stiffly beside him. ‘There is no comfort we can offer our daughter then?’

He shook his head. ‘Poor child!’ he murmured.

‘She will get over it. She is frightened because she young.’

‘She will get over it,’ he repeated.

‘As others did― before her.’

He moved towards the door. She said desperately: ‘Henry, I have heard whisperings.’

He stopped short, waiting, and she laughed lightly. ‘You will be amused. Of whom do you think?’

‘I have no idea. Not― not―’ He turned to her and looked at her in horror, so that she felt her heart leap. He continued ‘Not― Elizabeth?’

She laughed again, this time bitterly. ‘Oh no, not our daughter. The whisperings concerned none other than myself.’

‘You― Catherine! What do you mean?’

‘You may have noticed that foolish young man — young Francis de Vendôme―’

Henry looked puzzled. ‘What of him?’ he asked.

‘He has been dancing attendance on me rather much of late.’

Henry looked grave. ‘Young Vendôme!’ he said. ‘It will be well to take care. Those Bourbons are a shiftless lot. Depend upon it, he is after something.’

How maddening he was! It had not occurred to him the young man might be seeking a love affair with the Queen. Henry made it quite clear, when he said the young man was after something, that he meant an appointment at court.

Catherine felt it was foolish to persist, but she could not rid herself of the hope in her heart. ‘There are some who think the young fool is― in love with me.’

Henry looked astonished. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. You should take care. A shiftless, crafty lot these Bourbons― forever seeking some advantage at court.’

‘I wish I could be sure that you are right,’ she said angrily.

Out his thoughts were elsewhere and he did not perceive her anger.

When he left her she paced up and down her chamber. He was indifferent to her. The position had not changed as far as his love was concerned; he tolerated her now as he had tolerated her always. He respected her a little more, that was all; she did not want his respect.

Very well, she would encourage Monsieur de Vendôme! She would indulge in a light flirtation. She would make people talk.

Then perhaps Henry would take notice. There should be nothing more than a public flirtation; she had no desire for more; there was only one man she desired, and she knew there could be no other. But the only way she could endure her life is by hoping, by continuing to dream that one day he would turn to her.

She was interrupted by a knock on her door, and on bidding whoever was there to come in, a page entered with a letter for her.

She looked at it, and her heart beat faster, for she saw that it was in the handwriting of Nostradamus and had come from Provence, where he now was.

She dismissed the page and settled down to read what the astrologer had written.

She read and re-read the letter, and as she did so she was conscious of a sense of foreboding. Nostradamus confessed that he had been hesitating about writing to her, but he had come the conclusion that it was his duty to do so. He had been having very disturbing dreams lately and the central figures of these dreams were the King and Queen.

There was a dream he had had some years before, and he been so impressed by it that, at the time, he had written it down. This dream now kept recurring. In the dream he saw lions fighting; they fought twice. One of these lions was young and the other was older; the old lion was overcome, and the young lion gouged out the eye of the old lion, who suffered cruelly and died. That was the recurring dream.

Catherine, who believed fervently in the powers of her astrologers and their gift for seeing future events, pondered this deeply. Nostradamus hinted that the older of the two lions was the King, for the King’s escutcheon bore the figure of a lion. Nostradamus was certain that the King was in some sort of danger. He begged the Queen to watch closely that no calamity might befall him.

Deep melancholy filled the Queen, for if Nostradamus had seen the old lion die, and the old lion represented Henry, and if this was a vision of the future, there was nothing on the earth that could save the King. If it was written in his destiny that the King must die, then would the King die.

Who was the young lion? Spain? Or England? Impossible. Neither could be called young. It might be that the lion not Henry, but France. That was more likely. France was in danger. The first clash might be that disastrous outbreak war which had resulted in the siege of Saint-Quentin and had ended in the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis. There was no doubt that the signing of that treaty had been a great blow to France, de Guise was against it, and he had said that in signing such a treaty the King had lost more in a day than he would have done in twenty years of reverses in the field. With a stroke of the pen, the King had surrendered the Italian conquests of the last thirty years. This marriage of Elizabeth’s and of the King’s sister Marguerite to the Duke of Savoy were a result. The King was weary of the Italian wars, and he was longing to get his good friend the Constable released from captivity. They had driven the English from French soil; let that satisfy France. Henry had declared that Italy was a snare which had entrapped French treasure and French lives since the days of his father and Charles V.

And yet― there was great mourning throughout France because of this treaty. It could be called the first clash, and from it the old lion had emerged licking his limbs.

