Madame Serpent

CATHERINE THE WIFE

THE ENTIRE court was laughing at Henry’s passion for Diane. He, with a wife of his own delectable age, to fly from her to the bed of a woman more than twenty years his senior! It was like the opening of one of Boccaccio’s tales or something from the Queen of Navarre’s Heptameron.

When Catherine heard it, she was so moved that it was necessary for her to shut herself into her own apartments, She felt furiously angry. The humiliation of it! The whole court laughing at Henry, his mistress, and his poor, neglected wife!

When she looked at herself in the mirror she scarcely recognized herself.

Her face was the colour of a tallow candle, and the only brightness was the blood where her sharp teeth had bitten the flesh of her lips. Her eyes were cruel with hatred. She was an older Catherine now.

She walked up and down her room, murmuring angry words to Henry, to Diane. She was imploring the King to send her back to Italy. ‘Sire, I will not stay here to suffer this humiliation.’

Then she laughed aloud at her folly, laughing bitterly until she flung herself on to her bed weeping.

It is the humiliation of it, she told herself.

She kept repeating that with a vehemence which shook her.

I should not otherwise care. And why should she care? Many a Queen had suffered similar humiliation before her. Why should she care?

It is because she is so old. That is what makes it so humiliating. There was a voice within her that mocked her. But, Catherine, why should you care? You have no children. Perhaps now you will have none. There will surely be a divorce and you will be sent back to Rome. Ippolito is in Rome, Catherine. Ippolito is a Cardinal.

But the voice within was mocking her. Think of it, Catherine. Think of the joy of it. Reunion with handsome Ippolito! I will not think of it. It is wrong to think of it. She was pacing up and down again; she was at her mirror; she was laughing; she was weeping.

Courage, said her lips. You must go among the people of this court; you must smile at Diane; you must never show by a look or a gesture how much you hate her, how easy it would be to take a dagger and plunge it into her heart, to drop a poisoned draught into her cup. She hardly knew the sad and cruel face which looked back at her. They thought her cold, these fools. She― cold! She was white-hot with hatred, maddened by jealousy.

She was a fool to her eyes to the truth.

“What do I care for Ippolito?’ she asked of her reflection. ‘What was my love for him? A pleasant girl-and-boy affair, without passion, without jealousy; while in me these two now burn. No, not Ippolito. It is not he whom I love.’

She laughed suddenly and loudly.

‘I could kill her,’ she murmured. ‘She has taken him from me.’

How many jealous women had said those words, she wondered; and looking into those passionate Italian eyes, she answered herself: ‘Many. But few have really meant them. I love Henry. He is mine. I did not ask to marry him. I was forced to it. And now, I love him. Many women have felt this jealousy, and many have said: I could kill her. But they have said it different. I mean it. I would kill her.’

Her mouth twisted grimly. ‘If she were dead,’ she whispered close to the mirror so that her breath made a mist on the glass, ‘I would make him wholly mine. I would show him love and passion such as he never dreamed of, for in me a furnace of desire is smouldering. If she were dead, he would be with me.

We should have children to the honour of the land― his land and mine.’

She pressed the palms of her hands together, and in the mirror she saw a woman with murder in her eyes and a prayer on her lips.

It had needed this tragic sorrow to awaken her, to bring to life the real Catherine. In this moment of revelation, she knew herself as she never had before. How pale the face, how set the features! Only the blazing eyes spoke of murder. The world should see those eyes as mild, expressionless. The true Catherine should hide behind shutters, while the false smiled on the world.

How easy it was to make resolutions; how difficult to keep them! Often she must shut herself away, feigning a headache so that she might be alone with her tears. People were saying: ‘Poor little Italian! She is not strong. Perhaps this accounts― with Diane― for her inability to get children.’

One day, having heard some light remark concerning her husband and his mistress, she felt her emotions too strong for her. She made her way to her apartments, told her women to leave her as she wished to rest, and when she was alone, she lay on her bed and sobbed quietly like a child.

What could she do? Good Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri had given her perfumes and cosmetics; she had taken a love potion.

They were no use. Diane had more potent magic. And when Henry did come to her, he was awkward and apologetic. ‘My father insists that we should get a child,’ he had said, as though it were necessary to make excuses for his presence.

Why did she love him? He was slow-witted and by no means amusing. It was incomprehensible that he should be in her thoughts all day and haunt her dreams by night. He was certainly courteous and kind, so anxious that she should not know their intercourse was distasteful to him that he could not help showing quite clearly that it was. By all the laws of human nature she ought to have hated him.

What could she, who was young and untutored in the ways of love, do to win him from the experienced woman who had taken had no friends whose advice she could ask. What if, as she rode out with the Petite Bande, she told her troubles to the King? How sympathetic he would be! How gracious! How angry his son for his lack of courtesy! And then, doubtless, he would, with embellishments, tell the story to Madame d’Etampes; and the two of them would be very witty at her expense.

There was no one to look after Catherine’s welfare but Catherine herself.

She must never forget that. That was why she must hide these bitter tears, and no one must ever know how passionately, how possessively she loved the shy young boy who was her husband.

Alarmed, she sat up an her bed, for she could hear footsteps approaching the room. There was a timid knock on the door.

She said in a cold and steady voice: ‘Did I not say I was not disturbed?’

‘Yes, Madame la Duchesse, but there is a young man here― Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli― who begs to be allowed to see you. He is very distressed.’

‘Tell him he may wait,’ she said. ‘I am busy for a while.’

She leaped from the bed, dried her eyes, and dusted her face with powder.

She looked at her reflection anxiously. It was impossible to eliminate all signs of her passionate weeping. How stupid it was to give way to the feelings! One should never, in any circumstances, be so weak. Sorrow and anger were emotions to be locked away in the heart.

