by Jean Plaidy
The Queen Mother had talked to Louise this afternoon when they were in the forest. She had told her what was expected of her. Nothing less than that she should, at the earliest possible moment, become the mistress of Antoine de Bourbon, the King of Navarre.
Louise smiled. Antoine was a charming man. She was not at all surprised by the commission. Every woman in the Escadron knew that she belonged to the Queen Mother, body and soul, much as every woman in the Petite Bande of King Francis the First had belonged to him. Sooner or later must come the summons to go here or there, to make oneself irresistible to this minister or that, to learn his secrets and pass them on to the Queen Mother. There was danger as well as excitement in the Escadron; each member knew that even though she longed to escape, once she was initiated there was no way out. It was, Isabelle had said, like selling one’s soul to the Devil. When she had said that her eyes had shone and Louise understood perfectly what she meant. Life under such a mistress – of whom they were permitted a more intimate glimpse than others enjoyed – had its excitements, its pleasures, its intellectual side, its morbid enchantment. All knew that to attempt to escape from the thraldom of the Queen Mother, to pass on her secrets, could end in one way only. They had seen it happen. There had been one girl who had wished to leave the Escadron, who had decided to reform and had begged leave to go into a nunnery. ‘By all means,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘If you wish to leave our company, you must go.’ And go she did, though she never reached the safety of a nunnery. She had fallen into a decline, her skin had shrivelled, her eyes had sunk into her head and her teeth had broken like glass.
Louise shuddered, yet with a thrill of excitement. She had no wish to go into a nunnery; the life of the Escadron delighted her.
She was sensual in the extreme. She enjoyed the caress of satin against her skin and anointing her body with the scents which Catherine graciously allowed her own parfumeurs to supply to the ladies of the Squadron. There was, Louise knew, some special aphrodisiac quality in those perfumes. She was quick-witted, as all the women were required to be; she delighted in the erotic literature which was so fashionable at the court; she herself composed verses and sang charmingly. Catherine’s Escadron was very similar to Francis’s Petite Bande; Catherine desired her women to be clever as well as beautiful, just as Francis had.
Smiling at the ornate ceiling of the apartment, at the naked cupids depicted there with their adorably fat bodies, she thought of Antoine. She had often noticed him with pleasure, and she imagined that he had not been altogether oblivious of her; his gaze had at times rested on her with something like regret, and she guessed that in the background of his mind were memories of his stern wife, Jeanne of Navarre.
Jeanne of Navarre! That woman with the cold, stern face, the new leader of the Huguenots! They were really rather stupid, these stern women who thought themselves so wise. They were so energetic, concerning themselves with prêches and edicts; cleverer women achieved their desires by far simpler methods.
Isabelle came to her bed and lay down beside her.
She whispered so that none of the others might hear: ‘The Queen Mother spoke to you this afternoon?’
Louise nodded.
‘To me also,’ said Isabelle.
‘And who is your quarry?’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘I’ll swear he is not so exalted as mine.’
‘Do not be too sure of that. Mine is a Prince.’
‘Mine is a King.’
‘A King!’
‘Antoine … King of Navarre.’
Isabelle began to laugh.
‘It is true,’ she said, ‘that you have a King and I have only a Prince, but my man is the more important.’
‘How could that be? Next to the Queen Mother, my Antoine is the most important personage of the court.’
‘Only on the surface, my dear. I assure you he is not so important as his brother.’
‘So yours is Condé?’
‘You are envious.’
Louise laughed, and sang quietly so that only Isabelle could hear:
Le petit homme tant joli
Qui toujours chante, toujours rit
Et toujours baise sa mignonne –
Dieu garde de mal le petit homme.
‘Ah, my friend,’ said Isabelle, ‘I see that you are jealous.’
‘Who would not be? But you will never get him.’
‘Will I not!’
‘He is devoted to his wife.’
‘So is Antoine.’
‘Do you think I have anything to fear from that prim Huguenot?’
‘But you seem to think that other prim Huguenot, the sainted Eléonore, will keep me from my pretty little man.’
‘There is a difference. You know it, my dear. Antoine is the easier.’
‘Perhaps, my darling,’ said Isabelle, ‘that is why the Queen Mother gave him to you. She reserved the more difficult task, you see, for me.’
‘Oh, it is not so difficult. It will just need a little more time, perhaps.’
‘How fortunate we are! Two such charming men. And of what rank! Good times lie ahead of us.’
‘I’m all impatience,’ said Louise, springing off the bed. ‘I’ll wager you I’ll get my man before you do.’
‘Oh, I think that you may do that, since mine is the more difficult task. Good luck with Antoine.’
‘The best of good fortune with Louis. I wonder who will make the better lover.’
Isabelle snapped her fingers. ‘There will be little to choose. They have both had much experience.’
‘You must remember that they have been in the hands of the saint and the leader for many years. Powers wane and happy tricks are forgotten.’
‘We shall have to remind them of better days, my darling.’
They laughed so much that the others looked their way. No questions were asked. All the ladies knew that these two had been singled out for some special task by the Queen Mother that day, and at such times questions were never asked.
