Queen Jezebel

Three

THE MEMORY OF THOSE TERRIBLE DAYS AND NIGHTS continued to hang over paris. Many of those who had taken part in the massacre were so troubled by conscience that they took their own lives; others went mad and ran screaming through the streets; some thought they were pursued by ghosts. So many were guilty. They could find some consolation in speaking together with venom and hatred of the woman whom they considered to have conceived the idea, to have inflamed them—the Italian woman. She was behind all the misery of France. Everyone knew that. The King was mad and he was controlled by that woman. He suffered more deeply than any; but there was no sign that Catherine suffered the slightest pangs of remorse.

Nor did she. She was not going to break a lifelong habit. She had learned not to look back, and she would not look back now. The massacre had been a necessity when it was committed, and it was no use regretting it after it was done. She was growing fatter; she looked in better health than she had for some time. An ambassador wrote to his goverment that she had the appearance of a woman who had successfully come through a bad illness. The illness had been her fear of Philip of Spain, and the cure was the massacre which had begun on St Bartholomew’s Eve.

She had rarely felt so safe as she did during the winter of 1572 and the spring of the next year. Navarre and young Condé had become Catholics—Navarre cynically, Condé shamefully. The stock of these two Princes stood very low throughout the country, although most Huguenots who remained alive were resolute, more determined than ever. They seemed to embrace hardship and flourish under persecution. It was always so with fanatics. They had lost Coligny, Téligny and Rochefoucauld. Montgomery had been warned and had been able to fly from Saint-Germain before he could be caught. Navarre had succumbed almost immediately and accepted the Mass. But the Huguenots would not have hoped for much from Navarre. It was the defection of Condé which had been the bitterest blow to them. They were on the defensive now in that stronghold, La Rochelle, and were bent on making trouble; they had, however, suffered a severe blow and were temporarily helpless. As for Catherine, she was now recognized as the woman who planned the whole massacre.

Cynically she disguised herself and mingled with the people of Paris that she might hear what was said about her. She knew that it was their guilty consciences which made them so critical of her. They enumeratedher crimes, often accusing her of murders in which she had had no hand.

‘Who is this murderess, this poisoner, this Italian who rules France?’ one merchant demanded of her as she stood by his stall, her shawl over her head, her soiled petticoat trailing below her shabby gown. ‘She is not royal. She is the daughter of merchants. Ah, I knew what evils would come to France when she married the son of King Francis.’

‘It is not fitting, Monsieur,’ she agreed, ‘to take a foreign upstart and make her Queen of France. For this Italian woman rules France, Monsieur. Make no mistake about that.’

‘She rules France indeed. Our poor mad Charles would not be so bad without her to guide him . . . so they say. But he is no King. It is she who rules. She poisoned the Cardinal of Châtillon and the Sieur d’Andelot; she poisoned the Queen of Navarre. She is responsible for the death of Monsieur de Coligny,’ went on the merchant. ‘She is responsible for this bloody business. They say that she killed her son, Francis the Second . . . that he died before he should have done. And Monsieur d’Alençon was ill with fever, and they say that was her work. Do you remember the Duke of Bouillon, who was poisoned at Sedan? His doctor was hanged for that crime, but we know whose was the real guilt. Monsieur de Longueville, the Prince of Poitien, Monsieur Lignerolles . . . There is no end to the list, Madame; and then add to it all those who died at her command at the St Bartholo-mew. It is a long list of murders, Madame, for one woman to answer for.’

‘Even for an Italian woman,’ she admitted.

‘Ah, Madame, you have spoken truly. I hope that one day there will be slipped into her wine that morceau Italianizé. That is what I wish, Madame. It is the wish of all Paris.’

She came away smiling. Better to win their hatred than their indifference. She wanted to laugh aloud. The Queen Mother ruled France. She was glad they realized that.

They were singing a song about her in the streets of Paris now. It was insolently sung even under the windows of the Louvre itself.

‘Pour bien sçavoir la consonance

De Catherine et Jhésabel,

L’une, ruyne d’Israel,

L’autre, ruyne de la France:

‘Jhésabel maintenoit l’idolle

Contraire à la saincte parolle,

L’autre maintient la papaulté

Par trahison et cruaulté:

‘Par rune furent massacrez

Les prophètes à Dieu sacrez,

Et l’autre a faict mourir cent mille

De ceux qui suyvent l’Evangille.

‘L’une pour se ayder du bien,

Fist mourir un homme de bien,

L’autre n’est pas assouvie

S’elle n’a les biens et la vie:

‘En fin le jugement fut tel

Que les chiens mengent Jhésabel

Par une vengeance divine;

Mais la charongne de Catherine

Sera différente en ce point,

Car les chiens ne la vouldront point.’

Well, words could not hurt her. She herself sang the song. ‘It is pleasant to think,’ she said to her women, ‘that the people of Paris have no intention of throwing my flesh to the dogs.’ She laughed loudly. ‘Ah, my friends, these people are really fond of me. They like to think of me. Have you noticed that that wicked old lecher, the Cardinal of Lorraine, is now regarding me with some affection? He never did before. But now, he is not so young, and he is terrified of death, for that man was always a coward. He still wears a suit of mail under his clerical robes. But he looks at me with love because he says to himself: “I cannot live many more years. Soon I must face God.” The Cardinal, my friends, is a very devout man, and when he thinks of the life he has led he trembles. And then he looks at me and says to himself: “Ah, compared with the Queen Mother, I am as innocent as a babe.” And for this reason he grows fond of me. So it is with the people of Paris. Did I ride through the streets brandishing a sword on those August days and nights? No, I did not. But they did. Therefore it is comforting for them to recount my wickedness. They can then say: “Compared with Queen Jhésabel, we are innocent indeed.” ‘

One day Charlotte de Sauves brought a book to Catherine.

‘I think Your Majesty should see it,’ she said, ‘and that those who are guilty should be taken and punished.’

Catherine took the book, which was called The Life of St Catherine, and turned over the leaves. When she discovered that the title was an ironical one and the St Catherine was herself, she began to chuckle. There were hideous caricatures of her, only just recognizable in which she appeared quite gross. In these books were enumerated all the crimes of which the people of France accused her; everything evil that had happened in France since she, a little girl of fifteen, had ridden into the land to marry the King’s son, were, according to the authors of this book, due to her.

Charlotte stood by, waiting for an outburst of wrath, but instead there came a loud guffaw.

Catherine called her women about her and read aloud to them.

‘This is the story of your mistress, my friends. Now listen.’ And she read until she was so overcome by mirth that she had to put the book away from her.

‘It is well,’ she said, ‘that the French should know that they have a strong woman to rule them. Why, had I been given notice that such a book was about to be written, I could have told the authors many things of which they know nothing; I could have reminded them of much which they have forgotten. I could have helped them to make a bigger, finer book.’

Some of the women turned away that she might not see the looks of horror on their faces. They were depraved enough, since they were her creatures, but sometimes she revolted them. They realized that she, this Italian woman, this strange mistress of theirs, was different from others. She cared only for keeping power. She did not think beyond this life. This was why she could kill, and laugh at her killing, even be proud of it; she had no conscience to worry her.

Some of them remembered two boys they had seen among those pilgrims who had gone to look at the remains of Coligny, which had been hung on a gibbet at Montfaucon. One of those boys—he was only about fifteen years old—had broken down suddenly and flung himself on the ground while bitter sobs shook his body. The younger of the boys had stood very still, bewildered and frightened, too numbed by grief to weep as his brother did. When one knew that the fifteen-year-old boy was François de Coligny, and the younger one was his brother Andelot, that was an unforgettable tableau. One remembered too that Jacqueline de Coligny, in spite of her condition, had been carried off from Châtillon and put in a prison at Nice. Such matters haunted the memory. Moreover, these women were beset by superstitious fear. They remembered the miracle of Merlin, about which the Huguenots talked continually. Coligny’s pastor had escaped on that night of terror. He had lain on the roofs after Téligny had been shot, and at length, weary beyond endurance, had clambered down from the roof to find himself beside a barn. Here he hid, and each day a hen came and—by the Grace of God, said the Huguenots—laid an egg beside him. This nourished him and kept him alive until the massacre was over.

Such stories were alarming, for it seemed that God was sometimes on the side of the Huguenots, even though the Virgin had made a hawthorn flower in the Cemetery of the Innocents.

Catherine laughed when she heard the story of Merlin and the eggs. It was she who recalled the flowering of the hawthorn.

‘The good God preserve us from Heaven,’ she cried, ‘if when we get there we are going to find the Huguenots and Catholics still warring with one another.’

It was all very well to joke about such matters under the eye of the Queen Mother; but later came fears.

Catherine went on reading the book. She kept it with her, reading it at odd moments; and she was heard singing in her apartments:

‘L’une ruyne d’Israel,

L’autre, ruyne de la France.’

After the massacre, Guise and Margot were no longer lovers.

Margot, like so many others, could not forget the massacre. She believed, as did most people, that her mother had inspired it and that, more than any person in France, she was responsible for it; but she could not forget the part her lover had played in it.

She had actually seen him, riding through the streets urging people to kill, and, she told herself impetuously, she could never love him again. He had changed, as she had; he was no longer the charming boy, but a man whose ambition meant far more to him than love ever could. He had known that she, as the wife of a Huguenot, must have been in danger, but he had neglected her. All that she had once so ardently loved in him—his beauty, his charm, his virility, and even his ambition, for she had believed then that a man must be ambitious to prove his manhood—now increased her indifference towards him.

He came to her after the massacre was over.

She said: ‘You keep your appointment, Monsieur, but are you not a little late?’

He did not know that she had decided to finish with him. ‘But, Margot, you understand how I have been occupied.’

‘Too occupied in shedding blood to think of love!’ she said. ‘It had to be.’

She studied him closely. He had grown older. She thought: he will age quickly. Then she smiled, thinking of Monsieur de ‘Aran, the man who had burst so dramatically into her bedchamber; he was still weak, but, thanks to her, he would recover. He was very handsome, tender and grateful. One did not always want such self-satisfied, such arrogant and self-sufficient lovers as the man who stood before her now. There were some on whom too many gifts were showered; and such people knew little of gratitude for services rendered—and gratitude could be a delightful thing.

He came to her and put his arms about her. She did not repulse him yet; she laughed up at him.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘there is time for love?’

‘My darling,’ he answered, ‘it has been long, but love keeps; and can be all the more sweet for the waiting.’

‘Sometimes it turns sour,’ said Margot.

‘You are annoyed, my darling?’

‘Oh no, Monsieur. I could only be annoyed when I cared deeply.’

He did not understand. He had too high an opinion of himself. This was Margot, he thought, as he had known her so many times before—piqued, eager to be wooed into that abandonment of passion which was habitual to her.

‘My dearest,’ he began, but she interrupted.

‘Ah, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘I have discovered that you are a better murderer than a lover, and you know I would be satisfied with nothing but the best. If I need a murderer, I may ask for your services. But when I need a lover, I shall not come to you.’

She saw at once that he was not only perplexed, but suspicious. She was involved with the Huguenots and therefore might be his enemy.

She laughed. ‘Oh, be cautious, Monsieur de Guise. Remember that you are seeking a mistress from the Huguenot camp. Why do you not take your sword and kill me! You suspect me of friendship for Huguenots. That is sufficient reason to kill me, is it not?’

‘Have you gone mad?’ he demanded.

‘No. I have merely ceased to love you. You do not look so handsome in my eyes as you once did. You arouse no desire in me whatsoever.’

‘That cannot be true, Margot.’

‘It must be difficult for you to believe it. But it is true. You may go now.’

‘Dearest,’ he said soothingly, ‘you are angry because I have stayed from you too long. Had it been possible I should have come long ere this. You must understand that if we had not killed the Huguenots, they would have killed us’

‘They would not!’ she said vehemently. ‘There was no Huguenot plot. You know as well as I do that the so-called Huguenot plot was an invention of my mother’s. She wanted an excuse to murder.’

‘Why do we concern ourselves with such unpleasant matters? Have you forgotten all that we are to one another?’

She shook her head. ‘But it is over now. We must look elsewhere for our pleasures.’

‘How can you talk so! All your life you have loved me.’ ‘Until now.’

‘When did this end?’

‘Perhaps on St Bartholomew’s Eve.’

He put his arms about her and kissed her. She said, with dignity: ‘Monsieur de Guise, I beg of you, release me.’ And she laughed delightedly to find that she was quite unmoved by him.

He was the haughty one now. He was unaccustomed to being repulsed. It hurt his dignity, the dignity of Guise and Lorraine.

‘Very well,’ he said, releasing her. But he was hesitating, waiting for her to laugh, to tell him she loved him as much as ever and that her fit of temper was over.

But she stood still, smiling mockingly; and at length he turned angrily away and left her.

In the corridor he almost collided with Charlotte de Sauves, for Charlotte had not expected him to come out so quickly; she had thought that Margot would call him back and that there would be one of those intense and passionate scenes to be reported to the Queen Mother.

He caught her as she gave a little cry and pretended to be almost knocked off her feet.

‘Madame, I crave your pardon.’

She smiled up at him, flushed, aware that he must be noticing how beautiful she was. ‘The fault was mine, Monsieur de Guise. I . . . I was about to go to Her Majesty . . . and I had no idea that anyone could come out so quickly.’

‘I trust I did not hurt you?’

‘No, Monsieur. Indeed not.’

He had smiled and passed on. Charlotte stood still, watching him.

She did not go into Margot’s apartment at once, but stood outside, thinking deeply. Had Margot really meant what she had said? Was she really finishing her love affair—this most passionate of all love affairs, the most discussed at the court? Suppose this was so. Charlotte smiled. A woman should be allowed to please herself sometimes. She was weary of this game she must play with Navarre, keeping him desirous yet unsatisfied. Perhaps it would be as well to say nothing to the Queen Mother of this little scene. She might receive definite instructions regarding the Duke of Guise if Catherine were told, for there was no doubt that the Queen Mother had an uncanny knack of discovering the inner thoughts and yearnings of her Escadron Volant.

No. Charlotte would say nothing of what she had discovered; and if the handsome Duke was in need of a little comfort—Charlotte had received no direct instructions from her mistress to deny him.

Catherine’s satisfaction could not last long: and if she did not regret her increased unpopularity throughout France and that her evil reputation was spreading abroad, she was perturbed to see how far the King was straying from her influence. She had thought that, having destroyed the influence of Coligny, she would be able to restore that relationship which had existed between herself and Charles before he had fallen under the spell of the Admiral; but this was not so. Charles was weaker in physical health; his bouts of madness were more frequent; but it was obvious that, tormented by the memory of those fateful August days and nights, he, like the rest of the world, blamed Catherine for the massacre, and his great desire now was to escape from her domination.

He continually remembered the words of the Admiral: ‘Govern alone. Evade the influence of your mother.’ And he intended to do that, as far as his poor weak mind would allow him.

Catherine knew this and it disturbed her greatly. If, as many people said, it was true that her real motive in murdering Coligny had been to leave herself in sole command over her son, she had completely failed to achieve that desired result; for Charles was further from her control than he had ever been.

Spain, now that it had ceased to exult over the massacre, hinted that since so many Huguenot leaders were now dead—and Philip understood that the marriage had been necessary to bring the unsuspecting victims into the trap—there was no reason why that marriage should not be dissolved.

Catherine had at first felt indignant. ‘My daughter, a bride of a few months . . . just beginning to love her husband . . . and now it is suggested that the marriage should be dissolved!’

