Queen Jezebel

Five

CATHERINE CONTINUED, in the months that followed, to be troubled by her children.

Alençon, after escaping from Paris, had conducted a campaign in Flanders from which he had emerged triumphant; but Catherine knew that her son was too conceited, too self-seeking, to serve any cause well, although at this time the Huguenots might be deceived into believing that in the King’s brother they had found a man they could follow. It had been necessary to make peace with Alençon and this Catherine had arranged. The Paixde Monsieur was signed that May and was so called in honour of Alençon, Monsieur, the King’s brother. But what, Catherine must ask herself, did these spasmodic interludes of peace mean to France—merely lulls in the fighting, so that greater armies might be gathered together. The King hated his brother to receive honours, and even while he pretended to help Alençon—for Alençon was in turn fighting for the King and against him—he was secretly hampering him in every way he could. It was always so with these brothers—Charles had hated Henry in just the same way; their jealousy of each other was far greater than their love for France. Alençon had now been created Duke of Anjou, the King having bestowed on him that title as he himself no longer needed it now that he had the higher one of King of France.

If, thought Catherine, they would only work together, how strong we should be!

But these children of hers were half Medici; they could not go straight.

Margot had begged the King to let her join her husband, for, she said, that was a wife’s place. They had, she pointed out, married her to Henry of Navarre against her will; and now. against her will, they kept her from him. It was a favourite fiction of Margot’s that her husband pined for her company; though Catherine guessed that, since he had expressed a desire for it, this must be because he felt it would be as well to keep such a natural trouble-maker under his eye.

Catherine and the King had decided that it would be folly to let Margot go back to her husband, but they allowed her to accompany the Princess de la Roche-sur-Yonne to Spa, whither that lady was going, to take the waters. Margot had been ill, suffering from erysipelas of the arm, so it was thought that the waters would do her good; and as all she desired was a change, a little excitement, the prospect of the journey through Flanders to Spa pleased her as much as a journey to Béarn would have done.

Margot was now back at court, but, according to her, she had had many an exciting adventure during her travels. She had renewed her tender friendship with Bussy d’Amboise, whose gallantry had proved a great delight to her; she was never tired of telling how he, the greatest swordsman in France, was continually becoming involved in duels and, when he had disarmed his adversaries would, like a hero in a fairy tale, tell them that their lives would be spared if they would seek the most beautiful Princess and lady in the world, cast themselves at her feet and thank her—for Bussy had granted them the gift of life only for her sake. It was evident that Margot had been delighted to renew her friendship with the dashing Bussy.

There had been other adventures; these included an exciting meeting with Don John of Austria, the hero of Lepanto and the illegitimate son of Emperor Charles of Spain, and Philip’s half-brother. He had been charming to Margot and she had believed she had made a conquest, for Margot, who had so little difficulty in finding lovers, was apt to imagine that every man who looked her way and smiled on her was on the point of falling in love with her. She had been, enchanted with Don John until her spies informed her that he was a spy of her brother, the King of France, and therefore could be no friend to herself and her other brother, the new Duke of Anjou; she learned too that while she dallied in Flanders, the deceitful Don John was making plans to take her prisoner.

This was a blow to her esteem, but she quickly forgot that in the excitement of making her way to France; and if Don John was not appreciative, there were plenty of others very ready to be.

Now another peace had been concluded—the Peace of Bergerac; and Anjou and Margot were back at court. Margot was once more demanding to be allowed to join her husband, and the King was again refusing her request. The old quarrels had broken out in the family; Catherine and the King were in one camp, Margot and Anjou in another. Catherine was the only one of these four who had the good sense to hide her feelings.

The King’s mignons seemed, for the King’s pleasure, to take a delight in insulting Anjou; and the climax came when the wedding of one of the court noblemen was being celebrated.

Anjou had honoured the bride by dancing with her, and he was feeling very gratified to note how delighted she was by the honour of being partnered by such an exalted person as himself. She talked with the proper amount of reticence and reverence for his state, and Anjou was happy, feeling himself to be of great importance, the hero of battles, the squire of ladies, the brother of the King, the man who might well one day sit upon the throne of France. But his pleasure was abruptly interrupted as he and his partner passed a group of the King’s darlings.

Epernon said in a voice which was audible, not only to the little Duke of Anjou and his partner, but to many who happened to be in their vicinity: ‘Poor bride! She is charming to look at, you know. It is merely because she dances with that ape that she appears to be ungainly.’

Anjou’s pock-marked face went a deep shade of purple.

To cap the insult, Caylus called to Epernon: ‘You would not think, would you, that he would wear that colour. With his ugly skin he should favour dove grey. Insignificant, I know, but suitable.’

‘It is a pity he cannot put on a few inches,’ drawled Joyeuse. ‘He is like a child . . . playing at being a man.’

Anjou stopped in the dance, his hand on his sword; immediately he was aware of the menacing face of the King, who was ready to arrest anyone who attacked his favourites, and, realizing that if he offended in any way he might be put in prison, there seemed nothing for him to do but to walk, with as much dignity as possible in such circumstances, out of the ballroom.

As he went, he heard the King say: ‘Dance, my friends. Nothing of importance has happened. No one of importance has left.’

Anjou paced up and down his apartments, shaking with passion. He would not endure this. He would leave the court; he would show that brother of his that he was not so secure on the throne as he thought himself to be.

Next morning he arose early and sent a note to the King, asking permission to leave Paris for a few day’s hunting.

The King did not answer the note, but he thought about his brother with fear and hatred for the rest of the day and, when the palace had retired, his anxiety so increased that he went along to his mother’s bedchamber and sitting on her bed, awakened her to tell her that his fears were so great concerning his brother that he felt it was folly to delay acting against him any longer.

‘He is up to mischief; I know it.’

‘That, my darling, is hardly a matter to worry about at this hour. He is always up to mischief.’

‘He wishes to leave Paris, to go hunting, he says. That is a ruse. You remember how Navarre went to hunt, and we have not seen him since—though we are much aware of him. I wish that we had the fellow under our guard still.’

‘I wish that too.’

‘I was wise, was I not, to refuse Monsieur permission to hunt?’

‘Yes, indeed you were.’

‘That, Madame, was the advice of my friends, those who, you think, counsel me ill.’

Catherine sighed. ‘What is it you wish at this hour, my son?’ To go to his chamber, to catch him unaware, and to look for fresh treachery.’

‘I had hoped that relations between you and your brother were improving. But for that ugly scene at the ball last night I feel sure your brother would have been ready to be friends. It was unwise of those young men to taunt him because he is not so handsome as they are.’

‘It was not for his ugliness that my friends taunted him; it was for his treachery. Will you come with me, Madame, or shall I take Epernon?’

‘I will come.’

Catherine wrapped a robe about her and together they went to Anjou’s apartments. The King peremptorily dismissed Anjou’s attendants.

‘What means this?’ demanded the latter, rising startled from his bed.

‘It means that we suspect you of further treachery,’ said the King.

While he was speaking he began opening the coffer near the bed and scattering its contents about the room. Catherine looked from one to the other. Fools! she thought. Strength was in union.

There was nothing of importance in the coffer.

‘Get up!’ commanded the King. ‘We will search the bed.’ Anjou quickly took a paper from under his bolster and screwed it up in his hand.

‘Ah!’ cried the King. ‘This is it. Hand me that paper, Monsieur.’

‘I will not!’ cried his brother.

Anjou tried to reach for his sword, but Catherine cried out in alarm, and before either of them could touch the weapon, she had seized it.

‘If you do not hand me that paper at once,’ said the King, ‘I’ll have you taken to the Bastille. Madame, I beg of you, call the guards.’

Anjou threw the paper on to the floor. The King picked it up and read it while Anjou burst into loud derisive laughter. It was a love letter to Anjou from Charlotte de Sauves.

The King, scarlet with mortification, threw the paper at his brother. Catherine picked it up and read it. She smiled; she had read it before.

But the King was sure there was a plot, even if he had failed to discover it. ‘He shall be kept under lock and key,’ he said fiercely. ‘In his own apartments . . . yes, but under lock and key.’

He strode out, followed by Catherine; he called the guard and told them that the apartments of Monsieur were to be kept locked, for that gentleman was a prisoner.

The first thing Anjou did when his brother and mother had left him was to send one of his guards to his sister to beg her to come to him at once.

Margot came and she and her brother wept in each other’s arms; but there was no sorrow in their tears. They were furiously angry and determined to be avenged on the tyrant.

The feud had started again in all its old fury.

This is not the way, Catherine told the King; but his mignons were delighted with the feud. They hated Margot; they feared Anjou; and they enjoyed a quarrel.

Catherine however decided that there must be a reconciliation, and at length she prevailed on both sides to bring this about. She accordingly staged one of those farces—at a ball, or a banquet—where enemies met, kissed and pretended to be friends, swearing eternal friendship with hatred in their hearts, while the gullible looked on and said ‘All is well’ and the cynics set the smiles of pleasure on their faces and sneered inwardly.

It was not long before Margot had planned her brother’s escape. The plan was dramatic, since it was Margot’s; and as soon as she had conceived it, she was all impatience to put it into action.

‘We must be very careful this time,’ Margot whispered to two of her women. ‘Such plans have a way of reaching my mother’s ears. If she discovered what we have in mind, it would make everything very difficult; but if she discovered the means

I intend to employ, it would make the plan impossible of achievement’

Catherine did discover something of the plan, but, fortunately for Margot, neither her method nor the date when she intended to carry it out.

There were guards posted at all exits from the palace; all staircases were watched.

Catherine sent for her daughter and questioned her closely.

‘You know, my daughter, that I have given my word to the King that Monsieur shall not go away, that there shall be no attempt at escape?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘I am a little perplexed. There seems a certain coming and going between your, brother’s apartments and yours.’

‘We love each other, Madame.’

‘In a seemly fashion, I hope.’

Margot looked innocent. ‘Madame, how could love between a brother and sister be unseemly?’

‘You know full well how that could be. You know that there are some who say that your love for Anjou is such a love.’

‘Madame,’ said Margot maliciously, ‘you have been listening to His Majesty’s mignons.’

‘I am rejoiced to hear that it is just wicked gossip, my dear. What plans are being made for Monsieur to leave court?’

‘Plans, Madame? Dare I say a second time that you have been listening to gossip?’

Catherine gripped her daughter’s arm, and Margot flinched with the pain; she now looked like a younger Margot who had been very much in awe of her mother. She has not changed so very much, thought Catherine. She can still be afraid of me.

‘You may say that if you will, my daughter; but I think there is often some truth in gossip.’

‘Madame, do you not think that if my brother had made a plan for escape he would have confided it to me? I am his greatest friend. He would never do anything without consulting me. Why, if he escaped, I would be ready to answer for it with my life.°

‘Consider what you are saying!’ retorted Catherine. ‘You may well answer for it with your life.’

‘I should be ready to,’ said Margot with dignity.

That conversation might have been alarming to some, but not to Margot. She felt that, as her mother suspected a plot, the only safe thing to do was to carry it out as soon as possible. She decided on that very night. As for answering for her part in it with her life; that might be the wish of the King, but Catherine would never allow it to happen. And all because I am the wife of that erring husband of mine! thought Margot with a chuckle. All because I may one day be Queen of France! So, husband, you have some uses!

She went quietly to her room and her coucher proceeded. Anjou, with two of his friends, was in her ruelle. He was not under strict personal surveillance, as the palace was so well guarded, and was allowed to go from his own to his sister’s apartments, or those of his mistress. It would be supposed that he was with the latter this night, instead of reclining, fully dressed and booted, on the satin-covered couch in Margot’s ruelle.

Margot lay in bed excitedly waiting for the sounds in the palace to end, and for that silence which would mean that all had retired for the night.

At length, when all was quiet, she sprang out of her bed, and, whispering instructions to her women, with their help took a long rope from a cupboard. This rope had been smuggled into the palace by a young boy whose duty it was to bring her clean clothes from the washerwoman, and who was ready to die if necessary in ordet to serve the beautiful and romantic Queen of Navarre. To this rope, Margot had already attached a weighty stick, and this was let down from the window.