What next, Catherine asked herself. Spain? Or England? She said nothing of the dream of Nostradamus, but she felt gloom about her. Elizabeth was like a pale ghost going about the palace; she had lost her laughter, and her smile was a mockery of what it had once been.

Catherine saw a good deal of the Vidame de Chartres, allowed him special privileges, let him sit beside her during her cercles, listened with apparent pleasure to his gallantries.

But as preparations went on apace for the Spanish marriage, Catherine could not ward off the sense of impending doom.

From outlying districts people were coming into Paris. People were dancing in the streets and there were sounds of revelry all along the Seine. From the great buildings, flags and banners fluttered in the breeze― the flags of France and Spain.

It was a great day when Alva marched into the city, his five hundred men about him, clad in black, yellow, and red. The Parisians were disappointed in the Duke, though― a solemn man, all in black. On his right rode the Count Egmont, and on his left the Prince of Orange. These men were watched with suspicion. It was such a short time ago that they had led armies against Frenchmen. It was hard for bewildered men and women and to understand the exigencies of government, the plots and plans of Kings.

A different wedding this from the last. Then it had been their own Dauphin and the loveliest girl they had ever seen; and the two were adorable, in love and so charming, having been brought up together, and having had eight years of happy companionship before they entered the married state. Now that was charming. That was romance. But this solemn Spaniard, in black, to marry by proxy their little Princess! A man, hands were blood-stained with the blood of Frenchmen to repeat the marriage vows with a young girl because his master was too important to come to Paris and do so himself!

Philip of Spain! He was a bogey in the minds of many. Already twice married, it was said he had not been kind to the old Queen of England and had made her life wretched, had made her people hate her, and then had deserted her and left her lonely. The new Queen of England, a red-headed spitfire, had taken her revenge for her sister. She had plagued him, led him on, pretended to consider his advances, fooled him, snapped her fingers at him, and laughed, secure, she thought, in her island fortress. And so because Elizabeth of England would not have him, he would marry Elizabeth of France.

No, they could not feel that this was a happy wedding, as the Dauphin’s had been.

And almost immediately after Elizabeth had her marriage by proxy, the King’s sister Marguerite was to be married. The two weddings were to take place within the same month.

Well, for the people at least, any wedding was better than no wedding, for the revelries meant a release from tedium― a change from the monotonous business of getting a living.

There was a great cheering and throwing of hats in air when the Princess appeared on the arm of her father. She was dressed in gleaming silver, and wore a large pear-shaped on a fine gold chain which was the gift of her husband-to-be. Catherine had not wished the girl to wear the pearl, for rumour had it that this pearl— which had its own grim history― brought grief to every possessor.

But how could she defy etiquette by bidding the bride not to wear her bridegroom’s gift?

The river sparkled gaily in the June sunshine; the bells began to ring, signifying to the crowds in the street that the marriage by proxy had taken place.

Trumpets and bugles were blown as out of the Cathedral came the young girl, flushed now so that only those near her saw the wretchedness in her eyes.

‘Vive la Reine d’Espagne!’ shouted the crowds. Why, this meant peace with Spain. Peace― and no more war! It was easy therefore to forget the young girl who would have to leave her home and travel across the Pyrenees into Spain, to a strange land where she must live the rest of her life married to a man she had never seen, but of whose reputation for cold and calculating cruelty she had heard much.

But the bells were ringing; the people were shouting; and there was music in the streets.

Back to the Palais de Justice for the banquet; then on to the Louvre to dance and make merry.

Catherine watched the King dancing with his daughter. Shall I never grow away from this yearning? she asked herself. Shall I never overcome this passion and pain? Henry seemed happier than he had for a long time. Peace― for a time, he was thinking. An alliance with an old enemy― the best way of settling troubles.

He was tired of the wars; to win Italy had been his father’s dream; why should he have inherited that dream? In his reign it would be remembered that the English had been driven from the soil of France. That would wipe out the humiliation of Agincourt. He was happy. His little girl, Elizabeth? She was overawed. Who would not be at the prospect of marriage with the mighty Philip? He must try to make her understand how great was the honour done to her.

He spoke to her kindly and she lifted her leaden eyes to his face and tried to smile. She had always loved him dearly.

He had loved her also, as he loved all his children. He consoled himself; it was not for those of a royal house to choose their wives and husbands.

Doubtless Elizabeth would have had to marry young de Guise. It was said that there was hardly a woman in France who would not. But she had to take Philip― as he had had to take Catherine. One got over such tragedies.