The Spanish ambassador smiled cynically. ‘The gentleman of Navarre is not such a good parti now, Madame, despised as he is by both Catholics and Huguenots. Not a very grand marriage for a daughter of a royal house!’

Catherine pondered that and, after a while, it seemed to her that there was much in what he said. Even in the event of civil war—which seemed remote now that the ranks of the Huguenots were so depleted—it was hardly likely that the people of France would wish to see a man who could change sides so easily—and a noted bon vivant and philanderer at that—on the throne.

She knew to whom the people of France would look if by some dire misfortune—and Catherine herself would fight to the death to avoid that misfortune—the sons of the House of Valois were robbed of their prior claim to the throne. He was that young man who, in Paris at least, could do no wrong. He had been the leader, one might say, in the massacre, but no one in Paris blamed him. It was said that he but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. What a good thing after all was the popularity of the mob! It excused your faults and extolled your virtues.

Yes, Paris would delight to see its hero on the throne, even though his right to it was a little obscure.

She pondered deeply. One must adjust one’s policy to events; and circumstances altered cases. Now it seemed that it might not have been so very unwise to have allowed Margot to marry Henry of Guise when those two had so desired; although it had appeared quite wrong at the time. But in view of the turn of events, and of Navarre’s recent record, a marriage between Margot and Guise had now become more desirable than that between Margot and Henry of Navarre. The Pope naturally would raise no difficulty, and Philip of Spain would be pleased. Guise was known to Spain and Rome as one of the most loyal Catholics in France. Why not a double divorce? Guise divorced from his wife; Margot from her husband; and those two, who were so passionately in love, might marry after all! Catherine smiled ironically. This seemed to be one of those occasions when the chief parties concerned could all be happy and sensible at the same time.

She discussed the matter with the Spanish ambassador. He was favourably impressed. So Catherine next sent for her daughter, and there took place one of those secret interviews with which the children of Catherine were very familiar.

‘My daughter, you know that I have always had your well-being at heart . . . your position . . . you future . . . You did not know, did you, that I also concerned myself with your happiness?’

Margot was inclined to be truculent. She too had changed. As a married woman and a Queen she seemed to have moved from her mother’s influence, even as her brother the King had done. ‘No, Madame,’ she said, insolence carefully veiled. ‘I did not know that.’

Catherine would have liked to slap the saucy young face. ‘Well, you shall know it now. This marriage, which was so necessary, has been a tragic affair. But you do understand, do you not, my daughter, that it was a necessity at the time it took place.’

‘Yes, Madame,’ said Margot. ‘The unsuspecting Huguenots had to be drawn into the trap, and for that reason the marriage and its ceremonies were very necessary.

Catherine was determined to show no anger. ‘My dear daughter, you repeat the scandals of the court, and you should be clever enough to know that scandals are but half-truths; and surely you are wise enough not to believe all you hear. Now I have good news for you. That man, to whom it was necessary to marry you, is unworthy of you. He is provincial, coarse . . . Really, his manners shock me.’ Catherine gave her sudden laugh. ‘And you, who are forced to live with him in intimacy, must be doubly shocked, I’m sure.’

‘One adjusts oneself,’ said Margot.

‘And what an adjustment must be necessary, my poor dear child! You are elegant. You have charm and beauty. You are of Paris. It is intolerable that you should have to endure the caresses of the boor of Béam. There is one who is worthy of you. A man who, many in France would tell you, is the most revered . . . next your King and your brothers, of course. You guess to whom I refer?’

‘To Monsieur de Guise. But . . .’

‘My dear, you need feel no shame. Your mother knows of your relationship with that gentleman, and quite understands it. In fact she has always understood it. He is a Prince and you are a Princess. What more natural than that you should love?’

Margot was watching her mother closely; she could not guess the meaning of this interview. That her mother was preparing her for some dark scheme she was sure; but what?

It is your happiness that I now seek, my child,’ said Catherine. You have served your country by marrying for reasons of state. You will understand that I speak truth when I say I seek nothing but your happiness, when I tell you that I am now going to arrange that you shall marry for love.’

‘Madame, as I am already married, I do not understand.’

‘My dear child, my obedient daughter! You married most reluctantly, did you not? Ha! I remember how you refused to make the responses at the ceremony. That was a very brave thing to do. And he was so close, was he not, the man you loved? Well, now I have decided that you shall live in torment no longer. You shall have Henry of Guise for your husband.’

Margot was stunned by this revelation. ‘Madame . . . I . . . do not see how that can be. I . I am married to the King of Navarre. Henry of Guise is married to Procien’s widow . . .’

‘Then you shall be “unmarried” and . . . marry each other!’

Catherine waited for the joyful tears, the expressions of gratitude; instead Margot’s face had become cold and hard.

‘Madame,’ she said, ‘I am married to the King of Navarre, and that marriage took place against my will; but now it would be against my will to . . . as you say . . . “unmarry” him.’

‘Oh come, Margot, your rank as Queen of Navarre is not such a good one. How will you like going with him to that miserable little kingdom when the time comes? There are some Duchesses who are in positions superior to some Queens . . . and the Duchess of Guise would be one of them.’

‘That may be so,’ said Margot, ‘but Henry of Guise does not please me, and I would not marry a second time against my wishes.’

‘This is sheer perversity!’ cried Catherine angrily. ‘You to talk like this! You who have made a spectacle of yourself over that man!’

‘You are right, Madame,’ said Margot coolly. ‘But one grows out of one passion and into another. I have grown out of love with Monsieur de Guise, and nothing would induce me to marry him; and since you have told me that nothing but your desire for my happiness prompts you to make this suggestion, there is no more to be said. For, quite simply, I am not in love with Monsieur de Guise. Have I your leave to retire now?’

‘It would be advisable for you to do so,’ said Catherine grimly, ‘before you tempt me to do you some mischief.’

When Margot left her she sat in furious silence. She found it impossible to believe that Guise and Margot were no longer lovers. They had been so ever since she could remember. Was a woman ever before cursed with such a family? The King had turned against her; Alençon she had never liked nor trusted; Margot was too clever, too shrewd—a little spy, not averse to working against her family; only Henry could be trusted.

She instructed one of her spies to watch Margot and Guise very closely. It was true that they had ceased to be lovers. In the course of these investigations Catherine made a discovery which resulted in her sending for Charlotte de Sauves. She was very angry with that young woman.

‘Madame,’ she accused, ‘you seem to be very friendly with the Duke of Guise.’

Charlotte was startled, but Catherine was quick to sense a certain smugness. ‘I did not know that Your Majesty would frown on such a friendship.’

Catherine stroked one of the charms on her bracelet. So this was the explanation. Guise was indulging in a love affair with Charlotte, and Margot was piqued and jealous.

She said sharply: ‘There must be no love-making with the Duke, Charlotte. If there were, it would displease me greatly. I can speak frankly to you. The Queen of Navarre is greatly enamoured of the Duke.’

‘Your Majesty . . . that is no longer so. I understand that the Queen of Navarre has declared that she no longer feels friendship towards the Duke.’

‘Because you have been playing tricks, I suppose.

‘Oh no, Madame; she gave him his congé before he looked my way. Monsieur de Guise is of the opinion that she has become enamoured of the King of Navarre.’

‘Margot and Guise must make up their quarrels,’ said Catherine. ‘As for you, Madame, you will keep away from the Duke. There must be no love-making.’

‘Madame,’ said Charlotte slyly, ‘I fear your command comes too late.’

‘You sly slut!’ cried Catherine. ‘I thought I had given you instructions regarding Navarre.’

‘But only to attract him, Madame. That was all; and there was no word in Your Majesty’s instructions regarding Monsieur de Guise.’

‘Well, you have my instructions now.’

Charlotte looked at Catherine from under those thick eyelashes of hers. ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘it will be necessary for you to instruct Monsieur de Guise, for I fear that, no matter how I tried to avoid him, I could not succeed. It would therefore be necessary to give him Your Majesty’s personal instructions. Otherwise I fear there could be no stopping what has already begun. Monsieur de Guise would take orders from none . . . except, of course, Your Majesty.’

Catherine was silent, thinking angrily of the arrogant Duke. How could she say to such a man: ‘Your affaire with Madame de Sauves must stop immediately!’ She could imagine the haughty lift of the eyebrows, the courteous remark which would imply that his affaire was no concern of hers.

She laughed suddenly. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I see that this matter must take its own course. But, in future, Madame, you will ask my permission before you enter into such a liaison.’

‘Madame, never fear that I shall offend again.’

Catherine sat back, thinking of Charlotte de Sauves. It was galling to think that that sly little harlot’s love affairs could turn the Queen Mother from a line of policy which she had intended to adopt. But such things could happen occasionally. Catherine therefore decided that there was nothing to do for the moment but to shelve the idea of ‘unmarrying’ her daughter.

Civil war between Catholics and Huguenots had broken out again, and an army under Anjou was sent to besiege the Huguenots’ stronghold of La Rochelle.

With the Catholic army were Guise and his uncle, the Duke of Aumale; and Catherine felt comforted to think of those two supporters of her beloved son, for Catherine—even as far as Henry was concerned—had a habit of looking facts in the face, and it was hard, even for her, to believe that Henry, with his effeminacy and his unstable ways, had really the character of a great general. It was true that the credit for Jarnac and Mont-contour had gone to him; but would he have succeeded but for those brilliant soldiers who had shared the campaign? As the Prince of Valois, brother of the King, and the most illustrious general in the army, he had received the credit; but Catherine knew that credit did not always go to those who most deserved it. It pleased her though that he should take the glory and so win the approval of the people. To him should go the honours of the victory which must surely come about at La Rochelle. Guise and Aumale were great men of battle; and Guise could inspire—effortlessly as his father had done—that blind devotion which led men to victory.

It was, therefore, rather amusing to send with the army those two converts to Catholicism, Navarre and Condé. It was a situation tinged with that special brand of irony which amused Catherine; and to think of those two ‘converts’ fighting against their one-time friends delighted her. Alençon was also sent with the army, for it was time that young man won his spurs, and the adventure should keep him out of mischief for a time.

She had high hopes of the early surrender of La Rochelle, but in this she was disappointed. The recent massacre had strengthened the determination of the people in that town, with the result that the heroic few were able to stand up to superior numbers. The besieging army was more disturbed by the spirit of the people within the walls of La Rochelle than harassed by the missiles of war which flew from the battlements; and it was as though those gallant people were on the offensive instead of, as was obviously the case, in such a precariously defensive position.

Guise and Aumale had the additional problem of keeping the peace in their own camp. In view of the difficult task of subduing La Rochelle, it had been folly to allow Navarre and Condé to accompany them, for neither of these had any heart for the fight. Condé, who had had some reputation as a fighter, seemed lethargic and useless; while Navarre was lazily cheerful, spending too much time with the women who had followed the camp.

As for Alençon, he was actually a menace. Truculent in the extreme, anxious always that he should receive his share of adulation which his close relationship to the King demanded, he was utterly conceited and no help at all.

All day long the sound of singing could be heard from behind the walls of La Rochelle—the singing of hymns. It seemed that religious services were being conducted continually. The superstitious. Catholics were unnerved, and as the siege dragged on, they became more so. The news circulated that great quantities of fish had been caught off the shores of La Rochelle and that the Huguenots took this as a sign that God intended to preserve them.

Guise persuaded Anjou that the best thing to do was to attack the town and take it by force of overwhelming numbers before the besieged had completed their preparations for its defence; this idea that God was on the side of the Huguenots must not be allowed to demoralize the Catholic army.

Anjou agreed, and there followed that historic attack in which a few Huguenots triumphed over the great Catholic army through sheer determination not to surrender and an unwavering belief that they were receiving Divine help. Those who took part in the attack never forgot it. The citizens had hung a hawthorn on the ramparts to remind the Catholics of their contempt for that hawthorn which had flowered in the Cemetery of the Innocents—flowered at the Devil’s command, said the Huguenots.

The fight began, but the city’s walls stood firm; and the women themselves mounted the towers and poured boiling pitch on the soldiers below. And as soon as there was a lull in the fighting, the citizens of La Rochelle could be heard singing praises to God.

‘Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him flee before Him . . .

‘Like the smoke vanisheth, so shalt Thou drive them away; and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God . .

To the superstitious men below, this was terrifying; particularly as it seemed to them that the walls of La Rochelle had stood more assault than a city’s walls could, without Divine assistance.

And so the battle for La Rochelle was a defeat for the Catholic army, and the walls of the city continued to stand firm against all attack. The Catholics counted their dead and wounded to the sound of triumphant singing within the city’s walls.

Alençon swaggered into his brother’s tent and, throwing himself unceremoniously on to Anjou’s bed, began to taunt him with the loss of the battle.

‘Here’s a pretty state of affairs!’ mocked Alençon. ‘A great army defeated by a few men and women behind city walls. I tell you, brother, the mistake was yours. You were too noisy in your preparations. I should have smuggled men into the city somehow. I should have sent spies among them.’

‘Fool!’ cried Anjou. ‘What do you know of battle? Would you have given your spies wings to fly over the city’s walls?’

‘I would ask you not to call me “Fool”, brother, but to remember to whom you speak.’

‘Have a care lest I put you under arrest, Monsieur,’ said Anjou coldly.

But Alençon would not heed him. He was the brother of the King, just as Anjou was, and he had been neglected too long.

‘Brother,’ he teased, ‘you are more successful at court than on a battlefield. You choose your men for their beauty rather than for their military ability.’

‘Your lack of beauty, brother, is not the only reason why I do not confide in you,’ said Anjou languidly.

Alençon was sensitive about his shortness of stature and pock-marked skin. He flushed angrily and began to shout, calling his brother a conceited popinjay who looked more like a woman than a man.

Anjou said: ‘If you do not remove yourself in ten seconds I will put you under arrest.’

Then Alençon thought it better to go quickly. He knew that his mother would approve of anything that Anjou planned for him; and he would certainly find himself a prisoner if he were not careful.

As he came out of his brother’s tent, he encountered Navarre, who seemed to be lounging about outside. Navarre smiled in a sympathetic fashion, and Alençon was ready to accept sympathy from anyone at that moment.

‘You heard?’ demanded Alençon fiercely.

‘It was impossible not to. The insolence! He forgets that if he is a Prince of Valois, so are you.’

‘It is pleasant to know that some remember it,’ muttered Alençon.

Navarre smiled at the little figure beside him. There were many who thought Alençon rather ridiculous, but Henry of Navarre knew that since the massacre he himself had been in a very precarious position, and a man as wise as Henry of Navarre, when in such a position, does not despise friendship.

‘My lord,’ said Navarre, ‘they would be fools to forget it when it is possible that one day you may be King over us all.’

The thought pleased Alençon; and coming from Navarre, who was after all a king—if somewhat eclipsed at the moment—it was doubly pleasant.

‘I am many steps from the throne,’ he mused smiling.

‘Not so. The King’s son did not live . . . nor would any child of his, I am thinking. And when the King dies . .

‘There is my arrogant brother whom you so recently heard insult me.’

‘Yes. But he is hardly likely to produce progeny. And then . . .’ Henry of Navarre administered a Béarnais slap on the back which almost knocked Alençon off his feet; but the little Duke did not mind such boisterous behaviour when accompanied by words which were so gratifying. If one could forgive the crude manners of a provincial, he thought, he is not such a bad fellow, this Henry of Navarre.

They walked in friendly silence for a few paces.