Anjou slid down the rope and his two friends followed him. Then Margot and her women drew up the rope.

Margot was almost choking with the laughter she dared not allow to be heard. Such adventures were the delight of her life. But she reminded her women that they must immediately rid themselves of the rope, for as soon as Anjou’s departure was discovered, her apartments would surely be searched and such a rope would betray not only them but the method of Anjou’s escape.

‘Who knows when we may need such a rope again?’ said Margot. ‘But I doubt not that, if I should need one, I should find an adoring young boy to bring me another. Now . . . let us set about destroying the evidence, my friends.’

To burn the rope was more difficult than Margot had antici- pated. It was so thick that it was impossible to cut it, and it was necessary to put it on to the fire by degrees. This was slow work, and in a burst of impatience, Margot ordered the women to put the entire rope on the fire. ‘The bigger the blaze, the quicker it will be over,’ she said.

She was right when she said the blaze would be big. The flames roared up the chimney. The ladies tried damping down the fire, but that was of little use; and they stood round watching with apprehension.

Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. It was one of the outer guards who had seen smoke and flames coming from the chimney.

There was temporary panic in the ladies’ apartment; but Margot quickly recovered. ‘Go to the door,’ she commanded, ‘but do not let him in. On no account let him in.’

‘Madame, he will awaken the whole palace.’

‘Tell him that you made too big a fire. Tell him I am sleeping and that you dare not waken me. Ask him to go away quietly for your sake, and tell him that you have the fire under control.’

Margot stood listening to the whispering at the door. The man went away and her frightened women returned to her. But Margot sat down, rocking to and fro in an effort to smother her laughter. Nothing was quite so enjoyable as danger.

They stood round the blazing fire, watching it roar up the chimney.

‘Let us pray that that guard does not point out the blaze to others. Let us hope none notices the smoke. If any does and the palace is aroused, depend upon it I shall be a prisoner tomorrow, and my brother will be captured.’

But luck was with them. The rope had become a charred mass before the chimney was thoroughly alight; and after a few moments of real anxiety, the conspirators knew that they were safe from discovery through a burning chimney.

‘He will be far away by now,’ said Margot. let us retire to our beds. Remember! We have to pretend this is a normal night.’

Margot was not, however, left long in peace. Before daylight there was a banging on her door and when, in terror, one of her women opened it, she faced two members of the King’s Guard.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘What do you mean by knocking on the Queen’s door at this hour?’

‘The King’s orders,’ was the answer. ‘The Queen of Navarre is to come to His Majesty’s apartments without delay.’

Margot rose. She noticed that there was just the faintest streak iSf light in the sky. If all had gone well, Anjou would by now have found the spot where Bussy was waiting for him with horses ready, and they would be miles away. She was not afraid. She was beginning more and more to rely on her resourceful mind, her quickness of thought in an emergency.

Her mother was in her brother’s bedchamber, and they both looked at her malevolently as she entered. The King’s face was livid; he looked old at this hour in the morning when his toilette had been neglected.

‘So,’ said Catherine coldly, ‘here is the breaker of promises, the one who aided her brother’s flight.’

‘Traitress!’ cried the King, completely lacking his mother’s restraint, and yet not terrifying Margot as Catherine did. ‘I’ll have you imprisoned. You shall not be allowed to go free . . . to flout me . . . to aid my enemies. You shall be whipped. You shall be ‘

Catherine laid a hand on his arm, restraining him; she came close to Margot.

‘Your brother has escaped,’ she said. ‘And you, I dare say, have not forgotten our conversation of yesterday?’

‘No, Madame,’ said Margot, her eyes innocent. ‘I am as astonished as you are.’

‘Do not lie to me!’ cried the King.

‘God forbid that I should lie to my King. But I do.not think Your Majesty should be unduly disturbed.’

‘Not disturbed! He has escaped once more. He has gone to gather an army which he plans to lead against me.’

‘Nay, Sire; I was to some extent in my brother’s confidence, and this much I know: his one desire was to carry out his plan for the Netherlands. If he has escaped it is to do this. And that, as Your Majesty must agree, would further your own greatness.’

Margot cast down her eyes while Catherine studied her daughter. ‘Clever Margot!’ thought Catherine. Of course she had helped her brother to escape. Of course she was guilty. But she certainly knew how to be calm in the face of danger; she knew how to think quickly and how to say the right thing. It was a fact that she had, to a certain extent, succeeded in mollifying her brother by reminding him of that dream which had been Coligny’s and enchanted them all, the dream of a French Empire. If Anjou had escaped because he wished to fight for his country against another, and not to plunge his own land into civil war, then his flight was no real calamity.

‘Let your sister retire to her apartments,’ said Catherine. ‘We shall soon discover whether she has spoken the truth; if she has, all will be well. If not, we shall know how to act.’

Margot had been right when she had said that Anjou had wished to escape from the court that he might carry his war into Flanders. News came of certain successes which he had gained there. The Protestants had readily made him their leader; gleefully he had accepted the role and, in his grandiloquent manner, had promised them his devotion, declaring that he would do all in his power to help them regain their liberty. The Flemings rallied to him, declaring their belief in him. Catherine waited—not without scepticism—for results. The Flemings had suffered great cruelty at the hands of the Spaniards and had been without a leader. Could her weak, conceited son bring them the victory to which greater men had been unable to lead them? Catherine had not such a high opinion of Anjou’s abilities as he himself and the Flemings seemed to have. There was nothing to do but await news; and meanwhile there was a good deal to worry her at home, the chief cause for anxiety being the mignons.

They strutted about the court; they were everywhere; they held all the important posts; there were always a few of them at the side of the King to advise him, to turn him against his mother.

In the past, when Catherine wished to humiliate the Bourbons, she had called in the aid of the Guises, and when she had desired to act against the Guises, she had turned to the Bourbons; and, in the present crisis, as the most natural enemies of the mignons were the Guises, she sent for Henry of Guise.

While she waited for him she thought a good deal about him. He had not been so much in her thoughts of late as there had been so much to occupy her; but now she was struck by the thought that these Guises had been very quiet lately. It was not like those troublesome people to stand aside. What was it that demanded so much of their attention? The Catholic League? Catherine wanted to laugh at the thought. Henry of Guise was like all the rest—a fanatic. While they strove to keep their place on Earth, they were thinking of another in Heaven. That was where they failed. All the skill of which one single person was capable was required to achieve power and to keep it. Catherine could think of a long list of people who had failed for the simple reason that they had thought too much of Heaven and not enough of Earth; and at the head of that list would be the name of Gaspard de Coligny. So, Monsieur de Guise was occupied with his Catholic League, through which he hoped to preserve the Catholic faith in France—so much so that he was content to stand aside while others ruled the country.

But what of that? Her concern now was the elimination of the mignons.

Guise knelt and kissed her hand.

‘We have seen little of you lately,’ said Catherine. ‘That does not please me. My dear Duke, perhaps it is because I grow old that I grow sentimental, but I was about to say that I look upon you as one of my children.’

‘Your Majesty is kind.’

‘Well, were you not brought up with them? Many are the times when I have watched a quarrel between you and my sons . . . a little friendship between you and my daughter. Ah, but the days of childhood are past. You and I, you know, are of the same mind about many things. Perhaps that is why I feel tender towards you; for it is a fact that we feel tender towards those who think as we do.’

‘To what things does Your Majesty refer?’

‘Chiefly religion. I am as good a Catholic as you are.’

‘I rejoice to hear that,’ said the Duke not without a trace of sarcasm.

‘It would be a matter for rejoicing if we could say the same for the whole nation, eh, Monsieur?’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘But there is this war in Flanders . . .’ Catherine lifted her shoulders expressively.

The Duke’s eyes flashed. ‘It would seem, Madame, that there are some in high places who give their support to the enemies of Catholicism; and the enemies of Catholicism, I have always maintained, are the enemies of France.’

‘Monsieur, speak low. There was a time when I had some say in the affairs of this realm. That is so no longer. There are certain gentlemen who rule the King, and those who rule the King rule France.’

Guise nodded his assent and went on: ‘Madame, I can say this to you in confidence, and you will understand that no treason is meant: the friends of the King are turning the people against him.°

Catherine took a dainty kerchief from the pocket of her gown, and flicked her eyes. ‘Monsieur de Guise, you are right. Would I could get some patriot to remove these gentlemen! Is there not some way?’

‘Madame, I feel sure that if there was, Your Majesty would be more likely to know of it than I.’

Catherine gave no sign of having understood this insult.

‘Were I a man,’ she said, ‘I should know what to do.’

‘Madame,’ persisted that most arrogant of young men, ‘your skill is known to be greater than that of any man.’

She smiled. ‘You are too kind. I am a mother who has watched over her children—perhaps a little too jealously, a little too anxiously. I was left a widow, Monsieur, with young children to care for. What can I do? Can I challenge these .

I must say it . . . these traitors to France?’

‘Not with the sword, Madame,’ admitted Guise.

‘Assuredly I cannot. But others could. You realize that these men are working against France . . . and the League?’

‘I do,’ said Guise.

‘Monsieur, forgive me, but I am astonished that you have allowed them to live so long.’

‘Madame, what would be the reaction of the King to the death of his . . . darlings?’

‘Grief, of course; but it is necessary to take a dangerous toy from a child, Monsieur, even though for a time the child weeps bitterly. It is for his good in the end.’

‘Let us consider this matter carefully,’ said Guise.

Catherine smiled. She guessed that she had won her point. She had seen his expression when she had mentioned the League. He was wondering whether this meant that Catherine had realized the importance of the League. If she had, and she considered that it was likely to become as great as he intended it should, she would doubtless have decided to throw in her lot with it, for it was ever her desire to be on the side of the most powerful.

He found it difficult to hide his emotion. That scar of his was like his father’s in more ways than one. The eye above it watered when he was under the stress of any emotion. Ah, Monsieurle Balafré, thought Catherine, that scar has done you much service in the streets of Paris, but it is apt to betray you to those who would read your thoughts.

She sat at her window, looking out on the spring evening, and wondered how long a time would elapse before Guise took action.

She did not have to wait long.

Early on that morning which followed the day she had spoken to Guise, she heard shouts below her window while she lay in bed. Her woman came to tell her that there was a crowd making its way towards the palace. It appeared that someone was being carried.

‘A duel, I suppose,’ said Catherine, smiling to herself. ‘Jesus, why do they not choose a more reasonable time to settle their quarrels!’

‘It must be some important gentleman, Madame, to judge by the crowds.’

Catherine did not rise with any haste; and it was during her lever that the King rushed into her apartment as though he were demented. He had carelessly thrown on his clothes, and his tear-stained face was pallid.

He flung himself at her knees and, leaning his head against her, wept bitterly.

‘My darling, my darling, what has happened?’

‘Madame, terrible tragedy! Scoundrels have set upon my friends. It is too terrible to speak of. I shall die of grief. Quick! Dress quickly, I beg of you. You must come to my poor Caylus. I fear for him. I fear he will not live. Paré is with him but tremble. Maugiron is dead. Oh, I thank God those wicked murderers have not escaped.’

‘My dearest,’ said Catherine, ‘go back to poor Caylus. I will come to you as quickly as I can. He will wish you to be at his side.’

The King nodded and hurried back to Caylus.

Catherine heard the story from the women whom she had sent out to discover it.

Three gentlemen of Guise’s suite—Messieurs d’Entragues, Riberac and Schomberg—had been loitering near Les Tournelles at dawn, when three of the mignons—Caylus, Maugiron and Livarot—had strolled by.

‘Only those three?’ questioned Catherine.

‘Yes, Madame?

She was irritated. It should have been Epernon and Joyeuse, of course.

Riberac had shouted an insulting remark at the mignons, who, thinking it came from some members of the Paris mob, and having grown accustomed to such insults from that quarter, were inclined to ignore it; but when more remarks followed and it was realized that they came from noblemen, it was impossible to disregard them. Moreover, one of the gentlemen, d’Entragues, was approaching with a drawn sword.

