Madame Serpent

THE FRIGHTENED DAUPHINE

THERE was a tension at Loches. Everyone felt it, from Anne to the humblest worker in the kitchens. Diane, in continual conference with her young friends, the de Guises, seemed to have grown an inch taller and a good deal more haughty. She saw herself clearly now as the power behind the throne. Catherine, outwardly meek, felt a new strength within her. But for her, these two women who believed themselves to be so far above her in wit and intelligence would not be in their present position! It was stimulating to shape the destinies of others, even while, because one worked in shadow, one must be treated as though of no account.

Icy December winds were whistling through the bare branches of the trees in the palace gardens, and the snow was falling.

The King lay ill; and many believed he would never leave his bed.

It was not only the court that was uneasy; It was the whole of France. And it was not only this illness of the King’s that gave rise to tension. The Dauphin, with Charles of Orléans, and a retinue of noblemen, was travelling south to welcome Charles V of Spain into France. And the illness of Francis, together with the friendly invasion of Francis’s perennial enemy was sufficient to set tongues clacking, while speculation as to the wisdom of this unprecedented visit was offered in all the wine-shops from Paris to Le Havre and from Le Havre to Marseilles.

It was that stern Catholic, Anne de Montmorency, who was responsible for the friendly overture to Charles V. He had, on the illness of the King, taken over the reins of government, and when he had done this, he acted promptly. He had broken off friendly relations with the English and the German Princes, the Turks and the Duke of Cleves. He had persuaded Francis that alliance with Spain might mean the acquisition of Milan― which the death of Clement had snatched from the King just when he had thought the marriage of the Medici girl and Henry had brought it to him― and Francis could always be dazzled by the very name of Milan. And when Charles V had to journey from Spain to Flanders to subdue his rebellious subjects in the latter country, what better gesture of friendship to offer him safe passage through France, which would mean such saving of Charles’s time and pocket!

The invitation given was accepted― with a lack of ease on both sides; and so, Henry had ridden off rather sullenly much as he admired and respected his friend Montmorency could not relish the idea of welcoming as a guest of France, the man who had once held him a prisoner.

Courtiers huddled round the great fireplaces at Loches cussing the coming of the King of Spain and the possible departure of the King of France. There was a gloom about the palace. Loches, set on the top of a lofty rock, with a dark history of misery and pain that seemed to cling to it, with its underground dungeons, its torture-rooms, its noisome pits and its oubliettes, was hardly the pleasantest of French châteaux. There was scarcely a member of the court who did not long to return to Fontainebleau. The fact of the King’s being sick meant that lavish entertainments ceased, and that young ladies who taken on airs with royal favour, now seemed to shrink as they moped in corners. The court of France lost half its vitality when its King lay sick.

Catherine sat on a stool stretching her hands to the blaze while she listened to the conversation of those about her.

Young Guy de Chabot, the son of the Seigneur de Jarnac was a gay and dashing fellow, reckless in the extreme, a young man who gave himself up to the pleasures of love-making as fervently as men like Montmorency gave themselves to soldiering. He was talking now to a handsome captain of the Guards, Christian de Nançay, another such as himself. Idly Catherine listened to their conversation.

‘The King,’ said de Chabot, ‘should choose his women with greater care.

Depend upon it, La Feronnière has brought this sickness on him.

‘My friend,’ whispered de Nançay, ‘there you speak truth. The woman is herself suffering at this very time.’

‘Our King has his enemies,’ went on de Chabot. ‘One understands that the husbands and fathers of those whom he seduces cannot find it in their hearts to love him as easily as do the wives and daughters. Odd, is it not, and can at times be inconvenient. I have heard that the husband of La Feronnière the woman should pass this little trouble on to our Lord King.

De Nançay snapped his fingers. ‘My God! The King has suffered from the disease for many years. This is merely a reoccurrence of an old malady, depend upon it.’

They knew Catherine heard them, but what did they care? The quiet little mouse was of no consequence.

Anne d’Etampes strolled up to the two young men. They were once alert; rumour had named them both as her lovers. They bowed, they kissed her hands; they were, thought Catherine, rather ridiculous in their efforts to outdo each other. Anne had that quick smile, which held so much promise, for both of them.

They were two of the most handsome men at court, and Anne was very fond of handsome men.

Catherine watched them, joking, laughing, gaily flirting. Anne was beautiful, and only the closest observer, such as Catherine, saw how very worried she was.

Diane came to the fireplace and with her was Francis de Guise and Merot the poet. Princess Marguerite, the King’s daughter, joined them; and as they settled themselves about the fire, Catherine found herself drawn into the group.