Ten minutes had passed before she had the Count brought to her. He bowed low over her hand; then he lifted his sad eyes to her face.

‘ Duchessina,’ he said, ‘I see that this evil news has already reached you.’

She was silent, annoyed that he should have noticed the traces of grief on her face, and, having noticed them, been tactless enough to refer to them. But what evil tidings did he speak of?

As she continued silent, the young man went on: ‘I thought it my duty, Duchessina, to carry the news to you. I know your strong feelings for your noble cousin.’

Her feelings were under control. Was it only where her husband was involved that they got the better of training and her natural craft?

She had no idea to what the Count referred but she said with the utmost calm: ‘You had better tell it to me, Count, as you heard it.’

‘Oh, Duchessina, you know the condition of our beloved city, how its sufferings are almost unendurable under the tyrant. Many have been driven into exile, and these, with others, met together in secret. They decided to send a petition to Emperor Charles begging him to free Florence from Alessandro.

Duchessina, they selected your noble cousin, Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici as their ambassador.’

‘And Alessandro’s secret spies discovered this. I know. I know.’

‘He got as far as Itri. He would have embarked there for Tunis.’

‘And they killed him.’ Catherine covered her swollen eyes with her hands.

‘My poor noble cousin. My dearest Ippolito.’

‘It was in his wine, Duchessina. His death was terrible, but quick. He did not suffer long.’

For a few seconds she was silent; then she said: ‘Would there were some to avenge him.’

‘His servants were mad with grief, Duchessina. Italy mourns the great Cardinal. Florence is desolate.’

‘Oh, our poor country, Sebastiano! Our poor suffering country! I know how you feel. You and I would die for our country.’

‘And count it an honour to do so,’ said the young man earnestly.

She held out her hand and he took it. She was excited by a sudden thought which had come to her, conscious of that strange force which warned her of great events. Standing before her was a man whose eyes glowed fanatically when he spoke of his country.

‘Yes, Sebastiano,’ she said, ‘for the sake of your country you would gladly die a thousand deaths. There are men like that. Not many― but I think that you are one of them. If you were, your name would be remembered throughout Italy forever, my dear Count, with reverence.’ Her eyes glowed and the Count, looking at her, wondered how he could ever had accepted the general opinion that she was insignificant.

‘There have been times,’ she went on, ‘when I have been privileged to see into the future. I fancy I see something now. One day, Sebastiano, you will be called upon to do great deeds for our country.’

She spoke with such conviction, her eyes glowing almost unnaturally, that it seemed to the young man as if some power spoke through her. He stammered:

‘My lady Duchess, if that should be, I should die happy.’

Catherine withdrew her hand, sighing.

‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘you and I must live our lives as wisely as we can. But we will never forget the land of our birth.’

‘Never!’ he declared fervently.

She walked away from him, speaking quietly, as though to herself. ‘I am married to the son of a King― but the second son. The Dauphin is not strong, and I have wondered― as the Holy Father wondered― whether God has destined me, through my children to bring glory to Italy. My children!’

Her voice broke suddenly. ‘I have no children. I had hoped―’ she felt her control snapping. She burst out: ‘My husband is enamoured of a sorceress. They say she is a wrinkled old woman but appears as a young and beautiful lady. Life is strange and the ways of Fate are incomprehensible. You comfort me― there is nothing you would not do to serve me and Italy. If ever I were Queen of France, I would not forget― though I know you seek no honours.’

‘I seek only the honour of serving our country, Duchessina.’

‘You are good, Count; you are noble. We will both remember our country― always. We are strangers in a strange land, but never forget Italy. Stay and talk with me awhile. How good it is to speak our native tongue! You may sit, my lord Count. Speak to me of Italy― in Italian. Talk of our beloved Arno and the groves of olives― and the blessed sunshine―’

But it was she who went on speaking; and as she talked, it was not Ippolito― once so well-loved― whom she saw in her mind’s eye; it was Henry, his eyes shining for Diane, shame-faced and apologetic for his wife.

She told the young Count of her life at the Murate and how she had heard the story of the Virgin’s mantle.

‘Miracles are made on Earth by those who are great enough to make them,’

she said. ‘There are some who are selected by the Holy Virgin to work miracles.

I often think of my position, and the power that would be in my hands to work good for my country, if my brother the Dauphin passed from this life. He is delicate in health; it might be that God has not meant him to rule this land. And then, were I Queen, I must have children― sons― to work for the good of France― and Italy.’

‘Yes, Duchessina,’ said the Count quietly.

‘But I keep you from your duty, Count. When you wish for conversation, go along to the house of the brothers Ruggieri. They will have much to show you that is truly marvellous. When I tell them you are my friend― that you and I understand each other― there is nothing they will not give you.’

After he had left her, she found the pain of unrequited love was easier to bear. Perhaps, she thought, it will not always be thus.

Heavily cloaked and closely hooded, accompanied by the youngest of her women, Catherine left Les Tournelles and hurried through the streets of Paris.

She was going to see the astrologer brothers who lived on the left bank of the Seine close to the Pont Notre-Dame. The house could be approached from the street or the river, for at the back, its stone steps led down to the water, where two boats were kept moored to carry away any who might wish to leave by a different route from the one by which they had come. Catherine was delighted with the prudence which the brothers had shown by selecting such a house.

Most of the court ladies visited astrologers whose business included the sale of charms and perfumes; but these French ladies visited French magicians. The Italians were not only unpopular in France; they were suspected of all sorts of evil practices. Stories of the reign of terror under Alessandro in Florence circulated; it was known that Ippolito had been murdered, it was suspected that Clement had died through poison.