‘Are you too lady-like to fight, then?’ he asked mockingly. At this, Livarot—the best swordsman of the three mignons—had his sword out of the sheath and the fight started. The duel was a desperate one, for, realizing that they were fighting for their lives, the mignons lost their languid ways and proved themselves to be fair fighters. Maugiron had been killed outside Les Tournelles; Schomberg also lost his life. Riberac had received such wounds that it was hardly likely he would recover; Caylus, as the Queen Mother knew, was in a very bad state.

Catherine hurried along to her son’s apartments, where he had installed the wounded Caylus. Catherine felt reassured when she looked at the man. Surely those wounds must be fatal.

‘This is terrible,’ she said. ‘Oh, my poor son, my heart bleeds for you as freely as this poor gentleman’s wounds, for I know how you love him.’

The King took her hand and she was happy, since in his trouble he had turned to her. It was pleasant too to reflect that he was not the least suspicious of her. Once I have rid him of these accursed men, she thought, he is mine.

Caylus lingered on for a few days, during which the King rarely left his bedside; Henry wept continually, imploring his darling not to die, begging his surgeons to save the life of one whose welfare was dearer to him—so he declared—than his own. But nothing could be done to save Caylus.

There was a good deal of satisfaction for the King in the fact that the Guisards, Riberac and Schomberg, had both lost their lives. Two Guisards for two mignons was a fair enough exchange. This proved a lesson to all that a mignon, when roused, could put up as good a fight as most men.

While he wept for his dying friend, the King swore revenge on the man he knew to be behind the affray. His mother begged him to keep such threats to himself.

‘Are you a supporter of Guise then, Madame?’ demanded the King.

‘I support one man and one man only, as you should know; and it is in my fear for him that I beg him to be silent. Take your revenge on the remaining Guisard, this d’Entragues, if you must; but as you value your life, do not suggest for one moment that Henry of Guise was behind this affair. Do not talk recklessly of what you will do to that man.’

‘So then I must stand aside and let him plot to kill my friends?’

‘My dear son, have you not yet learned, in spite of all that I have told you, that when you plot against the great you must do it in secret?’

‘Madame, I swear to you that I will never forgive the man responsible for this.’

‘I understand, my son; but remember, I beg of you, who that man is. Remember the position he holds in this country—particularly in Paris—and keep your thoughts to yourself. We are one, my darling. Your good is my good, your wishes mine.’

Believing her to speak the truth, he embraced her warmly.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I could not reign without you.’

Then there were real tears in Catherine’s eyes, for this was one of the rare, happy moments of her life.

Caylus died and the King tenderly took from his darling’s ears those earrings which he himself had given him; he had the hair cut from his dead friend’s head and put with that of Maugiron in a jewelled case, that he might, he said, look at it in the years to come when he mourned the friends he would never forget.

A month or so later another of the mignons, Saint-Mesgrin, was assassinated by masked men as he left the Louvre and night.

The fury of the King was intense. He wept in his mother’s arms. Guise was suspected of arranging this murder, but at length Catherine persuaded the King to give no sign of his suspicions that this was so.

About this time yet another assassination took place. This happened during a ball and in full view of the guests. The murderer on this occasion was Villequier, a man who had once been a great favourite of the King’s—one of the mignons who had accompanied him to Poland. Catherine herself- had removed Villequier from the King by marrying him to a member of her Escadron Volant, who had received orders to lure her husband from the King’s side. This the lady had done so successfully that—as it was necessary for her as a member of Catherine’s band to continue the duties such membership demanded—her husband had become jealous; and there, before the whole court, he plunged his dagger into her breast.

There was hardly a day when a duel was not fought in the streets of Paris. Travellers were more unsafe on the roads than they had been a few years previously. Life had become cheaper as food became dearer. Catherine became faintly disturbed that others should hold life as cheaply as she had always done.

Anjou’s promises to the Flemings had come to nothing. Philip of Spain had countered those fine promises of the arrogant little Duke by sending into Flanders Alexander Farnese, the great Duke of Parma, with an avenging army. Since Anjou had been looking for easy victory, he had no desire to face Parma; he therefore decided to let the Flemings look after themselves, and, assuring himself that he had won the laurels of a great general already and could be content with that, he returned to France.

Catherine now had the King’s confidence once more. The mignons who remained seemed once again more interested in clothes, jewels, cosmetics and lap-dogs than in politics. The Guisards had done their work well.

There had been one or two risings in different parts of the country; Margot was once more agitating for permission to return to her husband; Navarre had said he would receive her and her mother; and it seemed desirable that Catherine should travel to Nérac, ostensibly to return her daughter to her husband, but in reality to quell any rebellion in the provinces through which she would seize the opportunity to travel; at the same time she could interrogate Navarre himself and ascertain, in the King’s name, how matters stood in Béarn.

Margot, delighted at the prospect of a journey which should prove exciting, made her preparations with zest; Catherine made hers with less enthusiasm, but with equal care. She decided that she would take Charlotte de Sauves with her in case it was necessary to revive that old passion; but since she must have a spy in close contact with Navarre, and it might well be that he would not wish to renew that old liaison, she also took among her women a charming girl known as La Belle Dayelle. This girl was a Greek who, with her brother, had managed to escape from Cyprus eight or nine years before, when Cyprus had been taken from the Venetians by the Turks. Catherine had been struck by the girl’s charm and had arranged for her brother to be taken into the service of the Duke of Anjou—Alençon, as he had been at that time—while she took Dayelle into hers. With her beautiful almond-shaped eyes, this girl was enchanting, and her exotic beauty set her apart from the French women. A good reserve, thought Catherine, for Navarre—just in case he was tired of his old love.

Margot lay back in the litter which she had designed herself. Such a litter had never been seen before; but Margot was determined to impress her subjects who had never before seen her. The pillars were covered with scarlet velvet, and the lining decorated with gold embroidery. Devices in Italian and Spanish had been cut on the glass and worked on the lining; these dealt with the sun and its powers, for Margot had not forgotten that one of the court poets, who had been enamoured of her, had likened her, in her beauty, her wit and her charm, to the sun of the court of France.

But Margot was not merely content to lie in her litter and think of the effect her beauty and magnificence would have on her subjects. She must amuse herself during the journey. She considered the men who were accompanying her and her mother: the Cardinal of Bourbon and the Duke of Montpensier, both kinsmen of her husband’s; the one was, too old, the other too fanatically Catholic to make a good lover. There was Gui de Faur and the Sieur de Pybrac. She stopped there, for although Pybrac was a serious young man, he was quite handsome. He was perhaps too serious to contemplate becoming Margot’s lover, but why should she not enthral him, lure him from his seriousness? It was absurd for such a young man—when he was tolerably handsome—to think that nothing’existed beyond his work as her Chancellor.

It was always a delight to have a pen in her hand, so she wrote to him immediately, purely on state matters, for she realized that she must go slowly with Monsieur de Pybrac.

Catherine in her litter was a little sad. The rigours of such a journey brought home to her the fact that she was growing too old for such an undertaking. Completely unsympathetic with the sufferings of others, she determined to master her own. Previously she had been able to ignore her minor ailments; but it was not so easy now. Her rheumatism came regularly with the winter, and she could not laugh at it as she had once done. ‘Oh, that,’ she had said. ‘That is my rente. It comes regularly with the first cold winds.’ But now it compelled her attention, and it was often too painful to allow her to walk, so that sometimes she must ride on a mule. This made her laugh, for she knew that, being far too fat and heavy for the creature, she made a comic figure; but she was always ready to laugh at herself. ‘I look like fat old Marechal de Cossé now,’ she declared. ‘I wish my son, the King, could see me, for there is nothing in the world I should like to hear so much as his laughter.’

She worried about Henry. What was he doing now? She longed to see him. Had she been wise to leave him? What was Henry of Guise planning? Was that League of his becoming too powerful? She did not trust her son-in-law. She had with her a goodly band of men, all of whom would work for her son, she was sure. She had several members of her Escadron with her, whom she could use to good purpose. If only she could trust her daughter to work for her! But how could one trust Margot? She seemed to have little desire but to intrigue with her lovers. She was doubtless planning a campaign of love at this moment.

And that indeed was the case. Margot had received a fulsome note from Pybrac in which he declared that his one desire was to serve his mistress.

That letter was a delight to Margot. She wrote back telling him how she admired him. She hinted that he might become something more personal to her than her Chancellor if he cared to do so.

When Pybrac received this letter that modest young man was terrified. He had heard many tales of his wayward mistress, but he had not believed that such a brilliant creature could look his way. That letter which he had written to the Queen, he had written as a servant, not as a lover. He remembered what had happened to another lover of Margot’s, the Comte de la Mole. It was not for such as himself to venture so far into that dangerous orbit.

He therefore did not answer that warm, inviting letter of hers, and when she demanded to know why, he wrote that he had not intended his letter to be taken as a love letter; he had written in an exaggerated manner, it was true, but he explained that the fashion in letter-writing was exaggerated, and he merely followed the style of the day. When he had said he loved her, it was as his Queen; when he said he had wished to serve her, it was purely in the role of Chancellor. He craved her pardon for not replying at once to her letter, but he had been ill and unable to do so.

When Margot received this letter she was furious. She could not believe that anyone, whom she had selected for a lover, could refuse her. Impetuously, without waiting to consider the justice due to Pybrac, she wrote to him:

‘There is no use to excuse yourself on the score of illness for not answering my letter. I suspect that this illness and the responsibility of handling my seals, have damaged your health. I, my dear Pybrac, am as concerned for your health as you for mine, so I am asking you to return my seals.’

After that rebuff Margot was a little subdued; she wondered whether she was going to enjoy her new life; she was already thinking regretfully of the Paris court where men’s manners were as elegant as their clothes; she thought of her boorish husband and she thought of Henry of Guise.

Then she wept a little and looked through her tears at the magnificence of her litter.

‘If they had let me marry the man I loved,’ she muttered, ‘what a different life mine wquld have been! As it is, I am the most unfortunate Princess that ever lived!’

Navarre was exhilarated by the prospect of seeing Margot again. Trouble-maker she certainly was, but she never failed to amuse him. He was fully aware that the object of this visit was to spy upon him, and so he was not unprepared for that.

Margot herself was not so eager for the meeting. She had agitated for it when she was in Paris because she was always driven by a desire to make things happen, and a journey through France had seemed an exciting project. But now that it was all but completed, she was wondering again and again how she was going to adjust herself to the humbler court of her husband when she was already beginning to feel homesick for the French court. She was still suffering from the slight which her ex-Chancellor had given her, and she was realizing that she bad been foolish to demand his resignation from office, because it was generally known for what reason the efficient young man had been dismissed.

She was feeling indisposed, she said when they were nearing Toulouse, and not well enough to accompany her mother to the meeting-place; she would, therefore, take a short rest, and, with her attendants, come along afterwards.

Navarre looked for her in vain, while Catherine embraced him and congratulated him on his healthy looks. In his blunt Bearnais way he told her that she was not looking as well as when he had last seen her, and he trusted that the journey had not been too strenuous for her. He looked at her with that shrewd twinkle in his eyes and added that he greatly appreciated the honour of her coming, but he feared the journey might have taxed her strength and he hoped that she would not undertake too much during her stay in his dominions.

‘Ah,’ responded Catherine, ‘I have come merely to chaperone my daughter and to admire your scenery, which is superb.’

He then asked for his wife and was told of Margot’s indisposition.

‘Then, Madame,’ he said, ‘you will forgive me if I ride to her. I long to see her.’

Catherine gave her permission, for she guessed that if she did not he would ride off without it.

He came unceremoniously to Margot’s lodgings and found her with her women, trying on a new gown.

He picked her up and gave her two noisy kisses. Margot wrinkled her nose; he smelt none too sweet, and she saw at once that a certain deterioration had taken place in his ap- pearance and manners since he had left the French court.

I was not expecting you,’ she said coldly. ‘Did you not hear that I was indisposed?’

