Queen Jezebel

Four

THE KING OF POLAND WAS EXHAUSTED. He lay back on his cushions while two of his favourite young men fanned him . . . du Guast, the best loved of them all, and that amusing fellow Villequier. Others sat close to his bed; one picking out the best of the sweetmeats; another admiring the set of his jacket in the Venetian mirror which the King had brought with him from France. The King smiled at them all. He was not really dissatisfied with his little kingdom. It was gratifying to be loved as his subjects loved him. He had only to appear in the streets to be surrounded by admirers who deemed it a privilege to look at him, for they had never seen anyone so magnificent as this painted, perfumed King. Sometimes he wore women’s clothes, and in these he looked more fantastic, more like a person apart from other men—which was what, his Polish subjects felt, a King should look like.

He had deteriorated a great deal since he had left France. He had lost even the slight energy he had possessed in his teens; he had become more selfish, more dependent on luxury. Now he feigned exhaustion because there were state duties which should be attended to. He loathed the meetings of his ministers; their councils bored him. He continually assured them that they could hold their gatherings without him. They must understand, he pointed out, that he was of gentle breeding and came from the fair and civilized land of France, from the most intellectual court in the world. He was no barbarian. He must have music to soothe him, not council meetings to plague him; he must listen to the reading of poetry which delighted him, not the harangues of politicians which tired him.

Count Tenczynski, his chief minister, was bowing before him, overcome with delight by the sweet perfumes and the sensuous décor of the King’s apartments, admiring, as all his fellow countrymen did, this air of luxury and civilization which French Henry had brought into their land.

‘And so, my dear Tenczynski,’ said the King, ‘I am weary. You must conduct your politics without me.’ He turned towards the gentleman who was eating sweetmeats. ‘One for me, dear fellow,’ he said. ‘You greedy creature, would you eat them all yourself?’

‘I but tested them, dearest Majesty, to find which was worthy of your palate.’

The sweet was popped into the royal mouth by the gentleman, whose hand was patted affectionately by his master.

Tenczynski murmured: ‘We would not tire your Majesty. If it is Your Majesty’s wish that we should proceed without you .

Henry waved his beautiful white hand. ‘That is my wish, my dear Tenczynski. Go to your council and when it is over come back and we will tell you of the wonderful ball we are giving tomorrow night.’

Tenczynski lifted his shoulders and laughed. ‘A ball . . . tomorrow night?’ he said.

‘A ball, my dear Tenczynski, such as you have never before seen. Now leave me, and when you return for my coucher I shall tell you all about it and what I shall wear.’

‘Your Majesty deserves the grateful appreciation of your subjects,’ said Tenczynski, bowing low.

When he had gone, Henry yawned. He decided to tease his young men by talking of the Princess of Condé.

‘To think I have not set eyes on her fair face for six long months!’

The young men were sullen; but they knew that he was teasing. They were not really distubred; nor was Henry really longing for the Princess. This was just a game they played between them.

‘Don’t sulk,’ said Henry. ‘And another sweetmeat. I am going to write to the Princess tonight.’

‘You tire yourself with writing to the Princess,’ said du Guast.

‘You are mistaken, my friend. I am stimulated by writing to the Princess.’

Villequier pleaded: ‘Leave it until tomorrow, dearest Sire, and talk about your toilette for the ball.’

The King was tempted irresistibly. ‘I shall be in green silk, and I shall be dressed as a woman. My gown will be cut low and I shall wear emeralds and pearls. And now . . . my writing materials, please. You may discuss together what you are going to wear, because I shall be rather cross if you do not surpass yourselves.’

They could see that he was determined to write to the Princess, so they brought the materials for which he asked. He sent for his jewelled stiletto and, when it was brought, he pricked his finger while the young men looked on in sorrow. Then he began to write to the Princess of Condé in his own blood, an affectation which delighted him.

‘When you read this letter, my darling, you must remember that it is written in royal Valois blood, the blood of him who now sits on the throne of Poland. Ah, I would it were that of France! And why? Because of that greater honour? No, my love. Because, were I King of France, you would be beside me.’

While he was writing du Guast entered the chamber; he was excited, but Henry did not look up. He thought the favourite’s jealousy had prompted him to interrupt the letter-writing on some small pretext.

‘Sire,’ said du Guast, ‘there is a messenger without. He brings great news.’

‘A messenger!’ Henry laid aside his love letter. ‘What news?’

‘Great news, Sire. From France.’

‘Bring him in Bring him in.’

When the man was brought in, he went to the King and knelt before him with a great show of reverence. Then, having kissed the delicate hand, he cried aloud: ‘Long live King Henry the Third of France.’

Henry lifted his hand and smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘my brother is dead at last . . . and you come from my mother. Welcome! You have other news for me?

‘None, Sire, except that the Queen Mother urges your return to France without delay.’

The King patted the messenger’s shoulder. ‘My attendants will give you the refreshments you deserve for bringing such news. Take him away. Give him food and drink. See that he is well looked after.’

When they were alone, Henry lay back, his arms behind his head, smiling at his young men.

‘At last!’ cried the impetuous Villequier. ‘That for which we have long hoped and prayed has come to pass.

‘I must return to France at once,’ said the King.

‘This very night!’ cried Villequier.

‘Sire,’ said the more sober du Guast, ‘that will not be necessary. The Poles know that they cannot detain you now. Summon the ministers and tell them what has happened. Make your plans to leave. You will be ready in a day or so. But to go tonight would appear as if you were escaping.’

Henry frowned on du Guast. He had already pictured himself and his companions slipping away, riding hard into France. He smiled on Villequier, for that gentleman’s suggestion pleased him.

‘They will try to detain me,’ he said. ‘You know how they love me. I have told them that there is to be a great ball tomorrow night, and they will not let me go until that is over.’

‘Give them their ball,’ advised du Guast. ‘Let it be a farewell ceremony. Explain to them that, although you remain the King of Poland, it is necessary that you go immediately to France to show yourself to the people and to arrange matters of state for which you, as their King, are responsible.’

‘But, my dear, you know I must live in France from now on. A King of France cannot live in Poland.’

‘They will not know this, Sire. It can be broken to them later on.

‘He is wrong,’ said Villequier, who was impatient to feel the soil of France under his feet. ‘We must leave for France at once . . . tonight. Does not the Queen Mother say so?’

‘I believe you are right, dear Villequier,’ said Henry. ‘Yes. That is what I shall do. Now, my dears, let us make our plans. Have horses saddled ready for us. After the attendants have left for the night, I will rise, hastily dress, and we will not lose a moment. We will gallop off to our beloved France.’

Du Guast said wearily: ‘Such dramatic action is not necessary, sire.’

Henry was peevish. He had grown completely self-indulgent during his reign in Poland. He enjoyed acting strangely and in a completely unexpected manner. He did not care how foolish he was he enjoyed astonishing himself as well as those about him. Du Guast, recognizing the mood, knew that it was useless to remonstrate.

‘I long for the civilization of France!’ cried Henry. ‘The only things I shall regret leaving behind me are the crown jewels of Poland.’

‘But they belong now to Your Majesty,’ said Villequier.

‘Whether you are in France or in Poland, you are still the King of Poland. Take the crown jewels with you, Sire.’

Henry languidly kissed Villequier on either cheek. ‘You have made me very happy, dear friend,’ he said. ‘I could not have borne to part with those jewels.’

They dispersed to make their arrangements, and when the time came for the coucher they were ready for flight.

Tenczynski presided over the ceremony while the Polish nobles stood about smiling with pleasure, as they always did in the presence of the King. Henry lay back in his bed and talked desultorily, for a while.

He yawned. ‘I declare I am tired tonight. I have been so busy all day with the preparations for tomorrow’s ball.’

‘Then,’ said Tenczynski, ‘we will leave Your Majesty to your slumbers.’

Henry closed his eyes, and the curtains about his bed were drawn. All left the bedchamber and there was quiet throughout the palace.

Half an hour later, as they had arranged, his young men, already dressed and booted, came quietly in. They, all assisted in the dressing of the King, and, taking the Polish crown jewels with them, they left the palace, made their way to where the saddled horses were waiting, and rode secretly out of Cracow.

It was exciting to imagine themselves pursued. They rode on with great speed but without much sense of direction, and when they had ridden for some hours, they found themselves on the banks of the Vistula and had no idea how they had reached it, nor which way they should go.

They looked at each other in consternation. It was not part of the King’s exciting plan that they. should be lost. let us ride into the forest,’ said du Guast. ‘We may find a guide.’

This they did, riding hard until they came to a woodcutter’s hut, where Villequier, pointing his dagger at the man’s throat, insisted that he leave his family and guide the party to the frontier. The trembling man had no alternative but to agree, but it was two days and nights before the party reached the frontier. There Tenczynski was waiting for them with three hundred Tartars.

Du Guast could not repress a smile of triumph, for he had at least proved his point that this piece of dramatic play-acting would be useless.

Tenczynski dropped on his knees before the King. ‘I have followed you, Sire,’ he said, ‘to beg you to return to Cracow. Your subjects are plunged into sorrow because you have left them. Return, Sire, and you will find a great welcome waiting for you. Your subjects will be as obedient and loving as they have ever been.’

‘My dear Count,’ said Henry, ‘you must know that I have been recalled to my native land. The French crown is my birthright. Do not think, because I must hasten to France, that I shall not return to Poland . . . the land which I have grown to love. Just let me settle my affairs in France and I will be back.’

‘Sire, in France you will not find subjects as loving and faithful as Poland can offer you.’

‘Dear Tenczynski, you move me deeply. But do not ask me to return with you now. Just a little grace . . . that is all I ask. Do you think I shall be able to stay away from our dear Poland? You must go back to Cracow and take care of matters for me until I see you again. Rest assured, dear Count, that will be sooner than you believe possible.’

With great deliberation, Tenczynski pricked his arm with his dagger and let the blood drop on to a bracelet. ‘Here is my blood, Sire, on this ornament. Take it, I beg of you. It will be a constant reminder that my blood is yours should you need it.’

Henry pulled off one of his diamond rings and gave it to the Count in exchange for the bracelet. ‘Take this in memory of me,’ he said.

‘And may I tell Your Majesty’s subjects that you will soon be back with us, that this is just a short visit to France, Sire?’ ‘You may tell them that,’ said Henry.

Tenczynski wept while the Tartars looked on in bewilderment. Henry and his followers rode on across the frontier.

‘To our beloved France!’ cried the King. ‘Never again to set foot in that land of barbarians.’

But Henry found that, once he had left Poland behind him, he was in no great hurry to reach the land of his birth. Kingship brought many responsibilities which he was not eager to shoulder, and governing France was not going to be such a pleasant matter as pretending to govern Poland had been. He thought irritably of those tiresome Huguenots and fanatical Catholics who were always making trouble; he thought of the domination of his mother, the perversity of his brother, and the slyness of his sister. It was pleasant therefore to linger on the way.

In Vienna there was a great reception for the new King of France. He could not leave in a hurry after such a reception; it would seem so churlish. And beautiful Venice gave him a welcome which made that he had received in Vienna seem quite cool by comparison.

What joy it was to recline in a golden gondola rowed by eight gondoliers in Turkish turbans, while the Venetians looked on at the glittering figure adorned by French and Polish jewels!