The Italians, thought the French, were skilled in all the arts of poisoning.

Therefore, reasoned Catherine, at such a time she would not wish to be seen making a hurried visit to the house of the Italian sorcerers.

She had impressed on Madalenna, her young Italian attendant, that she wished none to know of their journey this evening to the house of the brothers.

She smiled faintly at the small figure beside her. Madalenna was to be trusted.

They reached the shop, descended the three stone steps, pushed open the door and went into a room in which were shelves where stood great jars and bottles. From the ceiling hung herbs of many kinds; and on the bench lay the skeleton of a small animal among the charms and charts.

The two brothers came into the shop, which was lighted only by a candle that guttered and showed some sign of flickering out altogether. When they saw who their visitor was they bowed obsequiously, thrusting their hands into the wide sleeves of their magician’s robes, and waiting, with bent heads to hear the commands of their Duchess.

‘You have my new perfume for me, Cosmo?’ she asked, turning to one of the brothers.

‘It is ready, Duchessina. I will have it sent to you tomorrow.’

‘That is good.’

Lorenzo waited with his brother for her commands; they knew she had not come thus― when she might have sent for them― merely to ask about a new perfume.

Madalenna hovered uncertainly in the background. Catherine, turning to her, said loudly: ‘Madalenna, there is no need to stand hack. Lorenzo, Cosmo, bring forth the new perfume. I would hear Madalenna’s opinion of it.’

The brother looked at each other. They knew their Duchess; they remembered a meek little girl who had asked for an image of Alessandro that she might, through it, bring about the death of that monster. She had something on her mind now.

They brought the perfume. Lorenzo took Madalenna’s hand while Cosmo thrust into a bottle a thin glass rod. He wiped the now perfume-smeared rod on Madalenna’s hand, bid her wait for a few moments, and both brothers stood back as though spellbound, waiting for the moment when the perfume would be ready for Madalenna to smell it.

And all the time their eyes were furtive. What had brought the Duchess here at such an hour?

‘It is wonderful!’ declared Madalenna.

‘See that it is sent to me tomorrow,’ said Catherine. And then: ‘You know I did not come here merely to smell a perfume. Lorenzo, Cosmo, what have you discovered for me? Is there any news of a child? You may speak before Madalenna, this dear child knows my secrets.’

‘Duchess, there is yet no news of a child.’

She clenched and unclenched her hands. ‘But when? When?― It must be some time.’

They did not answer.

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. ‘I will look into the crystal myself.

Madalenna, sit down and wait. I shall not be long.’

She drew aside the heavy curtains which divided the shop from a room at the back. In this room was a large cabinet which the brothers always kept locked and which Catherine knew to contain many secret hiding places. She sat down while the brothers drew the curtains, shutting off the shop and Madalenna.

Catherine stared into the crystal; she could see nothing. The brothers waited respectfully.

Suddenly she turned to them and spoke, and they now knew the real reason for her visit. ‘There is a young Count,’ she said, ‘who wishes to serve his country. Should he come to you and wish to talk of his native land― our native land― in our native tongue, be kind to him. If he should ask for a love potion to enhance his charms in his mistress’ eyes― or if he should ask for a draught of any sort, give it him. You may trust him.’

The brothers looked at each other apprehensively. Catherine’s eyes revealed nothing; her face held the innocence of a child’s.

The court was on the move once more, and this time there was a reason, other than the King’s restlessness, behind the move.

Catherine rode with the Petite Bande, keeping close to the King and Madame d’Etampes. A place of honour― yet how she longed to be of her husband’s suite; but there was no place since it was ruled by her hated enemy, whom Henry continued to adore. Catherine was hiding her passion and her jealousy with success; she could laugh as loudly as any surrounding the King.

As they halted at various towns and châteaux on their way from Paris to Lyons, there were lavish entertainments for the amusement of the King.

Madame d’Etampes and the Queen of Navarre put their heads together to devise plays and masques. Countless beautiful girls had been brought with them, and there were some to be found on the way. They danced before the King; they tried to secure his interest by boldness and modesty in turn; but Francis was half-hearted, for war was spreading over France, and it was the invasion by the Emperor’s troops, of the fair land of Provence, that was sending the court hurrying from Paris down to Lyons.

It was in Lyons that Catherine betrayed herself.

She was with her women in her apartments when Henry came in. Her heart beat in the mad fashion it was accustomed to when he was with her. She hastily dismissed her women, trying to suppress the emotion which possessed her.

He said: ‘I am afraid I disturb you. I am sorry.’

‘There are occasions when it is good to be disturbed.’ They were alone now, and she could not prevent her eyes shining with an eager passion. She added breathlessly: ‘I pray to the saints that there may be many such disturbances.’

He looked at her in a puzzled way, not comprehending. She felt slightly impatient with him; but oddly enough she loved him the more for that slowness of wit which exasperated his father.

‘Pray, be seated, Henry,’ she said, tapping the window seat and sitting there, making room for him as she drew in her pearl-embroidered skirts.

It was unbearable to have him so close and to feel that was so far away. Was he thinking now of Diane? She doubted it, for he looked unhappy, and he was never unhappy thinking of Diane.

He said: ‘This is a sorry state of affairs.’

She touched his arm, and although she knew he hated to touched by her, she could not withdraw her hand. But now he did not seem to notice.

He went on: ‘Have you not heard the news? Montmorency is retreating before the Imperial troops. Tomorrow my father leaves for Valence.’

‘Oh, another move? I was thinking I have scarce seen you since we left Paris.’

She could not keep the reproach out of her voice; her eyes were hot; she was seeing herself, tossing and turning in her bed, awaiting a husband who did not come, picturing him with Diane, asking herself, Why? Why should it be Diane and not Catherine? How could she listen to his talk of war? When he was near her she could think of nothing but love.