‘And so,’ continued Navarre at length, ‘your time will come. I am sure of that, my lord Duke.’

Alençon looked up into the shrewd face of his kinsman. ‘You are happier now that you have become a Catholic?’ he asked.

Then Henry of Navarre did an astonishing thing. He closed one eye and opened it swiftly. There was something worldly about Navarre, something experienced, which made Alençon long to be like him. Alençon chuckled. He knew that Navarre was hoodwinking such people as the King, Anjou and the Queen Mother in just the way which he, Alençon, longed to do. He found himself returning the wink.

‘So . . . you are not truly Catholic?’ he asked.

‘I am Catholic today,’ said Navarre. ‘Who knows what I may be tomorrow?’

Alençon laughed conspiratorially. ‘I myself have been attracted to the Huguenot faith,’ he ventured.

‘It may well be,’ said Navarre, ‘that, like me, you intend to be a Huguenot-Catholic.’

Alençon laughed with Navarre; and then they began to talk of women, a subject which Alençon found almost as exciting as Navarre did.

They were very quickly the best of friends. Navarre showed that right mixture of respect for a man who might be a King one day, and camaraderie for a fellow who he recognized as just such another as himself.

Those were uneasy weeks before La Rochelle. Anjou and Guise noticed the growing friendship between the mischievous pair and wondered what it foreboded; Condé and Navarre, encouraged by Alençon, who was now their recognized ally, threatened to desert. The army seemed about to disintegrate when Catherine and the council in Paris decided it was time to make peace. The King of Poland had died, and Anjou had been elected by the Poles as their new King; it was therefore necessary to recall him to Paris without delay. So the town of La Rochelle must be left in peace for a spell. The Huguenots were promised liberty of worship and the right to celebrate marriages and christenings in their own houses if no more than ten people were present. The war had come to another uneasy pause.

Riding to the hunt, Catherine watched her son, and asked herself how much longer he could be expected to live. His lung complaint had grown so much worse that he was continually out of breath. He blew his horn more frequently than was necessary, and such a strain on his lungs, Paré had warned him, should be avoided.

But when Charles was in one of his violent moods he never thought of what was good or bad for him.

He cannot live much longer, thought Catherine.

However, the position was alarming although there was one bright side to it. Charles’ son had died, as she had guessed he would. From the day of the child’s birth she had known she could safely leave it to its fate; but, strangely enough, he had a healthy son now by Marie Touchet, and the Queen was pregnant again. What if the Queen were to produce a healthy child as Marie had done! Then on the King’s death there would have to be another regency—and worse still, an end to her darling Henry’s hopes of the throne. She would never allow that to come about.

‘My son,’ she said, knowing full well that comments on his health could irritate him when he was in certain moods, ‘you tire yourself.’

He turned angry eyes upon her. ‘Madame, I am the best judge of that.’

He was at the beginning of one of his violent moods. She, who knew him so well, could see it encroaching on his sanity. In a short while that whip of his would descend on his horse, on his dogs and on his huntsmen as they happened to come within his range. She saw the foam on his mouth and heard the familiar hysteria in his voice.

‘What is the matter with you all?’ he shouted. ‘My horse slackens speed. My dogs seem asleep, and my men are a lazy good-for-nothing lot. By God!’ Down came the whip on his horse’s flank.

Catherine watched, smiling a little. That is well, she thought. Beat the creature to madness. May it bolt and throw you, and let that be an end to your madness and you, for I am heartily sick of you, and it is time Henry was King.

He caught her eyes fixed on him, and fearing that he might have read her thoughts she said quickly: ‘Hé, my son. Why do you get so angry with your dogs and horses and these poor men whose delight it is to serve you, while you are over-meek with your enemies?’

‘Over-meek!’ he cried.

‘Why are you not angry with those wretches in La Rochelle who are causing death and suffering to so many in your army?’

The King’s brow puckered. He said: ‘Wars . . . wars . . . It is all wars. It is all bloodshed in this land.’ He glared at Catherine and began to shout. ‘And who is the cause of it all? Tell me that.’ He shouted to his men: ‘Tell me! Who is the cause of this, eh? You . . . you tell me. Who is the cause of all the misery of this land? Answer me. Have you no tongues? We will see . . . we will see . . . and if you have, we will have them out, since they appear to be no use to you.’ He lifted his whip and slashed his dogs. ‘Who is the cause of all our misery, eh?’ Then he turned his fierce, mad eyes again on his mother. ‘We know!’ he cried. ‘All know. My God! It is you . . . you, Madame . . . you are our evil genius. You are the cause of it all.’

Then, digging his spurs into his horse, he turned and galloped madly away from them—back the way they had come.

The huntsmen looked at Catherine in dismay, but she was calm and smiling.

‘His Majesty is out of humour today,’ she said. ‘Come, let us ride on. We have come to hunt, so let us hunt.’

And as she rode on she was thinking: this is rebellion. He flouts me . . . even before his lowest servants. It cannot be allowed to continue. I will not be treated thus. Assuredly, my son Charles, you have lived too long!

And when she returned to the palace it was to find that ambassadors from Poland had arrived.

Anjou was sulky. He could not bear the thought of being sent away to Poland. How could such as he was endure life in the barbarous country which Poland must be? Since he had tired of Renée de Châteauneuf, he had formed an attachment with the Princess of Condé, young Condé’s wife. He could not, he now declared, endure the thought of parting from her.

The situation was alarming, for the King had made it clear that he intended Anjou to accept the Polish throne. Their mother would do all in her power to frustrate the King, but Anjou was fully aware that Catherine’s influence with Charles was waning fast. Charles looked upon Anjou as his enemy, and wished to exile him as soon as possible; moreover, it was said that the King would not be greatly disturbed if the Queen Mother decided to accompany her favourite son to Poland.

Catherine went to Anjou, who was fuming in his apartments, surrounded by three of his young men. The three young men were in tears at the prospect of losing their benefactor or, failing that, accompanying him far from the civilized land of France to the barbarous one of Poland.

‘The King is obstinate,’ said Catherine. ‘He declares you must go. It is no use bewailing. We must think of something that we can do.’ Her eyes alighted on her son’s table with its bottles of perfume and pots of cosmetics. She looked at the sprawling yet completely elegant figure, and she thought: what will those barbarians think of his elegance, of his young men, and his preoccupation with his own beauty?

Then she laughed suddenly. ‘Why, my son,’ she said, ‘you will appear to these men of Poland as strange, unlike themselves. I think they will not wish you to show yourself to your Polish subjects. They will wish you to send a lieutenant to rule for you—someone coarse, crude, more like themselves. I have it. We will make you even more elegant than usual—if that be possible. Let us paint your face more vividly; let us perfume your body; let us curl your hair We will show them that you could not live among them. Then I will bring forth one of our big rough men and show him to them . . . a man such as these savages would understand.’

Anjou smiled. ‘My dearest mother, what should I do without you?’

They embraced warmly and Catherine was momentarily happy.

He wore his jacket open at the throat and a string of pearls about his neck. He loaded his ears with pearls; his hair was curled in a most elegant fashion; his face more vividly painted than usual.

The young men clapped their hands and declared that he had but enhanced his beauty.

Catherine chuckled. ‘I shall enjoy seeing their faces when they set eyes on you.’

When Anjou was presented to the Polish ambassadors, they stared in astonishment, for the moment completely forgetting the etiquette of greeting their new King.

Anjou smiled sardonically while the King looked on with anger; some of the courtiers could not restrain a titter. Never before had Anjou looked so completely unlike a King, and never, said some, more like a female courtesan.

But now the Poles had recovered from their astonishment and were bowing low over the scented hand. It was obvious that they had never before seen anyone like their new King, and yet, instead of being disgusted by his appearance, they were delighted with it. They could not take their eyes from him; they laughed with pleasure every time he spoke to them. They whispered together that never, in the whole of their lives, had they seen such a glorious creature.

Catherine watched in dismay.

‘A King in very truth,’ said one of the Poles in his odd French.

‘Our people will never let such a man go, Madame,’ said another to Catherine. ‘They have never seen any like him. They will love this King.’

And they continued to gaze at him with delight, certain that such a wonderful creature must receive the admiration of all who beheld him.

Anjou was distrait; Catherine was furious; but Charles was adamant. Here was a Heaven-sent opportunity to rid himself of the brother whom he hated; and no pleading, no threats from Catherine, no sarcasm from Anjou, would make any difference to the King’s decision. Anjou was to go to Poland.

Anjou declared that if he were parted from the Princess of Condé his heart would be broken. His natural wit seemed to have deserted him; he could do nothing but bemoan his cruel fate.

Catherine made her preparations calmly enough, successfully hiding her fury from all but her intimates.

When the royal party set out to accompany Anjou to the border, the King declared his intention of going with it. He wanted, he said to his friends, to have the great joy of seeing Anjou leave the soil of France.

Marie Touchet begged the King to take care; Madeleine joined in her entreaties.

‘What do you fear?’ asked Charles. ‘Anjou knows he must obey his King, and do not doubt that he will.’

Neither Marie nor Madeleine dared say that it was not Anjou whom they feared.

Catherine rode beside Anjou, who noticed that she seemed to be unconcerned at the prospect of their parting. He was inclined to be petulant. ‘I cannot understand you,’ he said. ‘You seem to contemplate my departure with the same pleasure as does my brother who hates me.’

Catherine shook her head and said in a low voice: ‘To contemplate parting with you, as you must know, could bring me nothing but grief.’

‘Madame, you have a strange way of expressing your grief.’

‘Oh my darling, have you not yet learned that I am an adept at masking my feelings?’

‘I feel that this departure of mine seems to you like one of the court comedies which you so much enjoy.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘No doubt your joy seems so sincere because it is real joy. Dear mother, you are an adept at providing the drama or the comedy as well as wearing the mask.’

‘Ah, I knew your ready wit would tell you something of this.’ She leaned towards him. ‘You may go to Poland, my darling, and . . . on the other hand . . . you may not.’

‘What? Can plans be changed at this late hour?’

‘Surely you can imagine circumstances in which they might be.’

He caught his breath, and there was silence between them for a few seconds. Then Catherine continued: ‘If you did, by some ill-chance, reach that barbarous land, you may be sure that your stay in it would be a short one.’

Madeleine overheard those words and trembled. Madeleine was surprised to find what a good spy she had become. It was, she guessed, because the good God endowed mothers with some special sense when their little ones were in danger; and she had always looked upon herself as mother to the King.

Now she began to watch what was brought for the King to eat or drink; but it was not possible for her to taste everything that he took. How could she, his nurse, take her place at the banqueting table in the various castles at which they stayed? She became so anxious that at last she decided to speak to him of her fears.

She asked that she might be quite alone with him and indulgently he granted that permission.

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘you know that I love you.’

He kissed her hand tenderly. ‘I have no doubt of that, dear Madelon.’

‘Then you will listen with attention to what I have to say. I believe there are some in this company who are trying to shorten your life.’

He was startled. The fear of death was stronger than it had ever been. ‘What have you discovered?’ he asked.

‘I cannot say that I have actually discovered a plot. It is some sense . . . that warns me. I am as a mother to you, Chariot, and I sense that you are in danger.’

‘You think that someone is trying to poison me, Madelon?’

‘I am sure of it. I am not always with you to supervise what you eat and drink, and this gives me great cause for anxiety. It occurs to me that it would be an easier matter to kill you on a journey like this than at home, at court, where you are surrounded by friends and doctors.’

‘Madelon, speak frankly to me.’

‘There are some who are grieved that Monsieur d’Anjou is leaving us, and moreover do not intend that he should. There are some who would like to see him in your place, and those would be pleased if you were no longer with us.’

Charles flung himself into his nurse’s arms. ‘Oh, God,’ he cried, ‘I am afraid of her. I know you speak truth, dearest Nurse. I would that you were my mother in truth. What can I do? Oh, Madelon . . .’ He looked furtively round him. ‘Monsieur de Coligny was my friend. He said she was my evil genius. He warned me, as you do now. Would I had taken his advice. Then I should not have been led to that wicked slaughtering of innocents . . . that bloodshed. I cannot escape from it, Madelon. It pursues me . . . continually.’

‘You must banish it from your mind, my darling. It was no fault of yours. But let us think of this danger which now lies before us.’

‘Madelon, what can I do? If it is decided that there shall be a morceau ltalianizé for me, then so it will be, I fear. Those who are marked down never escape.’

‘It shall not be,’ said Madelon. ‘You are the King. That is a fact which you often forget, my little one. Let us, with those whom we trust, ride back to Paris. You must announce our intentions to leave at once. The Queen Mother, her women and her friends, will go on with Monsieur le Duc to Lorraine. And we will ride back, safe and happy. Do that, my Charlot, to please your old Madelon, who loves you as her own son, and whose heart would break if aught ill should happen to you.’

‘Oh, Madelon,’ he sobbed, ‘how good it is to have true friends. I am not alone, am I? There are some who love me. There is blood on my hands, and some say that I am mad, but I have good friends, have I not?’

‘You will always have Madelon to love and watch over you,’ said his nurse.

Catherine bade farewell to her beloved son.

‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you must go, but believe me when I tell you it shall not be for long. You should not have gone at all if I had had my will.’

Anjou had to be content with that. He guessed that the King’s sudden decision not to accompany the party farther than Vitry-sur-Marne, and his immediate return to Paris with a few friends, meant that one of the latter had discovered his mother’s plans. This brought home to him afresh the fact that his mother was not all-powerful. People had become more suspicious of her than ever.

He wept dramatically and declared himself to be the most unhappy man in the world.

‘I must leave the Princess whom I love; I must leave my mother, who is my good friend; I must leave my home and my family. Oh, what a sad fate it is to be a King!’

He had desired above all things to be a King, but a King of France, not of Poland. However, he could not but enjoy the role of exile; he played it delicately and with tears which were not allowed to spoil his complexion or redden the lids of his long dark eyes.

But when he had left the French border and was travelling through Flanders—which he was forced to do in order to reach Poland—he began to realize that a really uncomfortable stage of his journey had begun. He entered a small town with his entourage and, expecting to be admired as he had been during the first stages of his journey, he prepared himself to smile graciously on the assembled townsfolk who must, his gentlemen assured him, be as enchanted by the sight of him as those of his Polish subjects who had already seen him had undoubtedly been.

To his horror, he found that numbers of those people in the streets were not foreigners; they were French—men and women who had recently fled from France to escape the Catholic persecution in which he himself had played so prominent a part.

They shouted after him as he rode by: ‘Ah, there he goes, the fop! The dandy! But not too foppish, not too much the dandy to stain his hands with the blood of martyrs. Where were you, Monsieur, on the night of August the 23rd . . . the 24th the 25th? . . . Answer. Answer.’

He look at those people and shuddered. They threw mud and dung at him, and he was horrified to see and smell it on his beautiful clothes. There was nothing he and his followers could do but dig their spurs into their horses’ flanks and ride away to the ironical laughter of the French refugees.

It was a most uncomfortable journey. Anjou dreaded entering the towns; he hated the discomfort of such travel. He longed for his charming mistress; he longed for the luxurious comfort of Paris.

‘And whither are we bound?’ he complained. ‘Only for some foreign land. How can such as. I exist among savages! My mother promised that I should not be away from home for long, but how can she prevent it? My brother ignores her now. How discourteously he left us to continue our journey! She no longer has any power over him. He is jealous of me . . . so he banishes me. It may be . . . for ever!’