He could not tear himself away from Venice. He was deeply susceptible to beauty; and to glide along the Grand Canal, to see the Venetian beauties wave to him from their lighted windows, to be with writers and artists once more, gave him an exquisite pleasure. How had he endured those months in a savage land? He allowed artists to paint his portrait; he wan- dered in the Rialto disguised as an ordinary citizen; he bought Perfumes such as he had not been able to buy since what he called in tragic tones ‘his exile’. He bought numerous jewels.

‘My dears,’ he said to his young men as he perfumed them with his new purchases and hung recently acquired jewels about their necks, ‘is it not wonderful to be once more in a civilized land?’

Urgent dispatches from the Queen Mother began to arrive. She had set out with her entourage and was waiting for him at the frontier. His people were eager, she wrote, to welcome their King.

He grimaced. He was not sure of the welcome he would receive in France. He could not forget those scowling French men and women who had lined the streets in the Flemish towns to shout insults at him and to bespatter him with mud and foul things.

But Catherine’s appeals could not be continuously flouted, and Henry knew that he must say goodbye to the dear people of Venice and push on to the frontier.

When at last Catherine met him she embraced him fervently.

‘My darling, at last!’

‘Mother! I have been unable to sleep these last days and nights in my longing to see you. The exile has been terrible dear Mother, terrible and tragic.’

‘It is over now, my darling. You are home. You are King of France.I do not need to tell you how I have longed for this day.’

She was studying him anxiously. He seemed to have aged six years in a little more than six months. It was so with these sons of hers. Their lives seemed to burn out quickly. They were mature in their teens and old men in their twenties. She was afraid that he would grow sickly as Francis and Charles had done.

She explained to him that she was admiring his healthy looks, for she knew that he could not endure criticism, particularly of his appearance. ‘You look younger than you did when you went away, my darling. You must tell me all about that terrible exile later.’

She had, she said, brought Alençon and Navarre with her. ‘They are kept under close supervision,’ she added. ‘I make them ride with me in my coach, and they always share my lodging. We must watch those two.’

She rode beside him during the state entry into Lyons. This is how it shall be from now on, she decided. I shall always be beside him, and together we shall rule France.

Lyons brought bitter, memories to Catherine. She recalled another entry into this city—oh, long ago!—when she, the Queen of France, had been deeply humiliated by the honour which had been done to the King’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers.

How different was this entry! She was happy now. Her son Henry would never treat her as her husband Henry had done. This was the happiest relationship of her life.

News was brought to Catherine, while the royal party rested at Lyons, that the Princess of Condé had died; Catherine was surprised to find how genuinely grieved she was at the thought of the sorrow this would cause Henry. She kept the news from him for as long as she could.

His way of showing his grief was typical of the King; he used it to increase the jealousy of his favourites. His heart was broken, he declared. Oh, what a cruel fate was this! He had been living only in the hope of reunion with his love. And after all those months of exile, he had lost her!

He shut himself in his rooms; he wore deep mourning—black velvet ornamented with diamonds; and diamonds, he said were not his favourite stones. He needed colour to set off his skin and eyes. ‘You see how I loved her, when I will wear nothing but these sombre garments because of her. Oh, my heart is truly broken.’

Catherine remonstrated. ‘My darling, you must not stay here. You have been away from Paris too long. There is your coronation to be considered. The sooner you are crowned King the better. I insist.’

He was playful. ‘You insist, dear mother. Ah, but I am the master now, am I not?’

And two months were frittered away before she could induce him to proceed, and then he would go no farther than Avignon.

Catherine quickly realized that those happy plans of sharing the throne with her beloved son had little hope of fulfilment. He consulted her less than he used to. She had always known that he was wildly extravagant, but never had he been so extravagant as he was now. He had always enjoyed doing what was unexpected; but previously his tricks had held a grain of humour in them; they seemed now to be all stupidity. She blamed his young men; she would have to break that influence as quickly as she could.

He had formed an attachment to a young woman whom that sly old man, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had called to his notice. The Cardinal was trying to win the confidence of the King, Catherine assumed, so that he might dominate him as he had once dominated poor sickly little Francis. Louise de Vaudemont was a fair-haired young woman who belonged to the Lorraine family.

Henry took a half-hearted interest in the girl at first, for he was, he declared, still broken-hearted by the loss of the Princess of Condé; but after a while it occurred to him that he should have a mistress, and Louise de Vaudemont was as suitable as any. She was already the mistress of Francis of Luxembourg; thus she would not make too many demands on the King; she was therefore very worthy to step into the shoes of Madame de Condé. The Princess had had a husband; Louise had a lover; that was very convenient when love-making wearied a man.

He was not eager to leave Avignon. He wished to postpone his arrival in Paris, for he did not like his capital; he never rode through its streets without being aware of the antagonism of the people. They did not appreciate his beauty, nor that of his gentlemen. He had acquired Louise because he felt that it would please the people of Paris to know that he was sufficiently natural to love a woman. But he did not wish to think of Paris; be became petulant when anyone mentioned the city. ‘Avignon is a charming town,’ he would say. ‘Let us stay here awhile. We shall have plenty of time for Paris.’

He joined the new brotherhood of the Battus. ‘I wish my people to know,’ he said, ‘that I am a serious man, a deeply religious man.’ The Battus was a sect whose members dressed themselves in sacks, and, wearing masks, paraded the streets thrashing each other as they went; their feet and shoulders were bare and they carried lighted tapers and crucifixes as though they were doing a penance. Henry was enthusiastic about the Battus. All his young men must join. It gave one such a sense of spirituality, said the King; and it was heavenly to feel the lash on one’s shoulders. He had death’s heads worked in jewels all over his clothes; he had them worked in silk, even on his shoestrings.

Navarre joined the order. He enjoyed thrashing the King and his favourites, but managed to avoid being beaten himself. ‘Chacun à son goût!’ said the incorrigible Navarre.

The Cardinal of Lorraine also joined the order, for he wished above all things to enjoy the favour and confidence of the King.

Catherine watched their antics in dismay.

It is nothing, she assured herself. He has waited so long. Now his triumph has gone to his head. He will tire of this folly soon, and then he and I will rule together.

Catherine was sitting at dinner when, suddenly and without warning, the knowledge came to her that the Cardinal of Lorraine was dead.

She paused in the act of carrying a goblet to her lips and said calmly: ‘Now we may have some peace, for the Cardinal of Lorraine is dead, and folks say that he was the one who prevented it.’

One of her women said: ‘Madame, I saw the Cardinal but two days ago. It was in a procession of the Battus. He was walking barefoot and his shoulders were uncovered. He was well enough then.’

‘He is dead,’ Catherine persisted. ‘He was a great prelate.’ She smiled slyly. ‘We have suffered a grievous loss.’ She saw Madalenna’s eyes upon her and and she drew the woman closer to her, whispering: ‘Today has died the wickedest of men, the saints be praised!’

At that she dropped her goblet and stared before her. ‘Jesus! she cried. ‘There he is. There is the Cardinal!’

Madalenna’s teeth were chattering. ‘Madame,’ she whispered, ‘we see him not.’

Catherine sat back in her chair. She was calm as she said: ‘It was a vision. I have had such now and then in my life. I doubt not that this day we shall hear of the death of that old man.’

Her women could not forget the incident. They talked together of it in awed whispers. They remembered the occasion on which she had told them of the death of the Prince of Condé at Jarnac and the victory of her son on that field, when, though miles away, she had seemed to see it all pass before her eyes while it was happening.

‘The Queen Mother is not quite human,’ they said. ‘That is what terrifies us all.’

Later that day, when news was brought to Catherine of the Cardinal’s death, she said: ‘You bring no news to me. I saw him as he left this Earth on his way to Paradise.’ And to herself she added: ‘To Hell more likely, if such a place there be.’

That night a heavy storm arose and, as Catherine lay sleepless in her bed, she could not shut out of her mind the memory of that man who had dominated her son, King Francis the Second, and made that boy’s life miserable to him. She remembered so many incidents from the past, the sly, deadly remarks of the man, his lecherous eyes, his shrewd determination to advance his house, the cowardice which had made him wear a suit of mail under his Cardinal’s robes. She remembered how, of all the men in France, he had been her greatest enemy; a wicked man, a man of contrasts, a man of the Church who was ready to pay great rewards to any man or woman who could think of some new method of interesting his erotic tastes, who could cap any quotation from the classics, who excelled at repartee, and the more risqué it was, the more it was to his liking. She thought of how, during the last years, when he must have known that he was approaching death, he had looked at her with a new affection, seeing in her one whom he considered so wicked that beside her he felt innocent. She imagined him, standing before God and saying in that sly clever way of his: ‘Yes, I did that, and I am guilty of that . . . but my Lord God, consider that greater sinner Queen Catherine, and you will see that I am a novice in sin.’ This imaginary scene made her laugh aloud.

But as the storm buffeted the walls of the château, and it was impossible to shut out the sound of the wind and the incessant beating of the rain, a terrible fear gripped her and she thought that the Cardinal stood in her bedchamber. She touched her bracelet and repeated the words of a protective charm which René had taught her; but even when she shut her eyes she could see the long, sly face of the Cardinal with those finely chiselled features which, before depravity had set their mark on them, had been so beautiful; she saw the eyes with the dark bags beneath them; she saw the thin lips moving. And she thought: he wants to take me with him. He wants me to stand before the Judgement Seat beside him. He wants to say, ‘Compare us. Here is the wickedest woman who ever lived. You cannot see her, scarlet with her sins, and think so badly of me!’

It was a ridiculous fantasy; she did not believe in that Judgement. But she could not forget the Cardinal, and it seemed to her that he was there in the shadow of the hangings at the foot of her bed.

At length she could bear the strain no longer and called to her women. They came, surprised.

‘Light candles,’ she said. ‘The Cardinal is here. The lights and your company will drive him back to Hades.’

They stayed with her for the remainder of the night.

At last the King agreed to leave Avignon for Rheims.

‘You must be crowned King of France as soon as possible,’ said Catherine.

One of the greatest days of her life was approaching, she assured herself: the day her darling was to be crowned King of France. She had not time for whimsical fears and she had ceased to think about the Cardinal of Lorraine, although for a few nights after his death she had kept her women about her bed until dawn. That man who had been called Le tigre de. la France, the leech, the bloodsucker, the enemy of God, was soon forgotten; although immediately after his death, tales had been whispered about his passing. The Huguenots declared that the great storm which had burst over them on the night of his death had been stirred up by witches at their Sabbat, so that they might carry his soul away to eternal torment. They said also that he was greatly perturbed while he was dying, and aware of the evil spirits about his bed who were waiting for his soul to be released. The Catholics had a different story to tell. To them the storm represented God’s anger with a country that did not appreciate a good Catholic such as the Cardinal had always been; God had taken him, since his country did not appreciate him. They said that when he had died he had spoken with the tongues of angels, two of whom had stood at the head of his bed and two at the foot to take charge of his soul.

‘It would be interesting to know who finally won the man’s black soul,’ said Catherine cynically, ‘the witches or the angels. But I have no doubt that he will cause a bloody conflict in Heaven or Hell as he has throughout France. Enough of him! Let us leave him to his rest or his torment, for he is gone, and it is with those who remain that we must concern ourselves.’

And so to Rheims, where Henry startled his mother by declaring his intention to marry without delay.

Catherine was horrified. ‘If you wish to marry, my son, we will find a bride worthy of you. But negotiations must take place. First there is your coronation to be taken care of.’

‘I intend to marry two days after my coronation.’

‘That . . . that is impossible.’

‘With me,’ said Henry in his new arrogance, ‘very little is impossible. Certainly not marriage.’