Her voice sounded high-pitched. ‘Has the King spoken to you again?’ she asked. ‘We see so little of each other, it is small wonder that we have no children―’

He did not move, and she realized he had not even heard what she said. He could not follow two lines of thought at the same time; if something was on his mind he could hear and see nothing else.

‘Montmorency is burning and destroying everything as he retreats, and there will be no stores of food left for the advancing enemy. Men, women, children― French, all of them are left starving after the armies have passed through―’

She interrupted him. ‘But that is terrible. I have heard that Montmorency is cruel and that his men obey him through fear!’

‘It is the only way,’ said Henry. ‘Montmorency is a great man. His policy is the only safe policy. But for Montmorency the Spanish devils would be in Lyons now. I would I could go and fight with him.’

She was pleased. If he went to fight, he must leave Diane.

She slipped her arm farther through his. ‘There are soldiers enough, Henry‚’

she said softly.

‘My father has said that if he needs the Dauphin he will send for him. I wish he would send for me! But he hates me. He knows I long to fight; therefore he says: You shall not fight! And the enemy is at our gates. But for my father’s folly there would be no war. Long ago Milan would have been ours!’

Catherine’s eyes went to the door. She longed for Henry’s confidences but she dared not let it be known that she had said, or even listened to, a word against the King. Francis’ favor was easily won by some; it was equally easily lost; and she must not forget that it was only through a lucky chance that Henry was speaking to her thus. He had come to the apartment not thinking of her; and he had found her there, and being unusually excited by the closeness of the war, had wished to talk to someone― even Catherine.

She said: ‘Lower your voice, Henry. There are spies everywhere, and what you say might quickly be carried to your father.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘This desire of his for Italy― it is like all of his desires. No matter what stands in his way, he will do anything― cruel, foolish, it matters not― anything to get his desires. As it is for women, so it is for Italy.

There is no right or wrong for my father where his desires are concerned. When Monsieur Chateaubriand objected to my father’s immorality with Madame de Chateaubriand, he took the man by the throat and threatened to cut off his head unless he gave up the woman. He must lose either his head or his wife.’

Catherine laughed, loving this intimacy. ‘So he kept his head. Sensible man!’

‘I hate the life my father leads!’ said Henry. His mouth was prim and Catherine wondered about his love-making with Diane. ‘He chooses the most degraded people to surround him. Madame d’Etampes should be banished from court.’

Catherine’s smile was noncommittal. The King’s mistress was supposed to be her friend.

Then Henry spoke again of his father who was forever reaching out his hands to Catherine’s native land of grapes, olives and the finest artists in the world. He was reckless when he should be cautious― so said his son― bold when there the greatest need for hesitation.

Catherine understood that glittering personality far better than did his son.

She knew that over the brightness which surrounded him lay the shadow of Pavia. There was hardly an hour in the King’s life when he did not remember that defeat, and he would feel that nothing but the conquest of Italy would wipe out the humiliation. It was Pavia that made him reckless, eager as he was for that military success which would put him right with the world; it was Pavia that made him hesitate, reminding him that disastrous defeat must never be repeated.

Pavia had made of the century’s greatest lover its most incompetent general.

‘The Emperor,’ Henry was saying, ‘has made a triumphant return from the East. He has twice defeated Barbarossa; he has taken Tunis, and the whole of the Christian world rejoice because he has brought with him many who were made slaves to toil for the barbarians. And what has my father done? He looks about him for an enemy of the Emperor― and makes a treaty with the Turks!

With infidels! This Most Christian King! He’d make a treaty with the Devil to get a woman or a country.’

‘I beg of you, Henry, my dear Henry, speak quietly. If it should get to the King’s ears―’

‘Then should he hear the truth for once. I do not think that would harm him.’

‘He is angry,’ said Catherine gently, ‘because Milan was promised to us through our marriage. But then, my kinsman died.’

She looked at Henry anxiously. Did he hate his marriage because of Clement’s untimely death, as did the rest of France? How she longed for him to tell her that he was pleased with their marriage, that he was happy to be united to her, even though she had not brought him the promised riches.

He did no such thing. He could only think of his father’s disastrous military campaign.

‘Milan was scarcely defended at all!’ he said. ‘We could have taken it. But my father hesitated, and now― it is too late. Would I were there. I would have taken Milan― and held it.’

‘You would!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Henry, you would do brave things, I know. I should be so proud of you― so honoured that my husband was known throughout the world for his courage.’ He did not move away from her. She said eagerly, thinking of the love potion she had in her drawer, awaiting a moment when she could give it to him: ‘You will take some refreshment, Henry?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I cannot stay now.’

She should have let him go then, but she was intoxicated by having him with her. ‘Henry, please, please. Share a cup of wine with me. I scarcely ever see you.’

‘I― I have not the time,’ he said firmly.

Her control snapped. She cried: ‘You would have, did you spend less time with Madame la Grande Sénéchale.’

He coloured hotly and he looked at her with distaste. ‘She is an old friend,’

he said with hauteur.

‘Indeed she is. Old enough to be your mother. Madame d’Etampes says she was born on the day the Sénéchal was married.’

Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I do not care to hear what that harlot says and I should advise you, in view of your position, to choose your friends more wisely.’

She faced him; she was so miserable that she could not hide her anger.

‘I have not forgotten, Monsieur, that the lady is the most influential at court.’

‘I have not forgotten that she is the most immoral.’

‘Why should it be more immoral for the King to have a mistress than for the King’s son to leave his lawful wife― night after night― for the sake of― an old friend!’