Your indisposition would be blooming health to most, my dear wife. I doubted not that the indisposition was some new-fashioned Paris custom.’

She was aware of the old resentment; yet with it was mingled a faint attraction; his bluntness was piquant after the meaningless compliments of court gallants.

‘More beautiful than ever!’ he cried. ‘I have thought a good deal of you, Margot.’

‘And of others. We at court hear of the doings at Béarn, you know.’

‘Wherever I go there is news! Thus it is to be a King.’ ‘Wherever you go there is scandal.’

‘Not a quarrel already! Come, I will ride with you to Toulouse.’

She was not really displeased; it flattered her to think that he had ridden to meet her.

‘You must have behaved in a most ungallant manner to my mother,’ she said.

‘It was you I came to meet, not your mother.’

But later she was not so pleased with him. To see him in his native setting was to discover that while he had been at the court of France, he had been behaving, according to his lights; in a most elegant fashion. Now that he was in his own country he felt that he could be natural and proceeded to be so, to the horror of Margot and her mother and those accustomed to the Paris court. In some ways he had become like a Bearnais peasant; he mingled with the humble people of his towns and villages; he used coarse oaths; and it seemed that he had nothing to recommend him to a fastidious Princess but his wit and his shrewdness.

When she reached the court of Nérac, Margot soon learned that her husband’s favourite mistress was a certain Fleurette, the daughter of one of his gardeners. This girl was brought into the palace when he required her; he could be heard coarsely whistling to her from a window, or seen indulging in horseplay in the gardens. Such conduct was extremely shocking to both Catherine and her daughter. He knew this, and it amused him to think of fresh ways of shocking them. He developed a passion—or pretended to—for Margot’s chambermaid; and he would stroll to the bakery in the town for a tender tête-à-tête with the boulangère, Pictone Pancoussaire.

Margot was so angry that she wanted to return to Paris at once. Indeed, this behaviour on the part of Navarre seemed as good an excuse as any. She knew that she would continue to feel out of place in this little court, which seemed barbaric when compared with the ceremonious state observed at the Louvre, Blois or Chenonceaux. But Catherine calmed her, refraining with an effort from reminding her daughter that this journey had not been made solely for Margot’s pleasure.

Catherine surveyed her band of ladies; they would very soon do their work. In the meantime let the boor of Béarn show them that he cared nothing for Paris manners and Paris ways. Let him frolic awhile with his little Fleurette and Picotine. It would not be for long. Dayelle had already lifted in admiration those beautiful almond-shaped eyes to the King of Navarre; and although he had pretended to be completely absorbed in his humble mistresses, he cast an occasional glance at the beautiful Greek. He was, Catherine reasoned, the son of Antoine de Bourbon and Jeanne of Navarre, so there must be some good taste in him. Catherine was confident that Dayelle—or, failing Dayelle, Madame de Sauves or one of her women—would lure the King away from his humble playmates in due course.

Catherine directed Margot’s attention to a man whom the latter had favoured a year or so before, when they were in Paris together. This was a handsome nobleman named du Luc. Margot was pleased to be entertained by this gentleman; and this, thought Catherine, would keep her satisfied at Nérac for a little while.

And Margot did become absorbed. She amazed her subjects, and it was only a few of the most puritanical who looked upon her as a wicked, brazen woman. Her delight in living captivated most of them, and now that she had a lover who satisfied her temporarily, this love of living was apparent to all. What did she care for the puritans? She cared only for those who admired her. She appeared in public dressed in gowns designed by herself—gowns which would have startled even the court of France. She appeared in red wigs, blonde wigs, and sometimes without a wig, showing her abundant dark hair, which was more beautiful than any wig. She danced in white satin, in purple velvet, in cloth of gold and silver; she favoured Spanish velvet the colour of carnations and had one gown of this material and colour which was weighed down with sequins. She adorned herself with jewels and plumes. She was the magnificent, the fantastic Queen of Navarre. Once she appeared at a function in a robe which had needed fifteen ells of fine gold material, while about her neck hung a rope of four hundred pearls. Diamonds sparkled in her hair, which was decorated with white feathers. She would put on a different personality with each dress. In the gold-thread gown she was all regal dignity; in carnation velvet she would dance madly and recklessly, sometimes with amorous glances at du Luc, sometimes with speculative ones at the handsome Henri de la Tour, the Vicomte de Turenne, who was beginning to interest her. She sang romantic ballads composed by herself; she showed the people of Nérac how to dance those dances which were fashionable in Paris—the Spanish pavana and the Italian corrente.

Her mother looked on, watching her daughter as well as Dayelle and Navarre.

Navarre himself was reluctantly fascinated by his wife. She could have used her influence with her husband had she wished. Ah, thought Catherine, if only she would obey me. If only she were a member of my Squadron! But Margot’s weakness in her mother’s eyes was her lack of any motive beyond the gratification of her sexual desires.

It was when Margot was in her apartments after that ball at which she had enchanted many in her carnation-coloured Spanish velvet, that Navarre came to her. She now seemed to him more attractive than any woman at his court. He was amused by Dayelle, who was obviously at the Queen Mother’s command, just waiting for him to notice her; but this wife of his, with her elegance, her arrogance and her sharp wit, he had to admit—while the most infuriating—was the most fascinating person he had ever met.

He decided to spend the night with her.

She raised her eyes slowly and looked at him with that haughty disdain to which he had become accustomed, and his desire for her faded and the impulse came to him to strike her. He was the King of Navarre, he would like to remind her; and though she was its Queen, her title came through him.

He sat on a stool, his knees apart, a hand on each knee.

She shuddered at this most inelegant attitude, and she noticed that his jacket was torn, and splashed with wine. No amount of jewels or ornaments could cover his slovenliness; and having other plans, Margot had no wish to entertain him tonight.

He dismissed her attendants and, when they had gone, he came over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened, wrinkled her nose, wondering when he had last washed. She could see the dirt under his nails; it seemed more noticeable than all the sapphires and rubies on his hands.

‘How delightful it is when Paris deigns to come to Nérac!’ he said.

‘I am glad that Your Majesty is pleased.’

He put his hand under her chin and, jerking it up, kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She was unresponsive. She had seen him make the same gesture that morning to Xaintes, her chambermaid.

‘You do not seem to like my kisses, Madame.’

‘Monsieur, I am not a chambermaid.’

‘Ah,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder, ‘you must not be jealous. What was that? A little frolic. Nothing more.’

‘Such frolics,’ she said, ‘might be conducted with a little secrecy, I suggest.’

‘In Paris perhaps, for in Paris everything is sham. Here in Nérac . . . if a King wishes to kiss a chambermaid, that is very pleasant . . . both for the King and the chambermaid.’

‘It is not so pleasant for the Queen.’

‘What! Can a Queen be jealous of a chambermaid?’

‘No, Monsieur, she cannot; but she can be sensitive of her dignity, of her honour.’

You think too much of dignity and honour. Come, do not sit there brooding. I would like to see you gay, as you were in the ballroom. You should not brood over a few kisses. You should not wonder whether I love too much these little friends of mine.’

‘I was not wondering that,’ she said.

‘What then? What did you wonder?’

‘When you last bathed.’

He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Bathed!’ he shouted. ‘Bathed! We do not bathe in Nérac.’

‘Nérac’s King certainly does not.’

She rose and walked away from him, looking superb, with her train of velvet sweeping behind her, and the flash of her eyes matching that of the diamonds in her hair.

‘We should get ourselves children,’ said Navarre. ‘Here we are . . . a King and a Queen . . . and no heir to offer Navarre. It cannot go on. I have many sons, many daughters; and not one heir to the throne of Navarre.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I agree,’ she said,’that that is a necessity.’

She was silent for a while. She did not believe that she could bear children. She thought of all the lovers she had known. . . and never a sign of a child from any of them. Henry of Guise was the father of a large family; and as Henry of Navarre had just said, he too had many children; but by Margot, who had had a thousand opportunities, not one had been conceived. Still she was young, and they needed an heir. She sighed, but made no attempt to hide her distaste.

‘Yes,’ she repeated at length, ‘it is a necessary duty. But first I must ask you to grant me a favour.’

‘Anything!’ he said. ‘Anything you ask. What is it?’

‘You will see. You need not look dismayed. I shall not ask you to change your faith again. No. But this is the smallest favour.’

She went to the door and called to one of her women. Navarre watched them, whispering together. Margot’s great attraction lay in her impetuous actions. The woman went away and Margot returned.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘I am impatient. What is this favour?’ ‘Simply this. It is that before you come nearer to me you will allow my woman to wash . . . at least your feet.’

He stared at her. ‘You call that a favour!’

‘I should not have asked any such favour of you, had I not been afraid that the odour of your feet would make me faint.’

He was angry. He thought of the ready surrender of the little Fleurette, who was so like her name; the thought of the eagerness of the boulangère. And this woman dared to tell him that he should wash his feet before he approached her!

‘Madame,’ he said, biting back his fury, ‘must I once more remind you that this is not the Louvre?’

‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you need not remind me. There is too much to remind me already.’

The woman had come in. She set the gold basin on the floor and stood waiting.

‘If,’said Margot, ‘you would rather the duty was performed by one of your gentlemen, please say so.’

For a few seconds Navarre was speechless. Then he turned to the woman. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.

She did not wait. She fled instantly.

Margot stood, drawn up to her full height, the velvet gown like a sheath of scarlet flame that enveloped her, her eyes flashing scorn, her lips mocking. You are dirty! said those eyes. You offend me.

He was half inclined to tear the scarlet velvet from her, to force himself upon her; but his anger was short-lived, like all his emotions, and it was already failing.

He stooped, picked up the bowl, and threw it at the hangings. Then he began to laugh.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘shall I perfume myself? Shall I repose on black satin sheets? Shall I bathe in asses’ milk? Shall I become as one of the mignons of the King of France?’ He began to mince about the room. ‘Oh, smell my feet! Are they not enchanting? This new perfume comes from René, the Queen Mother’s poisoner.’

His anger had not entirely left him and he turned on Margot. ‘Madame, I would have you know that I am the King in this realm. If I do not wish to wash my feet, then unwashed feet shall be the order of the day. You will like my unwashed feet, as you like your brother’s scented ones. Madame, here in Béarn, we are men, not popinjays! Do I ask you to give up your baths . . . your milk baths that make your skin so white? No, I do not! Then I beg, of you, do not ask me to follow a decadent fashion of your brother’s crazy court.’

‘I only ask it,’ said Margot, ‘if you wish to come near me. The dirt and sweat of your body is so precious to you, I do not ask you to part with it . . . so long as you do not bring it near me.’

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘the price you ask is too big a one for something which I do not greatly care whether I possess or not.’

And with that he left her and went to Dayelle. Margot was pleased. She retired to her private apartments and sent one of her women with a message to du Luc, who had had the gallantry, the chivalry, to bring the manners and customs of the Louvre to Nérac.

During her stay in the dominions of her son-in-law, Catherine felt a return of her old strength. Her rheumatism worried her, but her spirits were better. She had come in order to discover what Navarre was doing in his realm so far from the court of France; to see what resources he had at his disposal; to set her Escadron loose among his ministers that they might worm out their secrets; she had come ostensibly to make peace between the King of Navarre and the King of France, to call at Nérac a council of Huguenots and Catholics, and to make one more attempt to settle their differences. She fancied she had had some success. Like a chameleon, she changed colour according to her immediate background. Here, in the Huguenot stronghold, her sympathies were for the Huguenots. She even learned to speak in the simple phraseology which these people favoured, suppressing the extravagant, flowery language which was the fashion at the court of France. There were times when this would become too much for her sense of the ridiculous, and she would shut herself in her apartments with her women, where they would amuse themselves by talking what she called ‘le langage de Canaan’, exaggerating the puritan speech, introducing into it a touch of ribaldry which would set Catherine laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks. But the next day she would greet the Huguenots calmly and, without a twitch of her lips, address them in their simplified form of language as though it came as naturally to her as to them.

Were these people beginning to forget the rumours they had heard of her? Were they beginning to trust her? The massacre of St Bartholomew was like a black shadow behind her. Could they ever forget it?

