But in what an uneasy world she lived where so many longed for her destruction!
She would win in the end. She was sure of that. Fanaticism had taken the place in Jeanne’s heart so recently occupied by her love for her husband and her desire for domestic peace.
Nothing mattered but the Faith; nor did it seem to her of any great consequence by what road she and her followers travelled to their goal, as long as they reached it.
Francis, Duke of Guise, had been murdered. Coligny said that he had not bribed Poltrot de Méray to assassinate the Duke. But what did it matter if he had done so? What mattered such a lie in a good cause? What mattered murder? If Coligny had been instrumental in bringing about the death of an enemy, then all good Huguenots must rejoice.
Jeanne had changed gradually. Her passionate love of sincerity had become clouded over. Bitter humiliation, frustration, misery, danger … and her Faith … had made of the honest woman a fanatic who could smile at murder.
And now came the report of what her little Henry had overheard in the gallery of Bayonne. A massacre of Huguenots was planned – a greater and more terrible massacre than any that had taken place before.
Jeanne lost no time in writing to Coligny and Condé, warning them of what her son had overheard of the conversation between the Queen Mother and the Duke of Alva. She knew that this was going to rouse fresh trouble. She knew that it was very likely that the bloody strife would break out again.
It mattered not. Nothing mattered but the Huguenot cause. It did not even matter that her son would continue to live at the decadent Valois court, that he would become profligate in his habits. How could it, when he could act the spy with such effect?
* * *
In the Castle of Condé, the Princess Eléonore was feeling weak and ill, and she knew that her end was very near.
Her husband was no longer a prisoner of the Catholics, and she could send for him, but she did not immediately do so. Sadly she thought of him, of their early life together, of his gay optimism and how he had taught her to be gay. How happy they might have been – as happy as Jeanne and her Antoine might have been – but for their position in this troubled country.
She and her husband had been everything to one another in the early days; it was she who had fired him with the desire to fight for the Faith. She had always known that he lacked her religious instincts, that he was first of all a soldier who must have excitement and adventure; but once he had adopted his cause, he did remain loyal to it. He did not, as his brother had, deny his Faith as well as his obligations to his wife. Poor Jeanne, what she must have suffered! What bitter humiliation had Antoine showered upon her!
There were continual prayers at the Castle of Condé. Eléonore’s children were with her, and she prayed that the lives they led would be straight and honourable. She tried to shut out of her mind the thought of Louis with the beautiful wanton, Isabelle de Limeuil.
Why had he not remained faithful to her? How could he have been so weak, knowing all the time that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother’s? What charm had this woman to tempt him in such circumstances? It was not as though he were a fool, as poor Antoine had been. Perhaps it was that love of excitement in her husband which had made him such an easy victim of the plots of the Queen Mother – that puckish determination to court danger.
And the Queen Mother had deliberately wrecked the happy home, not only of the Princess of Condé, but also that of Jeanne of Navarre. Poor Louis! He was so attractive, and women had always found him irresistible. It had always been so – more with him even than with Antoine. It was not only his relationship with Isabelle de Limeuil that had set the country talking scandal against the Prince of Condé, for there had been others besides Isabelle. Calvin had written to Louis, protesting; Coligny had begged him to mend his ways. Louis always meant to; he was very sorry for his weakness; but then – a goblet of wine, a gay song and a pair of bright eyes, and he was caught again.
She had been sleepless with anxiety; she had been filled with misgivings; and one morning when she came down from her apartments it was obvious from her expression that a great peace had come to her; she knew that very soon she would be leaving this world’s troubles for ever.
She sent a messenger to the Prince to tell him that she could not live long, but she instructed the messenger to break the news gently, that he might not suffer any great shock.
‘You must tell him,’ she said, ‘that I have one aspiration. It is that our spirits may continue to be bound together. Tell him also that I conjure him to keep watch over our children in my stead, that they may be brought up in the fear of God.’
When Condé received the messenger and heard the news of his wife’s sickness, he was overcome with grief. Mercurial in temperament, there was nothing for him now but the very depth of his despair. He made all haste to the Castle of Condé, and there he flung himself beside his wife’s bed and poured bitter reproaches on himself and his conduct.
‘You must live, my love, that I may prove to you that there has never been any in my life but you. You must give me the chance to show how deeply I love you.’
The tears he shed were genuine; but she also knew that what he meant this week he would cease to mean next. Such men were Louis and his brother Antoine, and because they were so, not only must their wives and children suffer, but the great cause of their religion be put into jeopardy.
Eléonore stroked his hair.
‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you have given me great happiness. I would not have you different, for if you had been different, how could you have been my love?’
‘I have not loved you as you deserve to be loved. I am a rogue. Tell me so. Tell me you hate me, for I deserve that. I deserve to be unhappy for the rest of my life.’
He was so handsome, with his head flung back and the tears on his cheeks, so earnest in his protestations. But how long would it be before he was swearing eternal fidelity to Isabelle de Limeuil or Madame de Saint-André? How long before they, and others too, would hear from those handsome lips that they were the loves of his life?