The tension had heightened. It always did when these two women on whom the court looked as rival queens found themselves together.

Diane, very lovely in black and white, wearing on her finger the great ruby which Henry had given her, showed that she saw herself as the rising queen.

Anne, in blue that matched her eyes and her lovely fair hair to perfection, was more beautiful, more gay than Diane. The setting sun, thought Catherine, watching avidly that she might not miss a gesture, is often more magnificent than when it rides the sky.

‘What gallant courtiers you must find Monsieur da Nançay and Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane slyly. ‘They are always at your side.’

‘Indeed they are,’ retorted Anne. ‘I fear there are some who envy me the smiles that come my way.’

‘Then that is wrong of them!’ cried Diane. ‘I always say Madame la Duchesse d’Etampes has earned well her favours.’

‘Madame la Grande Sénéchale is kind indeed. I myself said the same of her.’

The little circle was uneasy. In a moment they would called upon to take sides, always a dangerous matter, Chabot nervously turned the subject to the coming of Charles V. He declared himself eager for a sight of the ogre.

‘A strange thing,’ said Princess Marguerite, ‘that he should be coming as my father’s guest― the man who imprisoned my father and my brothers. It is beyond my understanding.’

‘But it all happened long ago!’ said de Guise. ‘It is one of those things best forgotten.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne; ‘it happened long ago. Sénéchale, you will remember more clearly than any of us. You were a wife and mother at the time; I was but a child.’

Diane said: ‘You must have been very talented, Madame d’Etampes. I believe, at the time of the King’s imprisonment, Madame de Chateaubriand was jealous of you on the King account.’

‘An uneasy matter for Frenchmen,’ said de Guise quickly, ‘to have the Spaniards on their soil, even though they come I friends.’

‘A far more uneasy matter for Spaniards!’ put in the poet Marot.

‘I wish they would hurry and reach us. How dull are the days of waiting!’

Anne laughed as she spoke, but she did not feel like laughter. The Sénéchale, with her boldness, always disturbed her, always made her feel that her days of power were fast approaching an end.

‘I had thought Madame d’Etampes could not find the days― nor the nights dull,’ said Diane quietly.

‘It is true I was born with gaiety in my heart,’ said Anne. ‘But I should like to see the party here. I long to clap eyes on the mighty Charles.’ She noticed Catherine sitting there. ‘Our little Dauphine would wish to see her young husband, is that not so, Dauphine?’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders.

‘Shame!’ cried Anne. ‘Did there speak the dutiful wife?’

Catherine did not know what had come to her. She had been thinking of Henry while they had been talking and, seeing Diane there, hating her so fiercely, realizing that even in a battle of words with Anne she could shine, she had felt her hatred submerging her control.

She forced herself to laugh now.

‘Dutiful?’ she said bitterly. ‘Should I be dutiful? Ask Madame la Sénéchale with whom he spends his days and nights.’

Anne was delighted. There was a smile on almost every face. The little Medici been able to discomfit Diane as Anne failed to do.

Diane, to her annoyance, felt a faint colour rise to her cheeks. She hated any reference to her love affair with the Dauphin; she would have everyone believe that she was his spiritual adviser.

Anne tittered. ‘Well, we may take the word of the poor, deserted, little wife.’

She went to Catherine and put an arm round her. ‘Why, my little one, I weep for you. But never mind, for he will come back to you. You are so docile, so charming, so young!’

Diane said: ‘I am sorry, Madame la Dauphine, that you feel deserted. When the Dauphin returns perhaps I may persuade him to leave you less alone.’

Diane rose and walked away. There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds before everyone began speaking of the preparations for the reception of the Spaniards.

Catherine knew that she had been wrong. Diane was planning to remove her, for she had discovered that Catherine was not the submissive wife she had been believed to be. Catherine harboured grudges; she was inclined to be possessive.

Diane had tolerated the Italian girl because she had believed her to be of no importance. But no one insulted Diane with impunity.

Catherine was afraid. Life was too difficult. One was careful, watching every word, every look― and then came an unguarded moment and the work of years was forgotten.

Henry returned to Loches, and Catherine’s fear increased. She could find no pleasure in the rich displays which were arranged for the guests. The banquets, balls, the plays, and tournaments meant nothing to her. Henry was looking at her with hope in his eyes, and the hope was that he might rid himself of her forever.

She, for a moment of folly, was to blame. Her hatred had triumphed over her common sense, just as love so often had in her scenes with Henry.