He was white with anger. He did not know how to deal with this situation.

He had done his duty and it had not been easy; but if she were going to make such scenes as this it was going still harder.

And then she began to cry; she flung her arms about his neck, for when her control broke suddenly the floods seemed to flow the faster for having so long been pent up.

‘Henry,’ she sobbed, ‘I love you. I am your wife. Could not― could we not?

―’

He stood rigid. ‘I think there has been some― misunderstanding,’ he said, and his voice was cold as icicles in January. ‘Pray release me, and I will explain.’

She let her hands fall to her side, and stood staring at him, while the tears started to roll down her cheeks.

He moved towards the door. ‘You have misunderstood,’ he said. ‘Madame la Grande Sénéchale is a great friend of mine and has been for years. Our relationship is one of friendship only. She is a lady of great culture and virtue.

Pray do not let me hear you slander her again. It is true that you are my wife but that is no reason for vulgar displays.’

‘Vulgar!’ she cried through her tears. ‘Is love then― vulgar?’

He was all eagerness to get away. She deeply embarrassed him. She tried to fight off the heartbreaking emotion that was racking her, but she could not do it.

She had made a grave mistake, but having made it, she was reckless, not caring what she did. She knelt and caught him by the knees.

‘Henry, please don’t go. Stay with me. I would do anything to please you. I love you― far more than anyone else could possibly love you. It is only because our marriage was made for you by your father that you do not like it.’

‘Please release me,’ he said. ‘I do not understand you. At least I thought you reasonable.’

‘How can one be reasonable and in love? There is no reason in love, Henry.

It cannot last, can it, this infatuation for a woman old enough to be your grandmother?’

He threw her off, and she allowed herself to fall back heavily on the floor.

She lay there crying while he strode out of the room. But as soon as the door closed she realized how stupidly she had been behaving and still was behaving.

This was not the way.

She got up slowly and dragged herself to the bed. She threw herself on to it and sobs shook her body― but they were silent sobs.

After a while, they stopped. One does not weep, she said to herself, if one wishes to succeed. One makes plans. ――――――― Henry did not come near her for several days after that, and she felt that if she left her apartments and mingled with the men and women of the court she might betray something of this heartbreaking jealousy. She prayed, on her knees and as she went about her rooms, for the death of Diane.

‘Perhaps, Holy Mother, some terrible sickness that need not kill her, only disfigure her― Guide the hand of Sebastiano di Montecuccoli. Put the right thoughts into his head. It would be for Italy, Holy Mother, so there could be no sin in it.’

Madalenna brought news to her.

‘The King has sent for the Dauphin, Madame la Duchesse. He is to go to his father in Valence. This is bad, people are saying. They say things are very bad for France.’

But on the day the Dauphin was due to leave for Valence, Henry came to the apartment. She was lying on her bed feeling tired and heavy-eyed. How she wished that she had been up, her hair neatly braided, herself perfumed and elaborately gowned.

He came and stood by the bed, and he was almost smiling, as if he had completely forgotten their last encounter.

‘Good day to you, Catherine.’

She held out her hand and he kissed it, perfunctorily it was true, but still he kissed it.

‘You look happy, Henry. Is the news good?’ Her voice was flat, she was setting a firm guard over her feelings.

‘For the armies, it is bad,’ he said. ‘But for myself, good; for I think I may shortly be joining my father in Valence.’

‘You― Henry― to go with the Dauphin?’

‘Francis has taken to his bed. He is sick. He cannot leave yet to join my father.’

‘Poor Francis! What is wrong?’

‘Very little. I have hopes that my father may command me to take his place.’

‘He will doubtless wait a day or so. What ails your brother?’

‘He has been playing tennis in the sun. He played hard and was thirsty, and, as you know, he drinks only water. The Italian fellow took his goblet to the well and brought it back him full. He drank it all and sent the man back for more.’

Catherine lay very still, staring at the carved goddesses and angels on the ceiling. ‘Italian fellow?’ she said slowly.

‘Montecuccoli. You know, Francis’s Italian cupbearer. What does that matter? The heat and the water made Francis feel ill, so he retired to his rooms.

My father will not be pleased when he hears the news. He will upbraid him for drinking water.’

Catherine did not answer. For once, when Henry was with her, she was scarcely aware of him, for she could see nothing but the fanatical eyes of Montecuccoli.

The whole court was mourning the death of the Dauphin. None dared carry the news to Francis, who, in Valence, knew only that his son was sick.

The shock was overwhelming. The young man had been alive and well only a few days before. True, he was not exactly virile, but he was strong enough to play a good game of tennis. His death was as mysterious as it had been sudden.

The court physicians agreed that his death must have been due to the water he drank. All those about the young man had been shocked by his preference for water, which he drank immoderately, while he rarely took a drink of good French wine. He had been overheated and told his Italian cupbearer to bring him water.

His Italian cupbearer!

Now the court had begun to whisper. ‘It was his Italian cupbearer, you see.’

The King had to be told, and it fell to the lot of his great friend the Cardinal of Lorraine to break the news; but eloquent as the Cardinal was― and never yet had he been found at a loss for a word― he could not bring himself to tell the King of the terrible tragedy. He stood before his old friend, stammering that the news he had was not very good.

Francis, crossing himself hastily, and thinking immediately of his eldest son whom he knew to be ill, said: ‘The boy is worse. Tell me. Hold nothing back.’

He saw tears in the Cardinal’s eyes and commanded him to speak.

‘The boy is worse, Sire. We must trust in God―’

His voice broke and the King cried out: ‘I understand. You dare not tell me that he is dead.’

He stared at those about him in horror, for he knew that he guessed correctly.

