Madame Serpent

THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR

IT WAS APRIL at Fontainebleau. In her beautiful bed with its rich hangings of brocade and wonderfully woven tapestry, lay the Dauphine. Her eyes were lustreless, her fair hair spread out on the pillows; her thick pale skin seemed almost yellow in the sunlight; otherwise she showed little sign of the ordeal through which she had recently passed. She was strong and young; childbearing was easy for her.

She was not discontented as she lay there, although she wished that her Elizabeth had been another boy. Still, there would be boys yet. There would be many children. She allowed her lips to curl cynically, for Madalenna, sitting at her window seat, was intent on her work, and could not note her mistress’s expression. Diane had decreed that the Dauphin should be the father of many children; therefore it would be so. As for Catherine, she had proved, by producing these two children, born within two years of each other, that she was no barren wife.

How lucky she was that her husband’s mistress had decided to allow his wife to bear his children! He visited her apartments regularly― on his mistress’s instructions― albeit he came like a schoolboy going unwillingly to school; but nevertheless he came.

It was senseless to nourish this bitterness. She should congratulate herself.

She had a son and a daughter and there could no longer be any suggestion of divorce.

Everywhere in France― unpopular as she was― she was regarded as the future Queen. She was― though still called the Italian woman― the Dauphin’s wife; and France was beginning to take its Dauphin to its heart.

Henry had proved himself an excellent soldier in the last few years, for the King could not leave his war with Charles V forever long and Henry took a big part in it. He was without much imagination, but he was as brave as a lion; he was kindly too, a just disciplinarian; he was the sort of leader men liked to follow; and eager as he was to prove a worthy general in his father’s eyes, he rarely erred on the side of recklessness. His men were fond of him and the sober backbone of the country liked him. France adored its licentious, charming, and artistic King; it was hoped that he would live long to enjoy his pleasures; it was gratifying to hear of the works of ort collected and to know that he employed the best artists in the world to beautify his palaces; it was amusing to hear of the erotic joys, of the beautiful women who delighted mirror-panelled chambers.

But the splendours of France were costly, and it was comforting to look forward to a more sober court under the King-to-be.

There would be, to some degree, a return to morality. The Dauphin, it was true, had a mistress; but the relations between them was like that of husband and wife. Nor did the people blame the young man for taking a mistress, for was he not married to the Italian, and that, in the eyes of good French men and women, was ample reason for choosing a French mistress. Yes, France was well pleased with its Dauphin.

Catherine was also pleased with her Dauphin― desperately, maddeningly pleased. Her passionate love had increased than diminished with this greater intimacy between them. Oh, how hateful it was to think that he came to her because Diane sent him!

But she had her babies now.

‘Madalenna!’ she said. ‘Bring me my baby.’

Madalenna rose and went to the cradle― a magnificent affair of cloth of silver, decorated with ribands and laces. Catherine’s face softened as the child was brought to her. She held out her arms and took the little Elizabeth into them.

‘Is she not a beautiful child, Madalenna?’

‘She is indeed,’ said Madalenna.

‘I fancy she has a look of her father about her.’

‘It is too early to say yet,’ said Madalenna.

‘Oh, come, Madalenna, look at her nose.’

‘You think it is the Valois nose?’

‘Do you? Perhaps. But I am sure those are the Medici eyes.’

‘’Madame la Dauphine, it will be well for her beauty if she has the Medici eyes.’

Catherine kissed the small face. ‘It is to be hoped also that she has the Medici nose,’ she said, ‘for I declare, Madalenna, the Valois nose is impressive and noble for a man, but somewhat overpowering, do you not think, for a little girl?’

Madalenna laughed gaily. How happy she was talking thus to her mistress.

It seemed to her now that the Dauphine was just a happy mother, not that cold, frightening mistress who sent her on secret hateful missions.

‘Go to the nursery, Madalenna, and bring young Francis to me. I would have both my children with me. Go and tell him his mother wishes to show him his little sister.’

Madalenna went, and in a few moments returned with the little Prince. He was just over two years old, small for his age, with a delicate air. He was rather a pampered little boy, for his great glittering grandfather, whose name he bore, had taken a fancy to him; and that meant that everyone else at court must do the same.

‘Come here, Francis dear,’ said his mother; and he came and stood by the bed, his great eyes fixed on her face. He seemed to regard her with awe; she would rather it had been with affection, but the awkwardness which she felt with the father seemed to come between her and the child.

‘Look my little one,’ she said, ‘here is your baby sister.’

But he could not keep his eyes on his sister: they kept coming back to his mother’s face.

‘Is she not a beautiful little baby, my Prince?’ demanded Madalenna; and Catherine noticed how naturally the boy could smile and nod at Madalenna.

Why was it that he was at ease with others and not so with herself? Perhaps she was spoken of with awe in the nursery. Was she not the Dauphine? But that was not the reason. Young Francis had no fear at all of his father; he would climb all over Henry and chuckle with glee as he pulled his beard. The child was equally at home with the King himself. Catherine had seen him try to pull the jewels off his grandfather’s coat, for which he had received a friendly tap on the cheek, and had been thrown to the ceiling with a ‘Ha! My young robber! So you would steal the Crown Jewels!’ No! There was something strange in the child’s feelings for his mother, something she could not understand.

‘Madalenna, lift him on to the bed.’

He sat there uncomfortably, she thought; as while she fascinated him, he was afraid to get too close.

‘Why, Francis,’ she said, ‘it is pleasant to have you here like this. You― and your sister― and your Maman. Is it not, my little one?’

He nodded. He was staring at the ruby on her finger, ‘Ah! Is it not beautiful, Francis? It was a gift from your papa.’ She took off the ring and gave it to him.

Now he smiled. ‘Pretty!’ he said; and tried to put it on his little finger.

‘You must wait, must you not, until you are a grown man. Then, my son, you will wear many beautiful jewels.’ She saw him, a grown man, loving his mother. She could not bear to see him as the King of France, for that would mean that Henry was no longer King. She could not imagine a world that did not contain the joy and agony of loving Henry.

She took off more rings and he played with them on the bed. She thought:

he is not really afraid of me. I could soon make him love me. He was laughing as the rings slipped from his fingers into the bed.

‘Too big,’ he said. ‘Too big for Francis.’

And she seized him and kissed him suddenly and passionately, until she noticed that he had stiffened. She released him at once, while she wondered bitterly why it was she found it so hard to make people love her― even her own children.

She must remember not to be too demonstrative with young Francis.

‘Try on this one,’ she said; and she pulled a sapphire from her finger.

He was chuckling over the jewels when Diane came in.

‘You will forgive this intrusion, Madame, I know,’ she said.

Catherine’s face was set into the fixed smile she had always to show Diane.

Fierce hatred was in her heart. How dare the woman come intruding into her private apartments! How dare she? That was easy to answer. Every bit of happiness that Catherine knew was doled out to her by this woman. ‘Your husband shall make love to you tonight.’ Make love! There was no love-making, only child-making. ‘ I will insist that he comes!’

I am nothing to him, thought Catherine; and she is all. What I would I not give to see her lying dead? ‘It is a pleasure to see you, Madame,’ said Catherine. ‘How well you look.’

Diane rustled regally to the bed and kissed Catherine’s hand. ‘And you, I am sad to see, do not look so well. You have overtired yourself.’

Diane glanced at Madalenna. ‘I had given instructions that Madame la Dauphine was to sleep this afternoon.’

‘You must not blame Madalenna,’ said Catherine. ‘She obeyed her mistress and brought my son to me.’

Diane was playful and firm all at once. She clicked her tongue. ‘It was so very wrong of you to so tire yourself. And young Francis was to stay in his nursery. He has not been well these last days, and I did not wish him to be carried through the corridors. Hello, my little one.’

The boy smiled. ‘Look!’ he said; and he held out a ring.

‘That is beautiful. And what are you doing with Maman’s rings, eh?’

Catherine felt as though she wanted to burst into tears, for Francis looked at Diane as though she were his mother.

‘Come along,’ said Diane. ‘We are going back to the warm nursery; and if you are very good I will tell you a story. Madalenna, cover up your mistress, and put the baby in her cradle. Madame la Dauphine must not tire herself so. Oh yes, I know she is feeling better.’ This was to Catherine. ‘But we want no ill effects to spoil our pleasure in Madame Elizabeth’s arrival.’

She picked up young Francis, and Catherine noticed how willingly he left the rings to go to her. She longed to snatch him from her arms, to shout: ‘You have my husband! Leave me my child!’

But instead she smiled and murmured: ‘You do too much for me― and my family.’

Diane, if she saw subtle allusions, knew when to ignore them. ‘Indeed no. I count myself favoured to serve you and the Dauphin. Now say Au revoir to Maman― there is a little fellow.’

Was it Catherine’s imagination or did young Francis say Au revoir with something like relief?