But there were worse shocks awaiting the unhappy Anjou. The Elector Palatine received him courteously; he could do nothing else, since he was not now at war with France; but Anjou, remembering his reception by the French refugees and some of the natives of this Protestant land, had one wish, and that was to reach Poland as soon as possible.

‘You honour us indeed,’ said the Elector; but he did not act as though this were an honour he greatly appreciated. He and his fellow countrymen in their simple dress managed to make Anjou feel ill at ease and ridiculous as he never did at home; and while these people entertained him with all the honour due to him, they made him realize that they did not forget the St Bartholomew for one moment and blamed him as one of those responsible for the massacre.

The Elector himself, when the banquet in Anjou’s honour was over, conducted the Duke to his chamber. It was dimly lighted and it was only when Anjou was alone—but for a few attendants—that he noticed the murals. Taking a candle to study them more closely, he uttered a scream of horror, and almost dropped his candle. He was looking at a picture of a Paris square, and in that square were bodies piled one on top of the other. There was a headless corpse in the forefront of the picture; and looking on, smiles on their faces—which must have been the most diabolical ever depicted—were men and women, all of whom wore hats with white crosses on them.

Anjou shuddered and turned away, but his eyes were immediately held by another picture. Here was Paris again, showing horrors more terrible than the first. From this he went to a picture of Lyons and then to another, on the same subject, of Rouen.

All four walls of the apartment were painted with pictures of the massacre of the St Bartholomew and, so lifelike were they, so realistic, that Anjou could not avoid the feeling that he stood in those streets depicted there, and that the horrors were still going on.

He turned to his young men, but they were as shocked as he was and could offer no comfort.

‘What do they intend to do to us?’ whispered one of them.

‘They are attempting to unnerve us!’ cried Anjou. ‘To let us know that they remember. As long as that is all, no harm can come to us.’

He threw himself on to his bed, but he was in no mood for sleep. He ordered that all candles should be snuffed out; but when the apartment was in darkness the pictures seemed more vivid than before, since imagination, aided by memory, could conjure up scenes more readily than the excellent artist whom the Elector had employed for the discomfiture of the guest he hated.

‘Light the candles!’ cried Anjou. ‘I cannot endure the darkness. How many hours till morning?’

There were many hours to be lived through before he could leave this accursed place, he knew.

He could not keep his eyes from the pictures.

‘I feel that I am there . . . in Paris . . . looking on . . . seeing it all. Oh, my friends, it was even more terrible than that. But how real the blood looks in the pictures! . . . Oh, what blood we shed in Paris! It will never be forgotten.’

His friends assured him that he had not been to blame. ‘Others were responsible. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.’

But if Anjou lacked courage, he did not lack imagination, and those pictures recalled too many memories for his peace of mind. There was no sleep for him that night. He lay tossing and turning on his bed, calling to his friends not to sleep, but to talk to him, amuse him. He had them snuff out the candles; then he had them relighted. He could not make up his mind whether he would rather see the pictures or imagine them springing to life in the darkness.

A few hours before dawn, he got up. ‘I cannot rest,’ he said, ‘and I do not think I ever shall until I have written down what happened on that night. The world should know. So, I will write a confession. I will not excuse myself, for I am as guilty as most, of that horrible crime. I will write now . . . this instant. I cannot bear to wait.’

When writing material had been brought to him, he took one of the lighted candles and opened the door of a closet.

‘I shall write in here,’ he said, ‘and by the time I have finished, perhaps it will be morning. Then we will leave this place and ride on to Cracow with all speed.’

He stared, and fell backwards. It seemed to him that a man stood in the closet, a tall man of noble countenance, who looked down on him with stern and haughty eyes.

‘Coligny!’ screamed Anjou, and he fell on his knees, dropping the candle, which was extinguished. ‘Oh . . . Coligny . . .’ he gasped, ‘come back from the dead . . . to haunt me . . .’

His friends rushed to him, bearing lights. They grew pale when they saw what Anjou had seen. Some covered their eyes with a hand to shut out the vision. But one man, bolder than the rest, lifted his candle high and looked full into the face of what the others had believed to be the Admiral’s ghost.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is the Admiral to the very life. But . . . it is only a picture.’

Anjou went back to the main apartment, and spent the rest of the night in writing what he called his confession.

The next day he left the town in haste; he had no wish to-stay in a land where such cruel tricks were played upon him.

But he had learned something. The massacre of St. Bartholomew would never be forgotten while men lived on Earth, and those who had taken part in it would be held in horror and dismay by countless millions of their fellow men.

Anjou was in a high fever by the time he reached Cracow.

Margot was restless. Her love affair with Monsieur Léran, who had been so charmingly grateful since she had saved his life on the night of the massacre, was palling; and Margot was discovering that, although she could remain faithful to Monsieur de Guise for years, she could not be so for long to any other. At times she still hankered after the handsome Duke, and she would have taken him back but for his attachment to Charlotte de Sauves. She knew Charlotte too well; Charlotte never released a man until she was tired of him, and Margot had an idea that Charlotte was going to love Guise as constantly as she herself had. Surprisingly, it seemed that Charlotte could be in love, for she had changed, growing more softly beautiful; and Margot, sensing this had a good deal to do with Henry of Guise, was jealous, but her pride remained stronger than her jealousy.

She knew that in refusing to allow herself to be divorced from Navarre and married to Guise she had wounded her former lover deeply. He would never, she knew, forgive the slight; he would remember it against her as he had remembered his father’s death against Coligny. He no longer looked her way; he no longer sent those appealing and tender glances towards her. If he noticed her at all, it was to let her know how deeply absorbed he was in his new love affair, how delightful he found Charlotte de Sauves.

Dissatisfied, jealous and bored, Margot looked about her for fresh excitement. Perhaps she needed a new lover. But who was there? There was none who specially pleased her; if she selected one for his charming manners, for his handsome face, she would, before she realized what she was doing, find herself comparing him with Henry of Guise, and there would begin once more that battle between desire and pride.

She supposed it was not too late to ask for that divorce and to marry him. He would undoubtedly consent; it was ambition first with Monsieur de Guise; but should she marry him to satisfy his ambitions? And what if he continued his liaison with Charlotte de Sauves after their marriage!

No, she had sworn to have finished with Henry of Guise, and finished she had. She must find another lover, or some excitement. But now . . . what excitement was there? Masques, ballets . . . all commonplace to her; she could no longer be excited by a new gown, by a new wig or an exaggerated hairstyle. As for lovers, she must first be in love; and how could she fall in love at will?

It was while she was in this state of restlessness that one of her women, Madame de Moissons, who had always been anxious to serve her since Margot had saved her husband’s life at the time of the massacre, came to her and asked if she might have a word with her in private.

Madame de Moissons, who had suffered great mental torture when the life of her husband had been at stake, was a woman who lived in continual terror of further risings; it was this fear Which had now caused her to seek the help of Margot.

‘I would speak with Your Majesty alone,’ she said, ‘if you would grant me that honour.’

Margot, guessing from the woman’s demeanour that she was deeply perturbed, immediately granted the request.

When they were alone, Madame de Moissons burst out: ‘I do not know if I do right in telling you what I have discovered, but I think Your Majesty may know how to act. It concerns the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon. They plan to escape, join a Huguenot force and take the offensive against the Catholic army.’

‘They cannot be so foolish.’

‘Indeed yes, Madame. That is what they plan. Madame, can you plead with them, stop them? They will plunge France into civil war once more. There will be more bloodshed and when it starts who knows where it will end?’

‘They are like irresponsible children,’ said Margot. ‘And when is this plot to be put into effect?’

‘As soon as is possible, Madame. But the King of Navarre finds it difficult to tear himself away from Madame de Sauves, to whom, as you know, he is deeply attracted.’

Margot was seized with a jealous fury, but she managed to say calmly to Madame de Moissons: ‘Leave this to me. I will see that this plot is foiled.’

‘Madame, I would not care to bring trouble on the King of Navarre, who has always been so good to my husband.’

‘He will be safe enough,’ said Margot; and she dismissed the woman.

When she was alone she threw herself on to her bed and thumped the cushions angrily. She, Marguerite, the Princess of France and the Queen of Navarre had, she considered, been most vilely used. Her lover had deserted her for Madame de Sauves; and her stupid husband made dangerous plots and then hesitated to put them into action for love of the same woman. Henry of Guise had sworn to love her for ever and it seemed as though he had forgotten her; she and her husband were to have been allies, if not lovers, and he, with Alençon, had made this plot without her knowledge. She did not know who angered her most—Guise, Navarre or Charlotte de Sauves.

She acted impulsively as she always acted; and, rising from her bed, she went to the King.

He was with their mother and she asked if she might speak with them alone.

‘I have discovered a plot,’ she said.

They were alert. Neither of them trusted her, but they could see that she was not only excited but angry.

‘Tell us, my dear,’ said Catherine, and the sound of her mother’s voice sobered Margot. What was she doing? She was betraying her husband and her brother. She took fright. She had no wish to harm either of them; she discovered in that moment that she was quite fond of them both.

She temporized. ‘If I tell you what I have discovered, will you promise me that no harm shall come to the two people who are most deeply involved?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Catherine.

‘Charles,’ said Margot, ‘I want your word. I have discovered something which it is my duty to tell you, but I cannot do so until you promise me, on your sacred honour as King of France, that you will not harm those two involved’

‘I give my word,’ said the King.

Catherine smiled sardonically. So her word was not good enough! It seemed that all her children were banding together against her.

‘My husband and Alençon plan to escape from Paris, to join their friends and form an army which they intend to use against yours.’

The King began to sweat, his fingers to twitch,

‘You have proof of this?’ asked Catherine.

‘No. I have only heard of it. If you search their apartments, doubtless you will find evidence.’

‘We will have their apartments searched at once,’ said Catherine. ‘You have done well, daughter.’

‘And your promise not to harm them is not forgotten?’

‘My dear Marguerite, do you think I would hurt my own son and him who has become my son through his marriage with you . . . mischievous as they may be! Now, there is no time to be lost.’

Catherine was as energetic as ever. She made Navarre and Alençon her prisoners as a result of what she discovered; but they were not confined to dungeons, and continued to live, under guard, at the palace.

Henry of Guise faced the Queen Mother.

‘Their friendship,’ he said, ‘began at the siege of La Rochelle. I cannot understand it. They are an ill-assorted pair. Something must be done to separate them. They are full of mischief, both of them. This plot of theirs proves that. Madame, something must be done immediately.’

Catherine studied him. She feared him, as much as she feared anyone in France, and yet that cool courage of his, that handsome presence, inspired admiration even in her. A surprisingly disloyal thought came to her then. She wished that this Henry had been her Henry. She would have loved him then with a great devotion and together they would have shared all the power in France. But he was not her son and because this was the case she resented that arrogance of his, that insolent manner of telling her what should be done, as though he were the master and she a favoured servant.

In accordance with her usual habit, she hid her resentment and wore an expression of humility. ‘You are right, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said. ‘You may rest assured that after this scare I will do something to spoil their unnatural friendship.’

‘Madame,’ said Guise, ‘I do not trust the King of Navarre. I do not think he is such a fool as he would have us believe. He poses as a frivolous man, thinking of nothing but women.’

‘Ah,’ said Catherine, ‘a man can think of women and politics at the same time, can he not?’

Guise ignored the barb and went on: ‘His manner, I feel sure, is a pose. He should be kept under strict surveillance. And as for the Duke of Alençon . . .’ Guise shrugged his shoulders.

‘You may speak out,’ said Catherine. ‘Though he is my son, I know him as a man who is full of mischief and who must be watched.’

‘But for our good fortune in discovering this plot, these two might have made good their escape. There are still enough Huguenots in the country to cause us trouble, Madame.’

‘It is indeed fortunate that we discovered the plot in time. We owe it to Madame de Sauves, did you know?’

The Duke raised his eyebrows, and Catherine, who knew him so well, realized that his heart had begun to beat a little faster at the mention of his mistress in this connexion.

‘The King of Navarre, as you know,’ went on Catherine, ‘is more interested in women than in politics. He found it difficult to tear himself away from the lady—otherwise he would have escaped before we realized what he was about. His hesitation betrayed him, Monsieur.’

‘We must be grateful for that, Madame.’

‘Very grateful indeed to that fair lady, who is, I am told, irresistible to so many.’

‘Madame, the first thing we must do is to drive a wedge between Navarre and Alençon.’

‘Leave that to me, Monsieur.’

‘How will you accomplish it?’

‘As yet I am unsure, but I am giving the matter my deepest consideration. You will see how I intend to separate those two, and you will see it in a very short time. Now, if you will forgive me, I must ask you to leave me, as I have much to do which I dare neglect no longer.’

As soon as he had left her, alone as she was, she began to laugh.

‘Ah, Monsieur de Guise,’ she chuckled, ‘you will soon see how I plan to separate those two.’

She went to the door, called her dwarf and sent him in search of Madame de Sauves.

‘And see,’ she added, ‘that when she arrives, she is left alone with me.’

Charlotte came immediately.

‘You may sit, my dear,’ said Catherine. ‘Now tell me: how progresses your affair with the King of Navarre?’

‘Just as Your Majesty commanded it should.’

‘You must be a witch, Charlotte, to keep such a man dancing attendance on you without receiving any satisfaction.’

‘I have behaved in accordance with Your Majesty’s instructions,’ said Charlotte.

‘Poor Navarre! He will be sad this night. You have heard that he has been playing tricks which we shall have to punish. think it might be a charming idea if you enlivened his captivity this night.’

Charlotte grew pale. ‘Madame . . . I . . .’

‘What! Another engagement! I promise you you need have no fear. I will see that the Baton, your husband, is kept busy and that he asks no embarrassing questions.’

‘Madame,’ faltered Charlotte, ‘could I not? . . .’

Catherine burst out laughing. ‘What! An assignation with a gentleman not your husband!’

Charlotte was silent.

‘Tell me, Charlotte, is it Monsieur de Guise? He is so charming, and from the way in which he is pursued by you women it appears he must be an adequate lover. But I have always made you understand, have I not, that duty comes before pleasure?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Well, tonight you must make it your duty to enliven the poor captive King of Navarre. Now . . . no more. I have spoken. You may go, Charlotte.’

When Charlotte was at the door, Catherine called her back. ‘And come to me tomorrow, Charlotte. I shall have further instructions for you then.’

Charlotte ran along to her own apartments, and when she reached her bedchamber she drew her curtains about her bed, upon which she lay down and began to weep bitterly. For the first time in her life she was disgusted with the Escadron and wished to escape from it. She lay weeping for some time, lost in her wretched thoughts until, uncannily conscious that she was being watched, she turned her head and shrank in startled horror from the parted bed-curtains. Catherine stood there, looking at her, and her gaze seemed diabolical; but when she spoke her voice was almost tender and belied the cruel glitter of her eyes. ‘You should not grieve, Charlotte. Monsieur de Guise must learn to understand as readily as does Monsieur de Sauves. And by night one man is very like another—so they tell me.’

The curtains were drawn together again, and Catherine went away as silently as she had come.

Margot looked down at her husband, who was lying sprawled across his bed. The door was locked and outside it were members of the King’s Guard. Margot felt angry with him. He looked so inelegant lying there; he had no grace; his hair, which looked none too clean, would doubtless stain that beautiful cushion.

‘You should not be allowed to use beautiful things,’ she told him. ‘You should live in a stable.’

‘Stables can be very comfortable,’ he said reflectively, ‘and a horse is often a more amiable companion than a wife.’