The court left Loches and travelled by stages to Paris, a magnificent reception was afforded the Spaniard! Catherine watched it all listlessly. What were the schemes and plots of others when her own life was threatened? She watched the entry of Charles into Paris; she was with the King and Queen at one of the windows of the Hotel de Montmorency in the Rue de Saint-Antoine; yet it was not at the Spaniard she looked, but at the young man who rode beside him― her husband, who beginning to hate her and long to be rid of her; and indeed since she had shown unfriendliness to his mistress, Catherine believed he was turning over in his mind how he could do this.

She watched the uneasy Charles presented on behalf of the city with a huge silver figure of Hercules draped with a lion’s skin of gold; at Notre Dame she heard a Te Deum sung for him; she was unimpressed by these ceremonies, for all she could think of was: what will become of me now? Tue whole court was laughing because, during a hunting party, the young and mischievous Duc d’Orléans had leaped to the horse which was being ridden by Charles V and shouted ‘Your Imperial Majesty is my prisoner!’ And Charles, feeling that that moment which he had dreaded had come at last, cursing himself for a fool to have entered his enemy’s country galloped off through the forest with the young Duke clinging to him. How chagrined was Charles to learn that this was the boy’s idea of a joke! And how his French hosts laughed at his expense! In Catherine’s heart there was no room for laughter, since this new fear for her fate had possession of it.

In spite of the gaiety and festivities, the men and women of the court had time to whisper, and their whispers concerned the little Italian Dauphine.

Catherine, knowing they whispered, would lie awake at night and wonder.

Was it true that a divorce was being planned?

It was some time ago that she had heard of Alessandro’s death. He had been stabbed by an obscure relative of hers, who had immediately become the hero of Florence. The young assassin’s sister been used as a decoy, and Alessandro had died as violently as he had lived.

What perilous lives we lead, we Medici, she thought. Clement, Ippolito, Alessandro― they had all died suddenly, had certainly been murdered.

Was she any more secure than her relatives?

They would not kill her; yet she believed she would prefer death to what they were proposing to do.

She thought of the aunt of this Charles whom France was now honouring with feats and ceremonies. That aunt had been another Catherine― Catherine of Aragon, and wife of the King of England. She had been divorced because she could not bear a son. And again, ostensibly for the same reason, that King’s second wife, having no powerful relatives to protect her, had lost her head.

Catherine de’ Medici had now no powerful relative to protect her.

They would not kill her. She would not care if they did. They would divorce her, and banish her; and she would never see Henry again.

‘All these years married,’ they were saying, ‘and no child! What good is such a wife to the heir to the throne? He can get children; witness the Piedmontese. For such a one as this Medici, there is only one thing: divorce!’

She wept; when she was alone, she stormed. How could she get children when she scarcely ever saw her husband!

She had not thought it possible for her hatred of Diane de Poitiers to grow.

But during the visit of Charles of Spain, she learned that it could.

Francis, having shaken off sickness once again, and feeling stimulated by the passing through France of his enemy, spoke to Catherine of the relationship between herself and Henry she rode beside him when they were out with the Petite Band. Anne had stayed in the palace that afternoon; she was tired, she said. Francis missed her; he had asked his daughter-in-law to ride with him, since he felt it his duty to speak to her. It was an unpleasant duty, and he wished to done with it as soon as possible. Seven years married and no child! A grave matter for a Duke of Orléans; a disastrous one for a Dauphin of France!

‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘this is a sorry state of affairs. All these years married― and no sign of a child. Can you explain it?’

‘I can only say, Sire,’ she answered sadly, ‘that if the Dauphin were with me as much as he is with the Sénéchale―’

The King sighed. ‘That boy angers me,’ he interrupted. ‘How like him this is! He is heir to the throne, and he sets his responsibilities light beside his infatuation for a woman. It is incredible.’

‘Sire, I had hoped his infatuation would not last so long,’

‘With that boy anything is possible. Well, Catherine, something must be done, you know. Seven years is a long time. I should have thought it was impossible for him to get children but for the affair at Piedmont. You must not be outdone your young fellow country-woman, daughter.’

He whipped up and rode away. Catherine was in no mood to amuse him. He left her desolate. So he was turning against her, she felt. His voice had sounded less cordial than usual. You must not be outdone― Undoubtedly he had emphasized must. He meant that if she did not soon become enceinte, she could not remain married to his son.

And if I were not married to Henry, thought Catherine, I should no longer wish to live. The King was moody today; had he already decided on the divorce?

She need not have worried. Francis had not given her another thought. He was feeling too unwell to enjoy the chase; he was thinking wistfully of the days of his youth. He thinking also of Anne, and wondering why she had not accompanied him this afternoon. How did she, who was still young and so beautiful, feel towards this aged man that he was becoming? The love of a mistress could not be counted on as could the love of a mother and a sister.