There was silence in the room. The King walked to the window, took off his cap, and, lifting his hands, cried: ‘My God, I must accept with patience whatever it be thy will to send me; but from whom, if not from Thee ought I to hope for strength and resignation? Already hast Thou afflicted me with the diminution of my dominions and the army; Thou hast now added this loss of my son. What more remains― save to destroy me utterly? And if it be to do so, give me warning at least, and let me know Thy will in order that I may not rebel against it.’

Then he began to weep long and bitterly, and those about him wept in sympathy and dared not approach him.

In Lyons, the whispering campaign had started. Catherine was aware of it first in the looks of those she passed on the staircases and in the corridors.

People did not look at her, but she knew they looked after her when she had passed.

Madalenna brought her the news.

‘Madame la Duchesse, they are repeating that his cupbearer was an Italian.

They say that had they not let the Italians into their country, their Dauphin would be alive today.’

‘What else do they say, Madalenna? Tell me everything― whatever it is they say you must tell me.’

‘They that there is another Dauphin now― a Dauphin with an Italian wife.

They say the future Queen of France will be an Italian. They ask if it was the Italian count who killed the Dauphin.’

It was not long after that when Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli was arrested.

Against his father’s order, Henry rode to Valence. Francis was inclined to be indulgent in his sorrow. Now he must look at this son, whom he could never love, in a new light. Henry was the Dauphin now. He was precious. Francis could not help feeling that some ill luck was dogging him and he trembled for his remaining sons.

‘Foy de gentilhomme!’ he said to Henry. ‘Methinks I am unluckiest man in France― my army defeated and my Dauphin dead!’

Then the soldier in Henry spoke. ‘Your army is not defeated yet, Father, and I am here to try to prevent that. You have lost one son, but you have another who stands before now.’

Then Francis embraced the boy, dislike temporarily forgotten.

‘Pray, Father, allow me to join Montmorency at Avignon.’

‘Nay!’ cried Francis. ‘I have lost one son. I must guard well what remains.’

Henry would not let the matter rest there and after a while he succeeded in persuading his father to let him join Montmorency.

And then it was that Henry formed his second friendship, and one almost as strong as that he felt for Diane.

Anne de Montmorency was as stern a martinet as ever commanded an army, and a devout Catholic, most punctilious where his religious duties were concerned. Henry thought him like an avenging angel; and the soldiers― abandoned, vicious as they were― were terrified of him. Food might be short and pay not forthcoming, but Montmorency never relaxed that wonderful discipline which was the admiration of all who experienced it. God was on his side, he was sure; violent he was; cruel in the extreme; and the boldest trembled before him. He had no mercy on delinquents. There was not a morning when he omitted to say his Paternosters, and hardly a day when he would not have a man tortured, hanged, or run through with a pike for a breach of discipline. Indeed, it was when he said his prayers that he seemed to grow more vicious. He would stop muttering them and shout, ‘Hang me that man!’ or ‘Run your pike through that one!’

There was a saying in the army, ‘Beware of Montmorency’s Paternosters.’

To young Henry this man seemed wonderful. As for Montmorency, he so delighted to see the young Prince instead of the King that he could not hide his relief, and made much of the boy. Ever since Pavia the Army had been afraid as soon as the King entered midst. Francis was unlucky, they said; the saints had decreed that he should be defeated in war. Moreover, Henry was without that bombastic nature which characterized so many of his rank; he wanted to be a good soldier and was ready to place himself entirely under Montmorency’s command.

But Francis did not delay his coming. Very soon after Henry’s arrival in Avignon, the King followed his son there.

This time Francis was not unlucky, and France was saved― through force of arms. The imperial troops, owing of Montmorency in destroying towns and villages as he retreated, were starving and dying in thousands. There was only one course open to them― retreat.

Should he pursue the fleeing Spaniards and their mercenaries? wondered Francis; and he hesitated as he had done so before. He wanted to get back to Lyons, to look into this matter of the death of his eldest son, to discover if the rumours that he had been poisoned contained any truth.

So there was a temporary lull in the fighting.

Henry said when he took leave of Montmorency: ‘You can be sure that whatever happens I am, and shall be all my life, as much your friend as any man.’

Montmorency kissed the boy on both cheeks. Henry was learning what a vast difference separated a Duke from Dauphin, a second son from the heir to the throne.

In his prison cell, Montecuccoli awaited the coming of his torturers. He had spent the hours in his dark cell praying that he might have the courage for the ordeal through which he knew he must pass.

How easy it was to imagine oneself a martyr! How tedious the reality! To see oneself going boldly and defiantly to execution for the love of one’s country― that glorious. And the reality? Humiliating torture that carried a man to the gates of death, and cruelly brought him back to life that he might make the journey again and again, that he might learn how his poor body lacked the strength of his spirit. In place of that loud, ringing tone, ‘I will not speak!’ there must be groans and screams of agony.

Sweat ran down the handsome face of Montecuccoli, for men had come into the cell now and the doctor was there to examine him, and discover to what lengths they might torture him without killing him and destroying the only means of discovering the truth of the Dauphin’s death.

Chairs and tables were brought into the cell while the doctor conducted his examination; with a horror that made him want to retch, Montecuccoli watched two shabbily dressed men bring in the wedges and the planks.

‘How is his health?’ asked a businesslike little man who seated himself at the table and set out writing materials.

The doctor did not speak, but Montecuccoli knew the meaning of the grim nodding of the head.

After a few minutes the doctor went out to an adjoining to wait in case he should be needed during the torture.

A tall man in black now approached the Count. He said: ‘Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli, if you refuse to give satisfactory answers to the questions I shall ask, it has been decided that it will be necessary to put you to the torture― ordinary and extraordinary.’