Charming Condé, so unstable in his emotions, yet so resolute in battle! Why had these Bourbons, so gifted with their charm and beauty, both been so fickle? Were the characters of these men responsible for the failure of the Reformation in France? They could not resist women, even those they knew to be the spies of the Queen Mother.
But what was the use of regretting now? The end was near for Eléonore.
‘Oh, my darling!’ cried Louis. ‘My dearest wife! Blessed will the moment be when God commands us to meet in eternity!’
‘Do not reproach yourself, my love,’ said Eléonore. ‘Only look after our children and remember that I have loved you. Remember the happiness of our days together. Remember the sober, prim little girl you married and whom you taught to laugh. Promise to look after our children and I shall be well content.’
She had her son brought to her and begged him to honour King Charles, the Queen of Navarre, his father and his Uncle Gaspard. ‘Never forget the allegiance to the Faith I have taught you,’ she implored him.
The boy was weeping, and she asked her husband to take him away and to leave her for a while. When they had gone she lay back smiling, her lips shaping the words of a prayer: ‘Oh, God, my winter is past and my spring is come …’
When Condé knew that she was indeed dead there was no stemming his grief. It seemed to him that his infidelities came back to mock him; he remembered so much that shamed him.
‘Oh, what a scoundrel am I!’ he groaned.
His little daughter came to him and tried to comfort him. He lifted her in his arms and said to her: ‘Try, my darling, to be like her. If you are as she was, I shall love you more and more. Girls are said to take after their fathers, but you must try to be like your mother. In her you would find nothing that could not serve as a cherished ideal.’
He stayed in the Palais de Condé mourning for some weeks; he kept his children about him and talked
continually of their mother; he longed to have his life over again, he said; he longed to turn back the clock.
But Condé’s moods changed rapidly, and this one of remorse had lasted longer than usual. There was work to be done, he declared. He could no longer stay with his family.
Isabelle was waiting for him, more alluring, more beautiful than ever. He told her of his new resolutions to lead a better life. Isabelle listened and commiserated. She knew that it would not be difficult to obliterate those new resolutions of the most charming sinner in France.
* * *
Back at court after the trip to Bayonne, Catherine had found that the feud between the Colignys and the Guises was growing dangerous. Young Henry of Guise, whom she had thought of as nothing more than a boy, seemed, with his new position and responsibilities, to have become a man. Youth though he was, he was head of his house, and he could not forget nor forgive his father’s death. Catherine saw that such enmity – as seemed always to be the case – was more than the quarrel of one man with another, more than the quarrel even of one family with another; it was once more the quarrel between one religious faction and another, just as the quarrels of Diane de Poitiers and Madame d’Étampes had been in the reign of the first Francis; and in these quarrels were the sparks which set the fire of civil war raging throughout France.
Catherine went to see Gaspard de Coligny in his home at Châtillon, where he was enjoying a life of temporary seclusion with his family. How different Gaspard seemed with his wife and his family and the domestic calm all about him! She realised that these joys in which he was now indulging with such obvious content were what he wanted from life, but he was a man with a cause, a faith; and if he were called upon to fight for it, he must leave everything to do so. Here, then, was another of these fanatics.
Catherine sought an early opportunity of disclosing to Coligny the meaning of her visit. She joined him in his gardens where he was at work. He enjoyed his gardens and he had produced at Châtillon one of the loveliest Catherine had ever seen.
‘Monsieur de Coligny,’ said Catherine when she found herself alone with the Admiral, ‘what trouble you caused us when you had dealings with an assassin named Poltrot de Méray!’
Coligny’s face stiffened. Did he, Catherine wondered, arrange to have that shot fired which sent Francis of Guise reeling from his horse to lie senseless on the ground? He was obviously no common murderer, but might he not kill for the Faith? Oh yes, Catherine decided, as long as he could make his excuses with his God, he would kill. ‘I did it, Lord, for you …’ As long as he could say that with what he would consider a clear conscience, he would do anything, she was sure.
‘I believed,’ said Coligny, ‘that the matter had been settled.’
‘Not to my satisfaction, I fear. That is what I wish to speak to you about. De Méray was your man, was he not?’
‘He was my man.’
‘Your spy, Monsieur?’
‘He worked for me.’
Catherine smiled, and Coligny went on: ‘Madame, what fresh trouble is this? Have I not answered every question satisfactorily?’
‘Oh, just a little private interest, that is all.’ Catherine wished he would discuss the murder with her. It would be interesting to compare notes on such a subject with such a man. ‘You heard this man plotting to kill the Duke and you did nothing about it?’
‘I agree to that.’
Catherine nodded. Doubtless he had hinted to de Méray that he wished Guise were dead, but did not care to have the guilt on his own soul. Perhaps he had offered to pay money to this man if he would bear the burden in the eyes of their God. The methods of these people made her want to laugh out loud. De Méray, talking of his plot to kill the Duke and talking of it in Coligny’s hearing, had meant: ‘Do you approve, master?’ And Coligny’s silence had meant approval. Perhaps, thought Catherine, as she had thought on other occasions, I and these people are not so very different.