It was warm in the salle du bal. Antoine sat back feigning to watch the dancers, but he was too much aware of the woman at his side to notice them.
It seemed to him that rarely had he seen such a beautiful woman; she was seductive too; the low-necked gown showed her bare breasts, the nipples delicately reddened to match her lips. The perfume which came from her inflamed his senses; but more enchanting than her sensuous beauty was the homage, the adoration in her eyes.
She was saying: ‘My lord King, this is the greatest night of my life. To sit near you, to listen to your talk, that gives me great joy. Often have I watched you from a distance, not daring to approach one of such high rank; and when this night you asked me to partner you in the dance, I thought I should die of delight.’
‘My dear lady, you must not continue to worship from afar. You must perform that duty at closer quarters.’
She drew nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I am bold,’ she said. ‘There is something within me that makes me bold, something which I cannot control. I beg of you, my lord, do not ask me to come closer, for if I did my feelings might get the better of what is fitting in the presence of one so exalted.’
‘It is right, I am sure, that you should come closer,’ said Antoine. ‘I have no objection to being worshipped at very close quarters by one so fair as you are, my dear Mademoiselle de la Limaudière.’
She smiled wonderingly. ‘See how my hands tremble at the touch of Your Majesty.’
‘Why so, Mademoiselle Louise?’
‘I will be bold and shameless. It is because for a long time I have seen no one at this court but yourself.’
Antoine gripped her hand. ‘You are very fair, Louise. I was thinking that of all the beautiful women gathered here in this court, there is not one to compare with you.’
‘Such words delight me … coming from you, Sire.’
‘It would be an easy matter,’ said Antoine, ‘for me to fall in love with you.’
&nb
sp; She lifted his hand and kissed it shyly.
‘Ah, if that were so, how happy I should be! There is nothing I would not do for you, my dearest lord.’
‘Then …’ he said; and she leaned forward breathlessly. He frowned, and seizing his goblet drank off his wine. ‘Louise,’ he went on, ‘how enchanted I should be if I might become your lover!’
‘My lord, I would give twenty years of my life to be yours.’
She saw the lust in his eyes, the pulse at his temple. She marvelled at the power of Jeanne of Navarre, who had kept such a man faithful to her for so long. She felt a determination to defeat that woman’s power over him. She wished not only to do what was necessary and obey the wishes of her exacting mistress, the Queen Mother, but to follow her own desire.
‘My lord,’ she said breathlessly, ‘when?’
Antoine was disturbed. Such adventures as this had been numerous before his marriage, but even as the temptation was here before him, he remembered his wife. He loved Jeanne. She was not, it was true, beautiful as this woman was beautiful. Love between himself and Jeanne had been a serious dedication, the obligation to produce children, and make sure that they could provide heirs to the throne of Navarre. Acts of love performed for such a set purpose held less of pleasure, less of passion than the old erotic excitements which he had known so well. The woman tempting him was very beautiful; but he must think of Jeanne, of the domestic atmosphere of that Huguenot household which she had made for him; he thought of her strength, her rectitude, her decided views. There was no one on Earth like Jeanne, so good, so worthy, so capable of making him really happy in a peaceful home.
He turned his eyes from the woman at his side.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘you are very beautiful; you are very desirable. I will not deny that you tempt me. But, I am not a free man. I am happily married to the best of wives, and it is my wish to remain completely faithful to her.’
Louise said with shame in her voice: ‘My lord King, I beg of you, forgive me. I have been shameless and I have allowed my feelings to override my respect for Your Majesty. I beg of you to tell me you forgive me.’
‘It is I who should ask forgiveness,’ said Antoine. ‘You have honoured me. Mademoiselle Louise, believe me, it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to love you. Indeed I do already.’
She drew nearer. ‘My lord …’
‘You must know,’ he said gently, ‘that I am a faithful husband.’
‘I would be grateful for one kiss, for one embrace.’
He sighed. ‘You are young. You must not talk thus to a man who is married and so much older than yourself.’
‘I could talk to only one man thus,’ she said with quiet dignity.
He stood up and they danced together; and after a while they left the dancers and went out into the grounds. It was a warm night, and the exotic shrubs which King Francis had, at great expense, brought to adorn the palace gardens filled the air with their scent.
Antoine put his arms about Louise and kissed her. He let his hand rest on her warm bare breast.
‘Enchanting!’ he whispered. ‘Intoxicating! But, my dear, it must not be. I am a faithful man. A man who owes much to his wife. Why, but for her, I should not be a King.’
‘It is she, I am sure, who owes much to you,’ answered Louise. ‘What is rank? What is position? What is anything compared with love? She has your love, and I would die to possess it.’
He kissed her again, and permitted himself a little freedom with her person. Not very much, he was saying to himself. I must be faithful to Jeanne. What an extraordinary thing that I should be faithful for so long! What an extraordinary man I am! Jeanne is faithful to me, but she is never tempted. Jeanne is cold and I am warm. But she loses her temper with me. She has said some cruel things. She has criticised my actions. Even now, the letters she writes are often full of reproaches. She thinks that I am being imposed upon; she sees me as the tool of the Queen Mother and the Guises. She thinks I have no sense. Whereas this woman – this delightful and passionate woman, this seductive Louise – thinks that every thing I say and do is wonderful. That is how a wife should feel towards a husband; that is the right attitude towards a King.