As Diane and Francis left, Madalenna obediently took up little Elizabeth and laid her in her cradle.

Catherine lay back on her pillows. She set her mouth into a smile while she thought of her hatred of Diane.

Madalenna stitched quietly in the window seat; the baby slept, and as the afternoon wore on, Catherine lay still thinking of how much she hated her enemy.

As soon as she was well enough to travel, Catherine left Fontainebleau to join the court at Saint-Germain-en-Layne. When she was there she sent for Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. She wished, she said to discuss with them her daughter’s horoscope.

When they came to her she dismissed all her attendants. ‘Speak in Italian,’

she said, ‘and quietly; for what I say to you two must be heard by none other.’

They begged her to proceed.

‘How,’ she asked, ‘can I rid myself of an enemy and have no hand in her going?’

The two brothers looked first at each other and Catherine; they were worried.

Cosmo was the first to speak. He said: ‘ Duchessina, there is one enemy of whom you could not rid yourself without the gravest suspicion. Is it of her we must speak?’

She did not answer. She knew that he was right; but she wished to ease her jealous soul by talking of the impossible.

‘It matters not who it is,’ she said imperiously as the brothers were waiting for her to speak.

‘I crave pardon, Madame la Dauphine,’ said Lorenzo firmly, ‘but we cannot agree that it matters not.’

‘There are poisoned perfumes,’ she said.

‘Dangerous!’ answered Cosmo. ‘They may fall into the wrong hands.’

‘Lip salve,’ she suggested.

‘As dangerous as perfume,’ Lorenzo put in. ‘Very easily to those who supply it.’

‘There are gloves so cleverly poisoned that a victim has only to draw them on and death follows,’ she said.

The brothers nodded and were silent; but their lips, she were tightly compressed.

‘And then,’ she went on, ‘there are books. It is but necessary to turn the leaves, and the poison enters through the skin and the victim dies. In Italy we know how such things are done.’

‘It is necessary for Italians to be cautious,’ said Cosmo. ‘We are not loved in this land.’

‘I thought you two would work for me,’ she said.

‘We have sworn to serve you,’ said Cosmo.

‘With all our hearts and minds,’ echoed Lorenzo.

‘But always with caution, dear Duchessina,’ finished Cosmo. ‘Oh dear lady, if aught happened to the one you wish removed, every finger would point to you. All know the position she holds. All understand how deeply she has humiliated you. Why, if she were to die a natural death tomorrow, there would be those to look askance at you. Rather you should employ us to keep her alive than to remove her.’

She stared before her. ‘I see― that you are right, my dear wise friend. Let us talk of my daughter’s future.’

The brothers were greatly relieved. They knew of the raging emotion beneath the calm of their mistress. They were often afraid they would wish them to act rashly. At the time of Dauphin Francis’s death they had suffered agonies of suspense; they had expected to be arrested and put to the torture. The would be a fool if she tried to remove the Sénéchale.

‘Come,’ said Catherine. ‘Will my daughter make a good marriage?’

But how could she be interested in her daughter’s future? It was that of herself and her husband that mattered her. Henry’s hatred would be unrelenting if anything happened to Diane, for he would be the first to blame her.

What folly was love that brought nothing but misery and jealousy! If only she could curb her emotions for that silent prince, her husband. How cruel that she, Catherine de’ Medici so clever, so accomplished in many ways, should be such a fool in this one!

She did not listen to the brothers. She wanted to tell them : I do not care. I love my husband so much that there is little left for others― even my children. She dismissed them since they would not talk to her of how she could remove Diane. She shut herself into her chamber and tried to rest.

She made resolutions. In future she would try to see the faults of Henry. She would try to return indifference for indifference. What if she took a lover? She laughed. Respect she could inspire― and awe. But love? Had any other loved her? Ippolito? Doubtless he had thought that as they were Medici cousins they would run well in harness. Nobody loved her. She was alone. Even the lowest serving girl had a lover. Even those who lived in hovels down by the river were loved by someone. Yet, the future Queen of France must remain unloved; and even her child turned to another woman in preference to herself.

‘Where do I fail?’ she asked herself as she watched evening shadows fall across the windows.

How lonely she was! Her women had left her for the night and Henry would not come. She laughed bitterly. With one child but a few weeks old, the time was not ripe for the begetting of another.

She lay sleepless, listening to the palace settling down for night. She heard the sound of voices in the garden. Some lovers lingering there? A soft footfall in a corridor. Lovers’ meetings? The shutting of a door; the creaking of a board.

All over the palace there would be lovers. The King and Madame d’Etampes.

The ladies-in-waiting. The Gentlemen of the Bedchamber― all the noble men and women of the royal household. Madalenna perhaps. Some secret assignations; some legitimate love. The Dauphin and Diane. Why, their relationship was of such long standing and so discreetly conducted that it was almost a marriage.

She laughed bitterly and got out of bed. She wrapped a rich velvet gown about her and threw back her long fair hair.

I am not ill-favoured, she thought. I am more than twenty younger than she even says she is! Why, oh why, should I be left alone? Diane’s apartments in this palace were directly below her own. She had felt exultant when she had heard that, and had the fulfillment of a wish which had long been hers.

Shortly before the birth of Elizabeth, she had brought in an Italian workman, a servant of the brothers Ruggieri, and had j hole through the floor of her room and the ceiling of Diane’s. The work had been done when the court was in residence at Les Tournelles; and so neatly had it been executed that, if the spy-hole between the two floors was not looked for, it would not be noticed. The workman was an artist in his way, and the hole in the ceiling was set within a beautiful carving of flowers so that it seemed to the casual eye to be part of the decoration. On Catherine’s floor it was carefully covered by a rug over which she kept her writing desk. She was just able to move this desk herself; then it was a simple task to remove the rug, put her eye to the hole, and see a good deal of what went on in the room below.

When the Court was at Saint-Germain and Diane was with it, ostensibly in attendance on the Queen, Catherine would lock her doors, lift the desk, remove the rug, and watch through the spy-hole.

The sight of her husband and his mistress together, while it tortured her, yet fascinated her; and while she knew they were together, she could not resist watching them.

Through the spy-hole, she saw a new Henry, a new Diane.

Sometimes she laughed to think that she shared their intimate secrets; more often she wept. She knew that she would be a happier woman if she brought back her Italian workman and bid him fill up the hole.

But again and again she returned to the torture. And on this night they were together― her husband, dark and lithe, Diane with her milk-white skin and raven hair.

Catherine wept bitterly as, cramped and stiff, she kept vigil at the spy-hole until they slept.

Catherine could see no escape from her enemy. She believed now that Henry would be faithful to Diane till death. If only Anne d’Etampes could prevail upon the King to banish Diane from court!

Tension between the King and the Dauphin was growing. The war between France and Spain had come to another halt with the Treaty of Crépy; and the two court parties― the Reformed party and the Catholic party― were at odds concerning the treaty. The King had agreed to it, and the Dauphin was against it.

Henry believed that had he been allowed to fight he and his troops would have been more than a match for those of Spain. But Francis, with Anne and young Charles of Orléans, was delighted with a treaty which offered the young Prince a choice of two brides― Charles V’s daughter, Infanta Maria, or his niece, the daughter of Ferdinand of Austria. And he was to be allowed four months in which to decide. With the Infanta went the Netherlands, but only on the death of Charles V; with Charles’s niece went Milan, but only when an heir was born to the couple.

Henry pointed out that these terms were much the same that had been offered previously. What, he demanded, had they gained by the sacrifices of the war which they had been pursuing for so long? The boy was right, thought Francis; but he was weary of war. He wanted to see young Charles settled; and Anne was continually pointing out that the Dauphin’s objections to the treaty meant that he did not wish to see his brother too powerful.

Henry’s apartments, with those of Diane, had become the headquarters of the Catholic party; and one evening, not long after the signing of the Crépy Treaty, Diane and Henry were supping more merrily than usual with a group of their closest friends.

Catherine was not of the party; she remained in her chamber. She had, earlier in the day, spoken of a sick headache. She had set Madalenna to watch and report all that was said at Henry’s supper table.

The girl must wait in an antechamber, hide herself in the hangings and make sure that she was in a spot where she could overhear what was being said.

Catherine waited wretchedly. Madalenna did her work well, for all that she hated it. She dared do nothing else. Catherine smiled coldly, recalling the frightened face of Madalenna. She, Catherine de’ Medici, might not know how to win people’s love, but she knew how to make them tremble.

She hoped Madalenna would have something worthwhile to report; if Diane would only say something which would, if repeated, be construed as treason against the King! What joy if she were banished. But then, if she were, Henry would follow her into exile. Still, as Dauphin, there were duties at court which he could not neglect. She was tempted to tell Anne something of her love for her husband and her hatred of his mistress. The venomous feelings they both had for Diane should make them the closest allies. But she hesitated, reminding herself that no one must know her mind, for it had always been advantageous to work in the dark.