‘Henry, my love, I do not think you understand the dignity of your position. As King of France . . .’

‘As King of France, I, and I alone, will decide whom and when I will marry. Louise is eager to become my Queen and I see no reason for delay.’

‘Louise!’ cried Catherine in horror.

‘We are in love,’ said Henry, patting his curls.

She looked at him in astonishment. What had happened to him during those months he had spent in Poland? She was wondering with dismay whether he was tainted with that madness which had tormented poor Charles.

‘You are the King,’ she protested. ‘You must have a marriage worthy of you.’

‘I must marry and have children, Mother. Why, if I were to die tomorrow, Alençon would mount the throne. Such a calamity must never be allowed to fall upon France.’

‘You must have children, yes . . . but you must also marry in accordance with your rank.’

He took her hand and lightly kissed it. ‘My rank is such,’ he said, ‘that any raised up by me appear exalted. The marriage will take place immediately after the coronation. The people will be pleased.’

Catherine saw the petulant droop of his lips; she knew that he was defying her to attempt to frustrate him. She was unable to arouse fear in him, as she had been able to to do so effortlessly in her other children. She must not despair; she must try to rule by cunning. Why should she not? She had done so successfully before. But how alarming it was to discover this irresponsibility in him, for, in a person of his position, it amounted almost to madness.

The coronation did not go smoothly. He showed his annoyance at the way in which the crown was placed on his head. It hurt him, he said aloud; and he shook his head pettishly so that it almost fell off. He must learn to control his temper in public, thought Catherine. What had those Poles done to him? They had changed him. He must not behave before his French subjects as he obviously had before those barbarians. To the Poles he had been a glittering oddity; to the French he was a ridiculous pervert. Catherine’s fears grew with every manifestation of the strangeness of her son. The people were saying now that the incident regarding the crown was an evil omen. ‘Did you see the way it all but fell off his frivolous head? He’ll not reign long. That was a sign. A sign that need not cause us much concern.’ This was bad; a King should be popular, at least during his coronation. Henry was angered by the sullen ,attitude of the people. The Poles had been so proud of him; what was wrong with the French that they could not also be?

And immediately after the coronation the startled population was informed that he was to marry without delay.

His behaviour now became preposterous and it was obvious that he had become so arrogant, so conceited that he did not care what his people thought of him. He insisted that the Church should waive its customs, and that the wedding should be celebrated at night. ‘For,’ he explained, ‘we need to dress in daylight, and it will take the whole of the day to arrange our jewels and dresses.’

The Church was angry; the people were shocked. He had not only made this sudden decision but he had chosen as a wife a woman who was known to be the mistress of Francis of Luxembourg. The French were already beginning to despise this painted, perfumed King who did not seem to be able to make up his mind whether he was a man or a woman.

He committed a further indiscretion by summoning Francis of Luxembourg to his presence.

‘My cousin,’ he said to this young man, and he said it before so many that the story was carried through Rheims to Paris and circulated throughout France, ‘I am about to marry your mistress. In exchange I give you Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf, who was mine. You shall marry my mistress and I shall marry yours, for that is a very piquant situation, I think, which amuses me and will amuse my people.’

Francis of Luxembourg, completely taken aback by the proposal, bowed low and said: ‘Sire, I am indeed glad that my mistress is destined for such honour and glory. I beg you, however, to dispense with my marrying Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf.’

Henry frowned, ‘Why so? Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf was good enough for me. She is, therefore, good enough for you.’

‘That is so, Sire,’ said the discomfited gentleman, ‘but I would beg time to consider a step which, Your. Majesty will agree, is an important one.’

‘I cannot give you time,’said the arrogant King, ‘I insist that your marriage to Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf takes place at once. I wish there to be two speedy marriages. It is a romantic and saucy situation which pleases me, and will make my people understand the man who is their King.’

Henry was married with great pomp to Louise de Vaudemont, but Francis of Luxembourg was missing from his apartments a few hours after his interview with the King; and later it was discovered that he had fled with all speed to Luxembourg.

Henry shrugged his elegant shoulders; he was too busy with his new clothes and the entertainments he was planning to think very much about his kinsman’s flight. But the people were shaking their heads in disgust and asking themselves what lay ahead for a country with such a King on its throne. ‘Have we finished with one madman, only to set another in his place? They are vipers, these Valois. What can you expect? Remember who their mother is!’

And from coronation and marriage in Rheims came Henry to his capital city, there to indulge in more orgies, more processions of the Battus through the streets.

The Parisians watched the antics of their King with sullen eyes. It seemed to them that nothing but evil could come from the domination of such a man as Henry the Third, who would rule them with the Italian Jezebel at his side.

The King continued his frivolous existence unaware of the storms which were rising all about him. Catherine watched him with apprehension and offered advice which he pretended to act upon and then allowed himself to forget. He had his special young men always about him; the people of Paris had begun to call them his mignons. There were four whom he seemed to favour more than any others: du Guast, Caylus and the Dukes of Joyeuse and Epernon. They scarcely ever left the King’s side; they enjoyed his confidence and shared his pleasures. Catherine often heard them laughing together as they planned some ludicrous amusement or discussed the new styles in clothes and jewels or told each other of the antics of their lap-dogs.

All over Paris the people were becoming restive. Two cold summers in succession had caused a famine in wheat. The Huguenots, as ready with their assurances that God was on their side as the Catholics were that He was on theirs, declared this to be a result of the massacre. One ill which could, without doubt, be attributed to the massacre was the plague of wolves which harassed the countryside; they had been attracted by so much carnage and looked for more. The Huguenots had been clever and industrious merchants and France was missing the prosperity they had created. Epidemics were raging through the land; lepers roamed the countryside, spreading their terrible afflictions; and still there was perpetual strife between the remaining Huguenots and the Catholics.

Moreover, the King needed money, and declared he must have it. He and his favourites had planned many amusing entertainments, but these would be expensive. The people were heavily taxed now; and in particular, the people of Paris murmured against the King; they were on the spot and they saw the extravagant processions; they glimpsed the expensively dressed guests, the lavish banquets that took place in the palace of the Louvre.

They had never hated any as they hated this King and his mother; but it was Catherine whom they blamed for the King’s misdeeds, as they would continue to blame her for all the ills which befell France. The King they despised; his mother they feared and loathed.

The people of Paris were hungry, and when they were hungry they were reckless. Lampoons were scrawled on walls; coarse jokes about the King and his mother, Alençon and Queen Margot, were circulated. France was simmering on the point of revolt, and this showed itself in small eruptions. Once the carriage in which Catherine and Margot were travelling was stopped by students, who ordered the two women to alight; realizing that it would have been dangerous not to obey, they did so, when obscene remarks were shouted at the Queen Mother, and some students thrust their hands into the bodice of Margot’s gown. Only the haughty demeanour of the two Queens prevented more rough handling; and displaying a dignity which eventually overawed the young rioters, they stepped calmly into their carriage: which was driven speedily away. On another occasion the King stopped to see the fair at Saint- Germain, and he found the place full of students burlesquing the mignons in long chemises with grotesque frills made of white paper. They minced through the town, calling each other ‘mignon’, stroking and petting each other. Those mignons who were with the King wept with anger, and the only way of pacifying them was to place the students under arrest. Catherine arranged that they should be quickly released; but she was alarmed by Henry’s irresponsibility.

The citizens shouted after the King when he appeared in the streets, and even when he rode in a procession. ‘Keeper of Four Beggars!’ was the favourite gibe, and this was used particularly when he was in the company of his four especial favourites.

The people jeered: ‘He dresses his wife’s hair. He chooses her clothes. Who is this Henry the Third? Is he a man or a woman?’

‘Concierge du Palais!’ yelled the children, imitating their elders.

The wits amused themselves by inventing stories of the King’s ridiculous behaviour; others talked continually of the Queen Mother’s villainy. The city was realizing that it hated the House of Valois, and no member was spared vilification. Alençon and Margot, it was said, were guilty of incest. Margot took new lovers as frequently as she took her meals. She had ‘a hundred different dresses in her wardrobe, all costing a fortune; and she kept special flaxen-haired footmen simply that she might use their hair for making wigs.

‘How long shall we allow these vipers to rule us?’ grumbled the people. ‘How long shall we allow them to make us poor with their extravagances?’

And so the rumble of coming disaster rose and died away to rise again. There was perpetual strife between Huguenots and Catholics, who hated each other almost as much as they hated the royal family.

August came, hot and stifling. The filth in the streets of the towns and the stench from the gutters kept people behind doors. Beggars grew in numbers; they lay sprawled on the cobbles, diseased and dying; and the pickpockets did good business in the market-places. Outside the town robbers abounded, and murders were committed for the sake of a few francs.

In. August came the anniversary of a day which would never be forgotten.

Every year—for years to come—Huguenots would lie awake on the night of the 23rd and listen for the sound of the tocsin, remembering those lost ones, trembling at the thought that they might be called upon to share the fate of those martyrs.

In Paris some Catholic joker had spread panic among the Huguenot population by chalking crosses on the doors of several well-known Huguenots’ houses. Men sharpened their swords and saw that their guns were in readiness. It was an unhealthy time of the year.

The Eve and the Day of St Bartholomew passed in uneasy quiet; but a few days later a few Huguenots who had held a prêche in one of their houses came out to find a group of Catholics about the door. One bold spirit had dared to put a white cross in his hat. They had only come to jeer, but the terrified Huguenots held their heads high while their lips moved in prayer as they passed along the street. Had they not prayed, all would have been well. Neither Catholics nor Huguenots could bear to see the other side appeal to God. God was their ally; they grew angry that any other sect should dare claim Him. Someone threw a stone and a riot started, which ended in tragedy for some of those concerned before it was quelled.

A deputation of Huguenots went to the palace to demand audience of the King. He kept them waiting, for he was playing at tilting with some of his young men; not the rough tilting at which his grandfather, Francis the First, had excelled, and at which his father, Henry the Second, had lost his life, but gentle tilting in the costumes of ladies. And when he had finished the game, he declared he was too tired to see the deputation.

The Huguenots murmured against him. ‘This is the city of Babylon!’ they cried. ‘Of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Lord will not rest content until he has destroyed this city.’

The poor huddled on the street corners, but when lights sprang up in the palace they would stand as close as they could and try to see what was going on inside. They saw something of the fantastic balls at which the King danced in a low-necked gown with pearls about his throat; they saw him at the banquet where all the men were attired as women, and the women were in men’s clothes. They knew that the silk for these garments had been especially acquired and that it had cost a hundred thousand francs. To pay for this Paris must be taxed.

There were many about the King who remonstrated with him: Catherine herself, the Guises, the Marshal Tavannes.

‘Only fools spend money on folly,’ said Tavannes daringly.

‘One cannot treat the people of Paris thus!’ said Guise.

‘My son, take care!’ begged Catherine. ‘If you must have these pleasures, take them in secret. Do not let the people see how you frolic while they starve. It is not possible to go on in this way.’

‘I am the King,’ said Henry. ‘With me all things are possible.’

Meanwhile a sullen, starving city watched the reckless extravagance of a King it hated.

Louis Bérenger du Guast was curling his master’s hair. He kept up a light chatter as he did so, but he was not really thinking of his master’s appearance. Du Guast was different from the other mignons in as much as he was a politically ambitious man; he wanted official position, and if it meant posing as an effeminate young man who doted on fine clothes, perfumes, lap-dogs and his master, he was ready to do what was required of him.