Montecuccoli trembled. He knew the meaning of this. He understood what the planks and wedges meant; they were to make what was known through the country as The Boot; and into The Boot his legs would be packed; then the torture would begin.

While they were preparing him there was a commotion outside the cell, and as a tall figure, in clothes that glittered with jewels, came in, all those in the cell stopped what they were doing to bow low. The King looked incongruous in that dark chamber of horror. Francis looked grave; for his times, he was not unkind, but he had suffered deeply at the loss of his son and he had vowed that he would do everything in his power to avenge the murder; he had, therefore, come in person to hear a confession wrung from the lips of the man he believed to have murdered the boy.

‘Is everything in readiness?’ he asked, taking the chair which was immediately brought for him.

‘Sire, we but await your commands to proceed.’

The executioner, whose face was the most brutalized it had ever been the young Count’s misfortune to behold, bound him with ropes; and when this was done the man’s two assistants each fitted a leg into a boot, and the cords about them were tightened by means of a wrench.

‘Tighter!’ growled the executioner; and the Count was in sudden, excruciating agony, for so tightly were his legs compressed that all the blood was thrown back to the rest of his body. He screamed and fainted. When he opened his eyes, the doctor was standing over him, applying vinegar to his nose.

‘Here is a good beginning!’ chuckled the executioner. ‘Lily-livered Florentines! They paint pretty pictures, but they faint before the torture begins!

Better speak up, boy, and save our King another moment in this cell.’

There must be a wait, the doctor said, before the wedges were driven in, for it would take several minutes before the circulation was normal. Francis brought his chair closer to the young man and talked to him not unkindly.

‘We know, Count, that you acted under instructions. You are a foolish young man to suffer for those who should be where you are now.’

‘I have nothing to say, Sire,’ said Montecuccoli.

But Francis continued with the attempt to persuade him to speak until it was declared time to drive in the first of the two wedges.

‘On whose instructions,’ said the tall man in black, ‘did you give the Dauphin poison?’

Montecuccoli shook his head; he would not speak.

One of the men was ready at the Count’s knees, the other opposite him at his ankles; the cases in which the legs had been placed were so tightly bound that they would not give. There was a sickening crunch as the bones were crushed to make room for the wedges.

Montecuccoli swooned.

They brought him round with vinegar and asked the question again. The third and fourth wedges were driven in, and Montecuccoli knew, as his pain-crazed brain sought to cling to reason that he would never walk again.

‘Speak, you fool!’ cried the man in black. ‘You’ve had the Question Ordinary. It’ll be the Extraordinary next. Speak. Why shield your masters?’

The physician was bending over him, nodding in his grim and silent way.

The Count was young and healthy; the continuation of the torture would, he thought, very likely not kill him. He could be questioned to the limit today; if that failed to wring an answer from him, the water torture would be tried later.

Montecuccoli’s mind had one thought now; it was to save his tortured body more pain. He was reminding himself as he seemed to sway between life and death that he had achieved that which he had set out to do. Thanks to him, France would have a Medici Queen. If he implicated her, he would have killed and suffered in vain. Yet these people would not believe him innocent! They had found poison in his lodging; that, and the fact that he was an Italian, was sufficient to mark him as guilty in their eyes. He dared not implicate Catherine and Catherine’s astrologers, but if they persisted in the greater torture he did not know how he could endure it, for what he had suffered so far was the Ordinary Question― the driving in of four wedges only. The Extraordinary would be the driving in of four more. He yearned to be a martyr; he yearned to die for Italy; but how could he endure this continued agony? His body was weak with suffering; he could feel his resistance weakening also.

The King had folded his arms and was sitting back; he did not take his black eyes from the Italian’s face.

The men were ready with the fifth wedge.

The King held up his hand. ‘Speak!’ he said gently. ‘Why suffer this? You will speak in the end.’

Montecuccoli opened his mouth. He sought for words, but nothing, for his brain was numbed.

The King shrugged his shoulders. The man was ready with the first wedges of the greater torture.

Agony― horror― pain engulfed the Count. If only it were death, he thought.

Then he raised his hollow eyes to the bright ones of the King and began to talk.

Catherine, alone in her apartment, felt ill with anxiety. They were torturing Montecuccoli. What would he say? How could he, suffering exquisite torture, stop himself from implicating her? What when they took Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri? Those two― clever as they were― could never endure torture.

Confessions would be wrung from them as well as from the Count.

They would blame her. The whole country was ready to blame her. What would they do to the Dauphine who had inspired murder?

What a fool this man was! What a stupid, blundering fool! Did he think to kill the Dauphin and have no questions asked? She had not meant him to kill the Dauphin. It was not ambition that had prompted her to speak to him. She saw now how easily he had misunderstood. The fool, to think he could so lightly remove the heir to the throne of France.

And now― she was Dauphine; if she passed through this trouble, she would be Queen of France. A miracle indeed! But it had gone wrong somewhere. She had asked for love and she had been offered a crown.

Already they were suspicious of her. From Duchess to Dauphine through the mysterious death of the King’s eldest son! They were whispering of her, watching her, suspecting her, only waiting for the condemnation which they felt must come, once the Italian Count had been put to the torture.

What would they do to her? Of a surety she would be banished from France.

They would not keep an Italian murderess in their country.

Oh, Montecuccoli, you fool! You and your silly martyrdom! Where will that take you now? Where will it take me? She looked at her pale face in her mirror. If I lost Henry now, she thought , I should pray for death; for in truth, I do not care to live without him. ――――――― The court gathered together for a great spectacle. All highest in the land would be present. Stands were erected the royal pavilion was hung with cloth of gold.