Marguerite, Queen of Navarre had been ambitious for him; Anne was ambitious for herself. He remembered now, how, in the first years of his love for Anne, she had demanded the jewels which he had given to his former mistress, Madame de Chateaubriand; not, she said, of their value, but because of the beautiful devices engraved on them, which the King’s sister had composed. He had been completely under the spell of Anne, and had asked Madame de Chateaubriand to return the jewels. But Anne had been cheated then, for the Chateaubriand had outwitted her by the jewellery melted down so that the inscriptions written for her should not be passed on to another. He had admired his former mistress for that gesture; but Anne had furious been with him and with her. Anne was always imperious, always sure of herself. She was beautiful still and many admired her; that should be so, for Francis must have of the best; but he often wondered if the admiration of those about her was expressed more actively when he was not present. His thoughts went to Admiral Chabot de Brion, Christian de Nançay, Guy de Chabot and others― even including the poet Marot.

Although he could not trust her, he was unhappy without her. If he accused her of infidelity, she would immediately refer to his own failing in that respect.

The sexes were equal at the court of France. It was not for the most promiscuous man in France to complain of his mistress’s lovers.

He could find no pleasure in the hunt without her, so he decided to cut short the afternoon’s sport and return to her. First thing he did when he reached the palace was to go straight to Anne’s apartments. There he found one of her women, Mademoiselle de Colliers, in a state of great agitation; she stammered and blushed, and even dared to attempt to detain him. He brushed her aside and went into chamber, where Christian de Nançay was hastily struggling into his clothes. Anne, in a wrap of cloth of silver, her fair hair in disorder, was, he saw at once, completely at a loss. Mademoiselle de Colliers came running into the room. The girl was more frightened than the guilty pair.

Francis, the purple blood in his face, his heart pounding, summed up the situation at once; the afternoon was hot oppressive, and the girl was terrified because, having set to watch at one of the windows for the King’s return, she had fallen into a doze and had awakened only when it was too to warn her mistress.

Now this sort of thing was very amusing― when it happened to anyone else.

Anne was guilty; he only had to look at her to see that. Nançay looked like a man who knows his career is ruined; as for the girl, she was so beside herself that she knelt at the King’s feet, embracing his knees, lifting her young imploring eyes He strode to the window and called for his guards. He kept his back on the three people in the room, and stood there looking down on the courtyard. He felt too ill for anger. He suspected something of this. He was seeing himself, old, tired and ill, compared with this vigorous young captain of the Guards. This would not have happened ten years ago― five years ago. He understood perfectly. It was no use blaming Anne because she contrived to amuse herself with the handsome young man while the tiresome old one was out of the way, He would have done the same himself. He saw the situation too clearly for his anger to remain.

He was all-powerful; he could imprison the young man; he could cast off Anne. And what then? How would he replace he who was irreplaceable? Anne would lose her position as first lady in the land and he would be wretched without her.

The guards were coming into the room.

He turned, assuming great anger, and pointed to the captain, ‘Arrest that man!’ he said. ‘Let him reflect in prison on the impropriety of conducting here, in her mistress’s own room, an intrigue with an attendant of Madame d’Etampes. ‘

The guards seized young de Nançay, who was now feeling considerably relieved in his mind.

‘Get up,’ said Francis to the girl, ‘and leave us.’

Thankfully, she scrambled to her feet and hurried off.

Francis turned to Anne. ‘I think you will agree,’ he said, as the door closed, leaving them alone, ‘that my conduct was as restrained as yours has been abandoned.’

Anne was nonplussed, and he was delighted to see her at a loss. He would punish her now by keeping her in doubt as to her fate.

The story of the King’s discovery of de Nançay with his mistress leaked out.

Poor little Mademoiselle de Colliers had not, as she feared, lost her reputation.

Everyone knew who was the heroine of that little farce. De Nançay had been the favorite’s lover for weeks. Malicious stories were bruited about, not only concerning Christian de Nançay― who was very soon released― but all the young noblemen who circled about Madame d’Etampes; and these stories originated from Diane’s supporters.

Catherine was too deeply concerned with her own troubles to pay much attention to the skirmishes between the mistresses of the King and Dauphin until she sudden realized that that she might turn this state of affairs to her advantage.

Anne was her friend; they were often together; it was not difficult to plant ideas in Anne’s fertile mind.