Margot was now deeply involved with Turenne. Ah, if Margot could be induced to pay more attention to politics than love, what an ally she would have been! Turenne was—next to Navarre—the most important man at the court of Navarre. He was the nephew of Montmorency and Navarre’s kinsman and chief counsellor. He was an amorous man and, but for his preoccupation with Margot, Catherine could have set one of her Escadron to seduce him. Never, thought Catherine, did a Queen possess such a perverse daughter.

The months went by, and during them Catherine thought continually of the King of France; there were times when her longing to be with him was intense and her only solace was to express her feelings in her correspondence. To her trusted friend, Madame d’Uzes, whom she had left at the court as her spy, to keep her informed of the King’s actions, she wrote: ‘Give me news of the King and Queen. I envy you the joy of seeing them. I have never been so long without that happiness since he was born; for when he was in Poland, it was only for eight months, and now already seven and a half have gone and it will be full two months before this boon is granted me.’

The meetings of Huguenots and Catholics continued and some agreement was reached. She had Navarre’s assurance that he wished to keep his wife with him; and Margot had said that she would stay in her husband’s kingdom. So now Catherine was ready to return to Paris.

Navarre was satisfied by the agreement he had made with the King of France through the Queen Mother. Huguenots and Catholics were now more or less of equal standing in France; nineteen towns had been made over to the Huguenots. Catherine was leaving, and that delighted him, for he neither liked nor trusted his mother-in-law; she was taking Dayelle with her, and Dayelle had been a charming mistress, but he had for some weeks had his eye on a frail and delicate creature—a Mademoiselle de Rebours, who seemed different from any woman he had loved before, as he usually chose them for healthy looks which matched his own. No, he had few regrets when he contemplated the departure of the Queen Mother.

As for Margot she was so deeply absorbed in her love affair with the handsome Turenne that she had forgotten her longing for Paris. And so, unregretted, Catherine began her journey northwards.

But her troubles were not over. There had been an attempted rising against the crown in Saluces, a town of some importance because of its position on the borders of France and Italy. A certain Bellegarde, who was the Governor of the dominion of Saluces, had descended on the capital town and fortified it against the French.

Catherine was travelling through Dauphine when she heard this news, and she summoned Bellegarde to her there; but he ignored the summons; she then ordered the Duke of Savoy to bring the man to her; and after an irritating delay of weeks, during which her desire to see the King made her both uneasy and depressed, the man was brought to her.

With the Cardinal of Bourbon at her side, she received Belle-garde and the Duke of Savoy.

She talked sadly to them of the virtues of the King, of all he had done for his subjects; she spoke of the shock it was to her to discover that there were those who did not appreciate his goodness. She wept a little. She brought out her favourite fiction: ‘Who am I but a weak woman? What can I say to you? How can I deal with traitors?’

Bellegarde was so overcome by her tears and her eloquence that he wept with her; but when she asked him what he intended to do about the dominion of Saluces, he talked at length of the religious differences between the people of that town and the court of France, and he stressed his opinion that the will of the people must be taken into account. He could not be held responsible for what had happened, he told Catherine; the people had simply chosen him as their mouthpiece because he was their Governor.

‘Monsieur,’ said Catherine, no longer the weak widow, have come to settle this matter and nothing more. I shall not leave this town—nor shall you—until you have sworn an oath of allegiance to the King. If you will not do so . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders and gave him the full force of one of those quiet smiles which had never failed to terrify all those on whom they were bestowed.

The outcome of his interviews with the Queen Mother was that Bellegarde, in the presence of the council, vowed his allegiance to the King. But Catherine was not satisfied with this man’s conduct. She kept him surrounded by spies, and nothing he said or did was allowed to go unnoticed.

‘I do not trust a man who has betrayed his King,’ she said to the Cardinal of Bourbon. ‘It is never wise to do so.’

She certainly did not trust Bellegarde. He died quite suddenly one night. There had seemed nothing wrong with him on the previous day and he had eaten a hearty supper and drunk his share of wine.

Catherine was now free to go back to her son.

She shed real tears of joy when once more she held his scented body in her arms.

It did not take Catherine long to realize that while she had been away time had not stood still at the court of France; and she began to wonder whether she could not have been better employed by staying at court than effecting a peace between Huguenots and Catholics and patching up a marriage, the parties of which were two such feckless and immoral people that they had no more hope of achieving happiness together than had the Huguenots and Catholics.

She was greatly disturbed by the activities of one man about whom she feared she had not thought sufficiently during the months she had been absent. It was never wise to forget the existence of the Duke of Guise.

The Catholic League, she discovered, had grown enormously since she had left Paris. It was spreading its roots all over the country, and offshoots were springing up in most towns. It was supported by Spain and Rome. What was the object of this League? Not quite what it professed, she was sure. It was reputed to be endeavouring to bring comfort to the multitude, but Catherine suspected that its real object was to bring power to one man.

She had found that the extravagances of the King were as great as ever. Joyeuse and Epernon were now his chief darlings. Joyeuse was but a simpering fool; but she was not sure of Epernon. Henry had made gifts to his friends of hundreds of his abbeys, and these places were now mainly in the hands of people who should have had no connexion with them at all. The Battus paraded the streets with their fantastic processions; and the King’s banquets had become more preposterously extravagant.

Catherine was terrified, too, of what her younger son, Anjou, would do next; and when Queen Elizabeth declared to Simiers, who was now in England trying to persuade the Queen to a French marriage, that she would not marry a man whom she had not seen, Catherine felt it was a Heaven-sent opportunity to rid France of the mischievous youth; and, if Elizabeth would be so benevolent as to keep him, she should have the sincere gratitude of his mother.

Anjou, looking for fresh adventures, was not averse to making the journey, and so, one day in June, he crossed the Channel and landed in England.

Catherine, with the aid of her spies, followed that most farcical of all courtships. She knew that Elizabeth was as shrewd as she was herself, but that the Englishwoman was possesed of many feminine qualities with which Catherine was not burdened. Catherine laughed to contemplate that other Queen, whose vanity she believed was her most powerful characteristic. She knew of the coquetting with Leicester, who, in despair of ever marrying the Queen and becoming King of England, had recently married the Countess of Essex in secret. Simiers and his spies had, on Catherine’s orders, brought this about by assuring Leicester that the French match was further advanced than he knew, and that he had no prospect of marrying the Queen, since she had decided on the Duke of Anjou.

As for her son’s method of courting the woman who was forty-six while he was only twenty-five, she left that to him; he was, after all, very experienced in the ways of making love.

So Anjou went in disguise to Greenwich Palace, asked permission to see the Queen, and when it was granted—for she was well aware who her visitor was—threw himself at her feet murmuring that his admiration rendered him speechless.

Elizabeth found this method of approach romantic and enchanting, although it set her countrymen jeering at French habits and customs. She confided to her ladies—and this was brought back to Catherine—that he was far less ugly than she had been led to believe. His nose was big, admitted the Queen of England, but all the Valois had big noses, and she had not expected his to differ very much from those belonging to other members of his family; if his skin was pitted by the smallpox, she was prepared for that; he was small, it was true, but that merely made her feel tender towards him. She liked his fancy manners; he was bold, but she liked his boldness; and he could dance more daintily than any English courtier.

Catherine knew that the red-headed Queen was making secret fun of her suitor, just as her subjects did. In the streets young gallants and even apprentices would affect mincing manners as they walked, deliberately provoking the onlookers to laughter; these young men had taken to exaggerated fashions, copied, they said, from ‘Mounseer’—as they called Anjou—and his pretty entourage. Catherine knew that once Anjou realized that he was being made fun of, he would be furious; but apparently the dry-humoured English had managed to keep this from him.

The Queen petted him as she might have petted a monkey; she made him appear with her in public; she called him her ‘little frog’.

She knew, of course, that her actions were being watched. She was coquettish and vain enough to wish to be courted by the quaint ‘Mounseer’, but at the same time she had an eye for the advantages and the disadvantages of such a match. A Protestant Queen of forty-six to marry a Catholic Prince of twenty-five! It was not the most satisfactory match she could have made, but as long as her ministers dissuaded her, she was ready to view it with favour, simply because she wished to keep the young man gallantly dancing attendance on her as long as possible.

Catherine had seen a copy of the letter the great Sir Philip Sydney had written to the Queen concerning this marriage. It was daring, and as she read it, Catherine wished she could have asked Sir Philip to dine with her. He would not long have survived that meal.

Most beloved, feared, most sweet and gracious Sovereign. How the hearts of your people will be galled—if not alienated—when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a Papist, in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of that Jezebel of our age—that his brother made oblation of his own sister’s marriage, the easier to make massacre of our brethren in religion. As long as he is Monsieur in might and a Papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you; and if he grow to be a King, his defences will be like Ajax’ sword, which rather weighed down than defended those that bare it.’

This letter the Queen of England received, and Catherine understood that she seemed to consider it with the utmost seriousness. But a man of Lincoln’s Inn, a certain Stubbs, who had dared to make a written protest, who had insulted the young suitor by calling him ‘unmanlike and unprincelike’, was very severely punished by having his right hand cut off; and this fate also befell the man who had published what Stubbs had written.

Catherine studied the printed matter which had cost these men their hands. ‘This man is a son of Henry the Second,’ it ran, ‘whose family, ever since he married Catherine of Italy, is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been one after the other as a Domitian after a Nero. Here is therefore an imp of the crown of France to marry with the crowned nymph of England.’

It was typical of the Queen of England that she should have these men punished while she seriously considered the words of Sir Philip Sydney. Perhaps her real reason for pretending to be so enchanted by the prospect of the match was because she wondered what the reactions of France, Spain and Rome would be if she refused it.

So she kept her young suitor at her side, first behaving like an affianced bride, then drawing back in an assumption of maidenly modesty which was ridiculous in a woman of her age whose reputation, in spite of her unmarried state, was not without tarnish; she had made for her a jewelled ornament in the shape of a frog on which she bestowed much tenderness; she lowered her sandy lashes over her too-shrewd eyes, now eager, now reluctant, while she waited for the moment when it would be opportune to send her suitor back where he belonged.

At length, sighing deeply and assuring the Duke of Anjou that a Queen’s heart was not her own to give away, she told him that since the Protestants of England and the Catholic Guisards of France did not wish for the marriage—and as her aim was to keep peace between quarrelsome people—reluctantly, oh, most reluctantly, she must let her dear little frog go. She made him a loan of money for his campaign in Flanders. bade him a fond farewell, and sent him across the Channel in the company of Leicester.

Those two Queens, Catherine and Elizabeth—the two most forceful personalities of their age—knew then that the French-English marriage would never take place. Catherine was angry. The English woman had fooled her. But the two Queens continued to exchange friendly letters, with distrust and hatred for each other in their hearts.

Trouble came, and it blew with the winds from Béarn. For what else could one hope, Catherine asked herself, from that storm-centre—Queen Margot?

Margot was in fact reconciled to life in her new kingdom. This was partly due to that most satisfactory of lovers, the Count of Turenne. As he was the chief minister of the kingdom, and the King’s first counsellor, there were political schemes in plenty in which Margot might share. She had had many a skirmish with Navarre’s mistress, Mademoiselle de Rebours, a most unattractive creature, according to Margot. The thin, sickly woman was not of the kind to retain the position of King’s mistress for long, and since she had made it her pleasure to proclaim herself an enemy of the Queen, Margot did not intend that she should. During brief lulls in her love-making with Turenne, they discussed together the deposition of this frail girl who had the King’s ear at the moment.

Turenne brought to Margot’s notice a young girl who was not yet fifteen—a delightful, simple creature—Françoise, the daughter of Pierre de Montmorency, the Marquis of Thury and Baron de Fosseux. She lived with her father at Nérac, and Turenne had noticed her during her childhood. He felt that such a girl would be irresistible to the King—young, fresh, charming and healthy. She would provide such a change from Mademoiselle de Rebours, and surely the King must be growing tired of that one’s vapours!