‘Let us walk,’ he said; and he put his arm about her as they walked.
‘Louise,’ he said, ‘you are delightful, and my senses long for you. Ah, duty! What a hard taskmaster, my dear! And a man in my position is never free from duty. Always he must think of it. Always he must eschew his pleasure, subdue his desires.’
She turned and pressed herself against him. ‘I would rather die than interfere with your duty, Sire.’
He kissed her fervently. Why not? he was thinking. Just once. Just for one night.
But he could not dismiss the memory of Jeanne. If she heard of any lapse from virtue, she would never forgive him, and it would be the end of their happy life. He must remember that he and his brother, with Jeanne, were putting themselves at the head of the Huguenots. An intrigue with a court beauty would, by their followers, be looked upon with extreme disfavour. Still, who need know? Nonsense! Everybody would know. He was watched wherever he went. No doubt he was being watched now. Their kisses would have been seen. Well, he might as well carry this affair to its natural conclusion, for even if he did not there would be many to say that he had done so.
But he could not bear the thought of Jeanne’s steadfast eyes looking at him in horror. Jeanne, for all her wisdom, was a very simple woman. She thought fidelity between husband and wife was natural, not, as it assuredly was, the most unnatural thing on Earth!
And I am a natural man, thought Antoine angrily, kissing Louise again.
Then he told her about his home life and why he could not enter into a love affair. ‘My wife is a very wise woman, a great leader and a great Queen …’
‘Yet she does not understand your needs,’ said Louise.
‘No. In a way … you are right.’
Then he was telling her, not of his happiness with Jeanne, but of their quarrels, their misunderstandings.
‘I do not understand how she can bear to be away from you,’ said Louise.
‘She is a Queen, with Navarre to rule. I must be here to work with the Queen Mother. For people of our rank there is little domestic life.’
‘Were I your Queen I would let nothing stand in the way of being with you.’
There were more embraces. Why not? thought Antoine, hesitating; first saying Yes; then saying No.
But when he retired that night, Jeanne’s was the victory.
‘My darling,’ were his parting words to Louise, ‘it would be better if we did not see each other. The temptation would be too great, and I must be a faithful man.’
‘I would do anything in the world to please you,’ said Louise.
And that night, when the palace was quiet, she slipped along to the apartments of the King of Navarre.
His gentleman raised his eyebrows at the sight of her, but she smiled and gave him a nod of understanding.
‘I carry no dagger,’ she said, ‘to kill the King. You may search me.
She was naked beneath her robe.
‘I come,’ she continued, ‘at the invitation of the King of Navarre. Do not attempt to stop me or you will have to answer to him.’
So Louise went through to Antoine’s bedchamber. She stood by the bed.
‘My King,’ she whispered.
‘Louise!’
‘I could not stay away,’ she said.
This is no fault of mine, the King of Navarre told himself.
The next day Antoine was remorseful. He had been unfaithful. He was in love. Louise de la Limaudière was the most enchanting creature he had ever known. But he must do without her. He must eschew such love.
He wrote a long letter to Jeanne.
‘MY DEAREST WIFE, – I sigh because you are not here with me. I think of you all the time. Never forget that I am your loyal and affectionate husband. Other ladies have no power to move me. T
o me they seem ugly. I am bored when I do not see you … oh, much more than you can ever know. You must have pity on me … for my nights are sleepless and I have grown a little thinner. I shall not revive until I see you …’
He wrote on fervently and passionately, assuring himself that he did not wish to be an unfaithful husband.
Louise had possession of him now, and the entire court knew it. He disregarded the sly glances and whispers, for he could not do without her. She was so passionate, so loving, and she adored him so blindly; she saw his virtues where his wife saw his faults.
She said to him one day: ‘Your brother is a little shocked by our love, my darling.’
‘Ah, Louis has a nobler character than I.’
‘That I will not believe.’
‘Ah, yes. Though in some ways he is another such as myself, though he too needs a woman to love him, see how sternly he sets his face against such solace!’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. He sees himself as a leader. He never forgets that he is the Prince of Condé – a man to whom many look as their leader.’
‘I doubt that he is as virtuous as you seem to think. I will show you something. Let us give a merry party … a small party. Let us give it in your apartments, and let there be none but you and I, a friend of mine and your brother. Shall I tell you a secret? My friend loves the Prince. She is pining for love of him. She feels towards him as I feel towards you. Would you not give him a chance to be happy?’
‘No!’ cried Antoine. ‘He would be tempted, for he is a man who once found beauty irresistible. Who is the lady?’
‘You have seen her, my lord. Oh, I beg of you, do not look too closely at her or I shall suffer a torment of jealousy. She rides with the Queen Mother and the rest of the ladies. Her name is Isabelle de Limeuil.’
‘A lovely girl.’ He kissed Louise. ‘Nay, fear not. There is none for me but you, my sweet Louise.’