They danced the solemn passemento de España in honour of the absent bridegroom. The Queen danced with the Duke of Alva.

But all the time Catherine danced, and later when she chatted gaily with the Vidame, she was conscious of evil near her.

It was not possible to forget the dream of Nostradamus.

The revelries continued. The Duke of Savoy had arrived in time for his marriage to the King’s sister. He made a magnificent spectacle, surrounded by his men in their doublets of red satin, crimson shoes, and black velvet cloaks trimmed with gold lace.

There must be more lavish entertainments; the Duke of Savoy must not feel that his wedding was of less importance in that which had just taken place.

In the Rue Saint-Antoine, close to Les Tournelles, an arena had been set up for a tournament, and in her apartments in the palace Catherine sat listening to the hammering as the pavilion was erected; and as she listened her uneasiness was intensified. The thought came to her that these men were preparing a scaffold or stands for men and women to witness an execution rather than a tournament.

I have allowed this fellow Nostradamus to unnerve me, she thought.

It is nothing. Why, I only felt the gloom when I heard from him.

It was the thirteenth of June and a day of glorious sunshine, Henry came to the Queen’s apartment to conduct her to the tournament. He looked wonderfully handsome, she thought; he was glowing with the pleasure he expected this day to bring him. He was boyish in his love of sport, and there was little he enjoyed as much as a tournament.

He was impatient to be gone, but she had an overwhelming desire to detain him. Everything seemed more vivid to her today than it usually was. As he stood at the window looking down at the crowds, pictures of the past kept flashing in and out of her mind and she was filled with conflicting emotions. She was angry and jealous, tender and passionate in turns. She had to suppress an impulse to rush to him, to fling her arm about him, to beg him to kiss her, to make love to her as he never had, with that fervour and passion which she had seen him bestow on someone else. Tears were in her eyes. She thought of his standing at a window watching the agonizing death of a tailor; then he had held her hand, and in comforting him, she felt he had been closer to him than ever before.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us go down to the arena. They are impatient to start the tournament. Listen to the shouting. They are shouting for us.’

She went to him quickly and, taking his hand, clung to it, He looked at her in surprise.

‘Henry,’ she said, passionately, ‘do not go― Stay here with me.’

He thought she was crazy. She laughed suddenly and dropped her hands.

‘Catherine, I do not understand. Stay here?―’

‘No!’ she cried fiercely. ‘You do not understand. When have you ever understood?’

He drew back. She was frightened suddenly. What a fool she was! Had she not at her age learned to control her passion? ‘How foolish,’ she said. ‘I― I am not myself. I am worried― Henry, desperately worried.’

He looked shocked, but no longer bewildered. She was worried. This then was not one of those alarming demonstrations he had learned to dread in the old days.

She hesitated. But this was not the moment to tell him of the dream. She said: ‘Our daughter― she looks so tragic. It worries me, Henry. It frightens me.’

There was real fear in her eyes, but it was not for Elizabeth. He believed it was, though, and he sought to soothe her.

‘It will pass, Catherine. It is because she is such a child.’

‘She looks so tragic.’

‘But we know these things pass. They are not so bad as they seem.’

She was talking desperately; her one desire being to keep him with her.

‘What do we know of Philip?’

‘That he is King of Spain, that he is the most powerful man in Europe― that his match with our daughter is one of which we may be justly proud.’

She threw herself at him and clung to him. ‘You do me so much good, Henry. You are so sound, so full of good sense.’

Her trembling hands stroked his coat, and, looking up at him, she saw that he was smiling benignly. He did not know that it was a passionate wife who clung to him. He thought it was an anxious mother.

‘There, Catherine. Your anxiety is natural,’ he said. ‘But we must delay no longer. Let us go down to the arena. Can you not hear how impatient they are to start the tournament?’

He took her hand and led her from the room.

When they left the palace and the trumpets heralded their approach, the crowd cheered wildly.

‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! ’ shouted the people.

Yes, thought Catherine. Long live the King! Long live Queen! And for the love of the Virgin let us get on with tournament!

All through that day Catherine’s uneasiness was with her. The sun shone hotly on the gallery in which she sat with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies of the court, but not more hotly than her hatred of Diane, sitting close to her, white-haired and regal, as certain now of the King’s affection as she ever was Henry was the hero of that day. That was right, thought, Catherine, right and fitting. He had given a wonderful display, riding a spirited horse which had been a gift from the Duke of Savoy.

He had chosen for his opponent a young captain of the Scottish guard, a certain Montgomery, a noble-looking youth and a clever combatant.