Madalenna came breathlessly to her and Catherine rose from her chair.

‘Madalenna! Why have you left your post?’

‘Madame la Dauphine, Monsieur de Vieilleville has just left the Dauphin’s table. He said that he was unwilling to be a party to the Dauphin’s indiscretion.

There is a fine scene in there― and―’

‘What scene?’ demanded Catherine. ‘What have you heard?’

‘It begun when they talked of the King and said what a fine man he once was, and how sadly he is changing, and how in the last months his health is seen to be failing―’

‘Yes, yes. We know all that.’

‘Well, then the Dauphin said that when he was King, he would bring back Anne de Montmorency, and there was applause round the table. Then he told Monsieur Brissac that he should be Grand Master of the Artillery and Monsieur de Saint-André that he should be Grand Chamberlain.’

‘What folly!’ cried Catherine. ‘What if this comes to the King’s ears?’

‘That is what Monsieur de Vieilleville said. He said that the Dauphin was selling the skin of the bear before the bear is killed. And he begged leave to go.’

‘You have done well, Madalenna. Why, the Dauphin and the Sénéchale have done enough, I’ll swear, to get themselves banished from the court― You need not go back. Stay here. Tell none what you have heard, or they would ask you how you heard it, and that, little Madalenna, would not be easy for you to explain.’

Madalenna flushed hotly and Catherine smiled at her. She slipped out into the corridor which separated her apartments from those of her husband and, seating herself in a window seat, she waited.

She did not wait long before she saw the King’s Jester Briandas, creep silently out of the Dauphin’s apartment, ‘Good day to you, Briandas,’ she cried.

‘You have a guilty air! What secrets have you been listening to in there?’

The man seemed astonished; he had lost his native wit. He stammered:

‘Secrets? Why, Madame la Dauphine―’

Catherine said slyly: ‘And what post, Briandas, is to be yours when mine is Queen of France?’

‘You have sharp ears, Madame la Dauphine.’

‘News travels fast in palaces, Jester.’ She stared at her beautiful white fingers. “Do you think Saint-André will be a better Grand Chamberlain than Saint-Pol?’ She continued to study her fingers. ‘I know not what the King will say to these changes. I fear he will not be over-pleased with those who applauded them. They might find that they lose their heads before they attain their posts. What think you, Jester?’

‘It is true,’ said Briandas, ‘a post would be of little use to a man without a head.’

‘All those present would be under suspicion.’

‘Is that so, Madame la Dauphine? Methinks you are right. Only a humble man such as myself would be safe.’

‘It is not wise to be too humble, Briandas. I myself am humble yet had I been at that table, I know what I should be doing now instead of exchanging this chatter.’

‘What would you be doing, Dauphine?’

‘I would go to the King and make sure that he knew I was a loyal subject. A King-that-is is more to be feared than a King-to-be. For if you lost your head today, it would not matter to you who is King tomorrow.’

‘I see you are my friend, Madame.’

‘I am the friend the humble and meek.’

The jester’s eyes kindled as he bowed low.

Catherine watched him make his way to the King’s apartments.

Francis was at supper with Anne, the Cardinal of Lorraine and several of the officers of the Crown, including Monsieur de Tais, the Grand Master of the Artillery and the Comte de Saint-Pol.

The jester addressed the King without ceremony.

‘God save you, Francis of Valois!’ he cried.

Francis, startled by such an insolent address, even from his jester, demanded to know the meaning of it.

‘Why,’ said Briandas slyly, ‘you are King no longer. I have just had this proved to me. And you, Monsieur de Tais, are no longer Grand Master of the Artillery; Brissac is appointed. And you, Comte de Saint-Pol, are no longer Grand Chamberlain, because Saint-André is. Montmorency is soon to be with us again. Begone, Francis of Valois. I call God to witness, thou art a dead man.’

The King rose; he took the jester by the collar and shook the little man.

‘Foy de gentilhomme!’ he cried. ‘You will explain more fully what you mean, or feel my steel in your heart. Speak, man, if you wish to live other minute.’

‘The King is dead!’ cried Briandas. ‘Long live King Henry of Valois!’

The King’s face was purple.

Briandas hurried on: ‘With these ears I have heard. King Henry and Queen Diane are already mounting the throne.’

But the King had had enough of this folly and told him to speak seriously of what he had heard. When Briandas finished, Francis stood glowering before him.

Anne laughed. ‘So he has dared to speak his evil aloud. Depend upon it, this is Madame Diane’s will. She can no longer wait for her queen-ship.’

But there was no need to goad Francis. Catherine, who had quietly entered the room during the uproar, saw that his blood was up. She laughed silently, for she had heard Anne speak of Diane. Surely now there would be no place at court for Henry’s mistress; and surely the Dauphin would not be allowed away too long.

Francis was preparing to show Henry whether or not he was dead. He shouted for the captain of his guard and ordered to bring with him forty of his archers.

At their head, with vengeance in his heart, the King set out for his son’s apartments.

But Diane’s spies were as alert as Catherine’s; and had been warned of his father’s anger ten minutes before Francis reached his apartments. He and Diane had immediately left for Anet.

So when Francis, with his archers at his heels, kicked open the door of his son’s apartments, there was no one but the lackeys clearing away the remains of the feast. Francis took hold of the first one he could lay his hands on and shook until the man’s face was as purple as his own.

‘Where is your master?’ he cried. ‘Speak, you fool, or by the Virgin I’ll slit your throat.’

‘Sire― my gracious King― he― left― ten minutes gone.’

Francis threw the man from him. ‘So he has flown. That is well for him, and for his friends who yearn to take the shoes their betters. Get you gone― all of you!’ He turned on the trembling lackeys, flourishing his sword. He signed to his archers, and they began chasing the unfortunate lackeys, who now had one thought, and that to hide themselves from the King’s anger. The only way in which they could escape was by leaping out into the courtyards through the windows, and this they did; whereupon the King and his archers threw the remains of the feat after them; and, the royal anger being not at all appeased, the glass, plate and cutlery followed. After that the chairs, tables, and mirrors were hurled out on to the cobbled courtyard. Then the King snatched up a halberd and slit all the beautiful tapestries that adorned the walls, his rage for once being greater than his love of the beautiful.

As he slashed, he seemed to hear the insolent voice of his jester. ‘God save you Francis of Valois!’ and then: ‘I call God to witness, thou art a dead man!’

And he knew that, had he been younger, he would not have been so angry. It was because he felt himself to be near the grave that he was infuriated by being reminded of it.

He was unhappy.

Catherine was also unhappy. She had succeeded in driving Diane from court but she should have known that the mistress would take Catherine’s husband with her.

The King of France was a sad man. He could not find it in his heart to forgive a son who was so obviously awaiting his death with eagerness.

Henry stayed at Anet for four weeks before he dared show himself at court, and then there was much coming and going between Fontainebleau and Anet, until at last the ailing King had seen he must be reconciled with his heir. All the same, he had little affection for him; and he kept young Charles closer him and doted on him more than ever.

But Henry could be useful to his father, for he was a good soldier; and peace with Spain did not necessarily mean peace with the English. Henry came out of his brief exile to help his father in the struggle with the enemy across the Channel.

There was a wild attempt to invade the coast of Sussex and another to invade the Isle of Wight― both of which were failures. There was another and unsuccessful onslaught on Boulogne― a fruitless endeavour to recapture the town from the English.

It was when he was encamped near Abbeville that one of the greatest tragedies of his life overtook Francis.

The weather was hot, for it was August, and from the steaming streets of the town rose the smell of putrefaction. It was not long before the dreaded news was running through the camp. The plague had come to Abbeville!

Francis hastily gave orders that none was to go into the town. He knew that this was the end of his campaign. He could fight an army of men; he could not fight the plague. He must, as soon as possible, treat with the English, seek allies and strengthen every fortress in France.

He lay in his luxurious bed― for even in camp, his bed must be luxurious― and thought sadly of his reign which had begun so brilliantly and now seemed to be ending in gloom. He wondered if sober-sided Henry would recover everything his father had lost.

And while he lay there, news was brought that the and handsome Count d’Enghien craved an audience; and when the young man came, the King saw at once that his face was blotched with weeping.

He knelt, but would not approach the King; and same in the strangeness of his demeanour put terrible fear into the heart of Francis.

‘What is it, man?’ he demanded.

The young Count sought for words, but he could only and the King, raising himself on his elbow, spoke first harshly and then gently, bidding him state immediately what news he had brought.

‘Sire, last night, I went to the town.’

‘What?’ roared the King. ‘You knew the order?’

‘Sire, it was by order of the Duke of Orléans that I went.’

The King smiled wryly. Young Charles, the reckless, the brave, had no doubt declared he was afraid of nothing even the plague. What a boy he was with his pranks and his mischief! But this was serious. He must be punished for this. And what was wrong with this bright young man― a favourite of Francis’?