Catherine, in her apartments, heard the shouts outside her window. She dressed herself with great care. Her dress was studded with pearls; her corsage rich with rubies. How pale she was! Her thick skin, beautiful in candlelight, looked sallow in the glare of the sun. She had changed in the last few weeks and the change was there in her face. It was subtle, though; none would see it but herself. There was craft about the lips, hard brilliance in the eyes. She realized what agonies she had suffered when she had heard Montecuccoli had been arrested, what terrible fears had beset her when she had heard they were torturing him. But the saints had been merciful to Catherine de’ Medici. They had put wisdom into the mind of the suffering man. He had invented a good story that was not too wild to be convincing; and so he had saved Catherine. He had told the King and his torturers that he had taken instructions from Imperial generals, and that they had had their instructions from a higher authority. He had even given the names of the Imperial generals. That was clever, for how could the French touch Spanish generals! He had also said that his instructions were to poison all the sons of the King and the King himself. Very clever. Montecuccoli was not such a fool.

But the people of France still believed her to have been involved in the Dauphin’s death. She was an Italian with much to gain, and that was good enough grounds, in their eyes, for murder. Yet I am innocent of this, she assured herself. I never thought to remove poor Francis. She could hear the trumpeters now, and Henry came in to escort her, for on a ceremonial occasion such as this, he could not sit with his mistress. He looked noble in his splendid garments but he frowned at his wife and she sensed his uneasiness.

‘The air is thick with rumour,’ he said, and his glance seemed distasteful as it rested upon her. ‘Would my brother were alive!’ he continued with great feeling. ‘Why should those have wished to destroy my family?’

Catherine went towards him eagerly and slipped her arm through his. ‘Who knows what plans are afoot?’ she said.

‘They are saying the Italian lied.’ Now he would not look at her.

‘They will always say something, Henry.’

‘I would my father had not arranged this spectacle. Or I that you and I need not be present.’

‘Why?’

He turned to her. He looked into her dark eyes that seemed to have grown sly, secretive. She repelled him today more than she usually did. He had thought he would get used to her; he had even begun to think that he was getting used to her, but the mysterious death of his brother he did not want even want to look at her. He did not understand her; and how could he help knowing that her name figured largely in the whispering scandal now circulating through Paris, through Lyons, through the whole of France? She was queer, this wife of his. She, who was calm and self-contained in company, was an entirely different person when they were alone. Now, when shortly they must see a man suffering a horrible death, her eyes gleamed and twitched with eagerness as she plucked his sleeve.

He did not understand her; he only knew that when he was with her, he was filled with a nauseating desire to escape― from the clinging hands, the pleading eyes and the lips, too warm and moist, which clung over-long to his flesh.

‘Why?’ he repeated impatiently after her. ‘You know why. You and I stand to gain so much by my brother’s death. Had he lived, I should have remained a Duke, you a Duchess; now, the poisoned cup is being prepared for us, we shall be King and Queen of France one day.’

She said in that low, husky voice which she reserved for him: ‘I have a feeling that my husband will one day be the greatest King France has ever known.’

‘He would have been happier if he had been born to kingship, and had not to step into his murdered brother’s shoes!’ He turned abruptly; he was afraid that what was whispered about her was true! He found, to his horror, that he could believe it. ‘Come!’ he said coldly. ‘Let us not be late, or there will be my father’s anger to face.’

They took their places in the glittering pavilion. Catherine knew that all eyes were on her; and in the hush that followed, she heard the faint rustling of silk and brocade, and whispering of voices.

Diane sat with the Queen’s ladies, upright, haughty, magically beautiful, so that Catherine’s control threatened desert her, and she felt like crumpling into tears. It was not that she should be so old and yet so beautiful. What chance had a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, against such a one? Oh, Montecuccoli, she thought, you have given the promise of queen-ship when what I wanted was to be a beloved wife and mother! She moved closer to the jewelled figure of her husband. Was it her fancy, or did he move slightly away from her? His went to Diane, and now he was the devoted lover whom Catherine wanted for herself.

I hate her! she thought. Holy Mother of God, how I hate her! Help me― help me destroy her. Send a blight to destroy that bright beauty; send humiliation to lower that proud head― Kill her, that the one I love may be mine. I wish to be a Queen and a well-loved wife. If this could happen to me, I would give my life to piety. I would never sin again. I would lead a blameless life free from even venial sins. Holy Mother, help me. Oh, Henry! Why do I, so carefully nurtured, so balanced, s controlled, why do I have to love you so madly when you are enchained by that sorceress! The heralds were trumpeting, and everyone was rising in his or her seat for the ceremonial entry of the King and Queen. Francis looked weary. He was mourning both the death of his son and the devastation of Provence. Catherine, watching him, that he would not be influenced by the whisperings concerning herself.

She sat back now, for the wretched prisoner was being carried out. Could that be handsome Montecuccoli! He was unrecognizable. He could not walk, for both feet had been crushed to pulp in the cruel Boot. His once clear brown skin was yellow now; in a few weeks they had changed him from a young to an old man.

Catherine was quick― and greatly relieved― to see that he had retained that noble and fanatical air. Bruised, bleeding and broken he might be, but he wore his martyr’s crown. She had not been mistaken in her man. He knew what terrible death waited him, but he was resigned; perhaps he felt that his greatest torture was past. Four strong men were leading out four fiery horses; they needed all their strength and skill to hold the animals. Catherine’s mind switched back to a scene in the Medici Palace when she had sat with her aunt and the Cardinal watched the death of a faithful friend.

She had shown no emotion then. It had been important that she showed none. Now, it was far more important.

Each of the Count’s four limbs was attached to a different horse.

Now― the moment had come. Young girls leaned forward in their seats, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement; young men caught their breath.

There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.

She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.