Watching, there was one moment of terror for Catherine, for the young Scotsman all but threw the King from his horse. A ripple of horror ran through the crowd. Catherine leaned forward, holding her breath, praying. But the King had righted himself.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the loyal crowd, for the King was now thrusting boldly at the young man. And then: ‘Hurrah! Vive le Roi! ’ For the King had thrown the young Scotsman and victory was his.

Catherine felt that the palms of her hands were wet. How nervous she was!

Why, it was nothing but sport. She listened to the joyous shouting of the crowd.

It was fitting that the King of France should win in the fight with a foreigner.

Henry came to the gallery, and it was near Diane that he sat. While they took refreshments, he discussed the fight with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies, and, wishing to compliment young Montgomery on his fight, the King had him brought to the gallery.

‘You did well,’ said the King. ‘You were indeed a worthy opponent.’

Montgomery bowed.

‘Come,’ said the King, ‘take refreshment with us.’

Montgomery was honoured, he said, to take advantage of such a gracious suggestion.

Watching the young man, Henry said suddenly: ‘Methinks that, had you been fighting with another, you might have thrown him.’

Montgomery flushed slightly. ‘Nay, Sire, yours was the greater skill.’

This remark was applauded by the Duke and the ladies, but, watching the King and knowing him so well, Catherine was aware of the niggling doubt in his mind. It was very likely true. Young Montgomery was a splendid specimen of manhood; Henry was strong, but he had seen forty years.

Henry said: ‘There should be no handicaps in true sport. The laurels that come by way of kingship cannot be worn with dignity.’

Montgomery did not know what to answer to this, and the King immediately announced that he wished to break another lance before sunset and that Captain Montgomery should be his opponent ‘Sire,’ said the Duke of Savoy, ‘the day is hot and you have acquitted yourself with honour. Why not put off the breaking of this lance until tomorrow?’

‘I am impatient,’ smiled Henry, ‘to face this young man once more. I cannot wait until tomorrow. My people will be delighted to see me in action again today. They are a good and loyal crowd and it is my duty to serve them.’

The young Scotsman was anxious. He was desperately afraid that he might make himself unpopular by proving himself the victor. He was young; the King was ageing; it was a delicate matter.

He made an attempt to excuse himself, but this attempt made the King more sure than ever, that, had the young man wished, he could have unseated him.

‘Come,’ said Henry, with some impatience, ‘and do your best.’

There was no gainsaying the King’s command. The two rode out together.

The delighted crowd cheered anew; and then, in that sudden breathless silence when the two men faced each other, lances raised, a young boy in one of the lower galleries pushed himself forward and, white of face and strained of eye, shouted in a loud, ringing voice: ‘Sire, do not fight!’

There was a hush over the vast assembly. Then someone seized the boy and hustled him away. But Catherine, sensing now that disaster was upon her, rose in her seat. She swayed dizzily. Diane was beside her, supporting her.

‘ Madame la Reine is feeling ill,’ she heard Diane say. ‘Pray, help me―’

Catherine was helped back to her seat. It was too late to do anything now, she knew. The combat had started, and in a few seconds it was all over.

Montgomery had struck the King on the gorget a little below his visor; the Scotsman’s lance was shattered, the stump slid upwards raising the King’s visor, and the splinter entered the King’s right eye.

Henry, striving to suppress his groans, tried to lift his lance and failed. There was a shocked stillness everywhere while he fell forward.

In a second, his gentlemen had reached him and seized his swaying body; they were stripping him of his armour.

Catherine, standing now, straining to see the face that she loved, caught a glimpse of it covered in blood, while Henry fell, fainting into the arms of his men.

Beside Catherine stood Diane, her fingers clutching the black-and-white satin of her skirt, and the white of her gown was not whiter than her face.

The King was dying, for the steel had entered his eye, and there was nothing that could be done. All the great doctors, surgeons and apothecaries, all the learned men of France were at his bedside. Philip of Spain sent his celebrated surgeon, André Vésale. But nothing could save the King.

He lay tossing in agony while violent fever overtook him. He spoke of one thing only. No blame for this should be attached to Montgomery. That was his urgent wish. The people were saying that the young man was a Protestant and that he had been primed to do this; but the King, in his agony, was determined that all should remember how the boy had had no wish to fight, and that he must be told not to grieve, as he had but obeyed the King.

Consciousness eluded Henry. He lay silent and could not be revived with rose-water and vinegar.