Why did young d’Enghien kneel there snivelling like a girl?

Francis was uneasy. He ordered the young man to continue.

“We went to the house of a merchant, Sire.’

‘Get on! Get on!’ cried Francis.

‘There was a girl there― the merchant’s daughter. The Duke had seen her and fancied her.’

‘Well?’

‘She had died, Sire― of the plague.’

‘You fool!’ shouted Francis. ‘You come here to me and boast of this silly escapade. Foy de gentilhomme, you shall pay for this. I’ll clap you into prison.

You idiot! You fool!’

‘That is not all Sire. The dead-cart took her as we reached the house, and the Duke insisted we go inside. He thought it was a trick of her father’s to hide the girl, Sire.’

Francis felt suddenly ill. He knew that the count was trying to break some tragic news. He was trying to tell him gently, gradually. Francis opened his mouth to shout, but no words came.

‘We saw the bed, Sire, the bed on which she died. The Duke, continuing his belief that the girl was being hidden from him, slit the bed with his sword. Sire, the feathers flew about the room― they covered us― The feathers from a bed in which a girl died of the plague!’

‘My God!’ groaned Francis; and now he dared not look at the young man.

‘Her father seemed to watch us, Sire, but he did not see us, I think. He too was smitten by the plague.’

Francis leaped off the bed. ‘Stop babbling, you fool. Where is my son?’

D’Enghien was on his feet, barring the King’s way. ‘Sire, you cannot go to him. You dare not go to him.’

Francis pushed the young man aside. He could feel the sweat in the palms of his hands, as he ran towards the tent of his younger son.

Those who stood outside it tried to stop him. He shouted at them. Was he, the King, to obey their orders! They stand aside or take the consequences.

Oh misery! On the bed lay his sweet son Charles. Was this the boy he had smiled on only yesterday morning?

‘Charles!’ he cried brokenly. ‘My dearest son. What folly is this?―’ But his voice broke, for the eyes that that were lifted to his did not recognize him.

D’Enghien had entered the tent and was standing beside the King. He was weeping silently.

‘The priest bid us leave the town,’ said the young man as though he talked to himself. ‘He was right― when he said we danced with death―’

Francis turned on him. ‘Something must be done!’ cried the King. ‘Where are our doctors― our physicians?’

But as d’Enghien lifted his wretched eyes to those of the King, they both knew that nothing could be done.

To be old when you had been so gloriously young, to love of life when you have worshipped it with every breath in your body― that, thought Francis, was a sad plight for to come to.

God had deserted him. He was unlucky in battle; the sons he had loved had been taken from him, and the one who irritated him at every turn was left. His mistress was unfaithful and he no longer had the energy, nor desire, to seek others.

A day at the chase tired him. What was left to a sick old man who had once been a vigorous youth?

Sorrowing he had returned to Paris after the death of Charles; but though a bereaved father, he was still a King. He must remember that Charles could no longer bring glory to France through a rich marriage, and that once more Milan been dangled under his nose only to be snatched away when he was preparing to grasp it. So France and Spain must go to war again.

Peace was made with the English, fortresses strengths new allies sought, as Francis prepared to renew his claims on Milan.

But, missing his son bitterly, he could only be halfhearted about war.

He had the young Count of Enghien with him constantly that they might talk of Charles. The Count had known the boy better than any other had, for they had been the closest friends. Francis made the young man go over and over those last hours of Charles’s life. Francis saw the taverns where they had caroused with men and women eager to snatch a few hours of riotous life before death took them; he saw the death-cart rattling over the cobbles, and the priest walking before it, muttering prayers for the dead and the dying; but most vivid in his mind was the imagined picture of that macabre scene in the dead girl’s bedroom, with young Charles, so vital, so beautiful then― shouting as he plunged his sword into her bed, until the polluted feathers flew about him like a snow-storm.

‘You and I loved him better than did any others,’ said Francis to the young Count. ‘There is none to whom I would rather speak of him than to you.’

So, d’Enghien came into the King’s personal service, and stayed with him; and after a few months, Francis felt that the young man filled, in some measure, the terrible gap which the death of Charles had made in his life. He reflected bitterly that it was strange he should find comfort in this young man while his own son Henry had nothing to offer him.

Elizabeth was nearly a year old, and it was time she had a successor. Henry, at Diane’s command, was coming to Catherine regularly now; and each night, she perfumed herself, put flowers in her hair, wore her most seductive garments, and prepared herself to greet her husband.

As for Henry, familiarity bred tolerance. He no longer saw her as the repulsive young girl who had come to him at the time of his brother’s death. He did not like Catherine, but he had learned not to dislike her; and Catherine felt that from dislike to indifference was quite a big step forward. Give her time― for time was on her side, not Diane’s― and she would one day win him. She need have no fear that she would be banished now and her life could be spent at his side. She must go on pretending for a while that she did not care that her husband in name was Diane’s in truth; and that the children whom she had borne were Diane’s to love and cherish and plan for. She must try not to brood because it was Diane who was always at their cradles when they were sick and that it was Diane who gave instructions; Diane to whom to whom young Francis turned when he was in trouble or wished to ask a question. She must not feel bitter when little Elizabeth clucked with pleasure to be taken on to that sweetly smelling black-and-white lap. Instead, she must wait, seeking every advantage that might result in Diane’s downfall and her own closer intimacy with Henry.

She would rise― or stoop― to anything that would bring about such changes; she would neglect nothing, however seemingly insignificant.

Henry would soon be with her. He spent an hour with Diane before he came to her. That was the jam to sweeten his pill, thought Catherine bitterly. He was longing her to tell him that she was expecting another child, for then these duty visits of his could cease, and he could go to Anet― his real home― and there stay with his beloved mistress and not have to give a thought to his wife.

Even if it were so, thought Catherine, I would hold back the news until I could no longer conceal it. What could she say tonight to keep him with her a little longer than he usually stayed, to show him that she was cleverer than Diane, more capable of ruling a man or country?

She thought of the court. The biggest scandal at the moment was Madame d’Etampes’ love affair with Guy de Chabot, one of the most fascinating of young men. He was married to one of the sisters of Anne d’Etampes, but the King’s favourite was not inclined to let this small matter stand in the way of her pleasure.

How, wondered Catherine, did Anne draw men to her? In spite of flagrant infidelity, the King continued to cherish her; and yet, Catherine, who was true and loyal, who would give everything she possessed to win her husband’s regard, was ignored and slighted!

Henry came in. She lay back on her cushions and looked at him yearningly.

How he had changed since she had first seen him in Marseilles, a shy, sullen boy! Now he was a man― heir to the throne, a man of dignity, slow still, but one to inspire respect. His black hair had a few silver threads in it, although he was only twenty-seven.

Tonight, she decided, she would speak to him of Anne d’Etampes and her lover; passionately, she wished him to know that although outwardly, she was Anne’s friend, she wished to serve none but him. In his presence humility always possessed her. She wanted to tell him that, if he commanded it, she would serve Diane. She felt the old indiscretion coming to the fore. If she did not curb her tongue she would be telling him soon how she set Madalenna to spy on the people of the court. She would tell him that she would put all her spies at his disposal― for Madalenna was not the only one.

She checked herself in time.

‘Is it not scandalous how Madame d’Etampes conducts herself!’ she said.

‘The whole court is talking of this latest love affair.’

Henry lifted his shoulders as though to say he was past being disgusted with the most disgusting woman in France.

‘This de Chabot!’ went on Catherine. ‘Is it not marvellous how he can live in style rich enough for Anne d’Etampes? The King has given that lady very expensive tastes, I fear.’

Henry was never one for scandalous gossip, even about his enemies. He did not answer. He took off his coat and flung it across the chair. for he dispensed with the help of attendants when visiting his wife. Everything connected with this painful duty, he did it in a shame-faced way. He visited Catherine’s apartments as though they were a bawdy house; in Diane’s he was natural and at home.

Catherine noted this and violent-anger surged up within her, but she was learning suppress it as soon as it came, reminding herself that one day all insults should be paid for.

Henry might not like gossip, but she could see that he, too, was wondering how de Chabot found the money to live in grand style. He would repeat to Diane, what Catherine had said, and this was circulated to the discomfiture of Anne. And might it not be that Anne, in that tricky way of hers, would turn the tables on Diane? That was what Catherine hoped, and every pin-prick inflicted on Diane was worth a little trouble.

‘His father, the Seigneur de Jarnac, has made a very profitable marriage, I hear,’ went on Catherine, ‘This rich stepmother of de Chabot’s is young and charming, too. It may be that it is she who makes it possible for the young man to live as he does at court.’

Catherine looked at Henry appealingly. She was telling him: You see, I have means of finding out everything that if you would but link yourself with me, my darling, you would discover how I would serve you. ‘How like him that would be!’ said Henry contemptuously. ‘I verily believe he is the kind of man to live on a stepmother.’