‘When we go to Nérac,’ said Margot, ‘we must bring the little Fosseuse to his notice.’

Opportunity favoured them. When the court left Pau for Nérac, Mademoiselle de Rebours was too ill to accompany it. Navarre left her with tears and protestations of fidelity, but at Nérac the little Fosseuse was waiting for him, and, face to face with such charm and youthful innocence, it was not difficult for Henry of Navarre to forget those vows of fidelity which he had made so many times before and to so many different women. Within a few days he declared himself the slave of his new playmate.

Margot and Turenne sighed with relief. Fosseuse was a sweet child who knew that she owed her advancement to the Queen and the Queen’s lover. She was wise enough to suspect that if she wished to keep her high place it would be as well to keep also in the good graces of those two; and this she did to the complete satisfaction of all concerned.

At this time, Margot wrote in her memoirs: ‘Our court is so fine and pleasant that we do not envy that of France. My husband is attended by as fine a troupe of lords and gentlemen, folks as seemly and gallant as I ever met at court; and there is nothing to regret in them expect that they are Huguenots. But of that diversity of religion one hears no one speak. The King and his sister go on one side to the preaching, and my retinue to Mass in a chapel which is in the park; after which we all meet and walk together in the very fine gardens with their long paths, edged with laurels and cypresses, or in the park which I have caused to be laid out, along paths stretching for three thousand paces beside the river; and the rest of the day we spend in all sorts of seemly pastimes, the ball usually taking place in the afternoon and evening.’

Some of the Huguenots were not so content. Their Queen, they murmured, had brought vices to their court. She had grafted on to the pure tree the fruit of Babylon.

Margot shrugged, elegant shoulders. She was happy; she was on moderately good terms with her husband; she had found a means of having her own way with him through La Fosseuse; her mild sister-in-law, Catherine, gave her little trouble; Mademoiselle de Rebours had completely lost her power; and Monsieur de Turenne continued to please.

This paradise was invaded by couriers from Paris. Her brother’s hatred had followed Margot to Nérac.

Neither side was very pleased with the peace which the Queen Mother had taken such pains to bring about. The king of France suspected his, sister of being an evil influence at the court of Nérac; he was now wishing that he had never allowed her to join her husband, and was seeking means of having her brought back. His couriers, therefore, brought letters to Navarre telling him that evil stories were circulating in France concerning the Queen of Navarre; in these were related the scandalous behaviour of that lady, who was, it was said, now deep in amorous intrigue with the Count of Turenne; it was hinted that these two not only made immoral love, but dangerous plots.

When Navarre read these documents, he laughed. He was less satisfied than the King of France with the peace which had been made. He was ready, therefore, to allow hostilities to break out once more in the hope that a new peace might be made.

He called Margot and Turenne to him and, assuming an air of mock-horror, he showed them the slander which the King of France had written of them.

The two lovers were prepared to defend themselves, but they soon realized that there was no need to do that. Navarre, showing quite clearly that he believed all the French King had said, asked mockingly: ‘How can a man allow such things to be said of his virtuous wife? This is an insult which can only be answered with the sword.’

Turenne agreed with the King that the terms of peace were not satisfactory; and Margot agreed with her lover. In a very short time there was again war between Huguenots and Catholics—a war which the people of France, who had few illusions as to its real cause, ironically named LaGuerre des Amoureux.

In Paris, Catherine watched events with increasing gloom, for during that war Navarre proved himself to be a fighter who would have to be reckoned with in the future. One by one towns fell before him; it soon became apparent that he could win this Lovers’ War. It was doubly gratifying, in view of this, to note that he had not left his follies behind him. He was so enamoured of that silly child, the little Fosseuse—barely in her mid-teens—that on the brink of victory he would leave the field because the desire to be with her was urgent and immediate, and of greater importance to him than victory over the armies of the King of France. Again and again he lost his chances, merely by throwing them away. For one thing, he declared Nérac neutral; and to this the Catholic party had agreed, providing Navarre should not return to it while the war was in progress; but Fosseuse was at the Château of Nérac, and when Navarre desired his mistress, nothing else was of any importance at all. On one occasion when it was discovered that Navarre had broken his word and was actually in the castle, cannon shots were fired into it. Margot was furious at her husband’s folly, but Navarre only laughed. This was fair play, he insisted, and he was ready to take the consequences. He was with his beloved Fosseuse: he was ready to risk his castle for that satisfaction. Only the great skill of his soldiers under his leadership saved the castle on that occasion.

From this it was easy to see that Navarre, although a brave man and a commander of genius, was yet completely the thrall of his own sensuality. Catherine fervently hoped that he would continue to be so bound; the weaknesses of others added greatly to her own strength, and it was gratifying to contemplate that, but for this foible of the King of Navarre, the war might have had disastrous effects on the King of France. As it was, hostilities dragged on for nearly a year and might have gone on longer had not Anjou suggested that through his friendship for his brother-in-law of Navarre he might be able to make the peace. Anjou was still obsessed by his dream of a French Empire, which he planned to bring about through a war in Flanders. It seemed to him absurd that Frenchmen should fight Frenchmen when they might fight foreigners to the glory of France. He set out for Nérac, where he was received with much affection by Margot and friendship by Navarre.

The Paix de Fleix was duly signed, but no one had much faith in these peace treaties now. There had been too many of them. They were flimsy, creaking bridges that linked one war with another.

Having arrived at Nérac, Anjou did not seem in any hurry to leave it. He declared himself to be enchanted with the place, but it soon became apparent that it was not the place which enchanted him so much as one of the ladies living there. Anjou seemed as determined to pursue trouble as Margot was; the lady he chose to honour with his devotion was none other than La Fosseuse, the King’s mistress.

This naturally proved very enlivening for the court. There was a return of that rivalry, that horseplay which the brothers-in-law had enjoyed in connexion with Madame de Sauves some years before. They both indulged in practical jokes on each other, and as before, these grew so wild that they bordered on the dangerous.

It was Margot who put a stop to this. She called her brother to her one day and talked to him with great earnestness. ‘Dearest brother,’ she said, ‘I know you love me.’

Anjou kissed her tenderly. He was very susceptible to flattery and admiration, and Margot had seen to it that he received these in great measure from her.

‘I would,’ she continued, ‘that your love for me was of such magnitude that it transcended that which you bear for all others.’

‘Dearest and most beautiful sister, why should you wish for what is already yours? There is no one whom I adore and admire as I do my own beautiful sister.’

‘La Fosseuse?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘Dear Margot, that is indeed love . . . but a passing love. But for you, my love is eternal.’

She embraced him, lavishing caresses upon him. ‘That delights me. Now I know that you will listen to my advice. You are wasting your time here, dearest brother. You are a great general. In your hands lies the glory of France. You should seek an Empire, not a woman.’

Margot enjoyed playing on his susceptibilities; she made him see himself as the empire-builder, the future King of France, the greatest King that France had ever had. And so well did she do this that, not long after that conversation, he was taking a regretful leave of Fosseuse; duty called him, he explained; he was a man with a mission.

He left Nérac and eventually arrived in Flanders, where he collected an army and entered Cambrai; but as usual he had planned without caution, and Philip of Spain had not been idle. In a few months Anjou found himself in a precarious position, faced by the might of Spain and without money to continue the campaign. Defeated, he went to England, begged Elizabeth for a loan which she granted, and returned to make war in Flanders.

But his departure from Nérac meant only temporary peace for those of that court.

La Fosseuse had become enceinte. This irritated Margot for two reasons; first that the King’s mistress could produce a child while his wife could not; secondly, the meek little girl changed with pregnancy and did not remain meek; she was no longer content to take orders from the Queen. Moreover, Mademoiselle de Rebours, disgruntled at having lost the King’s favour and blaming Margot for this, seized upon every opportunity for spreading scandal about both the Queen and La Fosseuse.

If it became known throughout the country that a daughter of the great House of Montmorency was about to bear the King’s bastard, there would be—particularly in certain Huguenot quarters—a great deal of shocked dissatisfaction. In view of this, Margot decided to take matters into her own hands, as she said, for the good of all concerned.

She commanded Fosseuse to come to her, and when the girl stood before her, she looked at her with kindness and said: ‘my dear Fosseuse, this thing has come about and it is no use blaming anyone for it. We must do our best to keep it quiet. As you know, it would do the King’s cause much harm throughout the land if it were known that you were to bear this bastard. The Huguenots are puritans and they do not like what they call immorality among their leaders. For the King’s sake and your own, since it is not suitable for a daughter of your house to bear a child while still unmarried, I offer you this solution: I propose to take you with me to our very secluded estate of Mas Agenais, which, perhaps you do not know, lies on the Garonne between Marmande and Tonneins. There you shall have the child in great quietness and no one will be any the wiser. I suggest that when the King and the court leave for a hunting party, we accompany them part of the way; then you and I with our ladies and attendants, will leave the King’s party for Mas Agenais.’

La Fosseuse listened to this suggestion and lifted suspicious eyes to the face of the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici.

‘Madame,’ said Fosseuse, ‘nothing would induce me to accompany you and your friends to a quiet spot.’

And with that she curtsied, and, leaving the Queen, went straight to her lover. When he saw how distraught she was, he demanded to know what had happened.

‘It is the Queen,’ said Fosseuse. ‘She plans to murder me.’

‘How so?’ demanded Navarre angrily. It seemed to him, as it did to his mistress, possible that the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici would plan to eliminate those she wished out of the way.

‘She proposes a hunting party on which we shall all set out; then she and her women will take me to a secluded chateau where I shall stay with them until my child is born. I will not go. I know that she intends to murder me.’

‘Ventre-saint-gris!’ cried the King. ‘I believe she would try it too. Don’t fret, my love. You shall not go with her.’

He strode to Margot’s apartments. She was reclining on a couch, and she turned and looked at him with haughty dignity, moving her head elegantly to one side in a mute plea that he should not come too near her; since she had asked him to wash his feet, he had taken a great delight in them. He would sit smiling at them—and she believed he had not yet washed them.

‘So,’ he said, ignoring one or two of her attendants, ‘you follow your mother.’

She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

‘See here, Madame,’ he cried, ‘enough of those haughty looks! What is this about taking Fosseuse off to a lonely spot to murder her?’

‘I do not understand why my offer of help should be construed as intent to murder,’ said Margot.

‘You . . . help her?’

‘Why not? Your Huguenots will not be pleased when they hear about the bastard. I remember your father’s plight when his mistress bore him a child. We Catholics are more broadminded, you know. A little confession . . . and we are forgiven. But you chose the more rigorously righteous religion. I merely wished to help you and Fosseuse.’

‘By murdering her?’

Margot shrugged her shoulders. ‘Very well. I withdraw my offer. If you insist on leading an immoral life you cannot hope to do so in secret. You must be exposed to your righteous followers.’

‘You dare to talk to me of leading an immoral life!’

‘At least there are not these sordid complications in mine.’ ‘Do not boast of your barrenness.’

‘I have no cause to be ashamed of unpleasant consequences. I am sorry I offered to help. I merely thought that, as the reputation of this court is as dear to me as to you, I might help in this matter. That is all.’

‘How would you help?’ he demanded. ‘Did your mother leave you a selection of her morceaux when she was here?’

Margot reached for a book and began to read. Her husband stood staring at her in angry silence for a few seconds; then he strode out.

He was worried. He was anxious that his Huguenot friends should not be too scandalized, and it was a fact that these self-righteous people did not so much object to secret immorality in itself; it was when it was exposed that they held up their hands in horror; but he was still enamoured of his little Fosseuse and he did not want her to be neglected.

The weeks went by; it was now impossible to ignore the condition of the King’s mistress. Navarre began to feel that he might have been rash to neglect Margot’s offer of help.

He came to her when she lay in bed, and, drawing aside her curtains, assumed a humble air.

‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘I wish you to look after Fosseuse.

‘I can do nothing in that matter,’ she said with pleasure.

‘There was a time when I offered my assistance, but it was most churlishly refused. I will have nothing to do with the matter now.’