Paris had changed from a city of joy to one of mourning while its people stood about near Les Tournelles waiting for news. But though the doctors dressed the wound and were even able to remove some splinters, though they purged the King with rhubarb and camomile, and bled him, still they could not save his life.

The days passed and with them passed the King’s agony; for he remained in a stupor from which none could rouse him.

The Queen was desolate, pacing up and down her apartments, having the children brought to her, embracing them all in turn, sending them away that she might weep alone.

Oh my darling, she thought. I have lost you all these years to her; now am I to lose you to death? How cruel was life! She had watched Diane grow older, and she had believed her own day must come; but now death was threatening to take him, and she knew it would succeed, for such things were revealed to her. She lay on her bed and thought of him as she had first seen him, a shy and sullen boy, preparing to hate her; she thought of his coming to her, at Diane’s command, of the years of suppressed passion, of the hope that had waxed and waned through the long tormented years.

And what of Diane?

Catherine laughed suddenly and bitterly as she clenched and unclenched her long white fingers.

Ah, Madame, she thought, you were everything to him. Now you have lost everything. Reports were constantly brought to her by people who thought to cheer her.

‘The King is a little better. He seems to have fallen into a quietness.’

Better? She knew, with that curious instinct of hers, that he could not recover.

She sent an imperious message to Diane. The crown-jewels were to be returned to her at once; and with them all the presents that Henry had given her.

‘Hold nothing back,’ ran the Queen’s revealing message, ‘for I have noted well each one.’

When this message was taken to Diane, she lifted her grief-stricken face to the messenger and smiled bitterly. She was realizing now that she had never really known the Queen. There were a few at court who secretly spoke of Catherine as Madame Serpent; Diane could now believe that those people understood Henry’s widow better than she had done.

‘Is the King dead, then, that I am treated thus?’ she asked.

‘No, Madame,’ she was told, ‘but it is believed he can only linger a little longer.’

Diane stood up and answered imperiously: ‘So long as an inch of life remains to him I desire my enemies to know that I fear them not, and that, as long as he is alive, I shall not obey them. But, when he is dead, I do not wish to survive him, all all the bitternesses which they may be able to inflict upon me will be only sweets in comparison with my loss. And whether my King be alive or dead, I do not fear my enemies.’

When these words were repeated to her, Catherine knew that once more her enemy had the better of her. In love, she had acted carelessly again.

She rocked herself to and fro in her misery. Never to see him again. Never to watch him jealously as he bent his head to listen to Diane. There could never be another man for Catherine. Love was dead with Henry, and her passion would be buried in the tomb with him.

Mary Stuart, weeping for her father-in-law, could not keep the shine of expectancy out of her eyes. In a few days she would be the Queen of France.

Young Francis, who had loved his father dearly, was being so courted now by the de Guises, was being so prepared for kingship by his clever little Mary, that he too felt excitement mingling with his sorrow.

It will be the de Guises who will rule France now, not the Queen-Mother!

thought Catherine in the midst of her grief and the realization was brought home to her that she desired power almost as much as she had desired her husband. I do not forget that this I owe to Mary Stuart! She fell to fresh weeping.

Henry, come back to me. Give me a chance. Diane grows old, and I am not so old. I have never known the true love of a man, and if you leave me now I never shall. Word went through the palace: ‘The Queen is prostrate in her grief.’

The body of the King was embalmed and laid in a leaden coffin. With great solemnity and lamentation, it was borne to Notre Dame, and from there to Saint-Denis, with a great company of all the highest in the land.

The Cardinal of Lorraine officiated; he it was who pronounced the funeral oration as the coffin was lowered into the vault.

Montmorency broke his baton and threw its fragments over the coffin, whereupon the four officials did likewise. It was a touching scene.

And when it was done, the ceremonial cry rang out: ‘Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi François!’ Then the trumpets sounded. The ceremony was over. King Henry was in his grave, and sickly, pock-marked Francis was the King of France.

The walls and floors of Catherine’s apartments were covered in black. Her bed and her altar were also in the same sombre covering. Only two wax tapers burned, and she herself was wrapped from head to foot in a black veil which covered her plain black gown.

She was truly prostrate with grief. It had come upon her so suddenly. She had had some premonition of evil, it was true, but she had not believed it could be the death of Henry.

She had loved him completely; and now there was nothing left to her but revenge.

Diane! Lex talionis! An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

For nearly thirty years, Madame, I have suffered humiliation. I have watched you through a hole in the floor with a man for whom I longed. I have seen the citizens of Lyons kiss your hand before mine. I have heard you called the Queen of France when that title was mine. Madame, that is now changed. Your day is done, and out of misery and sorrow is mine born. She started up from her black-covered bed and went to her bureau; she unlocked the secret drawer.