‘I did not come, however, to talk of past events, Monsieur,’ said Catherine. ‘The little Guise is a fiery personality. In him I fear we have another Duke Francis. Young still, but perhaps the more reckless for that. He is declaring open feud between his house and yours, for although we know that you had no hand whatsoever in the murder of the Duke of Guise – your very noble confession that you heard the plot discussed exonerates you completely – yet this fiery young fellow will not have it so. Now, you know, Admiral, that these feuds are distasteful to me. I would have peace in this kingdom.’
‘What would you have me do, Madame?’
‘I cannot have my Admiral suspected of murder. I propose to hold a banquet at Amboise – no, let it be at Blois – and there I wish to proclaim your innocence in this matter. The guests of honour will be yourself and the Guises. I want you to show your friendship to each other, to extend your hand and give the kiss of peace. I want all to know that there is friendship between you, and that the House of Guise no longer doubts your innocence in the unfortunate death of its kinsman.’
‘Madame, this is impossible. We have so recently been fighting a bitter war – they in one camp, I in another.’
‘That is why it must be done, dear Admiral. I cannot have that rash boy going about speaking of these matters, inflaming his followers. We have peace – an uneasy one, it is true – and we must make it a lasting one. This must be done for the sake of that rash boy, if not for yours.’
‘You think that by taking my hand and kissing my cheek he would become my friend, Madame?’
‘I wish to proclaim to all that there is no enmity between you. You must do this. I insist. I command.’
Coligny bowed.
‘You will be there at Blois to do as I wish?’ said Catherine.
‘It is your command, Madame.’
* * *
High above the village stood the imposing Castle of Blois. Its embrasured windows looked down on the wide stream of the Loire, bounded by the hills and vineyards of Touraine. There was uneasiness in the village; all knew that inside the château the Queen Mother had organised a banquet to promote friendship between the Colignys and the Guises. This was disquieting, for if trouble were to break out in the castle, it would extend to the surrounding villages. Huguenots trembled and thought of the massacre at Vassy, when Duke Francis of Guise had slaughtered Huguenots while they knelt at worship. Catholics told themselves to be ready to rally to the little Duke.
They had seen Duke Henry riding near the castle, handsome and remarkably like his father, so that Huguenots trembled to behold him, while Catholics exulted. The Admiral they had also seen – stern of face, handsome, though in a different manner from the arrogant and dashing Henry of Guise. A great and a good man, it was said; and yet if he had had a hand in the murder of that young boy’s father, it could be well understood that there was danger of strife within the castle walls to-day.
Catherine was pleased with the arrangements she had made. Once the two men had kissed in friendship, the young Duke must cease vowing vengeance on the Admiral. The fact that Coligny had come to Blois should show him that the Admiral wished to be friends. And, on his part, when the Admiral took the boy in his arms, he must think of him, not as the son of his old enemy, but as a young boy who had lost his father.
There was one other who occupied Catherine’s thoughts on that day – the Prince of Condé, who was now a widower. It was said that the Prince of Condé grieved deeply for his Princess, but he was living as gaily as ever. Catherine felt uncomfortable when she remembered how once she had not been so wise as she was to-day; she had thought a little too often and too tenderly of that man. How easy it would have been to have committed follies on his account! There should be no more folly. At least King Henry had been faithful to one mistress, and Catherine had known who was her enemy.
She felt strengthened in her wisdom. She learned, it was true, often through bitter lessons, but when a lesson was mastered, it should be mastered for life. No more tender feelings, then. Men were made not to love, but t
o serve her.
These men gathered together here at Blois were here to serve her. It suited her that they should be friends … outwardly at least. She wanted no more civil strife, for every time it occurred she and her family were in danger. She should not feel the least regret that Condé was a philanderer bringing disrepute on his party, for Condé’s weakness added to her strength. That was how men should be used – not to give a brief erotic pleasure. If she had at one time fancied she would enjoy a lover, she no longer did. She was grateful to her tally of years, for it had brought her wisdom; it had stilled her longing for what was, at best, transient; it had made her grasp with both hands and hold firmly to what should henceforth be the love of her life – power.
In the great hall at Blois were assembled men and women of the highest rank. The light came through the coloured glass of the embrasured windows, shining on the jewels and rich garments of her guests. Catherine had decided that she herself would proclaim the innocence of Coligny before them all, and command that kiss of friendship between the Admiral and Henry of Guise.
There was Anna d’Esté, the widowed Duchess of Guise, keeping close to the side of her son. Surely Anna need not have appeared in such deep mourning! Catherine laughed to herself. Poor Anna! Meek as a lamb. She would be glad enough, if allowed by her ferocious son and her brother-in-law, to accept reconciliation. Anna hated bloodshed. Catherine remembered how she had protested at the Amboise massacre. She could not bear to see men tortured; she could not bear to see them butchered. Hardly the sort of woman to have mated with Le Balafré; yet it was said that he had been fond of her for her gentleness, and that theirs had been a comparatively happy marriage. Besides, her rank doubtless compensated the ambitious Duke for her mildness. Yes, Catherine felt sure that it was Anna’s son and her brothers-in-law who had insisted on that ostentatious mourning.
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