He caught her wrist and looked at her menacingly. ‘You will obey my commands,’ he said.

Margot was not displeased. She and Turenne greatly desired to have charge of Fosseuse, and she made up her mind there and then that she would carry out her original plan; but she must exploit the situation; she must have a little fun with Navarre to punish him for his recent rejection of the help she had offered. She wished to refuse, and be persuaded. So now she tossed her head.

‘Monsieur, you ask me, a Princess of France, your Queen, to act as midwife to your slut of a mistress!’

‘Why have you become so dignified? A few weeks ago, my dear Princess of France, my Queen of Navarre, you were asking for the privilege of acting as midwife to my mistress.’

‘My kind heart got the better of my good sense,’ she said.

‘Your kind heart will have to repeat its action, my dear.’

‘You insult me.’

‘Then it is no more than you deserve. You will take care of Fosseuse.’

‘I will do nothing of the sort.’

He caught her by the shoulder, but something in her expression set him laughing. She had great difficulty in steadying her own expression.

‘You are the most maddening woman in France,’ he said.

‘And you, Monsieur, are the crudest, coarsest, most hateful . . .’

He shook her and kissed her; and they were both laughing together.

‘No one amuses me as you do,’ he said. ‘It is a pleasant thing to be amused. If you were less immoral, I could easily love you.’

‘Alas!’ sighed Margot. ‘If you were a little cleaner in your personal habits I could love you.’

‘If you took fewer lovers . . .’

‘And you took an occasional bath . . .’

They laughed again and she said: ‘Enough of this folly. You need have no fear. I will look after the girl.’

‘My sweet Margot!’

He would have embraced her, but she drew back. He looked down at his feet and let out a great roar of laughter.

‘So much do I admire you,’ he said, ‘that I shall now leave you. Tell Turenne that he takes so many baths of late that he reminds me of one of the dandies of the Louvre, and nothing . . . nothing on this Earth . . . would induce me to follow his example.’

Later Margot discussed the situation with Turenne.

‘This will be the end of Fosseuse, my dear. She will regret showing her insolence to me.’

‘What do you plan?’ asked her lover.

‘Ah, my dear! You too? Can you be thinking as those others thought? I see it in your eyes. You say to yourself: “This is the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici.” But I would not murder. In this case it would be folly. Now that the King has suffered so much anxiety over Mademoiselle de Fosseuse, he is already half out of love with her. He does not like to feel anxiety. After all, it is the duty of a King’s mistress to lure him from troubles, not to cause them. Fosseuse will come with me. I will take her away, and she will not see the King for some weeks . . . and during that time, you will make sure that he sees others. I think it may well be that our pretty little Fosseuse will find that someone else has taken her place when she returns to court. If this thing were bruited abroad, the King would be less pleased than ever. Why should it not be? It is ridiculous to try to keep such a matter secret. My darling, we cannot allow this girl, who has shown us how arrogant she can be, to work against us.’

Turenne agreed. The King must be provided with a new mistress, for it was obvious that La Fosseuse had reigned too long.

Margot managed the affair very satisfactorily, but Fate helped by allowing the child to be still-born. The King’s little affair was over, and so was the brief glory of the little Fosseuse, who, to her great chagrin, when she returned to the court, found that the King was amusing himself with several light love affairs; but as these proved to be nothing very serious, La Fosseuse tried to regain her position, and she might have done so but for the fact that Diane d’Andousins, the Countess of Gramont, whom Navarre had loved at the time of the Countess’ marriage when he was a boy of fourteen, had reappeared in his life. She was the Corisanda of his youth, and he was enchanted to find her more beautiful than he remembered her.

But the story of the King’s love affair with Mademoiselle de Fosseuse continued to live after that affair was over. It was discussed throughout the country, and the scenes which had taken place between the King and Queen of Navarre were exaggerated until it seemed that the court of France talked of nothing but the shameful lives lived by those two sovereigns.

The people in the streets talked of it. The Parisians shivered and starved while they grumbled and compared the misery of their lives with the wanton extravagance of those of the royal family.

Catherine had suffered a crushing blow through her old enemy Spain, and, as always at such times, she felt the need to act quickly and to neutralize those enemies nearer home, since there was little she could do to lessen the power of the great and perennial enemy.

It had been a tragic miscalculation on her part, and the King did not hesitate to remind her of this. He was falling so completely under the spell of Joyeuse and Epernon that all they suggested seemed right, and if it should happen to fail it immediately became, in his eyes, of no importance. But when the mother, who had sheltered him from babyhood, who had schemed to put him on the throne and keep him there, made an error of judgement, he was the first one to blame her.

The King of Portugal had died suddenly and there had been two men who laid claim to that throne; both of these claimants were the nephews of Philip of Spain—one named after his mighty uncle and the other Antonio. Then Catherine surprised everyone by declaring herself a claimant to this throne. The late King’s family, she announced, was illegitimate; and by delving into the past she found an ancestor of her own who had been connected with the Portuguese throne. Philip of Spain treated this with scorn, and Catherine, in high indignation and at a crippling expense to France, mustered a fleet to support her claim. The French were not good sailors; whereas the Spaniards were the greatest sailors in the world, with the exception of the English, and Catherine should have known that her men would have no chance against them. Her fleet was routed at Terceira, and those ships which did return home presented a miserable sight to all who saw them. Philip of Spain took the throne of Portugal for his namesake, and the people of France had yet another grievance against the King and his mother.

‘We have been taxed to starvation to pay for her follies. She murders the courtiers with poison and the people with starvation. How long shall we tolerate the Italian woman and her vile nest of vipers?’

Catherine would stand at the windows of the Louvre and look out; she would see the people huddled together, gesticulating; now and then one would turn towards the palace and shake a fist. She heard what they said as she mingled with them in the markets. ‘Jezebel . . . Queen Jezebel! Only you’d not find a dog to eat her flesh!’

They sang:

‘L’une ruyne d’Israel,

L’autre, ruyne de la France.’

But they sang it sullenly, not gaily; and it was that brooding sullenness which Catherine feared more than anything It was like a smouldering fire, she knew, ready to break into flames.

She must watch all her enemies. And what of those two at Nérac? What did they plot and plan?

She spoke to the King while he fondled his lap-dogs. ‘My son, we should have your sister back at court.’ The King looked at her in dismay. ‘It is much pleasanter without her.’

‘That may be, my darling. But how do we know what she is about while she is away from us?’

‘It is Navarre who is more to be feared than Margot.’

‘I am not sure. They are both dangerous. Ask them to pay us a visit. I should feel happier if they were here on the spot. I can find a woman for him, and you know that I have means of hearing most things that go on around me. It is not easy when they are so far away. Unfortunately, my listening tubes do not extend to Nérac.’

‘They would not come, even though I commanded them.’ ‘She would; and it might be possible to get her help in luring him here.’

‘Would you keep them prisoners here?’

‘I would see that he did not find it easy to escape again.’

‘But do you think she would come? Do you remember how importunate she was when she wished to get away?’

‘My dear son, Margot is never happy in one place for long at a time. She writes now that she has no news worthy of report, for Gascony grows news only like itself. By that she means that she longs for the court of France. She wants to hear about Paris. She only has to think of the Seine and her eyes fill with tears! Do you think any place but the court of France could please Margot long? Depend upon it, she now wishes to return as once she wished to go. We should have no difficulty in persuading her to return.’

‘But what of Navarre? Would he agree to her coming?’

‘If it were put to him as Margot would put it, he would agree. She would doubtless offer to act as his spy here at court. We should see all that she wrote to him. It would be our task to get her to lure him here. I will suggest that she comes. I am sure that she must be tired of Monsieur de Turenne; I am astonished that she was faithful to him for so long. What does the air of Béarn do to these two? Navarre was faithful to La Fosseuse until she wearied him with her troubles; and now they say he is showing the same fidelity to Corisanda. Oh, certainly Margot will have grown tired of Turenne ere this. That must be why she says Gascony grows only news like itself!’

Very well,’ said the King. ‘Ask them both to come. I should feel happier to have Navarre here as my prisoner.’

‘Send her a gift of money. Tell her that you would like to see her. Be warm and loving. I doubt not that then she will come.’

Catherine was right. Although Navarre refused his invitation bluntly, Margot was delighted with hers. Navarre reminded Margot that his mother had died in Paris, very suddenly, very mysteriously. ‘Remember Monsieur de Coligny,’ he said. ‘Remember hundreds of my friends who once went to Paris for a wedding.’

Margot lifted her shoulders. ‘It may be better for me to go alone. I will keep you informed of all that happens at court. It is well that you should know something of what they are planning.’

He agreed with this, and Margot made her preparations for the journey. There was a reason, other than boredom with her husband’s court and her distaste of staying too long in one place, why she wished to leave for Paris. When Anjou had stayed at Nérac there had been a very charming gentleman in his suite, a certain Jacques de Harlay, who was the Lord of Champvallon. Margot and he had been mutually attracted; there had been one or two tender meetings between them; unfortunately, they were surprised during one of these, in somewhat compromising attitudes, by Margot’s greatest enemy at the court—a sly and very virtuous Huguenot, Agrippa d’Aubigné. D’Aubigné, a gentleman of Navarre’s chamber, was as fond of writing as Margot was and, like her, took a great delight in chronicling the events of his day as they occurred. He knew his Scriptures well; he believed that he who was without sin should cast the first stone; and as he was certain that he himself was without sin, he had always a very big stone ready to cast. To such a man a beautiful, fascinating and vivacious Queen such as. Margot seemed the embodiment of all evil; his hatred of her coloured all his writings; nor was it his pen alone which he employed against her.

Margot at that time, deeply involved with Turenne, had no great wish to give him up for the handsome Champvallon, who would leave the court of Nérac with Anjou; but she wrote to him frequently and in a more hyberbolic style than she usually employed, even in her love letters. ‘Farewell, my beautiful sun, she wrote, ‘you beautiful miracle of nature. I kiss you a million times on that loving, beautiful mouth.’ Such letters did not always find their way direct to the one for whom they were intended, and Margot’s passion for Champvallon was known to others besides themselves.

Now, having tired a little of Monsieur de Turenne, Margot looked forward to reunion with Champvallon in Paris.

Arriving at the capital. Margot was warmly welcomed by Champvallon, but less warmly by the King and her mother. She saw now that they had asked her to come so that they might keep her under surveillance, and that they had no intention of altering their attitude towards her.

Margot was unperturbed. She was in her beloved Paris; she was at the court of France where she belonged; she took an immense delight in her surroundings and many of the courtiers were declaring that the sun had come back to shine once more upon them. She was the centre of all balls, masques, and entertainments; she was the leader of fashion; and as she was by this time passionately in love with Champvallon, she was enjoying life.

Sometimes she encountered Henry of Guise, and these meetings never failed to excite her. He was still the lover of Madame de Sauves, but Margot knew that his dreams of his future greatness occupied him far more than any mistress ever could. The League, under his guidance, was spreading across the land. There were occasions when she longed to ask him to tell her of the League’s activities, of his plans which, had they all gone as she had once so ardently desired, would have been her plans, her dreams, her hopes.

But there was Champvallon to remind her that she had done with the old passion for Henry of Guise. Why fret about it when there was a new one, and when there had been many in between, and would be many more to follow.

Catherine was urging Margot to persuade her husband to come to Paris, but Navarre sent continuous refusals. Catherine knew that as soon as Margot had arrived at court she had begun to act as her husband’s spy, but that had been expected and provided little occasion for anxiety, for Catherine believed she intercepted all their correspondence.

Margot had been some months at court when an incident occurred which aroused the King’s wrath to such an extent that he determined on revenge.

His beloved mignon, Joyeuse, had desired to become the Archbishop of Narbonne and envoy to the Holy See, and although this young man was not yet twenty-one years of age and was completely lacking in the necessary qualifications, he had so charmingly begged for the honour that the King had been unable to resist throwing it to him as though it were a sugared plum—even though it meant that the darling must absent himself from court for a while to visit Rome. While Joyeuse was in Rome, Henry sent dispatches to him, but the royal courier had been waylaid and shot, and these dispatches were stolen.