Let her death be long and lingering. Let there be much pain for there must be long agony to compensate for the years of misery.

‘He was beginning to like me,’ she whispered. ‘I had pleased him at the time of Saint-Quentin. He appeared at my cercle. In time I would have won him from the ageing widow. And now I have lost all― and nothing is left to me but revenge.’

Diane had said that she did not fear her enemies, that any bitterness that might be inflicted on her would be sweet coma pared with her loss. Perhaps the greater punishment would be to let her live, for if she died suddenly and of poison, people would say: ‘The Queen-Mother has done this.’

Ah, had she planned cautiously in those early days of her passion, she might have won her husband long ere this. But her love had weakened her. Now that she had lost her love, she could plan with caution.

She flung herself on to her bed and wept. Her women thought her grief would drive her mad, so they sent in one who they thought could comfort her.

Little Henry stared at her with wondering eyes; she held out her arms and he ran into them. She took his face in her hand and kissed him. Then she smiled slowly, reminding herself that she had someone left to love.

She had this boy― this other Henry― and she had France. She had the hope of gaining power, as once she had had hope of gaining Henry’s love.

Diane had ruled France through Catherine’s husband, should not Catherine rule France through her sons?

Tears began to flow down her pallid cheeks, and the little boy took a perfumed handkerchief from his belt and kneeled on her lap to wipe them away.

The Vidame de Chartres had an arrogant air; yet he was tender in his manner to the Queen-Mother.

Catherine went about the court in her deep mourning― sad, yet sly, seeming wrapped in melancholy, yet missing nothing.

She had restrained herself over this matter of Diane. She had turned from her poison-closet, realizing that the woman who had been the shining light of the court for so long could be more wretched in exile than in death. Let her return her gifts and jewels; let her make a present of the Château de Chenoneaux to the Queen, in exchange for which the Queen would magnanimously give her the Château de Chaumont, which she had always considered to be unlucky, and then exile her to Anet. The Queen-Mother must not forget that Diane was related to the Guises and that, although through the death of the King she could no longer be of great use to them, they would not wish to see her poisoned.

Moreover, this family which feigned to show great respect for Catherine, who, on account of Francis’ age, was practically Regent, would not hesitate to accuse her if their once-powerful relative died suddenly and mysteriously.

Catherine found solace in her grief by making plans for a glorious future.

She looked about her, wondering how she could use people for her own advancement; she was working now for power, not for love; and thus she could work more calmly.

Her greatest enemies were the Guises, for they were preparing now to rule the country through the young King and Queen.

She smiled on the gallant Vidame; she had thought that, since she had used him in an attempt to provoke Henry’s jealousy, he would no longer be of use to her; but this was not so. The young man was ambitious; he was a Bourbon, and the Bourbons were the natural enemies of the Guises.

Why should not the Queen-Mother secretly make plans with the House of Bourbon to outwit the House of Guise? Once the Guises were removed from power, nothing stood between the young King and Queen and the Queen- Mother. As for Mary Stuart, she was a child; she could be managed to Catherine’s satisfaction if her scheming uncles were removed.

She permitted the Vidame to visit her secretly, and told him something of her plans.

‘I wish you,’ she said, ‘to take letters from me to the Prince of Condé.’

The Vidame’s eyes were full of speculation then, for Condé was the head of the House of Bourbon, and he knew what this meant.

‘I will serve you with my life,’ he declared, kissing Catherine’s hand, ‘and, serving you, shall hope for some reward.’

Catherine answered: ‘Queens are not asked for rewards, Monsieur.’

‘Madame,’ he said, I do not ask you as a Queen, but as a woman.’

She smiled and her smile held some promise. She eagerly awaited his return with the answers to her letters.

But it was not the Vidame who came to her.

A page was brought into her presence to tell her that the Duc de Guise was asking to be admitted immediately; she gave permission that he should be sent to her.

The candles in their sconces flickered as the door opened and shut behind the man. There he stood― arrogant, virile, with a smile on his hideously scarred face.

‘I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the intrusion,’ he said. ‘But― there is treason abroad.’

She studied him calmly, her face blank.

‘The Vidame de Chartres has been arrested.’

‘Is that so? Why is this?’

‘Treasonable documents have been found on his person, Madame.’

‘What documents?’

‘Letters to the Prince of Condé.’

‘A plot?’ said Catherine.