He blew out the candles and came to the bed.

She was trembling, as she always trembled; and she tried not to think of what she had seen through the hole which, at Saint-Germain, connected her apartments with those of Diane.

A stir of excitement ran through the court; the King spoke of it to his new favourite, d’Enghien, with irritation. Madame d’Etampes and her lover, de Chabot, were both furious and afraid. Catherine, whilst appearing to be unconcerned, looked on with delight. Now she was in her favourite role.

Unseen, she had stirred up trouble, and now she could watch the effect, while none realized that she had had a hand in it.

The matter concerned de Chabot and the Dauphin himself. It had happened in this way: surrounded by courtiers and ladies of both the Reformed and the Catholic parties, Henry found de Chabot at his side. De Chabot’s dress was as magnificent as that of the Dauphin, and Henry had been filled with a violence of feeling such as he rarely experienced. Here was this popinjay, deceiving the King with the woman Henry hated more than any other, since she was the declared enemy of Diane.

Henry, remembering a conversation he had had Catherine, said impulsively:

‘How comes it, de Chabot, that you are able to make such a show of extravagance? I know the revenues which you enjoy are not great.’

De Chabot, embarrassed by this question, which was unexpected, said: ‘Sir, my stepmother keeps me in everything I require. She is a most generous lady.’

Henry shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

As soon as Diane heard of this matter, she realized how ill-chosen had been de Chabot’s words; she saw at once a chance to spread a scandal concerning the latest and favourite lover of Anne d’Etampes.

Diane started the whispering through the Catholic party.

‘My dear, de Chabot has admitted to the Dauphin that he is the dear friend of his stepmother.’

‘She keeps him! Well, he is a handsome one, that! And that old man, his father, must be very feeble.’

When de Chabot heard how his words had been misconstrued, he hurried home to his father’s château, where he managed to convince the old man that there was no truth in this mischievous scandal. And, returning to court, he was determined, cost what it might, to avenge the insult.

Now was the turn of the Catholic party to feel discomfited. Diane had not expected de Chabot to be so insistent. The young fool had declared would not be satisfied until he had faced his slanderer in the lists. He cared not that what he was saying was tantamount to challenging the heir to the throne.

Catherine laughed to herself when she was alone. Henry was in an embarrassing position. And who had led him there? Diane! Was it not true that she had spread the scandal so that de Chabot must demand satisfaction? People were saying that Diane’s hatred for Anne d’Etampes had put the Dauphin in a very unpleasant situation. They did not know that it was meek Catherine who had sowed the seed.

It was intolerable. This foolish de Chabot, reasoned Diane, was thirsting for a fight. It was illegal to challenge the heir to the throne. The fool should have known that. He could not be allowed to go about demanding satisfaction, for although he did not mention Henry’s name, all knew to whom he referred.

Competently, Diane looked about her for a scapegoat, and her thoughts rested on a certain Francis de Vivonne, a good-looking young man with a great reputation for military valour. He was reckoned to be the best swordsman in France and its finest wrestler. At one time he had been a favourite of the King’s; but he was essentially an ambitious man, and he preferred to bask in the warmth of the rising sun while seeking to avoid the scorching rays of that which was about to set. He was just the man who would eagerly seize a chance of gaining the favour of a man who must shortly be King.

Diane sent for the man and told him her wishes; and that very night, when the company had eaten and the banqueting hall of Les Tournelles was filled with men and women of the court, de Vivonne swaggered up to de Chabot and caught him by the arm.

‘Monsieur de Chabot,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘It has come to my ears that you are eager to defend your honour against one who has spoken against it.’

There was a hushed silence in the hall. De Chabot flushed, then grew pale.

The King leaned forward in his chair; his brows drawn together in a frown.

Anne d’Etampes had turned pale. Henry had flushed scarlet; and Catherine, feigning surprise, wished that she could burst into her gusty laughter.

De Chabot spoke at length. ‘It is true that lies have been bruited about concerning me. I shall not rest until I have had satisfaction of the man who has spoken against me.’

Henry’s face went an even deeper shade of scarlet, but Catherine noticed miserably that his eyes went to Diane as they used to do when he was young and uncertain how to act. Oh, what would she not have given for him to have turned to her like that!

De Vivonne, now assured that he had the attention of all, broke the silence.

‘I am that man, de Chabot. It was that you cynically boasted of the impropriety which you thought it proper later to deny.’

De Chabot’s sword was out of its sheath. ‘You lie!’

Immediately de Vivonne’s sword crossed his.

‘I speak truth. Come, you have declared yourself eager to avenge your honour. Here is your chance―’

The King rose in his chair.

‘Stop! Come here, both of you. How dare you cross swords thus unceremoniously in our presence!’

They put away their swords and came to stand before the King.

‘I will hear no more of this matter!’ said Francis. ‘I am weary of it. If you value your freedom, go your ways in peace.’

The two men bowed. They mingled with the crowd.

Francis saw that Anne had momentarily lost her poise. She was terrified.

She was in love and her lover had been challenged by the most skillful dueller in the country. It was said that certain death was the fate of any who fought with de Vivonne.

Catherine, watching her, understood her feelings, for was she not also in love? She saw Anne’s glance at Diane, saw the hatred flash in them. Diane was smiling serenely. She scored a victory. But one day, Diane, thought Catherine, there will be no victory for you, no triumph; only bitter humiliation and defeat. ‘Enough of this foolery!’ cried Francis. ‘Have the musicians in and we will dance!’

Anne paced down the King’s private chamber while Francis lay back watching her. Her fair curly hair was in disorder and the flowers which adorned it had slipped down to her ear. Her agitation made her all the more delightful in his eyes. She was no longer young; but Anne would never lose her beauty, never lose her charm. He liked to see her thus, worried, frightened; it made her seem vulnerable and very human. De Chabot’s youth might please her; but she was realizing that Francis’s power was the more important, since only through it could she enjoy the former’s youth.

He thought of her in various moods, in various situations. How delightful she had been in the first months of their love― enchanting him with her perfect body and her agile mind; she had brought new delights to a man who thought he had tasted all. And now old age had attacked him, and the coming of that old monster had been hastened by this pernicious malady from which he could not escape. He thought of her― retaining her youthful energy with de Chabot, with de Nançay. And he doubted not that if he made inquiries other names would be mentioned. But he did not wish to know. She was a part of his life and it was a part he could not do without. It was more kingly to shut his eyes to what in all honour he could not face, to feign ignorance of matters which he did not wish to know.

This, thought Frances, is the tragedy of old age. It is a king’s tragedy as well as a beggar’s. Who would have believed, twenty years ago, that I, Francis, the King of France, with the power of France behind me could allow a woman to deceive me while I pretend to deceive myself! Henry, the King across the water― what would he have done in like case?

Would he have been so deceived? Never! Frances remembered another Anne with whom, in the days of his youth, he had flirted and whom he had sought to seduce; he remembered her later at Calais― black-eyed and beautiful, proud with the promise of queen-ship. That Anne had lost her head, because the King of England believed― or pretended to believe― that she had deceived him.

Then there had been little Catherine Howard on whom the King had doted, and yet she too had been unable to keep her head. Now, had the King of France been another as the King of England, his Anne might have feared to take lovers as she did. But alas!― or should he rejoice because of it? Francis the First of France was not Henry the Eighth of England. There were two things they had in common nowadays― old age and sickness. It was said that old Henry’s present wife was more of a nurse than a wife. Well, he, Francis, was full of faults, but hypocrisy was not among them. With him the power of seeing himself too clearly had amounted to almost a fault; it had certainly brought its discomforts.

He bid Anne come to him and arrange his perfumed cushions.

She said: ‘Is that better? Are you comfortable now, my beloved?’

‘How many years have I loved you?’ he said. ‘It started before I was a prisoner in Spain.’

Her face softened and he wondered if she also was remembering the glowing passion of their days together.

‘You wrote to me verses in your Spanish prison,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget them.’

‘Methinks the professional verse-maker could do better. Marot, for instance.’

‘Marot writes verses for all and sundry. It is the verses that are written by the lover to his mistress that have the greatest value.’

She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and went on: ‘My dear, this dual must not take place.’

‘Why not?’ He supposed he would give way, but he was going to frighten her first. ‘It will give the people pleasure,’ he went on. ‘Do I not always say they have to be amused?’

He smiled at her. ‘I am hard put to it to think up new amusements for my people. And here is a ready-made entertainment. A public combat. What could be better?’

‘It would be murder.’

‘And how my people enjoy to see blood spilt! Think of it, my darling! There will be those who gamble on de Chabot and those who wager on de Vivonne. A gamble! A duel! I’ll wager Monsieur de Vivonne will be the victor. It is true, my love, that he is the finest swordsman in France. I was better― once. But alas! I have grown old and others take my place― yes, take my place.’