She lifted her head haughtily. ‘Not only are you coarse and crude—that I accept; that I forgive—but your folly is beyond forgiveness.’

‘I was certainly a fool not to realize I had a spying wife.’

‘It was for your own good, you fool, that I stopped your folly.’

‘You call it folly because it failed. If it had succeeded it would have been very clever. And but for you, it would not have failed. Ventre de biche! I have a mind to thrash you for this.’

‘You would find yourself in a less comfortable prison if you were as foolish as that.’

‘Have no fear. I am far too lazy. To thrash such a spitfire as you, would take a good deal of energy, and I am not inclined to spend mine on you.’

‘Pray keep your coarse manners for your peasant women.’

‘I will, if you will allow me to. Why do you not take yourself off to a more comfortable apartment?’

‘Because I wish to talk to you.’

‘I am expecting a visitor.’

‘A wife of one of the gardeners, or one of the kitchen wenches?’

‘Guess again,’ he said.

‘I am not inclined to waste my energy on that! Gardener’s wife or kitchen woman, it matters not to me. I am not interested in your crude amours. What angers me is that you should have entered into such a plot as this and told me nothing of it.’

‘It did not concern you.’

‘It concerns Navarre, of which I am Queen.’

‘Only as long as I allow you to be.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Madame, you astonish me. You play the spy; you place your husband and his kingdom in jeopardy, and then you come here and tell me that my kingdom is yours.’

‘I had thought that we two had decided to be allies.’

‘We had, but you show yourself to be a very doubtful ally.’

‘And you plot such things without consulting me!’

‘If I had been successful, I should have come back for you. And how can you talk of our being allies when you so callously betray me?’

‘You are indolent as well as foolish. You do not seem to know what forces would be brought into action against you.’

‘You overrate Monsieur de Guise,’ said Navarre. ‘We who would pit ourselves against him and his Catholics do not hold him in the same reverence as you do. You involve yourself too deeply in your love affairs, my dear. You look upon your lover as a god. He is but a man. Why, is it not for that very reason that you love him? You will never be happy in love until you learn to love as I do. I have had a hundred love affairs and never a pang of remorse or wretchedness on account of any of them. Yet you . . . you are all passion, all hate, all desire. When we have more leisure you and I must compare experiences, but tonight I am expecting a visitor.’

‘You are a provincial boor,’ she cried, ‘and as for discussing my love affairs with you, I would as soon discuss them with a stable boy.’

‘Or a kitchen wench, or a gardener’s wife?’ he taunted.

She went to him and, taking his stiff hair in her hands, shook him angrily. He was almost apoplectic with laughter, and to her annoyance she found herself laughing with him.

‘There, you see,’ he said, ‘we cannot be bad friends. You betray me and I forgive you. Why, I even forgive you for spoiling the set of my hair which, although not elegant like that of your brothers, or softly curling like that of one whom it would be provincial, boorish, coarse and crude to mention at this point . . .’

She gave him a stinging blow on his cheek, which delighted him.

‘Oh, Margot,’ he cried, catching her by the arms suddenly and holding her so tightly that she cried out, ‘I almost wish that I had not this visitor coming to me tonight, for I find you extremely attractive in this fighting mood.’

He released her and she stood up, for she had heard a movement in his closet.

‘Who is there?’ she asked.

‘No one,’ he answered; and turning to look at him she believed that he was as surprised and startled by that sound as she was. There followed immediately a light tap on the door of the closet.

‘May I come in?’ said a voice which both of them recognized.

‘This is my visitor,’ said Navarre. ‘I did not expect her to have secreted herself in my closet. She must have had a key to come in that way, no doubt from your mother. Come in!’ he called.

Margot stepped back so that the curtains of the bed hid her.

Charlotte de Sauves walked to the bed. She was holding a key. ‘I managed to acquire a key to the small chamber,’ she said. ‘It seemed better to come in that way.’

Navarre said: ‘Her Majesty is most helpful, and so generous with her personal keys. But, my dear, it matters not how you come, as long as you come.’

Margot stepped out, and Charlotte stared at her in dismay.

‘Do not be afraid of me, Madame de Sauves,’ said Margot. ‘I was just about to leave.’

Charlotte looked from the husband to the wife. ‘I . . . I did not know that Your Majesty would be here . . . If I had . . .’

Margot waved a hand. ‘You must obey the royal command, must you not?’ she said; and she threw a contemptuous glance at Navarre, which implied that she despised him since, know- ing this woman was her mother’s spy, he could yet receive her. ‘I was just about to go,’ she added. ‘I wish you joy, Madame. A very goodnight to you both.’

‘And a very goodnight to you, my dear wife,’ said Navarre, smiling at her cynically. Margot walked out, aware that he scarcely waited for her to reach the door before pulling Charlotte down beside him.

Margot was angry. One did not expect a husband to be faith. ful; but one expected a certain show of good manners.

She was bored; the monotony of her life was more than she could endure. She decided that, for the want of something better to do, she would go and make her peace with her brother; for he, like her husband, would be annoyed with her, and lacking the humour of Navarre, would not be so inclined to find humour in the situation.

She went into his apartments, and the King’s Guards made way for her. In an ante-chamber, a tall slim young man was sitting, and as Margot approached he leaped to his feet and bowed low.

Margot smiled at him charmingly, for she noticed immediately that he was an exceptionally handsome young man, and it was obvious from his expression that he was as impressed by her charms as she was by his. Indeed, this kind of adoration was just what Margot needed most at this moment. She was at once enchanted by this young man.

She studied him closely. He was, she guessed, in his mid-twenties, a few years older than herself; his hair was dark and he wore it long and curling; his eyes were a deep shade of blue, and Margot found the contrast of eyes and hair striking. His moustache could not hide the sensitive lips, and if his expression was one of melancholy, although somewhat relieved by his delight in looking at her, it was such a contrast to the crude boisterousness of the man she had just left, that it was enchanting. Bowing, he had placed a white hand on his velvet doublet which was a deep shade of blue that matched his eyes and was decorated with black jet.

‘I do not know you, Monsieur?’ she said.

His voice was low and melodious. ‘There, Madame, I have the advantage of Your Majesty.’

‘So you are in no doubt as to my identity?’

‘Madame, who does not know the Queen of Navarre?’ ‘You must have seen me when I have not seen you.’

‘Yes, Madame; and, having seen you, could never banish your image from my mind.’

Margot was excited. ‘And, Monsieur, why should there be need for such banishment?’

His melancholy eyes, of such a startling blue, supplied the answer she expected, and his lips endorsed it. ‘That, Madame, I could not tell you. I beg of you not to embarrass me by commanding me to answer.’

‘I see you are in my brother’s service. I should therefore have no power to command you.’

‘Madame, any request of yours would be a command.’

She smiled. ‘You are from Provence,’ she said. ‘I realize that, for you have the soft speech. But you have learned to flatter like a Parisian.’

‘You are mistaken, Madame. There was no flattery.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Margot.

‘La Mole, Madame.’

‘La Mole? Just that . . . nothing more?’

‘Count Boniface de la Mole, Madame, at your service.’

‘You mean at the service of the Duke of Alençon?’

‘If I could find some means of serving his sister, I should be completely happy.’

‘Well, you may do so at once. I wish to see my brother.’

‘He is engaged at the moment, Madame, and is likely to be for some hours.’

‘It would seem that he is gallantly engaged.’

‘That is so, Madame.’

‘In that case I shall not disturb him. It would go ill with you if you interrupted him merely to tell him his sister wished to see him.’

‘Madame,’ he said, bowing and laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, ‘if you were to command me, I would willingly face death.’

She laughed lightly. ‘Nay, Monsieur le Comte, I would not have you face death. I think I should find you more amusing alive than dead.’

She extended her hand for him to kiss; he did this with a mingling of reverence and passion which delighted Margot. ‘Adieu, Monsieur.’

‘You will think me bold, Madame, but I will say what is in my heart. Au revoir, Madame. I shall live for our next meeting.’

Margot turned and left the chamber. She was smiling, for she had ceased to be bored.

Catherine summoned Charlotte de Sauves to her presence. ‘Well, Charlotte, I trust Navarre pleased you?’

Charlotte was silent.

‘You must not mind,’ said Catherine softly, ‘that I witnessed your grief yesterday. I thought how sad you looked when you left me, so I followed. Never try to lock your door against your Queen, Charlotte. It is useless. I do not like to see you looking so sad. I hope you were not sad when with Navarre. Poor man! He has waited so long. I should not have wished him to be disappointed.’

‘Madame,’ said Charlotte, ‘I have done what you commanded.’

‘That is well. I trust there was not too great a quarrel with Monsieur de Guise? However, it will do that young man good to learn that he is only about half as important as he imagines himself to be. You see, Charlotte, my dear, when you joined the Escadron, you agreed, did you not, to put aside all sentimentality. But let us not go into that. You have done well with Navarre. I do not wish your love affair with him to progress too rapidly. Navarre must not expect you to give all your spare time to him. There are others on whom you must bestow your smiles.’

Charlotte waited apprehensively.

‘I was not referring to Monsieur de Guise. If you patch up your quarrel with him, he must be made to understand that he can only gladden your leisure hours. You have serious work to do, and this does not include dalliance with the charming Duke. No, Charlotte! For there is another who needs your attention. I refer to my little son—my youngest, poor little Alençon.’

‘But, Madame, he has never looked my way.’

‘Whose fault is that? None but your own. He is susceptible to female beauty. You have only to smile on him a little, to flatter him a good deal, and he will be your slave.’

‘I am not sure, Madame. He is deeply enamoured of . . .’

‘Never mind of whom. I’ll wager that within a few days he will be deeply enamoured of Charlotte de Sauves if that lady intends to make him so. I expect to hear in a very short time that the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon have fallen out because they have both fallen into love with the same lady, and she is distributing her favours equally between them to keep the quarrel warm.’

‘Madame, this is a difficult task . . .’

‘Nonsense! It will be easy for you. You already have Navarre at your feet. Alençon . . . that one is a simple matter. I expect results, and I know that you are too wise a woman to disappoint me. Go now.’

When she was alone Catherine smiled to herself. Intrigue, as well as being stimulating. was often amusing if one had the right sort of humour to appreciate that fact. Monsieur de Guise had rather arrogantly suggested that she should have a wedge driven between Alençon and Navarre; he had almost dared to give an order to the Queen Mother. She had found it necessary to follow that suggestion, but Monsieur de Guise should not be allowed to come out of this matter without some discomfiture. As soon as Alençon began to hanker after Charlotte, and when he and Navarre began to regard each other with jealousy and suspicion, Guise would realize that she had used his mistress as that ‘wedge’. It was very amusing, but she doubted whether Guise would enjoy the joke; he had not the humour of young Navarre.

But she did not laugh long. There were other matters which were not so amusing. Her beloved son was far away in Poland and she yearned for him. Charles was becoming more obstinate, more suspicious of his mother every day. So that situation gave her little to laugh at.

Charles must die. She had promised herself and Henry that. But the death of the King would have to be a slow one. Heaven knew she had everything on her side. His physical state was such that, when speaking of it, Monsieur Paré was very grave. He coughed incessantly and spat blood. His violent moods would often end with those fits of coughing, When she watched him, writhing on the floor, his jacket stained with blood, she would assure herself that it could not now be long.

His wife had given birth to a girl. That was a blessing. Surely he would never have the strength to give the Queen another child. But one could not be sure, and while Charles lived there was great cause for anxiety.

Why should he live? In her private closet she had many powders and potions which had solved such problems for her before and would do so again. But slow deaths were not so easy to achieve as quick ones. If it had just been a matter of giving one dose, that could have been achieved . . . if not at one time, then at another. But when there must be continual doses, it was not so easy.

Neither René, nor Cosmo, nor Lorenzo would be anxious to assist at the death of a King. Moreover Charles was surrounded by certain women, and, ironical as it was, each of these women, while being in herself quite insignificant, unimportant and altogether meek, seemed to stand by the side of the King like an angel with a flaming sword. There was his mistress, the mild Marie Touchet, his wife, the milder Elisabeth, and Madeleine, his nurse. All suspected the King’s mother of trying to shorten his life, and all were prepared to die to save him from her.

And, always hovering close to the King, was Monsieur Paré, the Huguenot, who should have been dispatched during that fateful August and who, owing his life to the King, was determined to pay his debt of gratitude by prolonging the King’s life.

But it was those three women who were the worst obstacles. They were more effective than an armed guard. And what could one do? Remove them? She had not the power to do that, for the King would not allow it; he was the master now. They had succeeded in turning him away from his mother.

And so the King grew weaker, and there were rumours throughout Paris that his mother was responsible for his low state of health. But he continued to live, to the delight of those three women who loved him and to the chagrin of his unnatural mother.

Margot’s friend, the flighty little Duchesse de Nevers, had a new lover. Little Henriette was so much in love that Margot was inclined to be envious.

Henriette whispered to Margot of her experiences. ‘He is so charming . . . so different. So handsome! So bold! And he is in the service of your brother, Monsieur d’Alençon.’

Margot was alert. ‘Indeed! I would hear more of this.’

‘He has a fair complexion and the most splendid white teeth. You should see them flash when he smiles . . . and he smiles continually.’

‘His name?’ demanded Margot.

‘Annibale. Le Comte Annibale de Coconnas.’

Margot sighed with relief.

‘I like the sound of him. So he is in the service of my brother. How odd that Poor Alençon, who is so unprepossessing himself, should have such handsome men in his service! Tell me more.’

‘He is very quick to anger, Madame, and his hair is reddish rather than brown. His eyes seem golden. I am asking him to my apartments to supper. Would Your Majesty honour us by coming tonight?’

Margot’s eyes sparkled. ‘What if you were discovered? Monsieur le Duc de Nevers . .

‘Has his own affairs to attend to, as Your Majesty well knows.’

‘I do not think that I should come,’ said Margot, deciding at once that she would not miss this for anything, and that it was just what she needed to relieve the monotony of her days. Any gentleman of Alençon’s suite was of interest to her as she might be able to talk to him of that most fascinating La Mole.

‘If you do not come, there will be no supper . . . for it is to be arranged solely on Your Majesty’s account.’

‘What does this mean?’ demanded Margot.

‘I suppose I must tell you, although it is supposed to be a secret. A friend of Monsieur de Coconnas is so enamoured of you that he is plunged in deepest melancholy and can neither eat nor sleep until he speaks with you. My Annibale is a most warm-hearted man, a most compassionate man and he . .

‘Enough of your Annibale, Henriette. We know he is charming. Tell me of the melancholy gentleman.’

‘He is very handsome, and it seems that he saw you and spoke to you, and you to him. You seemed so gracious that he has imagined that his wildest dreams may not be without some hope of fulfilment, and his name is . . .’

‘Le Comte Boniface de la Mole!’ said Margot.

‘You knew then, Madame?’

‘As you said, Henriette, we met. He is charming and your Annibale is coarse compared with him. That melancholy of which you speak . . . it is very deep. One feels he must be a poet, a dreamer. One longs to chase away his gloom. His eyes are startlingly blue. He is like a beautiful Greek statue. Already I think of him as my Hyacinth.’

‘If you will but attend our supper party, Madame, you will make your Hyacinth very happy.’

‘I will consider it.’

‘He intends to go to Cosmo Ruggieri this very afternoon to ask, first for some charm which will make you decide to attend the party, and then for another which will make you regard him favourably.’

‘But this is insolence!’ cried Margot delightedly.