‘It is feared so, Madame. He is to be sent to the Bastille.’

‘I gave no orders that this should be done,’ she answered haughtily.

Le Balafré bowed low. ‘Madame, it was thought to save you trouble. I have the order for his arrest here. It is signed by the King.’

She nodded.

She was defeated. She knew that her battle with the Guises would be as long and as arduous as her battle with Diane. Power was no easier to win than love.

Heavily cloaked, cunningly disguised, Catherine hurried through the streets of Paris to the sombre building of the Bastille.

It was dusk, and she had chosen this hour; for it was imperative that she be not recognized. She shuddered as she looked up at the dark towers and the ramparts with their cannon.

A cloaked figure that had seemed part of the thick wall moved towards her, and she knew she was recognized, by the reverent tone of the man’s voice.

‘Madame, all is ready.’

He led the way through a small door into a dark corridor, up a flight of stairs, along more corridors. Catherine smelt the odour indigenous to prisons― damp, age, slime, sweat, blood, death.

Below her were hideous dungeons where men fought for their lives with the rats that shared their cells; close to her were the oubliettes where men and women lay forgotten, and the calottes where human beings were incarcerated to endure extreme cold in winter and suffocating heat in summer, and where it was not possible to stand upright; somewhere in this terrible place was the Salle de la Question where men and women suffered the water torture or the horrors of the Boot. But the Vidame de Chartres was not housed in oubliette nor calotte; his sojourn in the Bastille had been a comparatively comfortable one, for he had powerful friends; moreover, he had not hesitated to point out that the Queen-Mother herself was a particularly dear friend.

Tomorrow the Vidame was to be released; it was for this reason that Catherine had arranged to visit him.

Her guide had halted before a heavy door; this he unlocked; beyond it was another door which he also unlocked.

‘Enter, Madame,’ he said. ‘I will wait outside. It will be well if you do not stay more than fifteen minutes. There may be a jailer here after that, and your presence would be difficult to explain.’

‘I understand,’ said Catherine.

The Vidame rose as she entered his cell. He came swiftly towards her and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently.

She studied his face in the faint light that came through the barred window.

The window was small and it was growing dark outside so that it was not easy to see him, yet she fancied that three months in prison had left their mark upon him.

‘It was good of you to come― Catherine,’ he said.

She flinched a little at the use of her Christian name, but he did not notice that.

‘You are to be released tomorrow,’ she told him.

‘Tomorrow!’ His voice was hysterical with joy. ‘And you― my Queen― have done this for me.’ He was on his knees; he took her hand again and she felt his tears fall on it.

How arrogant he was! He had had great success with women; he believed himself to be irresistible to all women; he did not know that Catherine de’

Medici was no ordinary woman. He could not guess that she had but used him in the hope of arousing jealousy in her husband, that when he had bungled the simple matter of carrying letters to his powerful relative she had no further use for him; that this release of his was yet another move of the Guises, to set him free that they might watch him and catch him again and perhaps others with him; he did not guess that the last thing the Queen-Mother wanted was his release.

She stood back, pressed against the cold stone wall. He said in a whisper:

‘How did you get in?’

She answered: ‘There are many who serve me.’

‘Yes,’ he whispered slowly. ‘Yes. I see.’

‘You will be watched when you come out,’ she said rapidly. ‘It will be well for you to leave France.’

He came close to her so that she could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘Leave France! Leave― you! Though you asked me to do that, I could not.’

‘It is the wise thing to do,’ she said.

She heard his quick intake of breath. ‘Can it be that you would wish to be rid of me?’ There was in his voice a desperate note; she understood; he was determined not to be banished. He was prepared to run risks. Why not? He was an ambitious man. One thing he was not prepared for, and that was exile.

‘They will be suspicious of you,’ she said. ‘They will have you watched.’

‘You cannot think that I am afraid of danger?’

‘I think you would be wise to get away. Go to Italy.’

‘I feel my life is here― beside you― serving you―’

She drew closer to the wall, but he came closer too.

‘There is much to be done,’ he said. ‘The King is young, and is your son.

The little Queen― she is but a child. You and I― with others to help us, could get the Protestants to rise against these upstart Guises. I have news. I have not been idle in here. I have laid deep plans. The Protestants are straining at the leash. They but await a leader.’

‘And you will be that leader?’ she said, her voice expressionless.

‘You, Catherine, are the Regent of France. It is for you to rule this country.’

‘And you― would work for me― serve me― no matter how dangerous the work?’