He had already succeeded in bringing about strife between the King and his sister Margot, for he recognized Margot as the ally of Alençon, who was the deadliest of all his foes. Du Guast had accused Margot, before the King and court, of the impropriety of visiting the bedchamber of one of the gentlemen in Alençon’s entourage. Margot had hotly denied this, but the King was more ready to believe his favourite than his sister; as Margot’s reputation was such that she might very well have committed the indiscretion, others believed du Guast to have been right, Since then Margot had allied herself more closely with Alençon, which meant that her friendship with her husband had grown.

The King was suffering from an affliction of the ear rather similar to that which had resulted in the death of his brother Francis, and it had occurred to du Guast that there might be some in the palace who were trying to bring the King’s life to an end. When poison was suspected, the thoughts of all jai. mediately flew to the Queen Mother, but no one would suspect Catherine of trying to remove her favourite son, who was, as everybody knew, her ‘All’ as she herself called him. Whom else then? Obviously Alençon would take the throne.

There was another fact which disturbed du Guast. He was deeply attracted to Madame de Sauves; nor was he, she had obligingly demonstrated, repulsive to her. She had continued to retain other lovers, among them Guise, Navarre and Alençon; and this angered du Guast, who liked to stand first, both with his mistress and his master. But of his rivals he most feared Alençon, for if the King died and Alençon took his place, then he, du Guast, would fall very low.

‘How is the ear today, dearest Sire?’ whispered du Guast. ‘Very painful,’ whimpered the King. ‘Is it swollen? Dress my hair over it to hide it.’

‘Dearest Sire, I wish to speak to you alone.’

Caylus and Epernon frowned.

‘It is of the utmost importance, Sire,’ urged du Guast.

Henry nodded. He was sometimes not so foolish as he appeared to be; and his neglect of his duties was in some measure due to physical weakness. Most of the virility which he had possessed in his teens had by now disappeared and physical exercise really did exhaust him. He had the frailty of body and the weakness of constitution which had shortened the lives of his two elder brothers; but his mind was more alert than theirs had been. Like all the Medici-Valois brood, he was possessed of a complex nature, and the traits inherited from his mother mingled uneasily with those of his Valois progenitors. He could be a foolish and extravagant pervert, yet, like his paternal grandfather, a lover of all that was artistic; he could, like his slow-minded yet statesmanlike father, try to grapple with matters of importance.

So he now dismissed his attendants and listened to what du Guast had to say.

‘Dearest Sire, I am afraid. Your ear . . . it perturbs me.’ ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your brother Francis died of an affliction of the ear, Sire, and some say that he was hastened to his end.’

‘My God!’ cried Henry. ‘You mean that someone is trying to get rid of me!’

‘It may well be so.’

‘But . . . my mother loves me.’

‘I did not think of your mother, Sire.’

‘Alençon?’ muttered the King.

‘Who else, Sire? He is your enemy.’

‘What can we do? We must act quickly. I shall call in my mother. She will know.’

But du Guast was not going to let him call in Catherine. She would never agree to the murder of Alençon—the only remaining Valois heir.

‘We can arrange it without her, Sire. We can commission another to do the work. As you know, anything that concerns your dear Majesty concerns me. I lie awake at night thinking how best to serve you.’

‘Louis, my beloved!’

‘My adored sovereign. This is what I have been thinking: there is another who hates Alençon.’

‘Who is that, dear fellow?’

‘Navarre.’

‘Navarre! They are allies!’

‘They were. But now they quarrel. It is over a woman. They were at each other’s throats the other day. Navarre plays his crude jokes. He fixed some heavy object over the lady’s door when he last visited her, and arranged that when Alençon called the object should fall on his head. Ma foi! You should have seen the mess it made of our Alençon’s countenance . . . never one to be greatly admired, as Your Majesty knows.’

I rejoice to hear it. A pity it did not break his ugly neck as well as bruise his ugly face.’

There was trouble over that. There might have been a fight to the death. But you know Navarre, Sire; he twists and turns and, before Alençon knew where he was, Navarre had made the whole affair something too ridiculous to duel over. But it rankles, Sire, it rankles. They are both in love with the same woman . . . whom they share.’

‘This Madame de Sauves seems a very accomplished lady, said the King, looking slyly at du Guast, for he had heard the rumours.

‘One amuses oneself,’ said the favourite. ‘Your Majesty also enjoys his little chasse de palais. Although, Sire, you know how the ladies tire you, and being in love with one of them, even for a few minutes, means you must rest for a few days afterwards.’

‘Let us not speak of our peccadilloes, dear Louis. We are both a little guilty of them.’

‘My dear lord, my association with Madame de Sauves is conducted solely that I may discover from her what she learns from your enemies.’

‘You are a good friend, my dearest fellow. Tell me more of Alençon and Navarre.’

‘They quarrel. There is perpetual strife between them. Alençon is a fool, but not so Navarre; he merely pretends to be one. My lord, my plan is this: call Navarre to your presence and explain to him how tiresome your brother has become. Tell him he has your permission to deal with him as he pleases. Not only would he remove a rival for his mistress’ favours, but he would be next in direct succession to the throne, should Your Majesty leave no issue.’

‘I shall leave issue,’ said the King. ‘I am going to Notre Dame with the Queen to ask God’s help in this matter. Moreover, to talk to Navarre of his being next in succession could be dangerous, do you not think?’

‘He would be next in succession—if Alençon were removed—only until Your Majesty produces issue. You would only be reminding him of what he knows already; and, Sire, what a good thing it would be if we were rid of Alençon. He is your greatest enemy. I should like to see all your enemies removed, but it is advisable to start with the greatest of them. I believe that was your mother’s procedure; and you will admit that she is an adept at the art of removal.’

‘You are right. As usual, my darling, you are right. Send at once for Navarre.’

Navarre was brought before the King, and Henry said to him: ‘Brother, come sit beside me and tell me about the bruises you inflicted on Alençon. Du Guast here has just been re- counting something of the incident to me, and it amused me much.’

Navarre talked with a lack of ceremony. If he was a little insolent in the presence of his superiors and he was reprimanded, he would always say: ‘Oh, but I am but a provincial, an uncouth Béarnaise.’ And they had to excuse him. ‘He is just a provincial, an uncouth Béamais,’ they would say, while he smiled at them with his slow, lazy smile.

When he had told the story, the King said: ‘Madame de Sauves has come between your friendship with Alençon, which I believe was, at one time, great.’

‘A little rivalry in love, Sire,’ said Navarre lightly. ‘That is no real barrier to friendship if the friendship be strong enough.’

‘Alençon is no friend to you. He never had a true friend in his life.’

Navarre shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the King.

‘My dear Navarre, why do you not revenge yourself on this rival in love? Think! If he were out of the way, you would be next in succession to the throne. You would not have to fix traps over the door of your mistress’ apartments. The lover and the heir to the throne would be triumphant.’

Navarre’s eyes narrowed. ‘What means this, Sire? Is it a command?’

‘It is not a command,’ said the King. ‘But you may call it a suggestion.’

Navarre pretended to breathe freely. ‘Ah, Sire,’ he said, his eyes mocking the King, ‘I have always been very successful in my affairs. I have never needed to use dire methods to get what I want. As for my being heir to the throne, Your Majesty will forgive me if I say that I do not see how that can be. All know that Your Majesty and the Queen pray for an heir. How can it be possible that God would deny the request of two as devout as you and the Queen? Moreover, I am not tempted by a throne so exalted. My own is good enough for me. Your Majesty will, I know, forgive me if I say that the greater the honour the greater the disquiet that accompanies it. Such honour seems hardly worth committing murder to obtain.’

‘You are a great fool, Navarre,’ said the King.

‘That may well be. But there is often some wisdom in great folly. I will not protest when Your Majesty calls me “fool”. It may be that I am a fool who does not wish to burden his conscience with murder.’

The King and du Guast exchanged uneasy glances. They had exposed their design. They guessed that Navarre might very well carry an account of this interview to Alençon. How could anyone know what was in the mind of that crude provincial, that uncouth Béarnais?

Catherine realized that the court was divided into two camps; one contained the King and his mignons, the other, Alençon and his followers. Margot hovered on the periphery of her younger brother’s circle and had now taken one of his men as a lover—the dashing, dangerous Louis de Clermont d’Amboise, Lord of Bussy, who was known as Bussy d’Amboise, and on account of his dashing exploits simply ‘The brave Bussy’. This man was the male counterpart of Margot herself; he was continually on the look-out for adventure, amorous or otherwise; and being Alençon’s man was opposed to the King’s mignons.

Navarre was aloof, but he was ready—Catherine knew through Charlotte—to ally himself with Alençon if it would prove advantageous to him, although their perpetual bickering over Charlotte made them more often enemies than friends. Margot had made several efforts to patch up the quarrel between her husband and Alençon, and through the influence of Bussy she was now a strong adherent to the Alençon-Navarre alliance. Margot was dangerous, as Catherine well knew; clever and shrewd, she was yet unaccountable, being always governed by her emotions rather than her common-sense, always ready to apply her sharp wits to the cause followed by her lover of the moment.

At the present time, it seemed that events were against Catherine. She had just heard of the death of her eldest daughter, Claude. She had not greatly loved Claude; but it seemed to her that her children were dropping one by one, like rotten fruit, from the great family tree. Of her large brood there were only three left now—her beloved King, mischievous Alençon and dangerous Margot. The King was ageing; it was unnatural for a man who was not yet twenty-five to tire so easily, to show signs of age so soon. Alençon suffered now and then from an affliction of the chest. Were her children unable to live to a normal span, to produce healthy children of their own? She told herself that she must not be unduly depressed by the death of Claude; she must not be unduly depressed by her son’s absorption in his mignons. She must exert all her powers to remove him from the influence of these gentlemen; and the one who perturbed her most was du Guast. She must find some means of removing that young man as soon as possible. She dared not administer one of her morceaux, for Henry would suspect her at once if she did, and he would never forgive her if his favourite died from poison. She must stir up trouble for du Guast in that other camp by seizing on some apparently trivial happening which could, as on other occasions, serve her purpose. It might be that Margot’s lover could provide it. She remembered that Monsieur de la Mole had once proved useful. She must forget her grief at her son’s neglect; she must work her way back to his affection and trust.

She was deeply shocked when she discovered that Henry had ordered state documents to be diverted from her and to be brought direct to him. Du Guast had suggested that should be done, she was sure; and this was the most alarming thing that could have happened, because it could eventually cut her off from all state secrets. When she had discovered this treachery she had been more hurt than angry, so great was her love for her son and her desire for his affection.

She had written to Henry at once. ‘You must let me be told of your affairs. I do not ask because I wish to control them, but because, if they go well, my heart will be at ease, and if they go ill, it might be that I can help you in your trouble. You are my “All”, but even if you love me, you do not trust me as you ought. Forgive me if I speak frankly to you, but if you no longer trust me I have no wish to live longer. I have never greatly cared for life since your father died and I only cared to live that I might serve you and God.’

But when she had written that, she had had to smile. There was only the smallest grain of truth in those words. He had wounded her deeply by his lack of trust, but she wanted fervently to live, even if she had to work against him to keep her power.

Well, here were the rival camps—Henry and his darlings in one, Alençon, Margot, Bussy and Navarre in the other. It was like the old fight between the Bourbons and the Guises. That reminded her that she must not lose sight of Monsieur de Guise, for he was only temporarily in eclipse.

The old stimulation was working within her. Discord between the two camps was to be the order of the day.