‘You must forgive him, Madame. He is so much in love. And when a man cannot eat or sleep, Your Majesty must understand that he cannot go on like that.’

‘These are the tales they tell us, Henriette.’

‘But, Madame, this is true. Annibale swears it. La Mole has seen you often. He never misses a chance of seeing you. But he loved from afar . . . and then . . . when you spoke to him . . .’

‘Henriette, this afternoon, we will go to Ruggieri, and we will make him hide us, so that we may look at this young man and hear what he says.’

The two frivolous young women could not stop laughing-Margot embraced her dear friend, Henriette. Margot was delighted by the prospect of a love affair which she was sure would be one of the most charming she had ever experienced. It was just what she needed to keep intact her pride and annoyance with the Duke of Guise.

Heavy cloaks concealing them, Margot and Henriette de Nevers left the Louvre for the house of the Ruggieri brothers.

Margot allowed Henriette to lead the way into the shop, as she felt that she was more likely to be recognized by the apprentice than was Henriette.

The shop was small and dark and it smelt of the perfumes and cosmetics which were sold to any who cared to buy them. The secret business of these sinister brothers was carried on beyond the shop.

The apprentice came forward, bowing, for in spite of their cloaks, it was obvious that these ladies were of the quality.

‘My mistress wishes to see your master,’ said Henriette, at which the young man, nodding gravely, announced that he would carry the news of the ladies’ arrival to his master. In a few moments he returned with Cosmo Ruggieri.

Margot threw back her cloak and Cosmo said at once,: ‘Please come this way.’

When the two young women were with him on the other side of that door which led from the shop, he locked it, and asked them to follow him, which they did. He led the way up a staircase and unlocking a door in a corridor ushered them into a small room, the walls of which were hung with tapestry of a not very elaborate kind.

‘What can I do for Your Majesty?’ asked Cosmo.

The two of them were laughing so much that they could scarcely tell him. At length Margot said: ‘There is a young Count coming here this afternoon to ask you for a charm. He is in love, and we want to overhear what he says to you. You can put us somewhere where we can look on without being seen. I know you often hide my mother here. I know there are numerous secret hiding-places and holes in the wall through which it is possible to watch what goes on in some of your chambers. You must take this young man to a room which is fitted with one of these secret places, and the Duchess and I will look on. If you refuse I shall know that you do not wish to please me.’

As Cosmo certainly did wish to please the young Queen of Navarre, who was too important a person to be flouted, he smiled deprecatingly and said: ‘It is possible, if you two young ladies do not mind waiting in rather cramped quarters, perhaps for some time, as I shall have to secrete you in your hiding-place before the gentleman arrives.’

‘Conduct us to the hiding-place at once,’ said Margot.

Cosmo bowed and led them along a corridor and up a short staircase to a small apartment. As they entered this room, Henriette gripped Margot’s arm and Margot smiled at her scornfully, noting her superstitious fear. Margot herself was merely enchanted with what lay before them.

They were in the laboratory of the Ruggieri brothers. Its walls were panelled and strewn about the room were strange and gruesome objects,. On one bench lay a human skeleton from which Henriette found it difficult to take her eyes. The signs of the Zodiac adorned the ceiling; and on the wooden panels were carefully drawn cabalistic signs. A huge murky mirror hung on one wall and the two young women saw their reflections, grey and ghostlike beneath two human skulls which seemed to be hanging from the ceiling. Over a fire a cauldron was steaming and the smoke swirled about the room, so it appeared to Margot and Henriette, in fantastic shapes. On a large table were pictures of the stars and the planets, a balance, strange instruments, wax figures, several jars in which could be seen the bodies of small animals, or parts of their bodies, in various stages of decomposition. The light from two oil lamps which were fixed on brackets in the wall did not succeed in lighting the corners of the room, so that it seemed to extend farther than their eyes could see. The scented oil in the lamps fought, not quite successfully, with the unpleasantly odorous objects in the room.

Cosmo opened a door in the wall which had been so cleverly made that it had not appeared to be a door at all.

‘You may wait in there,’ he said. ‘I will show you the shutter which will enable you to see and hear what is said in this room.’

They stepped into the cupboard and he shut the door on them. He touched one of the panels to open the shutter. Henriette was giggling with excited pleasure; and she and Margot whispered together during the twenty minutes they had to wait for the arrival of La Mole.

Cosmo had meanwhile sought out his brother Lorenzo.

‘The Queen of Navarre and the Duchess of Nevers are here,’ he said. ‘They are waiting in the cupboard in the small laboratory for a young man, who I gather is a lover of the Queen’s. It may be just another of her love affairs, but the Queen Mother will expect to be informed. As soon as the interview is over, I will go to the Louvre and tell her all that has taken place.’

Cosmo was smiling as he brought Boniface de la Mole into his laboratory. Margot watched him with delight. He was more handsome than she remembered; and how elegant he looked against the gruesome background of the alchemist’s workshop.

Cosmo said: ‘You wish to consult me about the future, Monsieur?’

‘I wish you to work some magic for me,’ said the Count.

‘Ah! First I must know your name.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘It is indeed, Monsieur. We are secluded here within four walls, and you will be telling none who would bring it against you that you dabbled in magic for the sake of love. It is for love, Monsieur?’

‘It is for love,’ said the young man mournfully.

‘Do not be so sad. I have no doubt that we shall be able to ensure your success. Your name, Monsieur?’

‘Comte Boniface de la Mole.’

‘And the name of the lady whom you wish to influence?’ ‘That I cannot tell you.’

‘Very well, sir. We will see what can be done without her name. Your wishes?’

‘I wish you to use your magic to ensure that I see her tonight. There is some entertainment at which I wish her to be present.’

Cosmo stirred what was in the cauldron and, looking into the rising smoke, said: ‘You will see her tonight. She will be at the entertainment.’

The Comte’s melancholy lifted. ‘That is wonderful. That is delightful.’ But he was soon sad again. ‘She is of high rank. She will never look my way.’

‘You give up too easily, Monsieur. There are ways of touching the heart of the hardest female.’

‘You mean? . . .’

‘Let us make an image of your loved one. You may pierce her heart, and then I think you may be sure of success.’

‘I beg of you to make this image quickly.’

‘It is easily done, Monsieur le Comte. Pray be seated.’ Cosmo took a piece of wax, melted it in a pot he kept for this purpose, and moulded it into a human shape.

‘Now, Monsieur le Comte, that is not really like your lady, is it? May we add some distinguishing feature? We must be sure that you pierce the heart of the right woman. Tell me, how shall I distinguish her from other ladies?’

‘There is no one so beautiful.’

‘Beauty is not sufficient, I am afraid. In the eyes of the lover the one he loves is always the most beautiful in the world.’

‘But there is no mistaking this lady’s beauty. She is . .

‘Words seem to elude you, Monsieur. Perhaps I could distinguish her by some garment. . . some ornament. Look. I will put a royal cloak about her. I will put a crown on her head.’

‘Monsieur,’ cried the Count, ‘you are truly a man of magic.’

Cosmo laughed whilst he moulded the cloak and crown.

‘Now we have our lady. I will take this pin.’ Cosmo took the pin and gripping it in a pair of tweezers, thrust it into the fire. ‘It will take very little time to become red hot. Now. Yes, it is ready. Take it, thrust it into the lady’s heart and whisper your wish to yourself.’

La Mole took the pin and thrust it into the waxen figure. ‘There, Monsieur. That is all. Keep the figure. While you have it with you, the pin safe in its heart, you cannot fail.’

La Mole wrapped the figure in a silk kerchief and slipped it reverently inside his jacket.

‘I am deeply indebted to you,’ he said.

‘Then let us go to my sitting-room and discuss payment,’ said Cosmo. ‘I am a poor man and cannot give my skill for nothing.’

Five minutes later Henriette, led by Margot, slipped into the street; and shortly after that Cosmo went to the Louvre and asked for an audience with the Queen Mother. It appeared to be a matter of little importance, he told her when he was alone with her, but as she liked to be informed of what went on about her, he had thought it wise to let her know who had come to his house this day. The Comte de la Mole was deeply enamoured of Queen Margot and had been given a waxen image of her which he had pierced to the heart.

‘Another lover,’ said Catherine with a spurt of laughter. ‘Jesus! That daughter of mine astonishes even me. And Boni-face de la Mole! He is, I believe, a gentleman of the Duke of Alençon’s suite. Thank you, Cosmo. A matter of slight importance doubtless, but you are right to assume that these gallant little matters amuse me.’

Margot was happy. She was in love. The supper party had been a great success, and had been the forerunner of many meetings. She was kept fully occupied; there were so many clandestine meetings to be arranged, so many love letters to be written.

Catherine was less contented. The King continued to live and she was uncertain what to do. It was very unfortunate that Henry should be in Poland; when she thought of that, her anger against Charles, who had insisted on his going, was so great that she felt inclined to diverge from her habitual caution. But that even was difficult while Charles was surrounded by his three meek guardians.

Charlotte de Sauves had not had the great success which Catherine had expected in the Navarre-Alençon affair. The little Duke was enamoured of the woman, as. Catherine had guessed he would be, but the ultimate desired effect had not been realized. Though the two men were both attracted by the same woman, their friendship seemed to remain unimpaired. It might be that there was something in progress, something so vital that it could not be touched by jealousy concerning a love affair.

Guise had been right to be suspicious of Navarre. There were two sides to the latter’s nature. One showed a pleasure-loving young man, lazy and amorous; but there was the other side to be considered. Was it ambition that secretly fermented behind those shrewd eyes? His love affairs were light-hearted. He cared deeply for no one and he had no religion. Catherine fancied that she saw some of her own characteristics in the King of Navarre, and that made him seem formidable. For what did he hope? After Henry and Alençon—if they had no children—Navarre would certainly be King of France. Could even a lazy provincial be indifferent to such a prospect? Was it likely that a son of Jeanne of Navarre could be nothing more than a pleasure-loving fool? What did he plot with Alençon? It was safe to assume that Alençon was up to mischief, for mischief was as necessary to a man of his nature as women were to one of Navarre’s. Catherine was certainly uneasy on account of this friendship.

Margot fortunately was fully occupied with La Mole. Catherine felt that she understood her daughter: give her a lover and she was content. Margot was clever, perhaps the cleverest member of the family; and she could learn quickly; she was sharp-witted, but her sensuality betrayed her with its incessant demands, and she misused her ability by scheming and intriguing with her numerous lovers. Margot was a little wanton—as shameless now with La Mole as she had been with Guise. She exercised no restraint. She should have made some attempt to keep this new love affair secret. Those notes she sent to her lover were very revealing, as everything Margot wrote seemed to be. Margot ought to know by now that her mother liked to see all notes which passed between people of the court, even if they were only the outpourings of lovers.

Catherine had her spies in Alençon’s suite; she had her spies among Margot’s women. She had, as a matter of routine, read all the notes which had passed between them ever since Ruggieri had told her of La Mole’s infatuation for her daughter.

One of her women who had been a mistress of Alençon’s, and was now—since Alençon’s growing infatuation for Madame de Sauves—courting one of Alençon’s men who took messages from La Mole to Margot, came to her and asked if she might have audience with the Queen Mother.

Catherine granted it and when they were alone, the woman put several letters into Catherine’s hands.

‘More letters!’ said Catherine. ‘Our melancholy Hyacinth is as enamoured of his pen as of our daughter.’

‘Madame, my friend was given some of these letters by Monsieur de la Mole and some by Monsieur de Coconnas. There is one for the Queen of Navarre from La Mole, and one for Madame de Nevers from Coconnas. The others are to be taken to people outside Paris.’

‘What! Have our young gallants involved themselves in other love affairs! It will go ill with them when our two young ladies discover their infidelities. I will look through them and return them to you, resealed, in a very short time. You may go now. Let nothing, however seemingly trivial, be allowed to pass without my scrutiny.’

‘Everything shall be brought to Your Majesty.’

Left alone Catherine started on the letters. It was a pleasant pastime—reading letters which were intended for other people. Here was a letter from La Mole to Margot, professing undying devotion and hope for the future. She was to meet him this afternoon at a house on the corner of the Rue de la Vannerie and the Rue Monton. He was all impatience. And here was another letter. This was for Madame de Nevers from Coconnas, expressing his undying devotion, his adoration, his hope for the future; he begged Madame de Nevers to remember that she was meeting him at a house on the corner of Rue de la Vannerie and the Rue Monton this afternoon . . .

Catherine laughed. Ah well, let the foolish creatures frivol their time away. It kept them from meddling in state affairs.

And now for the letters which were to be taken out of Paris. These too were in the handwriting of La Mole and Coconnas. Catherine broke the seals and read, and as she did so, a cold fury took possession of her. She had been foolish; she had read their stupid love letters when letters such as these must have been passing out of the palace without her knowledge. It was clearly due to a little carelessness on the part of the lovers that these letters had fallen into het hands. How long had they been deceiving her? These were not the outpourings of lovesick suitors, but the clear, concise phrases of conspirators; and they were not addressed to foolish young women, but to none other than the Marshals Montgomery and Cossé.

She read on, and although her expression did not change, there was murder in her mind. This was treason. This explained that friendship between Alençon and Navarre which Charlotte could not break. Those two were together in this. They were plotting—those two whom she had kept in semi-captivity—to escape, to join Montgomery and Coss& and to get together a Huguenot army to march on Paris.

Conceited Alençon no doubt thought that his brother could not live long and, with Henry away in Poland, here was his chance to seize the throne. Navarre doubtless was prepared to play a waiting game and meanwhile ally himself with Alençon.

Catherine’s anger cooled. This was great good luck. How grateful she was to her dear Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri, who had aroused her interest in the lover of her daughter!

Margot and Henriette, wrapped in their cloaks, slipped out of the Louvre to the house at the corner of the Rue de la Vannerie and the Rue Monton. They took off their masks as soon as the concierge let them in.

‘The gentlemen have arrived?’ demanded Margot of the woman.

‘No, Madame. They are not yet here.’

They went upstairs to a room in which a table was laid for four; on this were the choicest delicacies, and the best wines that France could offer. A banquet fit for a Queen and her friends. Margot looked at the table with pleasure, but she was uneasy.

‘There is no message to explain why they have been delayed?’ she asked of the woman.

‘No, Madame.’

When Margot had dismissed her, Henriette said: ‘Margot, you don’t think they have ceased to love us!’

‘If they had,’ said Margot, ‘they would have been very early. They would have been most chivalrous, most eager to assure us of their fidelity.’

‘They were most eager to assure us of that last time we met.’

‘I cannot believe my Hyacinth could deceive me. Something has happened to detain them . . . nothing more.’

‘Your brother would not detain them. He knows they come to meet us, and he is most friendly to you and eager to please you.’

‘It may have been some other small matter. Come, drink a cup of wine, and you will feel better.’ Margot poured out the wine and handed it to Henriette.

‘I shall be most piqued when they do come,’ said Henriette. ‘Margot, you do not think, do you, that it is your husband who may have detained them?’

‘Why should he?’

‘Jealousy.’

‘He does not know the meaning of jealousy. “Do not stand in the way of my pleasure,” he says, “and I will not stand in the way of yours!” ‘ She turned to her friend. ‘Perhaps the Duke of Nevers . . .’

‘But he would have stopped only Annibale. That does not excuse La Mole. They are both late. Could it be Monsieur de Guise?’

Margot was pleasurably excited at the possibility of her former lover’s jealousy. She dismissed such thoughts hastily. Must it always be so? Must she always wonder how her actions were going to affect that man!

‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘That is finished. Listen. Someone is coming up the stairs.’

‘They are very quiet, Margot.’

‘Hush! They creep in order to surprise us.’

There was a tap on the door.

‘Enter!’ said Margot; and to her intense disappointment and also that of Henriette, it was the concierge who entered, not their lovers.

‘Madame, there is a lady downstairs who says she must speak with you at once. Shall I allow her to come up? She says it is of the utmost importance. She has news for you.’

‘Send her up at once,’ said Margot; and in a few seconds one of her attendants came into the room. The woman’s face was pale and it was obvious from her expression that the news which she brought was not good.

She knelt before Margot and cried: ‘Madame, I regret to be the bearer of such news. The Comte de la Mole and the Comte de Coconnas cannot come to you.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Margot. ‘Why have they sent you instead?’

‘They are prisoners, Madame. They are already in the dungeons of Vincennes, whither the Duke of Alençon and the King of Navarre have also been sent. It is said that the Marshals Montgomery and Cossé have been arrested. There is said to have been a plot which the King discovered.’

Henriette fell on to a couch, covering her face with her hands. Margot stared blankly before her. Why, why could they not leave their foolish plots; why could they not be content with love?

Margot lost no time in driving to Vincennes. She knew that she would not be allowed to visit her lover in the dungeons below the castle, but it would be a simple matter to have a word with her husband, who was lodged in apartments there.

Navarre was nonchalant.

‘What could have possessed you to be so foolish?’ she demanded.

‘My dearest wife, it was not I who was foolish. It was those lovesick idiots of yours and Henriette de Nevers. It was through their carelessness that notes, not intended for her, reached your mother’s hands.’

‘Do you think you can escape punishment this time?’ ‘That question gives me cause for reflection.’

‘What a fool you were to attempt escape a second time!’ ‘There might have been no need for a second time but for your interference. Your brother and I might be free men now but for you.’

‘You are so irresponsible, both of you. You have involved these two men in your schemes, and they will be the ones to suffer for your misdeeds.’

‘Dear Margot!’ he said. ‘Always so solicitous on behalf of your lovers! You make me wish that I were one of them myself.’

‘Do not let us waste time. What can we do?’

He shrugged his shoulders and she stormed at him. ‘Do not stand there smiling as if this was of no account. Other people have been led into danger.’

‘Say “La Mole”, not “other people”. It is so much more friendly . . . and is after all what you mean.’

‘You must admit that you and my brother are responsible for this.’

‘It is not entirely true, my dear. There was a letter in La Mole’s handwriting: there was also one in that of Coconnas. These letters show these two men to be deeply involved and quite knowledgeable as to what we planned should take place.’

‘You must save them,’ said Margot.

‘You may be sure I shall do what is possible.’

‘We must deny there was a plot. That is possible, is it not?’

‘We can always deny,’ said Navarre. ‘Even when confronted with proof, we can deny.’

‘I do not think you care for your own life or for any one else’s.’

‘It may be that it is better to die young than to grow old. I often wonder.’

‘You madden me. Listen to me. I am going to draw up a document which I shall present to the Commissioners if there is any sign of your being brought up for questioning.’

‘You . . . write my defence!’

Why not? I am your wife. I am also a writer of some ability. I swear that I can present your case with such sympathy and understanding that I will make those who believe you to be guilty believe in your innocence.’

He smiled at her. ‘Why, Margot, I think there may be something in this. You are a clever little chronicler. When I read your accounts of what happens here at court I find myself believing you to be a poor, innocent, misjudged and virtuous woman. And that in spite of all that I know! Yes, if you can tell such pretty stories about yourself, why not about me? Come, draw up this document. I put myself in your hands. I will say what you advise.’

One of the guards was knocking at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Margot.

‘The Queen Mother is coming this way,’ she was told.

‘She shall not find me here,’ said Margot. ‘But remember what I say. Confess nothing. It is imperative that you remember that although you and my brother may escape punishment, those two poor men, whose services you have so carelessly used, may not.’

‘My love,’ said Navarre, kissing her hand, ‘you may trust me to remember.’

Now that Catherine had decided how she should deal with the further rebellion of her son and son-in-law, she lost no time in putting her plan into action. She did not intend that this plot should be generally known. There must, she knew, be a certain leakage, but she was going to do all in her power to make it as small as possible.

Montgomery and Cossé were under arrest and could do no more damage for the moment. She was thinking that it might be a good idea to ensure that they never did again. They could be murdered while they were in jail. Not yet, of course. It would be necessary to employ great caution with such well-known men. She would have the news that they were ill circulated, and later on it could be said that they had died of their illness.

She did not wish the Huguenots to know how nearly the plan of their leaders had succeeded. She did not wish them to know that Alençon and Navarre considered themselves as Huguenot leaders. They had been represented as having changed their faith, and she wished the Protestant population of France to continue to regard them with contempt. Therefore the plot must be kept secret as long as possible.

But it must not be taken for granted that men could enter into treachery against the King and the Queen Mother, and, escape merely because it was not wise to let the country know of their plots. She would make an example; and she had the scapegoats in mind. They were La Mole and Coconnas. Those in the immediate entourage of Alençon and Navarre would know why disaster had overtaken these two men. But the outside world must think that it was for some other reason.

What wisdom there was in obtaining information regarding every little detail! For how could one be sure that the little thing, which seemed so trivial, might not supply the key for which one was looking?

When she had ordered the arrest of La Mole and Coconnas, she had said to her guards: ‘Arrest these two men. On the person of the Comte de la Mole you will find a small wax figure. This wax figure will be wearing a cloak which, it will be apparent, is a royal cloak; and there will be a crown on that figure’s head. If this figure is not on the person of La Mole, then search his lodgings until you find it:

The figure had been found on the person of the amorous Count, and now, wrapped in a silk kerchief, it was in Catherine’s possession.

When it was brought to her she lost no time in going to the King.

Charles was failing more than ever, and each day showed a difference in him. He could not walk now, but had to be carried in a litter. Every time she saw him, she thought: shall I send a message to Poland? If only she could have been sure of dealing with him as she had long desired to do, she could have sent that message to Poland long ago. But the King kept those three women at his side and would not allow them to leave him, even if they would. Either Marie Touchet, the Queen, or Madeleine was always with him Nothing touched his lips unless one of them had superintended its preparation. What a terrible position for a great Queen to be in—the mother of the King, and to be treated so by these insignificant women!

The little wax figure gave her just what she needed; it justified her in what she was about to do. It would put into her hands the lives of those two men who she had decided should die, and it would explain to the Touchet and that stupid old nurse as well as to Charles’ wife, why the King’s health had declined so rapidly.

‘I must speak to you, my son. It is of the utmost importance.’

She looked at Marie, who quailed before her; but Charles clung to his mistress’ hand.

‘You are not to go, Marie,’ he said.

Catherine gave the trembling girl her cold smile.

‘No, you must not go, Marie, for you love my son even as I do myself, and for that reason I love you too. And you will be needed at hand to comfort him, to assure him of our love when I tell him of this wicked plot against his life.’

‘What plot is this?’ asked the King suspiciously.

For answer she took out the silk kerchief and, unfolding it, held out its contents to the King.

‘A wax figure!’ said Marie.

‘Do you see whom it represents?’ asked Catherine. ‘It wears a crown,’ cried the King. ‘It is myself!’

‘You are right. And you see this pin which pierces the figure’s heart? You know what that means, my son. You know why, during these last weeks, your state of health has declined so rapidly.’

‘It is magic!’ said the King. ‘Someone has been trying to kill me.’

‘You have not always trusted your mother,’ said Catherine. ‘Your enemies have whispered about her and it has pleased you to believe them. Well, Charles, I forgive you. I only ask you to remember that it is your mother who, through her zealous efforts on your behalf, has discovered this plot against you.’

His lips began to tremble and the tears ran down his cheeks; soon he was sobbing in Marie’s arms.

‘Take courage, my dear lord, my darling,’ whispered Marie. ‘Her Majesty has discovered this plot, and doubtless she will also have discovered its perpetrators.’

‘You speak truth there, Marie. I have the wicked men under arrest,’ said Catherine.

‘Who are they?’ asked Charles.

‘The Comte de la Mole and the Comte de Coconnas. ‘They shall die,’ said Charles.

‘Assuredly they shall,’ promised Catherine. ‘This is treason. We will bring them to trial for conspiring against your life. Though there is little need of a trial. These men are guilty. This image was found on the person of La Mole when he was arrested.’

‘They shall all die,’ agreed Charles. ‘All . . . all concerned with this wicked plot against me.’

Catherine watched him; he was too weak for, violence nowadays. He slumped in his chair like an old man, his lips twitching, the mad light in his eyes and the tears running down his cheeks.

She left Marie to comfort him and went immediately to Vincennes. There she had Alençon brought into Navarre’s apartments and the rooms cleared of all guards and attendants. She faced the two of them, smiling coldly.

‘So, Messieurs, your further infamy has been uncovered. Here is a pretty state of affairs. What do you plan? A civil war? You are mad, You pretend to be friends, do you not? My son, why does Henry of Navarre assist you, do you think? Why does Alençon work with you, son-in-law? What a pair of featherbrained fools you are! Now to business. You should be wiser than to enter into such fruitless plotting, such absurd folly. Now I wish you to tell me that, if any has said you were involved in such a plot, they have lied. You two were unaware of any plot, were you not?’

Alençon could not understand her. He began to shout. ‘There was a plot! I am kept in semi-captivity. Do you think I will endure that? I am the brother of the King and I am treated as a nobody. I will not endure it, I swear. I will not have it. I am determined to take my due. One day I may be King of this realm; then, Madame, you shall see . . . you shall see . . .’

‘As ever,’ interrupted Catherine, ‘thoughtless, speaking without care. So you will be King of France, will you, my son? Make sure first that your brothers—your two brothers—do not see that you pay the penalty of treason.’

She turned to Navarre. That insolent young man was more likely to see reason; already she noticed the shrewd look on his face. He had grasped her intentions. Here is a way out of trouble, said Navarre’s twinkling eyes; let us seize it!

‘False reports have been circulated about you,’ said Catherine.

Navarre bowed. ‘Yes, Madame. False reports have been circulated about us.’

‘I see that you at least are not without sense, Monsieur,’ said Catherine, ‘and for that I am thankful. I have with me a document, and I wish you both to put your names to it. It disavows your connexion with any plot, if plot there was. You will sign it here. Come, my son, you also.’

Navarre took the document and studied it.

‘We should sign,’ he said to Alençon at length, ‘for if a plot fails, the wiser course is to disown it.’

Margot was suffering acute anxiety.

The realization of what was happening had been the more terrible because it had come upon her suddenly. The rumours of the plot which Alençon and Navarre had made against the crown had spread too much to be ignored, and there had had to be an inquiry. Navarre had come out of this with ease, thanks to the clever defence which his wife had prepared for him. All Margot’s frivolity could be banished on occasions, disclosing the bright intelligence which it obscured. But for her intense preoccupation with her lovers, she would have made as shrewd a statesman as most at court. But always she was governed by her emotions; and when she had penned that most lucid document—she was always most clever when her pen was in her hands—she had done so, not for love of her husband, whom she knew her mother would not at this time wish to see out of the way, but of the handsome Count with whom she was in love.

Navarre and Alençon had been cleared, but were still kept in semi-confinement. Margot had therefore expected the immediate release of her lover.

But this had not happened; and to her horror she had learned that La Mole and Coconnas were to be tried on another charge. What other charge, Margot could not imagine; but she was very quickly to discover, for the whole court was soon ringing with the news. La Mole and Coconnas were accused of conspiring against the life of the King.

They were tried and condemned to death. They had, it was declared, made a waxen image of him which they had pierced to the heart with a red-hot pin; and all knew that this meant that they had employed the Devil’s aid to bring about Charles’ death. This was treason of the worst kind.

It had been impossible to keep the maker of the image out of the case, and Cosmo Ruggieri, primed by Catherine, when arrested admitted that he had made the image for La Mole and Coconnas. He said that it was an image of the King.

‘They came to me,’ he said, ‘and begged me to make an image of a royal person.’

‘And you guessed who this royal person was intended to be?’

Cosmo bowed assent.

‘Did you ask for what purpose the image was made?’ asked his judges.

Cosmo said that he had not asked.

‘You must have guessed that it was for some evil purpose since you supplied also the pins with which to pierce the heart.’

La Mole and Coconnas swore that the image did not represent the King, but a lady of whom the former had become enamoured.

‘A lady in royal cloak and crown! Come, sir, you must think that we are a little foolish. It is clearly an effigy of His Majesty.’

‘It is the image of the lady whom I love, and whom I wished to win,’ insisted La Mole.

‘The name of the lady?’

Catherine had been right when she had guessed it would be safe for such a question to be asked. La Mole, with his ideas of chivalry and gallantry, would never allow scandal to touch his mistress.

He sighed and said it was a lady whom he had met when he was travelling in another country.

‘What country? And the name of the lady . . . this royal lady?’

But he would not mention her name. He was stubborn and said his judges—as Catherine had known they would—his inability to answer betrayed his guilt. He was, therefore, with his accomplice Coconnas, sentenced to be taken from his prison to the Place de Greve, there to die the traitor’s death of decapitation; while for his part in the affair Cosmo Ruggieri was condemned to the galleys for life.

Margot appealed to the King. She flung herself on her knees before him.

‘Sire, I beg of you to listen to me. The Comte de la Mole is being wrongly accused. I can tell you all you wish to know about that image. Oh, Sire, dearest brother, it was not meant to be of you, but of myself.’

The King was in the throes of that hysteria which always resulted from fear of assassination. He did not trust his sister. He knew that La Mole had been her lover; and he knew that previously she had worked for Henry of Guise against himself. Now he believed that her only thought was to save her lover, and that she cared not how many lies she told in order to do so.

He demanded that she leave him before he put her under arrest. He shouted that he did not trust her.

In desperation, Margot went to her mother. ‘You know the truth of this. You must. You must help me.’

Catherine smiled sadly. ‘If I could help you, my daughter, I would do so. But you know how deeply enamoured you become of certain men. You do not see in them any villainy while you desire their persons. It was thus with Monsieur de Guise. Do you remember?’ Catherine laughed. ‘Well, so it is with Monsieur de la Mole. You do not consider the important fact that these men are traitors, for all that matters to you is that their beauty pleases you.’

‘La Mole is not a traitor.’

‘What! Is not a man a traitor who conspires against the life of his King?’

‘He did not. The waxen image was of me. I swear it. Como Ruggieri knew it was of me. Why did he lie?’ Margot looked at her mother with terrible suspicion. She said softly: ‘He is a great favourite of yours, this Ruggieri. It was a stupid pretence, that trial. You allowed Ruggieri to be sentenced, yet you assured him that he would never see the galleys as a slave. You have had him pardoned; you have sent him back to his brother to work for you. You could save those two men as you saved the liar Ruggieri.’

‘If I could be convinced of their innocence . . .’

‘Do not pretend to me! You know they are innocent! Involved in a plot with my husband and brother they may have been. But they are my brother’s men. How could they help being involved if they were chosen to obey certain orders? But you know that they are innocent of this other charge of conspiring against the life of the King.’

‘They did not seem so at their trial, alas! La Mole said the image was of a lady, and he would not give her name. That was a little stupid of him.’

‘He is a chivalrous fool! As if I cared whether he mentioned my name! What is my reputation compared with his life!’