Catherine said, as they rode together in the Petite Bande: ‘How the King loves the Duc d’Orléans! I think it would need very little make him pass over the Dauphin in favour of Monsieur d‘Orléans. I am sure he wishes young Charles were his elder son and Henry the younger.’

Anne gave her a swift glance. What a stupid little thing the Italian girl was!

She was thinking, as Catherine meant her to. The sill creature― to sow such seeds! Of course it was not possible― but was it? Could Anne, she asked herself, persuade Francis to disinherit his elder son in favour of the younger?

Would the law of France allow even its King to meddle with the line of succession? If it could be done, it must be done. It would make all the difference in the world to Anne d’Etampes if Charles of Orléans became the King of France instead of Dauphin Henry. With Charles on the throne, Madame de Poitiers would be of no consequence whatever. And this Italian child would be of no importance either!

She really was stupid to put such an idea into the mind of one, who, if it were possible to bring it about, alone could do it.

She did not know how violently Catherine’s heart beating; nor did she realize that the Italian had noticed the disturbing effect her words had had.

Catherine’s plan was desperate; but the plan suited her need. Now it was for Madame d’Etampes to start courting Charles of Orléans, and then Diane must realize that it was imperative for Catherine to have a child at once.

Alert herself, she set Madalenna to watch. Catherin. little. She watched Diane and Anne; and she knew that she herself was more clever than either of them. Diane had not yet realized why Anne was making herself so pleasant to Charles― She would soon, though; and then, thought Catherine, Henry will come to me, ready to give me a child.

How stimulating it was, this working in the dark! And foolish were those two women to show so openly their antagonism to one another. Catherine watched their maneuvers and smiled secretly.

Diane successfully brought ruin on the Admiral Chabot de Brion. He had been funding his coffers with State money, but in Diane’s eyes his sin was that he was a secret lover and supporter of Anne. With admirable adroitness, Diane secured his banishment from court before Anne could successfully intervene.

Anne naturally sought immediate retaliation she set herself the task of bringing about the disgrace of none other than the great Montmorency.

She could not have done that, Catherine knew, had not events played right into her hands. Francis had tried to keep out of these women’s quarrels which were dividing his court. When his health improved, he promised himself, they should be stopped. The Catholic party who supported Diane! The Reformed party that clustered round Anne! He would show them that there should be one party and one party only― the King’s party.

But Francis could now see that Charles V of Spain had no intention of keeping the promises he had made when he was the guest of France. One of the reasons he had been invited to use French spoil as though it were his own was because of a hint he had previously given as to the future of Milan. He had suggested that the young Charles of Orléans might marry the daughter of Ferdinand of Austria, and, to show his approval of the proposed match, had said that he would dispose of the duchy and state of Milan in such a manner that the French King would have every reason to be content. How could he have said more clearly that the Milanese should be given to Francis by way of his young son! But after journeying through France and subduing Flanders, Charles V had changed his mind. He did not now feel quite so dependent on the friendship of France, and he suggested that Francis should renounce all claims to the Milanese, in return for which he would give his eldest daughter Duke of Orléans, and the Netherlands would be her dowry, to come to her after his own death.

The very mention of Milan always moved Francis deeply. To think that the long-desired possession had been dangled under his nose, only to be snatched away, infuriated him. And when he learned that Charles V had bestowed Milan upon his own son Philip, Anne was beside him, whispering in his ear.

‘You may depend upon it, Montmorency knew of Charles’ perfidy in the beginning. He deliberately disguised it. He does not wish the Duke of Orléans to have Milan, since then he would become too powerful to please his brother the Dauphin. It is not you, Francis, for whom Montmorency works; it is for Dauphin Henry. Have you not seen the friendship between them? Sire, are you to stand by and see them work together against you?’

The result of this was that Francis, to the rage of Diane and Henry, and to the delight of Anne, banished the once-favoured Montmorency, the great general, the Constable of France, to his château in the country.

Anne had won the bigger battle.

The fight continued. The mighty war of religion had started in France.

Catherine, watching closely, saw that Anne d’Etampes was becoming more and more friendly with Charles of Orléans.

The entire court was discussing the unsatisfactory state of the Dauphin’s marriage. What use was it― this fruitless union? Why had there not long ago been a divorce?

It was obviously the fault of the Italian. Henry had proved his manhood in Piedmont.

It was Diane who fostered such talk. The Italian shown some spirit; she was the friend of Madame d’Etampes. If Catherine was not the meek wife Diane had hitherto believed her, then Diane wished her removed.

Anne was sympathetic. She hinted to Catherine that she would plead her case with the King. She would do this, Catherine knew, because it suited her for the Dauphin to continue with this childless marriage. If there was a divorce, and a new marriage for Henry― a marriage which produced children― how then could she persuade the King to displace Henry for Charles of Orléans?