She narrowed her eyes, whilst his smouldered. She knew he was thinking of de Chabot’s making love to her, as de Nançay had been when he discovered them. He would be amused to have her lover murdered by the best swordsman in France, for de Vivonne would avenge the King’s honour as well as that of the Dauphin.

She repeated: ‘It would be murder.’

‘Oh come, my love, your opinion of de Chabot is unworthy of him. He is not such a poor, craven fellow that he is going to fling aside his sword and beg for mercy as soon as de Vivonne holds his at his throat.’

‘He is no craven, certainly!’ She spoke with vehemence.

‘Then doubtless, he will give a good account of himself,’ said the King.

‘He will, but still it will be murder.’

‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The young fool would have brought this on himself. What matters it if he is his mother’s lover? Who should care?’

‘His stepmother.’ she said.

‘Mother― stepmother― I do not care. But the fellow should not have made such a fool of himself. He should not have gone about lusting for revenge.’

‘It was natural.’

‘How gracious of you to champion the young fool, my dear. So charming of you to take so much trouble to save his life.’

She said: ‘It is of the house of Valois that I think.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’

‘Sire, you know this is not de Vivonne’s quarrel. It is the Dauphin’s.’

‘What of that?’

‘It demeans your royal house that another should take Dauphin’s quarrel.’

‘Yet this young man declares his honour must be avenged.’

‘He is young and hot-blooded.’

The King looked at her slyly. ‘I warrant he is; and very reason it would seem he finds favour with some.’

‘Francis, you must stop this duel. This kind of combat cannot take place without your consent. I implore you not to give it.’

There were tears in her blue eyes; he could see the beating of her heart disturbing her elaborate bodice. Poor Anne! Indeed, she loved the handsome fellow. She was asking for his life as she had once asked for Madame de Chateaubriand’s jewels.

She threw herself down beside him, and, taking his jeweled hand, kissed it; she laid her face against his coat.

Odd, thought the King. The King’s mistress pleading with the King that he might spare the life of her lover. The sort of situation Marguerite might have put into one of her tales.

He drew his hand across the softness of her throat as it were a sword to sever the lovely head from the proud shoulders.

‘Why do you do that?’ she asked; and he replied: ‘Thinking of my old friend, the King of England.’

She laughed suddenly with that quick understanding which had always delighted him. He knew all. De Chabot was her lover, and she was pleading for his life because she could not bear to be without him.

He joined in her laughter.

‘Dear Francis!’ she said. ‘I would that we could start our life again. I would that this was the first evening we met. Do you remember?’

He remembered. There was no woman he had loved as he had loved Anne d’Heilly. He was getting old and he had not long to live; and Anne saw, staring her in the face, a future at which she dared not look too closely.

She clung to him.

‘Francis― let us be happy.’

So much she given him; so much would she continue to give to him; and all she asked in return was complaisance and the life of her lover. So how could he, the most chivalrous of men, refuse to give her what she asked?

All during the last months of that year there was uneasiness throughout the court. The old order was dying. People were wondering what changes would be made when the new king came to the throne.

Anne, having saved the life of her lover when Francis refused the duel between him and de Vivonne to take place enjoyed a temporary respite. She knew it could not last. The King’s bouts of illness were growing more and more frequent, he did not care to stay in any place for more than a few days now. He hunted often, although he was too ill to enjoy the chase; but he always said that he would go, and if he was too old and sick to ride, he would be carried there.

Anne prayed daily for his health. The Reformed party watched uneasily while the Catholic party waited hopefully.

Catherine felt stimulated by the de Chabot affair, which she herself had cunningly brought about. She felt that if she wished it, eventually she could make puppets of all these people about her while she herself was the puppet-master.

She longed for power. She would use all her cunning to achieve it. If the love of her husband and the affection of her children were denied to her, why should she not work for power?

She had learned to work in the shadows.

She watched the King growing weaker with each passing day. She was tender to him, solicitous, showing great eagerness to serve. And she smiled, remembering that in her wisdom, she had made friends with Diane and, because of that deeply humiliating effort, she now had children, so that she need not, as poor Anne d’Etampes, fear the death of Francis. Those children, who had come to her out of her wisdom and her cunning, had given her the security for which she had once to plead with the King.

Up and down the country went the court at the bidding of its restless King.

A week at Blois; another at Amboise; to Loches; to Saint-Germain, and back to Les Tournelles and Fontainebleau. And then― on again.

It was February and the court had travelled down to and come to rest at the Château of La Roche-Guyon. Here they would be forced to stay awhile, for the snow was falling incessantly and the sky was still heavy with it. Great fires were built up in the huge fireplaces; Anne, with Catherine and members of the Petite Bande, put their heads together in order to devise some means of diverting the King from his gloom.

They planned masques and plays; there was dicing and cards; balls, when the company planned extravagant fantastic fancy dresses. But the King would not be amused; he hated to be forced to stay in one place when he wished to go on, and the King’s mood, as always, was reflected in his courtiers. They stood about in melancholy groups, asking themselves and each other what they could possibly do to relieve the tedium. They were like fretful children, Catherine thought, with too many toys. As for herself, what did she care if the snow kept them prisoners here. Henry was here and Diane was here. It made no difference to her whether they were at Les Tournelles or Loches, Fontainebleau or La Roche-Guyon. She still had her hours of agony to endure when the Dauphin was, as she knew full well, making love to Diane; she still had her moments of hope when ceremony demanded that he sit beside her or dance with her; there was still the bittersweet hour when he dutifully came to her apartments. And to set beside jealousy, there was always hope; and neither of these altered by place or time.

The snow was piling up high in the courtyards; it lay along the castle walls.

Never had the old château seemed so gloomy, and the King was growing more and more irritable, bursting into sudden temper over matters which would once have called forth nothing but a grunt of amusement.

It was midday and they had just eaten heavily; the old were drowsy; the young were fidgety. Why, asked one young nobleman of the Count d’Enghien, could not the King go to his chamber and sleep, or perhaps take a beautiful girl to keep him company― two beautiful girls? He had but to tender the invitation.

The Count replied sadly that the King was not the man he had been.

‘Come here, Catherine, my dear,’ said Francis, ‘and sit beside think of some game we might play to relieve this tedium? Of all my châteaux, I think that after this I shall hate La Roche-Guyon most.’

Catherine looked at Anne, who. was sitting on the other side of the King’s chair. Anne lifted her shoulders; she was listless. The King looked very ill today.

‘There is nothing, Sire, but to watch the snow and be glad that we are in this warm château and not out there in the cold,’ said Catherine.

‘The child would bid me count my blessings!’ said the King. ‘Why, in the days of my youth we had some good fights in the snow.’

‘Sire, let there be a fight now!’ cried Catherine.

‘Alas! I am old to join in it.’

‘It is pleasanter to look on at a fight than to take part in it,’ said Anne, ‘come, you slothful people. The King commands you to fight― to take up arms against each other―’

‘Armfuls of snow!’ cried Catherine. ‘A mock battle! It will be amusing.’

Francis with Catherine, Anne, Diane, and other ladies and some of the older men, ranged themselves about the while the young men rushed out to the courtyards.

Catherine, watching the fight, smiled to herself. Even in a game, it seemed, there must be two parties. D’Enghien was the leader of the Reformed party; d’Enghien for the King and Anne. For the Catholic party and Diane― and Henry of course, and with him the dashing and imperious Francis de Guise. It was the latter who concentrated his shower of snow on the Count. Henry, as Dauphin, must necessarily keep aloof. The two young men, de Guise and d’Enghien, were heroes of the fight. Diane was watching them closely; and Catherine watched Diane.

‘Bravo, Count!’ cried the King when his favourite scored a neat hit.

‘And bravo, de Guise!’ Diane was bold enough to shout when that handsome fellow threw his snowballs with accuracy.

Even there, in the group surrounding the King, there was evidence of the two parties. Only one person kept silent― the wise one; she who was content to be thought meek and humble and in reality was more cunning than any.

Catholic against Protestant, thought Catherine. The d’Etampes party against Diane’s party. De Vivonne against de Chabot. The fools, thought Catherine, to take sides in somebody else’s quarrel. The wise worked for themselves.

The King noticed the silence of his daughter-in.law and drawing her to him, whispered: ‘Why, Catherine, who you favour― my charming Count or that handsome rogue de Guise?’

‘I favour the winner, Sire,’ said Catherine, ‘for he will be the better man.’

Francis held her wrist and looked into her eyes. ‘Methinks there is great wisdom behind these charming dark eyes. I say, let them fight this out with snowballs― fit weapons for such a quarrel.’

The fight went on. It was too amusing to be stopped. Even the King forgot his melancholy.