‘You shock me, daughter. Your reputation as Daughter of France and Queen of Navarre is of the utmost importance. Moreover, you should choose less chivalrous lovers.’

‘It is true then that you know the image was of myself?’

Catherine lifted her shoulders. ‘We must abide by the judges’ verdict, my dear.’

When Margot had gone, Catherine summoned Madalenna.

‘See that the Queen of Navarre is closely watched,’ she told Madalenna. ‘See that all her letters are brought to me . . . without fail . . . let nothing pass. See that all her actions are reported the instant they occur.’

Margot took Henriette to her ruelle and there they wept together.

‘But it is no use weeping, Henriette,’ cried Margot. ‘We must do something. I will not stand by and let this terrible thing happen to our darlings.’

‘But, Margot, what can we do?’

‘I have thought of something we might try.’

‘Margot! What is this?’

‘You know how we ride about unchallenged. The guards never look into my coach when they recognize the royal arms it bears. Henriette, I believe we could do this. We will dress ourselves in two gowns and two cloaks apiece; and masked, we will ride in my coach to Vincennes.’

‘Yes?’ cried Henriette. ‘Yes?’

‘I will first of all make sure that I can bribe the jailers.’ Margot’s eyes began to sparkle in spite of her tears. This was an adventure such as she loved. ‘That should not be difficult. I think I can do it. And then we shall visit our lovers. You shall go to the dungeon of Annibale and I to that of Boniface. When we are there we will, with all speed, take off our top cloaks and one of our dresses. La Mole shall get into mine and Coconnas into yours.’

Henriette said: ‘They will not fit very well.’

‘We will find the most voluminous in our wardrobes. We have something suitable, I am sure. They shall put the cloaks right over their heads; and they shall wear the masks which we shall take for them. And then quickly, and with the utmost assurance, we shall simply walk out of the dungeons, out of the castle, to the coach. It should be easy because it will be thought that the men are women we have taken with us. We will all ride away . . . out of Paris . . . and we shall be gone before they know what has happened. We must make sure of our jailers. The rest will be easy, providing we are calm.’

‘I am eager to begin,’ said Henriette nervously. ‘I cannot wait.’

‘You must curb your impatience. There must be no carelessness. First we have to talk to the jailers. We shall have to offer a large bribe, as it will be necessary for them to escape afterwards.’

‘A bribe?’ said Henriette. ‘How can we come by as much money as will be necessary?’

‘We have our jewels. What are a few diamonds and emeralds compared with the lives of our beloved!’

‘You are right,’ said Henriette.

‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Margot. ‘Yes, we will do it tomorrow; and this: afternoon I will ride to Vincennes in my coach and you will come with me. You will warn Coconnas of our plan while I whisper it to La Mole. It will be a rehearsal for our great adventure. But first I will see the jailers, and if they are the men I think they may be, it will be easy. Henriette, we must succeed tomorrow.’

‘If we do not,’ said Henriette, ‘I shall die of a broken heart.’

Inside the coach which rumbled along the road to Vincennes sat the two young women, tense and nervous. Henriette pulled her cloaks about her and shivered; she felt in the bag she was carrying for the mask which would hide the features of her lover.

Margot also trembled with excitement.

‘If only we succeed!’ murmured Henriette for the sixth time through her chattering teeth.

‘Don’t say “If”, Henriette. We shall. We must. You must look distrait or it will be known as soon as we enter the castle that we are planning something of this sort. All is arranged. The horses stand ready saddled for the jailers. You have your jewels; I have mine. It is quite simple. I do not think this will be the first time men have walked out of their prisons in the dress of women. In less than an hour we shall be on our way.’ Margot talked continually, for she found it stemmed her own nervousness to talk. ‘Now, Henriette, there must be no delay in the dungeon. Immediately the door has closed on you, you must remove your cloak and top dress. It must not take more than a few minutes for you and Coconnas to be ready. We will meet outside the dungeons and walk quickly out of the castle. Oh, do not be foolish! Of course we shall do it. It is so simple.’

The coach had drawn up.

‘Now, Henriette, pull yourself together. Look sad. Remember you are going to see your lover for the last time . . . so they think . . . for tomorrow he is to be executed. Think how you would be feeling if it were not for our plan . . . and look like that. Look at me. Like this . . . you see? I declare I want to laugh aloud when I think how we are going to fool them all. Come, Henriette. Ready? All we need is courage and calm.’

The coachman held open the door for them. His face was grave. He had his orders: two ladies were leaving the coach; four would return, and no sooner were they inside than he was to gallop with all speed to a certain inn where fresh horses were waiting.

It was all carefully planned; and in the service of the Queen of Navarre one was called upon to do strange things.

It seemed very cold within the thick stone walls of the castle. The guards saluted the Queen and her friend with sombre gallantry. They knew of their relationship with the prisoners in the dungeons below, and in their romantic chivalry they shed a tear for the sorrowing ladies. There were many of them who would have been ready to risk punishment in order to allow the beautiful Queen and Duchess to say a last farewell to their condemned lovers. Gallic sympathy for all lovers showed itself in their eyes as they watched the heartbroken and charming ladies.

The door of the cell was opened by a silent jailer, who looked sadly at Margot. How frightened they all are! she thought. All except myself.

And as she stepped into the cell she felt nothing but the joy of the adventure and the sure hope of success; she felt that the suspense and misery of the last weeks were almost worthwhile, since through them she could enjoy this supreme moment, this intense pleasure of offering his life to her lover.

The door shut behind her.

‘My darling,’ whispered Margot. ‘My Hyacinth . . .’

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and she could see what looked like a bundle on the floor.

‘Where are you? Where are you?’ she cried in alarm.

The bundle seemed to stir slightly. She went to it and knelt down.

‘My love . . . my darling . . .’ she muttered; and she drew back the rough blanket. There he lay, his face deathlike, his black curls damp on his forehead.

Margot cried in anguish: ‘What ails you? What has happened?’

In silence he gazed at her.

‘Oh, God!’ she whispered. ‘Blood . . . blood on the floor on the blanket . . . blood everywhere . . . his blood . . .’

With the utmost gentleness she lifted the blanket further; she cried out as she saw those broken bleeding legs and feet.

She understood. They had applied the Torture of the Boot; they had broken his beautiful limbs and he would never walk again. Her magnificent plan to save him had been foiled.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she cried, ‘what can I do? What can I do to help you!’

He was now aware of her, for she saw the faint smile on his lips.

He was murmuring something and she had to bend over him to catch his words. ‘You came . . .’ he said. ‘Dearest . . . that will suffice. It is all. I ask . . . You did not forget . . .’

She put her face against his and he tried to raise a hand to touch her, but the effort brought an agonized groan to his lips and the sweat to his forehead.

‘You must not move,’ she said. ‘Oh, my darling, what can I do? Why did I come too late?’

Again he spoke. ‘You came . . . That . . . is enough.’ The jailer came silently into the cell.

‘Madame, you must go. Oh, Madame, most deeply I regret. The order came, Madame, and there was nothing I could do to prevent its being carried out. There was nothing I could do . . . nothing

She nodded. ‘The order came,’ she repeated; and she seemed to see her mother’s smiling face. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

Henriette was waiting in the corridor; she was holding a kerchief to her eyes.

‘Annibale also?’ murmured Margot.

Henriette nodded.

And together they walked out to the coach. There was no need to act the part of two broken-hearted women who had said a last farewell to their lovers.

Before the Hôtel de Ville in the Place de Greve the crowd had assembled to see the execution of the two men who had conspired against the life of the King. This execution had attracted a good deal of attention because it was said that the two men who were to die had been great lovers—one the lover of no less a person than the Queen of Navarre, the other of another lady of quality, the Duchess of Nevers.

The crowd grumbled. It was the wicked Queen Mother who was responsible. All the ills and sorrows of France came through her. There had been books written about her. Some said she was jealous of her daughter, and that was why she had cruelly tortured Margot’s lover and had decided to destroy him. Nothing too bad could be said about the Queen Mother. At all public ceremonies other emotions gave way to hatred of her.

‘He made a waxen image of the King . .

‘Ah! It is time he was dead, that madman.’

‘Hush! You know not who listens. And what if he dies? Who follows? Our elegant gentleman from Poland? Little Alençon? They are a swarm of vipers.’

The sounds of tumbril wheels were heard and for a while silence descended upon the crowd.

Then someone whispered: ‘They say he has been cruelly tortured. It was the Boot. Both have been tortured . . . La Mole and Coconnas. They cannot walk to their execution.’

‘Poor gentlemen. Poor handsome gentlemen.’

‘How long shall we allow that woman to rule this land?’ But the tumbrils had stopped, and the two men were being carried to the scaffold.

The packed crowd watched; many among it wept openly. It seemed so cruel that these men should die for making a waxen image of one who was all but dead himself. Tortured as they had been, they still bore signs of handsome elegance.

The executioner signed to the men who carried La Mole to set him down on the scaffold.

‘Your time has come, Monsieur,’ he murmured.

‘I am ready,’ said La Mole. ‘Adieu, my darling,’ he whispered.

The executioner placed him where he wished him to be.

‘Have you anything more to say, Monsieur?’

‘Nothing, but that I ask you to commend me to the Queen of Navarre. Tell her, I beg of you, that her name was the last that passed my lips. Oh, Marguerite, my queen . . . my love . . .’

He laid his head on the block and waited for the deft blow of the executioner’s sword.

A deep sigh broke from the watching crowd.

It was the turn of Coconnas. First the brief and terrible silence, then the muttered words, the flash of the sword, and the head of Coconnas lay with that of his friend on the blood-stained straw.

Catherine was triumphant. There was now no doubt that the King was dying. He was no longer strong enough even to be carried about in a litter. He could not leave his bedchamber.

It was May month and the apartment was full of sunshine. Close to the King’s bed, the little Queen sat, pretending she had a cold that she might now and then furtively wipe away the tears which she could not suppress. Madeleine’s face was distorted with grief. Marie Touchet watched, pale and full of sorrow. These women who had guarded him knew that the end could not be far away.

Margot also watched, but Catherine guessed that her thoughts were not on the King. She was still, as Catherine put it to herself, ‘temporarily heartbroken’ over the La Mole affair. What a complex creature Margot was! The document she had recently drawn up in defence of her husband had astonished Catherine. She realized that her daughter was one of the cleverest people at the court. She had the brain of a lawyer, and Monsieur Paré said that had she wished she could have been the best of all his pupils. Her mind was lively, shrewd and cunning; she had the Medici mind; yet she had inherited many traits from her grandfather, Francis the First, and her sensuality was so dominant that it overshadowed other more noble characteristics She spent many hours at her writing desk; she was a dreamer and her imagination was so vivid that she must continually concoct adventures, when they did not occur in fact; and herself, whether in fact or fiction, must always play the heroine. She wrote her memoirs regularly, and these, Catherine knew, were highly coloured versions of what actually happened at the court, with Margot always portrayed as the central figure of romance and intrigue.

Watching her daughter now, she thought of how, after the execution of those young men, Margot had given orders that their heads were to be brought to her; and now she and that frivolous Henriette de Nevers had had the heads embalmed with sweet spices and fitted into extravagantly jewelled caskets, so that they could spend a good deal of time lavishing caresses on them, recalling past pleasures, curling the hair on those dead heads and weeping with bitter enjoyment. No, Margot was certainly not to be unduly feared while her sentimental nature was allowed to override her intelligence.

There was little to fear from Charles now. His son was dead, and his other child, being a girl, was no obstacle to Henry’s coming to the throne. Charles could not last many more hours. Alençon and Navarre were in semi-captivity; Montgomery and Cossé were to be removed at the first opportunity. Why should she delay? She slipped out of the death chamber to her own and sent for six of her most trusted men.

When they stood before her, she said to them: ‘Ride as fast as you can to Poland. The King is dead . . . or so near to death that one may call him so. Long live King Henry the Third!’

She smiled contentedly after they had gone. The great moment for which she had waited so long had arrived. Her darling Henry was about to be King.

But in the royal bedchamber the King was clinging to his life.

He cried weakly in the arms of Madeleine. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘what blood! What murders! Oh, God . . . forgive me. Oh, God, have mercy on my soul. I know not where I am. Marie, Madeleine . . . do not leave me. Do not leave me for an instant. Tell me where I am.’

‘In my arms, my dearest,’ said Madeleine. ‘Safe in my arms:

Marie stood on the other side of the bed, and Charles took her hand.

‘What will become of this country?’ he said; his voice rose to a shriek and died away pitiably. ‘And what will become of me? It was in my hands that God placed the fate of this great country. There is nothing you can say to alter that.’

‘There, my darling, my Charlot,’ soothed Madeleine. ‘May the murders and the bloodshed be upon the heads of those, who compelled you to them. . . on your evil counsellors, Sire.’

Madeleine, looking up, met the cold eyes of Catherine fixed upon her; Catherine’s cold mouth smiled slightly. Charles was aware of his mother’s presence and held out his hand as though to ward her off.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I must trust you to look after my wife and daughter.’

‘Rest assured, my son, that they will be well cared for.’ ‘And Marie . . . and her son . .

‘You have provided for them, Charles. I promise you that no harm shall come to them.’

Catherine smiled on Marie, poor meek Marie. She had caused little trouble except in those last weeks when she, with Madeleine, had stubbornly refused to leave the King’s side. But that was forgotten now, for the King was dying and that was what Catherine was waiting for. It mattered very little whether he had died a few weeks ago or now; his death was all that mattered. Let Marie live in peace, then; she was not of sufficient importance to be considered. Charles had created her son Duke of Angoulême, so Marie—the provincial judge’s daughter—had nothing of which to complain.

‘I will look after your Queen and her little daughter. I will see that Marie and her son are cared for. Have no fear. These matters shall be attended to.’

He looked at her suspiciously and then asked that Navarre should be sent for.

Navarre was brought by guards, who waited for him outside the King’s bedchamber.

‘You plotted against me,’ said the King. ‘That was unkind. Yet I trust you . . . as I cannot trust my brothers. It is because of something plain about you . . . something that smacks of honesty. I am glad you came to say goodbye to me. I sent for you for a reason, but I cannot think what it was. There are enemies all about you. I know. You should be warned. There is one here whom you must not trust. I was warned, but I think the warning came too late for me. Mayhap it will not be too late for you. Do not trust . . .’ He turned his eyes on his mother, and stared at her as though unable to take them away. ‘Do not trust . . he began again. His lips were trembling, and Marie had to bend over him to wipe the foam from his mouth.

‘You tire yourself, my son,’ said Catherine.

‘No, I will say it. I will. It is the truth, and because it is the truth I must say it. Brother . . . Navarre . . . look after my Queen and my daughter. Look after Marie and her child. To you I leave the care of Madeleine. For you are the only one I dare trust. Promise me. Promise me.’

Navarre, whose tears came easily, wept without restraint. He kissed the King’s hand. ‘Sire, I swear. I will defend them with my life.’

‘I thank thee, brother. It is strange that you should be the one I trust . . . you, who have plotted against the crown. But trust you I do. Pray to God for me. Farewell, brother. Farewell.’ He looked at his mother and said: ‘I rejoice that I have no son to leave behind me who would have to wear the crown of France after me.’

He lay back in his bed after that speech; he was overcome by exhaustion.

He has spoken his last, thought Catherine. And now . . . that for which I have longed over so many dangerous and bitter years . . . that for which I have worked, schemed and killed . . . has now come to pass. My mad King Charles is dead, and my adored darling must now prepare to mount the throne.