Catherine knew that that plan had taken deep root in Anne’s mind; if only Diane would realize it, Catherine was sure she would cease to agitate for a divorce.

Outwardly calm, Catherine was becoming inwardly frantic. She saw herself the divorced woman― she, who had already come very near to being Queen of France― banished to Italy to live her life there. She was twenty-three; for nine years she had fought a battle for her husband’s love; was she going to fail now?

She did not now weep. Instead, she looked back over the years and saw her mistakes. She should never have shown Henry her wild, passionate longing for him. She ought to have known that, as he was in love with another woman, it would repel him. But how could she― child that she had been― have known that? She had known nothing of human relationships, nothing of love.

‘Holy Virgin!’ she cried. ‘Could I but go back to be a child bride again, how differently I should behave!’

But was the use of hoping for a chance to start again. That sort of miracle never happened. The only miracles that happened were those you made yourself.

She must do something. But what?

Kill Diane? Willingly would she do that. Happily would she mix the draught that would kill her rival. But what good would that do? She dared not, even after all these years, be involved in another murder. There were many at court who would never forget how Dauphin Francis had died. Caution― caution all the time. She must make a miracle.

How? She was beside herself with grief and terror.

Passionately she loved this country, with a steadier, but none the less deep love than that with which she loved her husband. To love a person, she knew, must always be weakness, for even if love was returned, the person could die or change; but to love a country was not a foolish thing, because a country had no fluctuating towards one.

Ambroise, Blois, Chenonceaux. She saw that stately panorama of castles come and go before her eyes. She saw Paris and Notre Dame; she saw the palace of Les Tournelles and the torch-lighted hall of the Bastille; she saw the Louvre and glorious Fontainebleau. Leave these for the gloomy or the sombre, walled-in convent? Never!

Who would help her? Who save her? There was one with whom the final decision lay. He had been kind to her; he was always chivalrous. A forlorn hope, but the only one left to her.

She looked at her face in the mirror and saw there the marks of grief. Never mind. Her grief this time should be her weapon.

She had made up her mind and did not hesitate. In a very short while she would know success or failure. She was gambling on what she knew of the King’s nature. The result would depend on how deeply he desired the divorce; if his mind was made up, nothing she could do would influence him.

She went to his apartment and sent a message in to him by one of his pages, begging to be allowed to see him alone. She was set to wait in an antechamber sumptuously furnished, as were all the rooms of his apartments. She let her fingers stroke the velvet hangings; there was no luxury in the world like that to be enjoyed at the court of France. It was the gayest, most amusing, most intellectual court in the world. Here women were not merely pretty ornaments to make pleasant a masculine world; they took their place side by side with men.

This was the home she had grown to love.

‘The Virgin help me!’ she murmured. ‘I shall die if I am banished from the man and the land I love.’

The King was busy with some of his ministers and an hour of suspense elapsed before she was taken in to him. She bowed before him and, lifting anguished eyes to his, she begged that she might speak to him alone.

Those kind, tired eyes with the bags beneath them understood her glance of appeal. He waved his hands toward Cardinal of Lorraine and his Grand Chamberlain, the Comte de Saint-Pol, and the other noblemen who had made no attempt to leave him.

‘I would be alone with my daughter,’ he said.

Catherine gave him a grateful, tremulous smile, which she returned; and then seeing his jester, Briandas, who looked upon himself as a privileged person, still sprawling in the window seat, he shouted: ‘You also, Briandas. Get you gone.’

‘Sire?’ said the impudent fellow, raising his eyebrow, ‘I thought you would wish me to remain to chaperon the lady.’

Francis signed him to leave, and, bowing low and ironically, the jester went out.

‘Now, Catherine, my little one!’ The charming voice, tenderly soft, sent Catherine into floods of genuine tears.

It was rarely that Francis could witness, unmoved, a woman in distress.

‘Catherine, my dear one, what is it?’

She knelt and kissed his feet. He lifted her and looked y concern at her tear-blotched cheeks. He took a perfumed handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

She sobbed: ‘You are so good. I could not live without the joy of serving you.’

Now this was charming, thought the King. This was delightful. She had been able to choose her words well. This was a tender little love scene― platonic love― the most comfortable of loves. The admiration of a daughter for her father, made more exciting because the daughter was not of his blood.

‘Tell me all, little one,’ he said. ‘Have no doubt that I will do all in my power to help you.’