‘And as for you, Monsieur de Guast,’ she muttered, ‘make the most of your stay on Earth, for I do not think, little mignon, that you will enjoy it much longer!’

Du Guast was quick to realize that the person most to be feared in the opposite camp was Margot. He therefore planned to have her discredited so that it would be necessary to banish her from the court.

An opportunity came when he knew her to be visiting the house, not far from the Louvre, in which she was accustomed to meet Bussy. Du Guast decided that if he could catch her and the young man there it would be possible to have them both banished.

He had arranged that he and the King, together with Navarre and an attendant of du Guast, should be in that quarter of the town during Margot’s rendezvous with her lover. It was perfectly timed; the King’s coach drove slowly past the house, and du Guast’s man, primed by his master, said to Navarre: ‘There is a house which is owned by the brave Bussy. I’d wager you, my lord, that if you were to break in there now, you would find your wife with him.’

Even the lazy provincial must make some show of indignation at such a suggestion; and the outcome was that the man who had made the remark so damaging to Margot must be challenged, which resulted in the whole party’s breaking into the house. There they discovered a disordered bedchamber; on the bed were black satin sheets such as Margot was known to favour; there was a heavy perfume in the air; but there was no sign of the lovers.

‘They have been here!’ cried the King. ‘We took too long in getting in. They have been warned and have flown.’

Navarre, aware of the mocking eyes of the King and du Guast, took du Guast’s man by the throat and shook him. ‘You shall not,’ he said, ‘make accusations against my wife.’

The King said languidly: ‘No violence, I beg of you. This is the perfume Margot favours. I do not like it. Do you, dear Louis? It contains too much musk. I should know it anywhere for Margot’s. There is not a doubt that she has been here; she was warned in time to get away.’

Navarre shrugged his shoulders. It seemed absurd for him to protect Margot’s name and reputation when she herself took no pains to do so. Everyone knew that she was Bussy’s mistress; why make a fuss about discovering that they had met on a particular occasion?

But the King, with du Guast at his elbow, was not going to let the matter pass. He now feigned fury at his sister’s conduct. He would, he said, severely reprimand her; and on his return to the Louvre he went straight to his mother.

‘I want your help,’ he said.

Catherine smiled warmly, despite a conjecture that it could not be a matter of importance, since he came to her instead of going to du Guast.

‘It concerns your daughter.’

‘And what has Margot done?’

‘She behaves like a courtesan.’

‘That is not such a clever discovery, my son. Had you come to me, I could have told you all you wished to know of her conduct. I will speak to her, warn her to be more careful.’

‘I want you to be really angry with her.’

‘I will, if you command it.’

‘I do command it. I will have her sent to you at once.’

‘Tell me all that has happened. I must know all.’

‘We were riding through the streets when we passed the house where she was misconducting herself so shamefully.’

‘Who was with you?’

‘It was a party which Louis had arranged. We were going to call on Caylus.’

Louis! thought Catherine. Monsieur Louis Bérenger du Guast! So this is your work!

‘Very well, my son,’ she said. ‘I will do as you say.’ And she thought: it might be that this will offer an opportunity. Who knows? It will be as well to look for it!

Margot, breathless from her hurried return to the palace, had hardly time to compose herself before she was told that her mother wished to see her at once.

As she hurried to Catherine’s apartments, she came face to face with Henry of Guise. She became immediately excited, as she always did when she met him; she looked at him disdainfully, thinking: he has grown older since I loved him; he has become the father of several children. He is no longer young Monsieur de Guise even if he is still handsome.

He smiled at her. She wished that he would not smile in that way. She remembered those smiles too well.

‘I was looking for you,’ he said.

She was silent, her eyebrows raised, her eyes haughty, her expression cold.

‘I wanted to warn you,’ he went on. ‘Come in here.’

He took her by the arm and drew her into a small chamber close by. She felt angry because she could not stop herself recalling other occasions when he and she had been together in other small rooms.

He closed the door quietly and said: ‘The King is angry with you. Your mother is furious with you. Do not go to her yet. Let her anger cool for a while.’

‘It is good of you, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘to concern yourself with my affairs.’

‘I would always do that,’ he answered. ‘I shall always hope that you will allow me to help you when your affairs go not well.’

She laughed. ‘How could that be? You have no place in my affairs.’

‘Alas! That is a matter of deep regret to me. Nevertheless, I can warn you when I see that you are in danger. That is a privilege I may still enjoy, though others are denied me. I ask you not to go to your mother now. You remember that occasion when your mother and Charles between them almost killed you?’

‘That is an occasion, Monsieur, which I have taught myself to forget, being deeply ashamed of it.’

‘But you should remember it—even if you forget your partner in that adventure. You should profit by it. And you should profit by it now.’

She wished he would not speak to her in that tender voice. She knew that she had only to fling herself into his arms to join together the broken strands of that wild and passionate affair. What is the use of pretending, said his eyes, that any man can please you as I do, that any woman could please me as you do? Have done with this folly. Come back to me. Even now it may not be too late for that divorce. We will marry and rule France together.

Now she saw his meaning clearly. Ambition first, love second, with Monsieur de Guise. What had she that Charlotte de Sauves had not? The answer was simple: royalty. She was a Princess of France.

Bussy was a fine man, a very fine man, she assured herself, He was amusing, virile, passionate—a good lover; if he was not so completely devoted as Monsieur de la Mole had been, he was more amusing than the melancholy gentleman whose head she had forgotten even to look at for many months. She was happy with Bussy. She would never again love as she had loved Henry. of Guise perhaps, neither would she suffer again as she had suffered through him.

She laughed. ‘Oh, come, Monsieur de Guise, why do you pretend to be sorry? My brother is angry with me. My mother wishes to punish me. My younger brother hates my elder brother. We are a family working against itself. We are not like the family of Guise, are we? We have our passions, our jealousies, our loves, our hates. We lack the overpowering ambition of the House of Guise and Lorraine. Do you think I have not noticed you during these terrible weeks? Do not look so delighted with yourself. It was not your beauty that I, admired; it was your cunning. You strut through Paris—the King of Paris. The people almost kiss the hem of your robes.I have seen them. You are restrained. When they cry, “Vive le bon Duc de Guise!” you urge them to cry, “Vive le Roi!” But I know you well. I know what goes on in your mind. I know why you are so anxious for these poor people. I know why you offer them sympathy and alms. I have seen you shake a dirty hand with tears in your eyes. It is said that the great Duke of Guise never fails to take a man by the hand, be he Prince or beggar. He is familiar with all—a friend of the poor, yet the greatest aristocratin France.I have heard them. “Ah,” they say, “there is a true gentleman, before whom these Valois striplings are like strolling players!”And they weep for the great gentleman. They more than weep. They look up to him . . . hopefully, and they wonder when he is going to make himself the King in very truth.’

‘Margot!’ he cried in horror. ‘What do you mean? This is madness!’

‘Madness? You are right. Curb your madness, Monsieur, before it is too late. You aim too high, my lord Duke . . . in politics and in matrimony. Now, pray let me pass.’

She went out smiling. She had alarmed him. She had left him wondering whether he had been too rash. Had others noticed his little game?

Then she wanted to weep, and she whispered to herself: ‘No, others have not noticed. You have been very clever, my darling; and it is only Margot who notices, Margot who understands you so well that she is aware of everything you do while she pretends to ignore you.’

She went to her mother’s apartment. Catherine dismissed her attendants and began to attack her daughter—not physically this time, but with words, which could not hurt; and in any case Margot was not listening; she could think only of Henry of Guise.

Du Guast was not satisfied with Catherine’s single reprimand. He wished Margot to be completely discredited, and to be recognized at the court as a loose woman who could bring only dishonour to any party she favoured. He wished everyone to know—and in particular the Queen Mother—that when he asked a favour of the King it must always be granted.

There must therefore, du Guast assured the King, be more open reprimands.

Henry went to his mother.

‘I cannot allow my sister to behave as she does. The whole of Paris talks of her wantonness. She should be banished from court.’

‘Paris has always talked,’ said Catherine. ‘They talk of you in pads, my son, and they talk in the same treacherous way as they do of your sister. Why, they even talk of a poor weak woman such as myself.’

‘You must speak to her again.’

But Catherine was not going to do that even. to please Henry. Margot was no longer merely an impetuous girl. Margot was involved in the plots of her younger brother and her husband; she was shrewd and clever and must be treated with the respect such shrewdness and cleverness demanded.

‘Firebrands have inflamed your mind, my son,’ she said. ‘I do not understand people today. When I was young we talked freely with all the world, and all the well-bred men who followed your father and your uncles were seen in my rooms every day. Bussy sees my daughter in your presence and in her husband’s. What harm is there in this? You are unwise in this matter, my son. You have already offered her an insult which she will not readily forget.’

Henry was astonished that she could appear to work for Margot against him. ‘I only say what others tell me,’ he said.

‘Who are these others?’ she asked. ‘People who wish to set you and your family by the ears!’

That was said while there were attendants present; when Catherine was alone with her son, she had more to say on the subject.

‘It is not your sister’s morals that worry you. It is that swaggering lover of hers. He goads Alençon and feeds your brother’s ambition. It would be wiser to dismiss Bussy from court than your sister.’

‘I will do it. He shall go.’

Catherine caught his arm and brought her face closer to his. ‘Use my sublety, my son. There are more ways of banishment than one. It would be easy for an assassin to pick Bussy out from a group. You know that because of a recent wound he wears his arm in a sling, and the sling is of beautiful silk, the colour of the columbine flower. That sling would make of him an easy target.’

‘You are right,’ said the King. ‘When there is a question of removing a nuisance, you always have the right ideas.’

‘Always remember that I work for you, my darling.’

She thought: once I have rid myself of that odious du Guast he will be all mine once more.

Catherine waited for news. What would follow the death of Bussy? It must be the death of du Guast, for all would believe that man to be behind the assassination, and Bussy had too many friends to allow his murderer to escape. No one would guess that the Queen Mother had anything to do with the affair, and she would enjoy comforting her beloved son when he mourned the death of his favourite.

But matters did not go quite according to her plan.

That night du Guast sent three hundred men of his Sardinian regiment to wait along the route which Bussy must take from his lodgings to the palace; these men were divided into groups so that it would be impossible for Bussy to escape detection by some of them. Bussy was with a few friends when a group of the soldiers attacked him; but Bussy was one of the finest swordsmen in Paris, and even through his arm was in a sling, he gave a good account of himself and left many of the soldiers dead. The scene was lighted only by flambeaux and, as one of Bussy’s followers had also hurt his arm and was wearing a sling of the same columbine shade, though not so elaborately embroidered as his master’s, it was an easy matter for the soldiers to mistake the one for the other; and when Bussy’s man had been run through and lay dead on the cobbles, they thought their work was done, and retired.

Meanwhile the Louvre had been aroused by the return of one of Bussy’s men who had escaped at the beginning of the battle. Alençon was furious, and was preparing to go to the support of Bussy, when Bussy himself, wounded but by no means fatally, came running into the palace.

Margot was there with Catherine and her brother, and, impetuously, before them all, Margot embraced her lover.

‘It was nothing,’ said Bussy. ‘Little more than a joust. They have killed some of us, but we have pinked twice as many.’

This affair brought matters into the open. The King ordered the arrest of Bussy, and Alençon himself was put under closer restraint.

Catherine now began to play her game very carefully. She offered sympathy and advice to Alençon. ‘The King is ruled by his favourite,’ she said, ‘and it is this favourite who is responsible for the trouble. You can guess that he is no more my friend than yours, for while he seeks to plague you, he leads the King away from me.’