Catherine laughed aloud to see dashing de Guise sprawling in the snow; and when Diane turned cold eyes upon her, she laughed equally loudly to see to young d’Enghien go headfirst into a snowdrift. Catherine’s eyes met those of Henry’s mistress, and Diane smiled.

You suppose Diane, thought Catherine, that I am of no account. I am too humble to take part in your petty quarrels. To a simpleton such as I am, this is but a snow-fight― nothing more. Diane said: ‘Good fun, this snow-fight, is it not, Madame?’

‘Most excellent fun,’ replied Catherine.

And she thought: nothing is forgiven. Every pin-prick, every small humiliation is noted; and one day you will be asked to pay for them all, Sénéchale. The battle had taken on a new turn. One man found a stone and threw it; another discovered a goblet which had been left in the courtyard and aimed it at the head of a man in the opposing party. The first blood was then shed. It brought laughter and applause from the onlookers.

Now, some of the fighters had come inside the castle and were throwing cushions at one another. The King and the watchers were so overcome with laughter that they encouraged the fight to grow wilder and wilder.

A stool came crashing through a window; it was followed by others.

‘Come!’ said Francis. ‘Attack, men!’

Catherine noticed Francis de Guise disappear from the fight. She only knew that something significant was about to happen. If she could but slip away, send a command to one of her women to follow Monsieur de Guise!

All manner of articles were flying out of the windows now. A china bowl splintered on the head of one young man, who staggered, looked startled and then fell unconscious on the ‘Carry in the wounded!’ cried Francis.

Even as he spoke, pots and pans were flying out of the windows, followed by chairs and small tables.

The King roared with laughter.

‘What a merry turn to a snow battle!’ cried Anne.

And the comedy was suddenly turned to tragedy. Catherine need no longer wonder as to the disappearance of Monsieur de Guise.

Suddenly, crashing down from an upper window came a heavy chest.

The Count was standing immediately beneath the window from which it fell.

There was a warning shout of horror which the King joined, but it was too late.

D’Enghien, startled, looked up, but he could not escape in time. The chest fell on top of him; and his blood gushed startlingly red over the whiteness of the snow.

That sad year sped by quickly for the King of France. There seemed little left to live for.

‘I have but to love, and misfortune overtakes my loved ones!’ he said.

‘When I love my son Francis, he died suddenly and mysteriously. My beloved Charles was a victim of the plague. And this handsome boy, who in some small measure took their place in my heart, has been cruelly done to death in a sham battle.’

He sought to forget his grief in gaiety. There was a long meandering from castle to castle. The tempo must be speeded up; there must be richer food at his tables; stronger wine-flow; the women surrounding him must be more beautiful; the morals of his court the more depraved. His dress was more extravagantly jewelled. The sparkle of diamonds must make up for the lack-lustre of his eyes, the red of rubies for the pallor which had touched his face. Wit and wine, women and love, music and poetry― they must be his to enjoy. His must still be the most luxurious and the most intellectual court in Europe.

It was February, exactly a year after the death of the Count; a cold and snowy February to remind him of the tragedy.

The Court was at Saint-Germain-en-Laye; and at the head of his banqueting table, Francis sat― his Queen on his right, Anne on his left.

Catherine, in her place at the table, was thinking now would she change places with the King of France. His day was fast ending and it was the turn of others to enjoy great power. Henry. Diane. And Catherine de’ Medici?

When the banquet was over and the company danced, Catherine assured herself that hers would be the brightest destiny. She had learned to hide her light under a bushel until time came for her to show it; then should its brightness only dazzle, not only the men and women of France, but of all Europe.

Outside, the snow was falling fast; inside the castle, the heat was unbearable.

Bodices slipped from shoulders; eyes gleamed in torchlight. Anne sat beside the King and with her was Catherine. Neither cared to dance. Catherine, her hands meekly folded in her lap, knew that Henry was whispering to Diane as they sat among their friends and supporters; Catherine gave no sign that she as much as saw them. Anne was watching de Chabot with a red-headed beauty, and there was smouldering jealousy in her eyes; the King was aware of Anne’s jealousy. It gave Catherine a feeling of comfort to know that for once the his mistress were experiencing the same bitter emotion as she did herself. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction to realize that long endurance had taught her to hide her feelings far better than they could.

A messenger came while the dance was in progress. He craved the King’s permission to speak, and on receiving it, he announced the death of the King of England.

Francis stared before him. ‘Dead!’ he said. ‘So he is dead then.’

He beckoned to an attendant and bid him look after the messenger and feed him well.

‘I had been expecting this,’ said Francis. ‘He has been long sick.’

‘The end of an old enemy,’ said Anne. ‘I wonder how he will face his Judge.

We must do a masque: The King of England at the Judgment Seat. What think you?’

But Francis was silent.

Anne pressed his hand and said: ‘This saddens you, my love.’

The King smiled. ‘We were of an age,’ he said. ‘My old friend; my old enemy. He has gone whither I shortly must follow.’

Catherine said: ‘I beg of you, Sire, say not so.’

‘There, my little one. Do not be distressed. It is something we must all come to, and I but happen to be a step or two nearer than you and Anne here.’

Anne’s lips were tight. ‘I beg of you not to speak of it,’ she said.

‘And I beg of you, my darlings, not to be distressed,’ he said lightly.

‘Catherine, you are safe now, my child. You have a son and a daughter. Get you more of them. I will speak to Henry of you, sweet Anne. He is a good and honest fellow. He will see no harm comes to you.’

Anne’s lips twisted wryly. Ah, thought Catherine, it is not Henry she fears. This is ironic justice. For long she has guided the King’s hand to the disgrace of many; now she herself must be disgraced because there will be a new woman to guide a new King’s hand. And that new King is my husband. Anne’s years of plenty would be paid for. And one day, so should Diane’s. A shadow had fallen over the merry-making because the King of England was dead.

‘I remember him well,’ mused Francis. ‘At Guisnes and Ardres. Big and red and blustering― a fine figure of a man― a handsomer it would have been hard to find, if you liked the type. I threw him in a wrestling match; and never seen such anger. We were like the bull and the panther. One morning I went to him before breakfast and I had him at my mercy. I called him “My prisoner” and I gave him his shirt with my own hands. You should have seen his face, my darlings. When my dear boy Charles mounted the Emperor’s horse to tease him, the expression on the Imperial countenance took me back in years, and I remembered the King of England.’

‘You should not be sorry at this man’s death, Francis,’ said Anne. ‘He was no friend to you.’

‘It is a strange feeling. Our lives seemed intwined. And he is dead. The same disease took him as will take me, was much we had in common. Each in his country the supreme ruler. Each with his love of women. Though I fancy I am more lenient to the women I love than he ever was. He took them to church and took them to bed, and from bed to block. I dispensed with church and block.’

‘He was a monster,’ said Anne. ‘Let us waste no sorrow on him. His poor wife is rejoicing, I’ll warrant. She still carries her head on her shoulders, thanks to the timely death of her lord husband.’

‘They say,’ put in Catherine quietly, ‘that she was happy to be a nurse to him. They say it was safer in England to be the King’s nurse than the King’s wife.’

‘Yet she― good nurse though she was, poor lady― has, I understand, been hard put to it to keep her head upon her shoulders,’ Anne smiled at the King.

‘Come, Sire, away with your grief. Let us do the play we did last week. How it made you laugh! I warrant I can freshen it up a bit and give you one or two surprises.’

‘Yes, do it, my darling. And let Catherine help you.’

So they did the play, and the King laughed merrily; but it was noticed that he retired to his apartments earlier than was his wont. And when he was there, his prayers were longer than usual; and it seemed that the death of the King of England had cast a prophetic gloom over his mind.

Catherine was planning her dress for the fancy dress masque.

‘Let us be masked,’ she had begged Anne. ‘It is so much more amusing.

You dance with― you know not whom.’

Anne had agreed. She let Catherine make arrangements now. Poor Anne!

She was growing more and more sick at heart; the King was visibly weaker.

It was his suggestion that there should be a masque. ‘A carnival!’ he had cried. ‘The gayest we have ever had!’

Thus he thought to snap his fingers at death.

Planning her costume, Catherine thought of him, thought of what his passing would mean to her. Queen of France― in name. The real queen would be Diane.

She could continue to hope. There was hope in every stitch she put into her costume.― gay and bold. She would discover what Henry’s costume would be.

There were plenty of spies to bring that news to her. She would go to him, not as Catherine, but as Circe, and she would try to make him desire her. She laughed at herself. As if that were possible! But why not? Once, a little Piedmontese had made him love her. A love potion in his wine? Oh, she had lost her faith in love potions. But as she stitched and thought of the masked ball that would take place when they reached Saint-Germain, she continued to hope.

She was feverishly impatient for Saint-Germain. They had travelled through Chevreuse and Lirnours to Rochefort. How restless was the King in his determination to throw off pursuing death.

He talked continually of death, if not to Anne, to Catherine.