‘Sire, my honoured and beloved lord, I beg of you to forgive me this familiarity. It is the thought of being banished from your shining presence that gives me the courage to speak to you. I love this land; I love it through its great and glorious King. I have been happy here. It is true I have no children and my husband is bewitched by one old enough to be his mother. These are tragedies; but because on occasions I have won a smile of approval from your royal lips, I have been happy; because in some small way, I have given my gracious King some pleasure, my life has seemed to be worthwhile. I do not come to plead for what you would not willingly give, because if it were not your gracious pleasure, it could not be mine.’

‘Speak, my dear,’ He said. ‘Tell me everything that is in your mind.’

‘If it be your will that I should retire to a convent, then, though my heart be broken, this would I do. If it should be your will that I should remain here to serve you, then I shall be woman in France. But, Sire, whatever your command, I shall to my utmost power, carry out your wishes, for though to be banned from your presence will be to me a living death, I am wise enough to know that there is no joy in my life but that which comes to me through serving you.’

Whereupon she again fell to weeping bitterly, for she was very frightened indeed. But she felt herself lifted on to the royal knee and rocked in the royal arms as though she were a child. Hope came back, so bright, that it was more dazzling than the rubies and sapphires on the royal doublet.

Francis was thinking quickly. He had almost made up his mind to the divorce. As he wiped her tears he was thinking: if Henry spends too much time with one who is too old for childbearing and in any case could only give him bastards, let Henry stay childless. Then, on the death of Henry, would Charles, if he still lived, mount the throne.

How pleasant it was to play the chivalrous role when one could feel that it did not after all involve any great folly. He could please the little daughter who showed her affection so charmingly, and at the same time he could please Anne, rarely one had the experience of pleasing two women at the same time.

‘My child,’ said the King, ‘God has willed that you are my daughter-in-law and the Dauphin’s wife; therefore, who am I to have it otherwise? Rest happy, my child. Perchance it might, ere long, please God to accord you and the Dauphin the grace which you desire more than anything in the world.’

Catherine lifted eyes to his face that, while full of tears, seemed radiant with joy. Her mind was working quickly. It was only postponement, she knew; but it would mean at least another year of grace. And who knew what might happen in a year?

She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. She was incoherent― purposely so― because she wished to drop the ceremonious approach and tell the King of her adoration of gracious self.

She begged he would pardon her for her indiscretion. She thanked him again and again; she asked nothing but to stay near him, to see him each day, to listen to his poetry and songs.

Catherine marvelled at herself. How calm she was now! How cleverly she had enacted this scene! Each word she had uttered had been the right word. How sad, how tragic, that she who could so bemuse the clever father, must expose herself so pitifully to the simple son!

At last he dismissed her; they parted with vehement protestations of devotion on her part, gracious admission of affection on his.

Here was defeat for the Catholic party. The King had given the Dauphine a reprieve.

Diane was alarmed. She had noticed Anne’s growing friendship with young Charles of Orléans. The King seemed to dote on that young man more than ever, whilst his distaste for his elder son more marked. Francis had postponed― indefinitely it would seem― this matter of the divorce. Could this mean Anne was trying to persuade her royal lover to juggle with the succession, to set his younger son above his elder? Surely, that had never happened during the whole history of France; but who knew what a King, weakened by disease, priding himself on his chivalry, might not do for a woman with whom he was infatuated?

Diane saw immediately what she must do. She must make every effort to turn the barren marriage into a fruitful one.

She begged an audience with the Dauphine.

Catherine received her in her apartments, and they talked idly of Italy and the artists of that country; but Catherine guessed why she was honoured by this visit from her husband’s mistress, and in spite of her excitement, she felt the humiliation keenly.

Looking at the serene, lovely face before her, mad thoughts whirled in Catherine’s brain. She wondered if she might arrange for men to enter the woman’s chamber whilst she slept, and then mutilate or even murder her.

I hate her, thought Catherine, as she smiled sweetly. She little knows I have set Madalenna to watch them together. She would have me think that they are platonic friends. Little does she know that I have seen through Madalenna’s eyes. Would I could find some way of seeing them together myself. ‘Madame,’ Diane was saying, ‘you are fully aware of my the Dauphin. It is of such long standing. I have been a mother to him.’

An incestuous mother, thought Catherine bitterly.

‘Our friendship began when he was very young, and it will endure to my death, for I am older than he is, and it is almost certain that I shall die before him.’

Would it were tomorrow! How I should rejoice to see you, a dagger through your heart, and your black-and-white gown stained with your blood! And those serene features, serene no longer, but twisted in the agony of death! I will insist that Cosmo or Lorenzo find me a poison that will make a victim die a long and lingering death which will seem to be the a natural malady. ‘I know him so well,’ went on Diane. ‘I know his thoughts even when he does not confide in me― although he does confide in me frequently. Now, my dear friend, it is important that you and the Dauphin have children. I am your friend― your very good friend― and I tell you so.’