It seemed reasonable to Alençon and Margot that their mother might wish to help them, as she must hate du Guast as much as they did.

To the King, Catherine said: ‘It was unfortunate that Monsieur du Guast’s men were not more careful. But at least you have Bussy and your brother under control. It would be better to banish Bussy. I will persuade Alençon to let him go, so that there shall be no more trouble between you and your brother.’

She conveyed this to Alençon and he, guessing that if his friend remained in Paris some means of murdering him would be found. agreed to Bussy’s temporary banishment, although the loss of such a friend weakened his position considerably. As for Margot, she was furious to be robbed of her lover, and she blamed du Guast; she was determined that he should suffer for what he had done to her.

Catherine offered sympathy to Margot as well as to Alençon.

‘Bussy is a fine man,’ she said. ‘A most amusing gentleman. He is the best swordsman in Paris.’ To Alençon she said: ‘He would have been a good friend to you, my son, if you could have kept him with you. You know whom you have to blame for his banishment.’

‘Du Guast!’ said Alençon and Margot simultaneously.

He grows too important,’ said Catherine. ‘He has cast a spell over the King. There will be no releasing His Majesty from the spell while that man lives.’

‘It would be well,’ said Margot, ‘if someone shot him as tried to shoot poor Bussy.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Catherine. ‘But such affrays often fail. Remember Monsieur de Coligny. And there is this affair of Bussy him_ self. There are better methods. Let us hope that one day this man will be strangled in his bed. There would be no mistake then. An assassin . . . secreted in his bedchamber, and while he sleeps . . . Why, it would not be known who had done the deed, and that is important when a man is such a favourite of a King.’

Margot and Alençon were silent. They both understood. Catherine wanted du Guast out of the way, but, in view of the King’s devotion to the man and Catherine’s desire not to offend her beloved, she wished it to seem that she had had no hand in this murder.

‘It would assuredly be a pleasure to hear that he had been strangled in his bed,’ said Margot.

Catherine left them together, to talk over, as she thought, this idea she had given them. She did not know that her son and daughter were busy with another plan.

Alençon was not going to endure being kept in semi-captivity. He was impatient. Margot called in Navarre, and the three of them talked together.

‘It is very necessary,’ said Margot, ‘that you two sink your differences. Madame de Sauves is very beautiful, I grant you; but she is far more fond of Messieurs de Guise and du Guast than of either of you. Moreover, do you not see that du Guast has become her intimate so that he can discover all that he wishes to know about you? You are fools, both of you. You let that woman lead you by the nose.’

‘Love, I fancy, has led you by the nose more than once,’ retorted Navarre.

‘In my youthful folly that may have been so. But I grow up, Monsieur. I profit from experience. But . . . to this matter which is of such great importance: you must bestir yourselves. You must escape. While you stay here the King will continue to insult you both; he will kill your men, as he nearly killed Bussy. This is my plan: you, my brother, are not kept in such restraint that you cannot visit your mistress; so we will use that woman as she has been using you. You will go to visit her in your coach. When you arrive at her house she will be engaged with my husband, and’—Margot shot a glance at Navarre—’she will not have time to tell anybody that she is spending the evening with him. He will detain her while you, my brother, make your way to the back of the house, where horses will be waiting with a few of your trusted friends. It will be simple if only you two will do your best to make it so.’

Navarre gave her a heavy slap on the back. ‘What a wise woman I have married!’ he said. ‘I admire in particular the way in which she arranges my assignation with your mistress, Alençon.’

Alençon scowled at his rival in love; but they both realized the wisdom of Margot’s plan and determined to carry it out.

When he heard of his brother’s escape, the King flew into a passion of rage, and the first person he sent for was his sister.

‘Do not think you shall thus flout me!’ he cried. ‘Where is Alençon?’

‘I do not know, Sire,’ answered Margot calmly.

‘You shall tell me. I will have you whipped. Do not think that I will endure your insolence. When did you last see him?’

‘I have not seen him this day.’

‘After him!’ cried the King to his men. ‘Bring him back. By God, teach him what it means to flout me.’

Catherine was beside him. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. You can do no good by flying into such rages. He shall be found, never fear.’

My sister shall tell me what she knows. She has aided him in this. They have been great friends . . . more than friends, if I can believe reports . . . and I do believe reports. There is nothing too immoral for those two to indulge in.’

‘Now, my son! There are always evil reports about us. I recollect similar reports about you and your sister. Do you remember the time when you and she were so fond of each other?’

‘I was foolish ever to be fond of her. She is a sly, deceitful wanton.’

‘We learn by our mistakes,’ said Catherine. ‘Sometimes we turn our backs on our real friends and trust our enemies . . .’ ‘Mother, what shall I do? I must find him.’

She smiled tenderly. ‘Have no fear. This is not such a ca. lamity as some of your friends ask you to believe it to be. I will see that nothing ill comes of it. As for your sister . . .’ She smiled at Margot as though to say: ‘We must soothe him, for I declare his passions resemble those of our poor mad Charles.’ ‘As for your sister,’ she went on, ‘I have no doubt that she knows nothing of this. Why, had she helped anyone to escape, surely it would have been her husband.’

‘Keep Navarre under control.’

‘That shall be done. My daughter, you may go now. Your brother is sorry that he misjudged you.’

Margot was glad to escape. She felt gleeful. Alençon was gone. Next it would be the turn of Navarre.

Catherine went to her daughter’s apartment. Navarre was with her.

‘It is that favourite of the King’s who works him up into these rages,’ said Catherine. ‘It surprises me that du Guast is allowed to live. There must be many who would like to see him out of the way. There is much crime in our country. Innocent men are murdered for a few francs, they tell me; and yet Monsieur du Guast is allowed to live! The ways of God are strange indeed.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Navarre, ‘the gentleman will not live much longer, for although the good God works in a mysterious manner, the ways of men—and women—are more transparent.’

Catherine felt uncomfortable under that shrewd scrutiny.

She went to the apartment which her son had recently vacated. There she found some of his most intimate friends. She looked sadly about her and wiped her eyes.

‘You must forgive me, my friends,’ she said, ‘for you are my friends, since you love my son. It is a worried mother whom you see before you. I pray the saints will preserve Monsieur d’Alençon.’

‘Is is true, Madame,’ asked one, ‘that the King has threatened his life?’

Nay. That is the kind of tale that is bruited abroad. My son is surrounded by evil advisers, I fear. I would God would free him from all evil men. Perhaps He may, for the mignons have their enemies. It surprises me that he—and you know, my friends, that I refer to the greatest and most destructive of them all—it amazes me that he has not been murdered in his bed, for such murder would be easy, and who would be able to name the murderer? I am sure Monsieur d’Alençon would be safer than he is now if that deed were committed; I am sure he would be ready to reward with his favours the one who should rid him of such a menace. But I talk too much. I know, my friends, that you will pray with me this night for my younger son’s safety.’

She left them, wiping her eyes as she went.

Du Guast lay in his bed. It was ten o’clock and he was tired. He could hear the first of the October gales stripping the leaves off the trees and rustling the hangings at the windows of his bedchamber.

He was well content with life, for he considered that the King was ready to be swayed whither he, du Guast, intended. The King adored his favourite and du Guast was growing richer every day. His latest acquisitions had been some rich bishoprics, which he had been able to sell for vast sums. He could, he believed, call himself the uncrowned King of France. It amused him to think of. all the arrogant princes—men like Guise and Navarre—who were of little account when compared with Louis Bérenger du Guast. But it was more gratifying to contemplate the Queen Mother than any of those others in this connexion.

He was tired and preferred sleep even to such contented contemplation.

He dozed, but was almost immediately awakened by the sound of groans close to his bed. He opened his eyes, startled, and peered into the darkness. He thought that he must have been dreaming.

He had closed his eyes again, but the sound of his bed- curtains being pulled apart made him open them quickly. He could make out the shadowy shapes of several men who stood about his bed. One of them clapped a hand over his mouth as he opened it to scream.

He did not have time to think with regret of the great wealth he had amassed, to ask himself whether the Princes of Navarre and Guise were not better off than he was; nor was there time to wonder whether, after all, the power of the Queen Mother was as great as it had ever been.

There was no time to do anything but to die.

Catherine had quietly assumed control of the King, who, stricken with grief, declared nothing could compensate him for the death of his favourite. Epernon, Joyeuse and Caylus tried to arouse his interest in clothes and jewels, while they vied with each other in trying to win the place of first favourite which had become vacant by du Guast’s death. The King’s lap-dogs seemed to comfort him more than anything, and he and his wife the Queen, rode together round Paris looking for new ones which they might add to their collection; but everywhere he went, the King complained, he was reminded of his lost darling; and the people called out unkind and obscene remarks after his carriage as he drove about.

He blamed Margot for the murder of du Guast, and his hatred of his sister was intense. Catherine, fearing that he might have her murdered, suggested that she be kept a prisoner, a hostage for Alençon. ‘If we keep her under lock and key,’ she said, ‘we shall know that she is not helping Alençon; besides, he is fond of her, and he will not be too rash if he knows that she may have to answer for his misdeeds.’

Henry nodded. ‘You are right. Let us lock her up.’

It was like old times, thought Catherine; she had only had to rid herself of du Guast, and she and Henry resumed their old relationship. How foolish she had been—and how unlike herself—to lose heart as she had done! She could always gain control over her sons by careful action.

Henry grew a little brighter; he was grieving less, and he was beginning to bestow a great deal of attention on Epernon. She must watch that young man and be certain that he did not become too influential; it would not be so easy to remove another favourite.

But what a mischievous family was hers! Alençon was determined on revenge, determined on power; he was now mustering an army and was in touch with the two Montmorencys, Thoré and Méru; he was calling together the subjects of Navarre. He had written several letters to various people of the court—and unfortunately they had not fallen into Catherine’s hands and the object of these letters was to discredit the King and his mother.

‘It was very necessary for me to escape,’ he wrote, ‘not only for the sake of my liberty, but because news was brought to me that His Majesty was about to take some advice concerning me which was moulded on the counsels of Cesare Borgia.’

That was a direct stab at his mother, for her knowledge of those morceauxItalianizés was alleged to have been acquired from the Borgias.

Alençon also wrote that he had heard the news which was circulating about Montgomery and Cossé, who had been in prison ever since they had been arrested at the time of the affair of La Mole and Coconnas. There had been orders to strangle these two men in their dungeons, but their jailers had refused to carry out such sentences. Nor would they administer the morceaux, no matter whence came the instructions.

‘I have narrowly escaped,’ wrote Alençon. ‘There are spies in my camp. Last evening when we were at dinner, wine was offered to me. It was very well mixed, sweet and delicious, but when I gave it to Thoré and he tasted it, he commented on its extreme sweetness, and it struck me that there was too much sweetness in that wine. So I would drink no more, nor allow my friends to do so; and although shortly afterwards we were very sick, we were saved through the grace of God and the good remedies which were at hand. My friend, you see why it was necessary for me to leave my brother’s court.’

The King raged against his brother; the restraint in which he ihiada appealed Margot and Navarre must be kept was increased. He appealed to his mother to end this intolerable situation.

She said that she would ask Alençon to see her, and as a sign of her good faith would take Margot with her. She would urge her younger son to come to peace with his brother, explaining to him what an evil thing it was when members of a family fell out.

‘Go, Mother,’ said the King. ‘You alone are clever enough to deal with this.’