The King was furious, half suspecting his mother, for this smacked of her methods, yet he decided he would blame his sister, for he was looking for a charge to trump up against her.

He wished to take his revenge in a manner which would bring her the greatest shame, and, acting without consulting his mother, but taking instead the advice of his darlings, he chose the state ball as the occasion.

Margot looked as striking as ever that night; she wore her hair loose about her shoulders and adorned with diamonds; her dress was of scarlet velvet.

She was dancing when the King gave a sign to the musicians to stop. The dancers stood silent, wondering what was wrong. The King then strode to that spot where his sister stood.

‘Behold!’ he cried, addressing the assembly. ‘Behold this wanton! My friends, I am ashamed to own her as my sister. I could not begin to enumerate her crimes to you. There are too many, and I, mercifully, am unaware of them all. I might name forty men who have been her lovers . . . but, my friends, that would by no means complete the list. There is one Champvallon. Do you know that she bore his son recently here in Paris? This is so. With wicked secrecy she endeavoured to keep this from us, but we are not foolish, nor so blind as she thinks.’

Margot’s eyes blazed. ‘You . . .’ she cried. ‘You . . . with your painted mignons . . . to call me immoral . .

The King’s eyes narrowed, and Margot was aware that two of his mignons had taken their stand on either side of her. Beware! mocked their eyes. No one speaks to the King of France as you have . . . and lives!

Margot’s fear was greater than her fury. Never before had she realized the depth of her brother’s hatred. She had been foolish to plague his mignons, to show her enmity towards them. She saw now how right her husband had been when he had refused to walk into the trap by coming to Paris. She was sure this was a prelude to her arrest.

She looked appealingly at her mother.

Catherine stood silently watching. She was sick at heart. These children of hers, with their folly, were wrecking all that she had worked for. This story would be told all over the streets of Paris, distorted, enlarged; and the sum of the iniquities of the house of Valois would be totted up afresh, with the result that there would be a bigger total for the discontented to grumble over.

‘Brother,’ said Margot, ‘you have been listening to lies. I have no child.’

Her mother whispered to her: ‘Say nothing. Depart at once. Go to your apartments. It is your only chance if you would escape your brother’s anger.’

Margot bowed and, holding her head high, walked out while the assembly, in silence, made way for her.

Her women gathered round her in her apartments. What now? they asked each other.

Margot lay on her bed, apprehensive, yet enjoying, as usual, a dangerous situation; and, although the King had accused her of having an illegitimate child, and that news would soon be all over Paris, all over France, she was not entirely displeased. Her sterility—the result of the sins of her grandfathers—was deeply regretted by her; so, if she could not bear children, it was a little gratifying to be suspected of having done so.

Nothing more happened that night, but when she awakened it was to find sixty archers in her bedchamber. This was a meaningless indignity put on her by the King, for they had not come to arrest her, but merely to bring a message from him commanding her to ‘deliver the city of her presence without delay’.

As Champvallon, when informed of the scene in the ballroom during which his name had been mentioned, had fled to Germany fearing the vengeance of the King, Margot decided to obey her brother without delay, and accordingly set out that very day for Gascony.

The King came delightedly to his mother. ‘There, you see! I have rid our court of that spy, and done it promptly. As Ep. ernon said from the first, it was a mistake to bring her here.’

Catherine shook her head. ‘My son, how I wish that you would take my advice before you act rashly. It is far better to have such a dangerous person under our eyes than far away. And I greatly fear that your manner of dismissing her was most unwise.’

‘I am a man,’ said the King, ‘who, once he has made up his mind, acts promptly.’

‘Sometimes it is wiser to ponder awhile,’ said Catherine. ‘We shall see whether you were right or whether you should have taken my advice and acted more cautiously.’

Henry soon did see. Navarre, having heard of the King’s attack on Margot, sent dispatches to the King telling him that he could not be expected to take back a wife whom the King of France—her own brother—had so publicly slandered.

The fact was that Corisanda was pregnant and, being very eager to possess a son and heir to his dominions, the King of Navarre contemplated marrying her. He said in his dispatches that he thought he should receive reparation for the royal family’s having married him to such a woman. He wanted a divorce. What would Christendom say, he demanded, if he received a woman on whom the great King of France had inflicted such public scandal before banishing her from his court!

Catherine raised expressionless eyes to her son’s face; but the King ignored her and refused to admit that he had been wrong.

‘A curse on Navarre!’ he cried. ‘A curse on his harlot wife! There will be no peace for this realm while either of them live.’

‘She must go back to her husband,’ said Catherine. ‘What is done cannot be altered. My dearest son, those friends of yours advised you to behave as you did, not for the good of France, but on account of their own petty jealousy. You must not allow personal feelings to enter into the government of a country.’

He frowned. That was the most she dared say against his mignons. Meanwhile, she wondered how she could rid herself of those two, Epernon and Joyeuse, the most dangerous of them all. But so many of his mignons had died that she feared he would be suspicious of her if any further accidents overtook them; and she could not bear to lose that little affection, that little respect which he still had for her.

But she should rejoice. Such matters as this should prove to him that his mignons only led him into folly. It proved something else; it showed up clearly the growing shrewdness of Navarre.

Envoys were being sent back and forth between the courts of Paris and Nérac. The King of France was placating the King of Navarre. He was now weakly declaring that he had not meant what he had said regarding his sister, and that he had been misinformed; it was a fact, he realized, that very often virtuous Princesses were not exempt from slander.

Secure in his little kingdom, Navarre laughed with glee. Although he adored—for the time being—his beautiful Corisanda, and although she carried his child, he was not altogether sure that he wanted to lose Margot, that most amusing and amazing of women; and he might, if the King of France offered him big enough concessions, consider taking her back.

And at length he did agree to take her back, since, as the main concession, the King of France had withdrawn his Or risons from several towns close to Navarre’s domain.

Navarre laughed, well pleased. Margot’s trip to the court of France had been advantageous as well as highly diverting.

There was consternation throughout the Louvre and throughout Paris. In the court of Nérac there was such excitement as had rarely been known there before. Even the King of Navarre was silent, contemplating the future.

The Duke of Anjou had fallen seriously ill, and there was little hope of his recovery.

Margot was weeping for her brother; she had loved him, some said, more than a sister should love a brother. Yet, in spite of her grief, Margot was as alert as was her husband and his ministers. If her brother should die there was nowhere in the world where that event could be considered of more importance than at Nérac.

In the streets of Paris people were whispering against the Italian woman. ‘They say that Jezebel has poisoned him.’

‘But can that be so? Her own son?’

‘Her own son! What of poor little Francis the Second? What of poor mad Charles? They’ll tell you that she sent those two to the grave before they need have gone. Many have received her Italian poisons—son, daughter, cousin . . . what matters it to her? She is evil . . . this Queen Jezebel of France.’

But Catherine sincerely regretted the sickness of her son and was, in fact, frantic with anxiety. Anjou dying! What would happen if Henry were to die? These children of hers did not seem to be able to grow to maturity. Henry himself had aged far beyond his years. If Henry died, Navarre would be next in succession. It was true that Margot would be Queen of France, but could she trust Margot? Could she trust Navarre?

The people in the streets were fools to think she would poison this son. They did not understand her. They did not know that her murders were not real murders; they were merely eliminations of tiresome people who stood in the way of the power of the house of Valois—nothing more! There was no personal feeling in the killing of those who must be removed. Had she murdered that woman who had caused her years of humiliation and torture during the lifetime of her husband? No! Diane de Poitiers had gone free simply because, when Catherine would have been able to murder her, Diane had ceased to be of any importance.

Catherine felt herself to be a sorely misunderstood woman. But the slander of the streets had never hurt her. Why should she bother herself with it now? Could she be feeling this faint resentment because she was growing old, because she sometimes felt weary of the continual struggle to hold the power she had won?

Her thoughts went at once to her old enemy, Philip of Spain. How would he react to the death of Anjou? What would he do to prevent the Huguenot King of Navarre’s becoming the King of Catholic France? She was sure he would do something. The Netherlands were not causing him so much anxiety now as previously. Parma had done good work for his master; and a few months ago the Prince of Orange, that bulwark of all Protestants, had been assassinated. Thus Coligny’s daughter Louise, who had married the Prince after the death of Téligny, had lost both her husbands in violent circumstances. Coligny’s wife, Jacqueline, was still in prison, where she had been since the murder of her husband. Catherine must watch those Huguenots. She must watch Philip of Spain. Poor Anjou had been ineffectual in life, but his death was going to make him the important figure he had always longed to be.

The news came that Anjou was dead. His poor Valois constitution had not been able to throw off the inflammation of the lungs. Anjou dead . . . and Henry of Navarre was heir to the throne of France. The whole of Europe was alert. A Protestant King of France was going to alter the balance of power. England prepared to send help to the Netherlands under Leicester; and in spite of the loss of the beloved Prince of Orange, the Netherlanders were filled with new hope. Philip of Spain had turned an anxious eye towards Paris and was calling his council meetings. He was looking to the one man in France who, he knew, would never allow a Protestant to rule; and Henry of Guise, the leader of the Catholic League, was fast becoming the most important man in France.

Catherine waited apprehensively. She held long and secret councils with the King; but the King was in no mood for business, for he had recently had a new collection of monkeys and parrots sent to him and was deciding which friends should share them with him. There were his dogs to claim his attention; there were his mignons to amuse him and charm his time away. Epernon and Joyeuse were rivals in his affections now, and if he gave Joyeuse a present, he must cap it with a more extravagant gift to Epernon; and that only resulted in increasing Jealousy on the part of Joyeuse. Epernon had been given the Colonel-Generalship of France; Joyeuse had therefore to be made Admiral of France; then Epernon must have the government of Metz, Verdun, and Toul. And so it went on. The richest men in France were Epernon and Joyeuse; and if Joyeuse were the richer one day, on the next Epernon must be.

Joyeuse, back from Rome, wanted to be married. He asked for a rich wife, a woman who could bring him honour. ‘You have a wife, dearest Sire; and you know it is my aim to be as like you as possible.’

The King was amused. His darling should have a wife; and his bride should be the Queen’s own sister, who could bring him a very large dowry.

Joyeuse clapped his hands with glee and, with the King and the other mignons, began planning the wedding festivities. These were to last for two weeks and they were going to cost a fabulous sum. That was unimportant. The people of Paris loved festivities, and it was well known that people must pay for what they liked.

So the people looked on at the wedding of Joyeuse; and after Joyeuse was married, Epernon must be married too.

The King was at his wit’s end to provide an equally rich wife for darling Epernon; as for his wedding festivities, coming so close to those of that dear wretch Joyeuse, he really did not know how he was going to provide such a show and so prevent Epernon’s being hideously jealous. He managed it partly by rifling the Municipal Treasury; and he thought of a very good way of adding to the proceeds of that robbery; he put up the price of judgeships. He and his darlings laughed together. For a King there were always ways and means of finding money.

The Battus loomed into prominence once more. The King and his mignons organized processions through the streets. It was such fun, after the ceremonies in their gorgeous jewelled garments, to parade in sacks. They had white sacks which were so much more charming to look at than the sacks previously worn; and these white sacks looked delightful with skulls embroidered on them.

The King was enthusiastic. It did show the people—after those really extravagant weddings of the two darlings—that the King and his friends were a very religious band of young men at heart.

Catherine tried remonstrating as she watched uneasily. She knew that all eyes were on Paris now. Elizabeth of England watched; William of Nassau watched from Holland and Zeeland; Henry of Navarre waited slyly, as one who could afford to wait; Philip of Spain was on the alert; and Henry of Guise was at hand. Had the two latter exchanged secret communications which had not come into the Queen Mother’s hands? she wondered.

The ridiculous ceremonies went on; there were bursts of extravagant feasting; the shivering Parisians looked through the windows of the Louvre and saw the King in a woman’s gown of green silk; they saw his mignons dressed as court ladies.

Paris looked on, silent and sullen, while revolution quivered in the air of that city.