‘Madame, you tell me nothing new. The whole court knows that I pray each night for a child.’

‘The Dauphin is rarely with you,’ smiled Diane. ‘His presence would be more effective than your prayers.’

She paused, but Catherine forced herself to silence, her thoughts raced on. And why is he not at my side? Because you are luring him from me. I hate you. If I had a poisoned draught, how gladly would I force it down your throat! How meek she is, thought Diane. Really I wonder that I thought her worth removing. That little outburst was nothing. It was to be expected. It was because she made it before my enemies that it seemed important in my eyes. She is the very wife for Henry. They must have children. Diane was smiling, picturing the birth of Catherine’s children. Diane herself would supervise their education, choose their nurses and their teachers. They should be hers as surely as was their father.

‘Madame la Dauphine,’ continued Diane, ‘I think I know why the Dauphin is chary of visiting your chamber. Will you forgive the frankness of one who longs to be your friend, yearns to help you, who wishes to see your nurseries full of healthy babies?’

Catherine bowed her head to hide the violent hatred in her eyes.

‘Then I will tell you. When the Dauphin visits you, be not too loving. You are fond of him, I know, and his visits are rare; but do not make too much of them. Let him think that it is with you as it is with him― a duty, not a pleasure.

I think he would come more often if you did that.’

Catherine’s cheeks were flushed, not with modesty at the delicate matter― as Diane believed― but with fury. So he had told this woman of her passionate entreaties of love, of her tears, of her desire! He had told her enemy!

She had need of all her control to stop herself slapping that calm and arrogant face. But she must remember that the King had only postponed her banishment. She could not continue to hold her place if she did not bear a child.

This hated enemy alone could help her to that goal. Therefore must she smile and simper; therefore must she pretend to respect one whom she hated. This bitter humiliation was the price asked for ultimate power. Once it was hers, it would be her happy lot to turn the tables on this woman, and every insult should be paid for with interest.

So the girl with the meek smile and flushed cheeks listened of her husband’s mistress; and that very night the Dauphin visited her. So urgent was her love that she was happier to have him on these terms than not at all.

And so, every night from then on at his mistress’s command, Henry visited his wife.

Catherine followed Diane’s advice, and she found that after a while, Henry became almost friendly. He consoled himself and her. ‘A duty, a necessary act.

Once you are pregnant we shall have a long respite until it is necessary to think of the next one.’

What romance for a passionate girl! When he left her she would weep until morning.

But in less than a year after her tearful and touching scene with the King, the court was ringing with the joyous news. ‘Madame la Dauphine is enceinte! Let us pray the saints that it is a male child!’

Three hundred torch-bearers lined the route from the King’s apartments to the church of the Mathurins. It might have been midday, such light did they give. In the procession which was led by hundreds of the gentlemen of the households of the Dauphin, came the King of Navarre, and the dukes led by the Monsieur d’Orléans, with the Venetian Ambassador and the Papal Legate with other cardinals and priests.

These were followed by the Queen, the Princesses led by Marguerite, the King’s daughter; Madame d’Etampes― showing no sign of the chagrin she was feeling― was more extravagantly dressed and more beautiful than any; and in the these ladies, the royal baby was carried.

The church was decorated with finest Crown tapestries in its centre was a circular platform covered in cloth and on this platform stood the Cardinal of Bourbon waiting to perform the baptismal ceremony.

As soon as the procession had reached the church, set out; the sounds of tumultuous cheering seemed to shake the foundations of the church, as, smiling graciously, acknowledging the acclaim of his people, the King reached the Mathurins to act as godfather to the little boy who was named after him.

On the circular dais stood the Duc d’Orléans, the second godfather, and Princess Marguerite, the godmother. The baby seemed lost in his magnificent christening robes― a tiny, red, wrinkled-faced creature, a future King of France.

When the ceremony was over, the baby, surrounded ladies of the court, was taken back to the palace. The feasting and rejoicing that must crown such an important event begun. There must be balls and masques, dancing, plays and jousts to celebrate this addition to the House of Valois, Francis was the toast of the hour.

But there was none more delighted with him than his mother. She watched him in wonderment― this shriveled creature who had given her security.

She held him fiercely to her breast. Her little Francis! Henry’s son!

But even as she did so, fear came to her. He seemed so small and fragile.

There must be more sons to make his mother feel safe.