‘To serve you is the only course I would follow. You dare not send me from you. The court has seen our deep and tender friendship. Why, Catherine, our names have been linked. I could tell many secrets―’

She laughed. ‘We have been nothing but friends.’

‘Who would believe that? Ah, you see how devoted I am. You must, for the sake of honour, keep me at your side, for I declare, so deep in love am I, that I would let nothing stand in the way of keeping at your side.’

‘Listen to me now,’ she said, ‘for I dare stay no longer. Tomorrow you will be released. We will meet, but secretly. Depend upon it, the spies of the de Guises will be watching you. Come, if you can, at this hour to the house of the brothers Ruggieri. You know it? It is close to the river.’

‘At this hour,’ he repeated. And then: ‘Yes, I know the house.’

‘I will be waiting, and we will talk of the future over a goblet of good Italian wine.’

He would have kissed her lips, but haughtily she held out her hand.

He bowed low, and, turning, she hurried out of the cell.

Catherine sat in her room. She had asked that she might be quite alone.

Looking in her mirror, she saw a woman, fattening, coarsening, who had never been really beautiful even in her youth; thick, pallid skin, sly mouth, and those flashing dark eyes.

This was an important day in her life. It was three months since she had lost her love, but that tragedy was behind her now. She must look to the future. Last evening, at dusk, she had gone to the house near the river, and there she had met that ambitious young man who wished to become her lover. He had great plans for himself, this Vidame de Chartres.

She had talked to him calmly, kindly, and affectionately over a goblet of wine.

Together they had planned to put down the mighty Guises, they had arranged to meet again, this night.

The sly mouth smiled, for Catherine realized that the ache in her heart was growing less acute. There was so much work to be done. Her eyes went to the cabinet in the corner of the room. None but herself knew the secrets of that cabinet. In it lurked death, to be administered to the enemies of Catherine de’

Medici.

For years she had planned the murder of Diane; but now that she was calm, she could see that it would be pointless to murder Diane. Yet, all those years when she had added secret after secret to her cabinet, she had thought of murder; and now murder was a part of her life, a servant, ready at her command, waiting for that moment when it could work for her.

She was not happy as she could have been with the love of Henry, but she was stimulated. She knew that a bitter battle was before her, but she also knew the strength of her armour.

She was going to fight the seemingly all-powerful de Guises. Sickly Francis was on the throne. How long could he live? Then it would be the turn of Charles. He was but a boy yet, and his upbringing was in the hands of his mother. She would get an Italian tutor for him. A face leaped to her mind. Yes, she knew the tutor she would get; and Charles should be taught a way of life that some might call unnatural. He was not strong; he was peevish― but pliable. She did not wish Charles to marry― but if he did, he must not have children. While Charles was on the throne, his mother would rule; and after Charles would come beloved Henry, whose pleasure it would be to serve his mother, as it would be hers to serve him.

Power was beckoning her, and she would have to fight for it with all her craft and cunning, in all the devious ways she had learned in a lifetime of humiliation. She would deeply relish such a fight.

Madalenna was knocking at the door.

‘Come in.’

Madalenna’s eyes were wide, her face pale.

‘You have something to tell me, Madalenna?’

‘Terrible news, Madame.’

‘Of whom?’

‘Madame, the Vidame de Chartres was released from the Bastille yesterday―’

‘Is that such terrible news?’

‘Oh, Madame― you have not heard. He died― last night. He had been out in the city― and when he returned, he was ill― violently ill. He died at midnight.’

Madalenna looked fearfully at her mistress, who was holding a kerchief to her eyes.

‘Madame,’ stammered Madalenna, ‘I wish to offer― my― my deep sympathy.’

Catherine answered from the depth of the kerchief: ‘You may go, Madalenna. Leave me― leave me―’

As the door shut on Madalenna, Catherine thrust the kerchief into her mouth to stifle the gusty laughter which was shaking her.

Madalenna’s sympathy! Perhaps others in this palace would be sorry for a woman whom they believed to have lost her lover?

Poor Vidame, she thought. This is the end of your flirtation with a Queen; it is also the end of the brilliant career you planned for yourself. You have been the first to learn that it is unwise to ignore the wishes of Catherine de’ Medici.

She was exultant. Thoughts of murder had haunted her for so long; now she would be their master. She understood much now. The future, brilliant and powerful, stretched out before her; and she was free to take what she wanted.

She had been the victim of her emotions― hot-blooded, impetuous, making so many mistakes. She had been Catherine de’ Medici in love.

But now she was free. It was the end of Catherine de’ Medici in love.

THE END