She kissed him fondly. ‘You realize now, my son, how close your good is to my heart?’

‘I do,’ he answered.

Catherine felt all her energy return; and very soon, with Margot and their trains, she set out for Blois, where it was decided that the meeting should take place.

Alençon was truculent.

Catherine watched him with a certain sadness; she was a little ashamed of this son of hers. He was conceited in the extreme and he had few qualities which recommended him to her. Her mind turned to Henry of Guise, and she thought, fleetingly how different she would have felt if that young man had been her son.

Alençon had assumed the air of a conqueror and explained his demands to her as though she were a vassal of a defeated state.

She laughed outright at him.

‘Do you realize, my son, that you are a rebel against the King, and that it is only because you are my son that I come to talk to you thus?’

‘A rebel with an army behind him, Madame.’

‘If you were not my son and the King’s brother, you would not dare to talk thus. You would have lost your head ere this.’

‘That was a good attempt which was made to poison me through my wine, Madame.’

‘That was but fancy on your part—fancy bred by a guilty conscience.’

‘Then Monsieur Thoré, as well as myself and everyone present who tasted that wine, was very fanciful, Madame.’

She refused to show her impatience. ‘Now, my son, I have come here to reason with you. Your sister is here and you will be glad to see her, I know. Will you not return to Paris and try to live in reasonable peace with your brother?’

‘Madame,’ he answered, ‘I know you sent men to capture me and take me back a prisoner. That failed, so you come to cajole me back; but I see that I should be a prisoner when I reached pads.’

‘You have behaved like a traitor to France. I know that you have written to Elizabeth of England and the Elector of Brandenburg for help.’

‘There are many Frenchmen who would not call me a traitor to France.’

Her impatience got the better of her then. ‘You . . . a Huguenot? Why so?’ She laughed loudly and ironically. ‘Simply because your brother is a Catholic. Had he supported the Huguenots, depend upon it you would have thrown in your lot with the Catholics. You cannot deceive your mother. You want your brother’s throne and you do not mind whether Huguenots or Catholics help you to it. Well, what are these suggestions you have to make?’

‘I wish to be given this town of Blois. Here I will take up my residence.’

‘A hostile Blois!’ cried Catherine. ‘Another La Rochelle.’

‘Madame, there are many men willing to serve me. The Marshals Montgomery and Coss& whom you have tried to murder—unsuccessfully, God be thanked! —must be released at once.’

‘I will consider these matters,’ said Catherine; and she retired to her apartments, wondering how she could best deal with this son whom she despised and who seemed to hate her, and yet, on account of his brother’s unpopularity, was becoming a power in the land.

At length she decided that the marshals must be freed. It was impossible, after all the rumours, to murder them in prison. The King would have to placate them in some way.

While she was pondering her son’s proposition concerning Blois, news came that Thoré and Méru had started fighting in the south. Guise was fortunately at hand to deal with them. He did this with the utmost success at Dormans, and the battle ended with such defeat for the Huguenots that Alençon was in no position to argue.

The streets of Paris were full. Beggars and vagabonds had come in from miles round to share in the occasion. The poor looked less dejected. This was a great day, it was said, in the history of France.

The King stood at the window of his apartment in the Louvre. He was sullen and angry. It was true that peace had been restored at an, important moment with a victory for himself and the Catholics; but jealousy was in the King’s heart and he kicked even his lap-dogs away when they approached. His mignons could do nothing to enchant him.

Out in the streets he could hear the shouting people. Thus they should shout for their King; but they never shouted like that for Henry the Third. There were no sly obscenities flung at the man who now rode among them.

He came through the Port St Antoine, a head taller than any of his men, riding with natural grace and dignity; and a great shout went up from the throats of merchants, from women who leaned from their windows to catch a glimpse of his handsome face, from the beggars, from the students, from the pickpockets.

‘Vive le bon Duc!’

And so he came, fresh from Dormans; and when the people saw the wounds he had received in that battle they went wild with joy, for it seemed to them that here was a sign from Heaven. The cheek of Henry of Guise was slashed by a scar which many declared was exactly the same as that which had been so proudly carried through the last years of his life by Francis of Guise, Le Balafré.

The.peopIe cheered madly. ‘Vive le Balafré! Behold! Here is a miracle. Le Balafré has returned.’

They kissed the hem of his cloak; they scrambled and fought that they might get near him to press their rosaries against him. Many wept, and tears ran down the Duke’s own cheeks. The eye above the scar watered when he was emotional, as his father’s had done, while the other eye seemed to smile at the people who pressed about him.

‘It is the great Duke Francis come down from Heaven to save us!’ cried the superstitious. ‘This is a sign. This is an omen. ‘The evil days are coming to an end. Le Balafré has looked down from Heaven and seen our sufferings. He is giving us his son to lead us away from our misery . . . away from the Valois vipers. Long live the scarred one! This is a sign from Heaven.’

In the Louvre the King listened in furious anger to the acclamations of the mob.

Meanwhile, the Duke rode on. He was asking himself if he had really heard someone in the crowd cry: ‘To Rheims, Monseigneur! To Rheims with Le Balafré!’

There was consternation throughout the Louvre, for Henry of Navarre was missing and his gentlemen could give no account of him. He had not returned the previous night for his coucher. They had waited for some hours, they told the King and Catherine, but they had not been very seriously perturbed knowing their lord’s amorous habits. The palace was searched, but discreetly, on Catherine’s instructions. Navarre could not be found.

The King threatened to summon Margot from her bed, where she lay suffering from an illness which had rendered her very weak indeed. Catherine remonstrated. ‘Do not show your concern. Do not let the people know that you attach such importance to this man.’

And after a time the King allowed himself to be soothed by his mother, and the secret search went on, but without success.

Henry, with his Queen and his mother, went as usual to Sainte-Chapelle to attend Mass, giving no sign of their anxiety. As they were leaving the church, Catherine was startled to feel a light touch on her arm, and turning, looked straight into the mocking eyes of Navarre himself.

‘Madame,’ he said, with a low bow, ‘I present to you one Whom you have so missed, and for whose sake you have been distressing yourself.’

Catherine laughed with relief. ‘Oh, we were not unduly concerned, my son,’ she said. ‘We were well aware that you could take care of yourself.’

The King frowned at his brother-in-law, but he was too relieved to feel angry. Catherine thought: off on some romantic adventure, I suppose. We were foolish to worry about Navarre. He is too lazy to be over-concerned with matters of state. He likes the life here at the court among the ladies even though he is restricted. It might be that his disappearance was just to tease. That would be typical of him. He is a joker, nothing more.

Two days later Navarre suggested to Guise that they make up a party and hunt the stag in the forest of Bondy, close to Paris. They could, pointed out Navarre, visit the fair of Saint-Germain that morning and enjoy themselves there before going off to the hunt.

No one was perturbed at this suggestion. Navarre would be surrounded by Guise’s men in addition to the two members of the King’s Guard whose duty it was to accompany him everywhere he went.

Catherine watched them set off—Navarre and Guise riding together.

‘I would,’ Navarre was saying to Guise, ‘that you might ride incognito, for I declare this adoration which the people of Paris have for you, can be embarrassing.’

‘The scars of battle amuse them,’ said Guise.

‘Le Balafré Fils!’ cried Navarre. ‘Vive le Balafré! The people have changed their cry. Once I heard nothing in Paris but that other one—Jezebel. And now it is always Le Balafré. These people must either abhor or adore. They never do things by halves, these ladies and gentlemen of Paris.’

‘The hero of today is the enemy of tomorrow,’ said Guise lightly. ‘It does not do to attach too much importance to the cries of the mob.’

‘Ah, but the Paris mob has always been faithful to you. I have heard it said that you are the King of Paris. That is a fine title. “The King of Paris!” It suits you, Monsieur.’

Guise was not displeased. He was human enough to enjoy flattery, and, moreover, he was beginning to wonder if this show of friendship meant that Navarre was considering throwing in his lot with him. Guise had not a very high opinion of Navarre’s stability, but friendship was always welcome when a man was as full of projects as was the Duke of Guise.

They went through the fair arm in arm.

‘See!’ cried Navarre. ‘The people even love me this morning! It is because they see that their hero is my friend, and any friend of Monsieur de Guise is a friend of theirs. I like my new popularity.’

He bowed; he smiled; he ogled the women; and he enjoyed himself thoroughly in his light-hearted way.

He had so successfully allayed Guise’s suspicions that it was not until he had lured the Duke away from the fair that the latter realized that he had left his followers behind in the bustling crowd, while a dozen or so of Navarre’s Bearnais surrounded him and the two guards.

‘You will now come and hunt with me in the forest, Monsieur de Guise?’ asked Navarre.

Guise hesitated.

‘Oh come,’ continued Navarre. ‘Do not let us wait for those men of yours. The day will be done before we make a start if we do.’ He turned to his followers and said with a laugh which contained a hint of mockery: ‘Gentlemen, shall we take my dear friend, Monsieur de Guise, by force, if he will not come of his own accord?’

Guise looked down at the mocking face and wondered what lay behind Navarre’s banter. He realized it would be folly to ride off into the forest with Navarre and his men, with only the two King’s guards on whom he could rely in an emergency.

‘I will assemble my men,’ said Guise warily; ‘and we will set off for the hunt as soon as possible.’

‘In the meantime,’ said Navarre, ‘we will go on. Do not leave it too long before you join us.’ He thereupon galloped off, fol- lowed by his men and the two guards, leaving the discomfited Duke looking after them.

Guise shrugged his shoulders. It was not his responsibility, but that of the King’s guards, Monsieur de Martin and Lieutenant Spalungue, to look after Navarre.

Meanwhile Navarre himself was feeling delighted by the way he had managed to elude Guise and his men. He glanced at the two guards. Very charming gentlemen, he thought, but the Queen Mother would not be very happy if she knew I should built today without Monsieur de Guise and his attendants.

As the hunt began his thoughts were more on those two guards than the stag; as for his men, they watched him with alert eyes, waiting for the signal which would mean they were to throw off the guards and escape with their master.

One of the men came close to him as they pounded through the forest.

‘We could rid ourselves of these two at once, sir.’

‘Nay,’ said Navarre. ‘Do not harm them, for they are a charming pair and I have grown fond of them while I have been under their care. Let us forget the strength of our arms and allow our nimble wits to have full play.’

It was February, and Navarre knew that it would soon be dark; the sky was already overcast, and the bitterly cold night was almost upon them. They had started late and the time was fast slipping by. The guards did not seem to notice this; they took great pleasure in the hunt, and Navarre had lulled their suspicions by his exploit of a few days ago. It did not require, as Navarre had guessed, a great deal of cunning to allow them to go full speed ahead after the stag, to keep well behind and then gallop off in the opposite direction.

When Navarre and his followers reached the edge of the forest they did not stop to congratulate themselves on the first stage of their escape; they rode all night and by daybreak reached Poissy, where they crossed the Seine and continued towards the Loire.

Only when he felt himself to be too far from Paris for pursuit did Navarre pull up.

He burst into loud laughter in which his followers joined.

‘Free at last!’ he roared, ‘My friends, it is well that we have left Paris behind us. My mother died there; the Admiral de Coligny died there; quite a number of our best servants died there too. I doubt that they had any desire to treat me any better. I will not return to Paris unless I am dragged there. There are two things which I have left behind me—the Mass and my wife.’ He grimaced. ‘I will try to do without the first. As for the second, I’ll not have her back again.’