He talked of his achievements. He told his daughter-in-law how he had changed the face of France. He spoke of the palaces he had created and those he had altered. He had, he reminded Catherine, brought a new and intellectual life to his country.

‘Catherine,’ he said pathetically, ‘I have done much that was wrong, but a few things that were good. It was I who aroused new interest in learning― an interest, my darling, which was stifled to death in the years before me. I am the father of the new life. I fertilized the seed; I cherished the young child. Will the world remember that when I am gone? Catherine, what do you think: will they forget Pavia, my mad pranks, all that France lost; will they forget the mirrored baths of which they love to whisper, the black satin sheets that made such a delightful background for the whitest limbs in France? Oh, little daughter, shall I be remembered as the man who loved learning or lechery?’

Catherine wept with him; she thought of him in all his magnificence when she had first seen him, but even then he was an ageing man. Poor, sad King! But old kings must go to make way for new ones; and as she knelt and let her tears fall on to his hands she was thinking of Henry in a costume as yet unknown to her, his eyes burning through his mask sudden passionate love for Circe.

But as the cavalcade travelled on, with one of those sudden fits of restlessness, the King decided that before going to Saint-Germain for the carnival, he wished to turn aside and stay for awhile at the castle of Rambouillet.

He would have a few days’ hunting there with his Petite Bande; and after that they would continue to Saint-Germain for the gayest carnival the court had ever known.

There were more days to dream, thought Catherine. She did not greatly care.

She guessed that Circe could never take the lover from Diane; but while they dallied at Rambouillet she believed this might come about.

Anne protested the delay. ‘Francis, there is more comfort at Saint-Germain.

Rambouillet is so rough. Little more than one of your hunting seats.’

‘Comfort?’ he had cried; for it was one of those days when he felt a little better. ‘It is not comfort I want. It is the hunt.’

But as they neared Rambouillet the King’s weariness was great indeed and it was necessary to carry him to his bed. Once there, he relapsed into melancholy.

Would he ever leave Rambouillet, he asked himself.

As he lay in his bed, he was frantic suddenly. He must be surrounded by his friends, the brightest and merriest in the court. Let Anne come to his bedside; let the Cardinal of Lorraine be there; all the young people, his son Henry and Catherine, the de Guises, Saint-Pol, Saint-André. Let the musicians come and play.

He felt happier when they were there. He had turned his bedroom into a music-room.

But he was soon weary. He whispered to Anne: ‘I would my sister Marguerite would come to me. I do not see enough of my sweet sister.’

Anne’s voice was harsh with tears. ‘The Queen of Navarre herself is confined to a sick bed.’

‘Then tell her not that I asked for her, or she would leave it to come to me.

Beloved sister, my darling Marguerite, it is to be expected that when I am laid low, so should you also be. The saints preserve you, dear sister.’

‘Dearest,’ said Anne, ‘allow me to dismiss these people that you may try to sleep.’

He smiled and nodded.

In the morning he felt better. He was ready for the hunt, he declared.

Anne begged him not to go. Catherine joined her entreaties, as did other members of the Petite Bande. But he would not listen. He smiled jauntily at the bright and beautiful faces of his band; he caressed one and joked with another.

He must hunt today. He could not explain. He felt that Death was waiting for him behind the door, behind the hangings. Death had caught the English King; it should not catch Francis― yet.

His will was strong. Sickly pale, his eyes glazed, he kept his seat in the saddle. He commanded Anne to ride beside him, Catherine to keep close. The huntsman’s horn and the baying of hounds, he said, were the sweetest music in his ears. Catherine guessed that as he rode he felt himself to be not the aged man, but the young Francis.

The Petite Bande closed round him. They were afraid. Death was the swiftest hunter in the forest of Rambouillet that March afternoon, and each lovely woman, watching her leader, knew that this was the last ride of Francis’s Petite Bande.

Francis was delirious that night. He talked continually and it was as though ghosts from the past stood around his bead. Louise of Savoy, his adoring mother; Marguerite of his beloved sister; his meek Queens, Claude and Eleonore; the mistresses he had loved best― Frances of Chateaubriand and Anne d’Etampes; his sons, Francis and Charles. He felt the walls of a prison in Madrid enclose him; he knew again the glory of victory, the humiliation of defeat.

He regained consciousness, and with a wry smile spoke of the scandals of his reign.

‘A scandalous life I have led, my friends. I will make amends by dying a good death.’

Prayers were said at his bedside, and he listened eagerly to them.

‘I must see my son,’ he said. ‘Bring the Dauphin to me.’

Henry came and awkwardly approached the death-bed of the father whose love he had longed to inspire, and, only succeeding in winning his dislike, had disliked him in return.

He knelt by his father’s bed and Francis smiled, all differences forgotten now.

‘My boy― my only son― my dearest Henry.’

Henry sought for the right words and could not find them. But there were tears in his eyes and they spoke more eloquently than any words. Francis was anxious. What advice should he offer his son? He prayed that he would not make the mistakes his father had made.

‘Henry, children should imitate the virtues, not the vices of their parents,’ he said.

‘Yes, my father.’

‘The French, my son are the best people in the world, and you ought to treat them with consideration and gentleness, for when their sovereign is in need they refuse him nothing. I recommend you therefore to relieve them as far as you can of burdensome taxation―’

The sweat was running down the King’s cheeks. The room seemed hazy to him. His son’s face grew dim. He thought of the dangers which would beset this young man. He saw those two factions which could split the country in two; the religious controversy that now, he realized, was but a young sprig in his reign, would grow to a mighty tree whose fruit was bloodshed and misery.

‘Holy Mother, protect my boy!’ he prayed incoherently. ‘Holy Mother, let those about him advise him for his good and that of France.’

He saw Diane― guiding his son. He remembered afresh that game of snowballing which had begun so innocently and had ended in heartbreak. It was symbolic. These women’s quarrels had amused him. Madame Diane against Madame Anne. But what would grow out of them? Horror and bloodshed. His beloved friend, the young Count d’Enghien, had been crushed to death in the first skirmishes of civil war which would rend his country. The chest was but a symbol. He saw that now. Why had he not seen it before?

‘Henry― oh my son― why have we come together now that is too late?

Henry, beware― beware of those about you. There are some―’

Henry must put his ear close to his father’s mouth if he would catch his words.

‘Beware― of the Guises. Ambitious― they will snatch the crown. The house of Guise― is the enemy of the house of Valois. Henry― closer. Do not be ruled by women as I have been. Learn from the faults of your father. Oh, Henry, my boy, keep the ministers I have about me. Good― honest men. Do not bring back Montmorency. He will strip you and your children of their doublets and our people of their shirts. Henry, deal kindly with Anne. Remember she is a woman. Always― be considerate― to women, but be not ruled by them as was your foolish father―’

The King’s eyes were glazed, and now it was impossible to hear what he said.

‘Father,’ said Henry, bending close, ‘give me your blessing.’

The King had only time to embrace his son before he left Rambouillet and France forever.

At Béarn, the King’s sister, lying in her sick-bed, was overwhelmed with foreboding. Her brother in danger, needing her and she not with him! She left her bed and prepared to make the journey to Rambouillet. She was ready to set out when news was brought to her.

Sorrowing, reproaching herself for not being with him, she fell into melancholy. Her life was ended, for he had been her life. She would retire to a convent; in piety only could she find relief from her grief. She was done with life. The King, her beloved, was dead; therefore was she dead also.

Anne, in her own apartments, waited for Diane’s revenge. It could only be a matter of days now. Diane would not long delay.

Henry, saddened by the death, yet felt relieved. Never more would he stammer in that presence. Already attitudes had changed towards him. They knelt and swore allegiance; they sought to gratify every wish before he knew he had it.

Diane, serene outwardly, was inwardly aware of a deep pleasure. At last her kingdom had come. She was no more the Dauphin’s mistress; she was the first lady in the land.

At Saint-Germain, the new King came, after leaving Rambouillet, to make arrangements for the ceremonies that must precede his father’s burial, Catherine sat in her apartments, thinking of the change this event would bring into her life.

She was pregnant with her third child, but this fact could for some time be hidden from Henry.

She had a son and a daughter; another child was coming; she was the Queen of France. How pleased with her would Clement have been if he could have lived to see this day!

She was safe on the throne of France. That was a matter for the utmost rejoicing; yet there was so much needed to make her happiness complete.

She perfumed herself; she dressed with care; and she waited.

But he did not come, and when she knew that she could no longer hope for him that night, she locked her door and moved the desk and looked down into the chamber below.

Catherine watched them together, saw their embrace, listened to their whispering tenderness, witnessed their passion.

This day she had been raised to the height of her ambition, and yet she must torture herself by spying on her husband and his mistress. Ambition gratified, power would surely one day be hers. It should be her happy fate to bear kings and queens.

And yet, watching her husband with the woman he loved, the Queen of France wept bitterly.