He laughed again for the joy of being free from Paris—free from the Mass and his wife.

‘These which I have lost,’ he said, ‘I must do without. And, my friends, strictly between ourselves, I think I should receive your congratulations for these losses, rather than your condolences.’

Margot was kept in her own apartments; there were guards outside her door. She knew that the King wished to do her harm and that it was probably due to her mother that she was allowed to live. Although she suffered acute anxiety through her troublesome children, Catherine yet wished to preserve them; there were only three of them left and only through them could she retain her power. Margot was fully conscious of this. ‘I owe my life to my usefulness to my mother,’ she said to her friends. ‘There is no need for you to fear that I shall be given the morceau Itatianizé.’

Margot was more angry with her husband than with anyone else; he had not told her of his plan to escape. It was through her ingenuity that Alençon had got away; they had planned that together; so she was piqued that Navarre had gone off without a word. But then, she asked herself, what could one expect from such a boor?

She was spending her time between reading and writing. Every incident she could remember she wrote in her memoirs—a little highly coloured, a little flattering to Margot. But what a pleasure she found in her writing!

‘I do not regret my illness,’ she said. ‘I do not regret my captivity, for I have found that in life which I shall never lose. While I can read and write I can regret nothing that sends me to these two occupations.’

There was one person now in whom she was interested beyond all others, and she ordered her spies to bring her all the news that was obtainable concerning this man. She thought of him—she assured herself and others—with cynicism; and it was only rarely that she admitted, even in her secret thoughts, that she would have delighted to share his intrigues.

In the streets they were singing a new song. It Went ‘something like this:

‘The virtue, greatness, wisdom from on high,

Of yonder Duke, triumphant far and near,

Do make bad men to shrink with coward fear,

And God’s own Catholic Church to fructify.

In armour clad, like maddened Mars he moves;

The trembling Huguenot cowers at his glance;

A prop for Holy Church is his good lance;

His eye is ever mild to those he loves . . .’

The Duke was on the alert; he was carefully nourishing his immense popularity. Great schemes were in the mind of the hero of Paris. He was now at the head of the Catholic League, that great federation, which contained in its ranks many members of the nobility and of the Jesuit brotherhood, whose object was to protect the Catholic faith against all who assailed it. The King, it was said, was a fop and a fool; the Queen Mother could not be trusted to work for the Catholics; therefore there must be a League—a Catholic League to protect Catholics all over France. But the League did not concern itself only with maintaining the Catholic faith; of late years there had been much unjust taxation, and the League declared its desire to regain for the people those rights which had been lost. The League looked to the most powerful country in Europe for support, and its members had no doubt that the gloomy Philip would give it aid if the need arose.

Margot knew that the King had not yet learned to fear the League; he was too concerned with his banquets, his lap-dogs and his darlings. But what of Catherine? Could it be that she did not understand, as fully as Margot did, the man who had placed himself at the head of the League? He was a Guise and therefore ambitious; but did Catherine realize how far his ambitions would carry him?

Margot thought not. Clever as her mother was, she believed so firmly in the divine right of Kings—and Queens—that it would not immediately occur to her that any, so far from the direct line of succession, would aspire to the throne. Catherine would not let herself think that Henry might die; and after Henry, there was still Alençon. But Alençon had already allied himself to the Huguenots; and after Alençon there was that other Huguenot, Navarre. One of the objects of the League, which so far had not intruded on state affairs to any great degree, was, Margot was sure, to prevent any possibility of a Huguenot King s mounting the throne.

Continually Margot thought of Guise; but she scarcely mentioned him in her memoirs, for she had no intention of recording in writing her deep preoccupation with the man. When she did mention him it was casually. ‘Monsieur de Mayenne has grown very fat; as for Monsieur de Guise he is the father of many children, for he has a very fertile wife. His face is scarred and there is much grey in his hair. He has aged quickly.’

She was glad when a letter was smuggled to her and she found it to be from her husband. She smiled cynically as she read it. He did not pretend that it was out of love for her that he wrote. Remembering that they were supposed to be allies and that she was a clever spy, it had occurred to him that she could be very useful if she kept him informed of the happenings at court.

He knows full well, thought Margot, that if any letters I wrote to him were discovered—and my brother’s and my mother’s spies are everywhere—the result would doubtless be my death. But what does he care? He would, it is true, have lost a useful spy. Regrettable! But not a matter over which to shed too many tears. No, Monsieur de Navarre! You look elsewhere for your spies.

But eventually she became a little tired of reading and writing her memoirs: and contemplating the strange behaviour of Monsieur de Guise; and she began to consider how she might smuggle letters to Navarre, which dangerous task would rescue her from boredom. It was not long before she was unable to resist an attempt to carry this out.

Catherine was in despair, for the King was once more in the hands of his favourites, and he had once more given orders that the official dispatches were not to pass through any hands but those of himself and his young men. This hurt Catherine more deeply than anything could have done, for it was fatal to her schemes that she should be kept in ignorance of what was going on. Charles had never flouted her quite so blatantly as Henry was now doing; and when she thought of all her plans for this son, how she had worked for him and removed his enemies, she could not help but weep.

Henry’s young Queen Louise—a kindly creature as devoted to the King as his mother was—found Catherine in tears and, astonished by this strange spectacle, knelt to take her hands, to kiss them, while she tried to comfort her mother-in-law,

‘There is nothing that I do which he does not seem to think is wrong,’ said Catherine. ‘Yet I have always worked for his good.’

‘He knows that,’ said Louise. ‘It is just that, at this time, there are others to disagree with you . .

‘He takes their advice and rejects mine!’ cried Catherine.

‘Madame, he is so firmly Catholic. He does not wish to show the leniency that you would show to these Huguenots.’

Catherine laughed contemptuously. ‘Will his new friends help him to war, do you think? They are experts at curling his hair, I know, at helping to paint his face; and they know more than I do about the set of a jacket sleeve; but when it comes to war . . . what then? Will they help him to steer a safe course between Monsieur de Guise with his Catholics, and Navarre, Condé and their Huguenots?’

She grew calm immediately; she was astonished that she. could so give way before the little Queen, who knew hardly anything beyond the care of lap-dogs. ‘There, my daughter, you are a good, dear child, and I love you deeply.’

‘I wish I could help you, Madame.’

‘Get the King a son. That would please me more than anything.’

‘Ah, Madame! If only that could be!’

Catherine dismissed her and tried to remove the havoc which that tempestuous outburst of grief had caused, by applying a light touch of powder to her face and fresh carmine to her lips.

What had happened to her, and was she showing her age. losing her faculties? She was getting so fat that she could scarcely move with ease. Every winter brought rheumatism. She looked into her mirror and shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes, however, still had the fire of determination, and she knew that would not be easily quenched. She would never loosen her hold on power, for if she did, what would life hold for her? It was not as though—like that arch-enemy of hers, Jeanne of Navarre—she believed there was anything waiting for her after death. She must face the truth. Her children, on whom she had, since the death of her husband, depended for her power, were a treacherous band. She must accept the fact that power—that most precious of all possessions which the world had to offer such as herself—was not easily achieved, and once achieved, not easily held.

Alençon, whom she had neglected in the past and dismissed as of little importance, was now making a nuisance of himself; he was treacherous, conceited and he longed to wear the crown. If he ever became King of France he would not be easy to control. There was Margot, equally treacherous, working with Alençon against her brother the King as well as her mother. She was now spying for her husband. Catherine dared not let the King know this, for if he knew he would demand the death of Margot. Catherine would agree with the King that her daughter was a menace to her mother’s peace of mind and the provider of many anxious moments, but as there were only three children now to bring her power she could not agree to the elimination of any of them. And now Henry—the beloved one, her ‘All’—had broken his allegiance to his mother and given it to a group of silly, simpering creatures.

She had married one of those creatures—Villequier, who had been with Henry in Poland—to a member of her Escadron Volant. She was surprised at the success of that venture. The woman had been ordered to keep her eyes on her husband and try to lure him from the King and those pleasures which had hitherto delighted him. Villequier was enchanted by his beauti- ful wife, and seemed to have become a normal husband. If only this treatment could be applied to more of that effeminate band!

She must not despair. There were always ways of setting matters right. She must fight this feeling of lassitude which was he inevitable accompaniment of old age.

Looking back, it seemed to her that there had been little else but wars for as long as she could remember—the dreary wars of religion, violent outbreaks, continual bloodshed, linked together by uneasy periods of peace.

But had the scene changed? Something was brewing in the streets of the capital. Had there ever been greater misery than there was among the poor at this moment? Had there ever been so many enemies of the throne? What was in the minds of Guise and his Catholics? What of that sly shrewd creature down in Béarn? Oh, what a pity that he was no longer under her eye! What fresh plots, too, were brewing in the fevered and ambitiously arrogant mind of Alençon?

The King came to her as she sat brooding. His face was white with rage and his lips trembled. She was filled with tenderness, for he had at least on this occasion brought his troubles to his mother.

‘Mother,’ he cried, ‘I have planned such a procession! We were to go to Notre Dame to pray for a child. I had designed our dreses. They were to be of purple, with touches of green about them. They were delightful.’

‘Yes, my darling. But why are you so angry?’

‘The council has refused to grant me the money to pay for it. How dare they! Is it for them to prevent our getting a child? It is small wonder that we have no heir. How does God feel when He sees the meanness of my council? It is an insult to Him!’

‘But how could the money be,found, my son! The dresses would cost a great deal. Then there are all the trappings which must not be forgotten on such an occasion.’

‘The people would enjoy the spectacle. They must therefore expect to pay for it.’

She drew him to the window. ‘Come with me, my son. Look out on Paris. You do not have to look far. You see that bundle . . . lying against the wall there? I’d wager you the cost of your ceremony to a franc, that that is a man or woman dying of starvation.’

He stamped his foot. ‘Those ate the few. There are rich merchants in Paris. The Huguenots are such good businessmen, are they not? Why should they amass wealth to work against me?’

She looked at him sorrowfully. ‘Oh, my son, do not listen to evil counsels. As you value your crown, take heed. You must not expose your desires to the world. Look at Monsieur de Guise and take a lesson from him. What is he doing? He goes about Paris. He expresses sympathy for the people’s sufferings. He distributes large sums in alms. The poor cry: “The good God keep the great Duke!” more often than they mutter their paternosters. To them he is already one of the saints.’

‘So you would have me imitate Saint Henry of Guise, Madame?’

Catherine burst into laughter. ‘Saint Henry of Guise! There is little of the saint in that man. It is merely that he wears an imaginary halo with such charm, such assurance for the people of Paris, that he makes them believe that he works for the Catholic League and for them, when he is only concerned with the good of Monsieur de Guise. That is cleverness, my son.’

‘Madame, since you admire Monsieur de Guise and despise your son, perhaps it would be better if you threw in your lot with him.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘You mistake me, my darling,’ she said patiently. would kill him tomorrow if by so doing I could help you.’

‘It would not seem so,’ said the King sullenly. ‘And if you are prepared to do so much for me, why not persuade them to let me have the money for my procession.’

‘Because it would be unwise. You cannot parade through these streets in your fine clothes before people in rags. Do you not understand that?’

‘I understand that you are on their side against me.’

He burst into tears; and she had already seen, by the traces on his face, that he had wept before the council.

What can I do? she asked herself. The King of France cries like a child for money to spend on his toys, while the people in the streets are starving and murmuring against him, while Paris scowls in sullen silence whenever either of us appears.

Is this how great cities behave when a kingdom is on the brink of revolution?