They hung their heads. They dared not say. Margot stormed at them; she raged; but she did not weep.
She insisted that they dress her with the utmost care; she had grown thin in the last week or so, but she was none the less beautiful for that. Bitterness, anger, bewilderment had given a new wildness to her beauty.
She was gay to-night, and her mother watched her with approval.
Catherine knew – and Margot knew – that everywhere sly eyes were on her. In the banqueting hall, in the salle du bal, all were hoping for some excitement from the inevitable encounter between the Princess and the Duke.
Margot received his wife calmly; she complimented her on her looks and congratulated her on her marriage. Catherine of Clèves was a little frightened of those wild, glittering black eyes, but at the same time she was so happy to have married the man she had loved for so long that she could not care even if the Princess Margot hated her.
Margot coquetted gaily – first with one noble gentleman and then with another. Those wild, provocative glances, which until now had all been for Henry of Guise, were evenly distributed among the handsomest and most eligible of the noblemen.
They were enchanted by Margot, for Margot was completely sensuous; that overwhelming sex consciousness, that adoration of physical love, that promise of what she and she alone could give were irresistible.
Margot knew that Henry of Guise was watching her; and she was glad of that, since the whole performance was for him. She was desperately trying to put hate where love had been, loathing in the place of longing.
In the dance he came near enough to speak to her.
‘Margot, I must talk to you.’
She turned her head.
‘If you only knew, my love, my darling! If only you would listen to what I have to tell you.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have no wish to speak to you.’
‘Margot, darling, give me five minutes alone with you.’
‘I have no wish to speak to you.’
‘I will wait in the first of the green alleys. Our old meeting-place … do you remember?’
‘You may wait, for all I care.’
But her voice had broken and he could hear the sob in her throat.
‘In half an hour,’ he begged.
She could not trust herself to speak, so she turned her head away and shrugged her shoulders.
‘I will wait,’ he said, ‘all night if necessary.’
‘Wait all through to-morrow – if you care for such things.’
‘Margot,’ he implored; and the sound of her name on his lips was more than she could bear. She moved away from him.
She thought of his waiting. Was he waiting? He had said he would wait. But could she trust him to keep his word? He had said he would marry her, that nothing should stand in the way of their love; and, only a few days after that wonderful night they had spent together, he had married the Princess of Clèves.
She must go to see if he waited. I hate him now, she told herself, and it will be just to see if he really is waiting.
She saw him at once – the tall, familiar figure, the handsomest man at the court of France. He came forward with a lover’s eagerness. ‘Margot, my love, you came. I knew you would.’
She would not give him her hands; she was afraid to let him touch her. She knew her own weakness; and her desire, she knew, would be stronger than her pride.
‘Well, traitor,’ she said, ‘what do you want?’
‘To put my arms about you.’
‘Shame! And you a husband … of a week, is it?’
‘Margot, it had to be.’
‘I know. You had sworn to marry me, but it had to be Catherine of Clèves. I wish you joy of her – that silly, simpering creature! You could have done better than that, Henry.’
He had her by the shoulders, but she wrenched herself free at once.
‘Cannot you see that I hate you now? Do you not understand that you have insulted me … humiliated me … betrayed me!’
‘You loved me,’ he said, ‘even as I loved you.’
‘Oh no, Monsieur,’ she answered bitterly; ‘far more than that, I would never have been led away. I would have faced death rather.’
‘Margot, you would have suffered more if I had died. You would not then have had even this pleasure you now enjoy in tormenting me. They planned my death – your mother, your brothers. My family were convinced that the only thing I could do was to marry Catherine if I would save myself. Darling, this is not the end for us. You are here. I am here. It is not what we planned, but we can still see each other, renew all that joy we have in each other.’
‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘How dare you? Do you forget that I am a Princess of France?’
‘I forget everything but that I love you, that I can never know a moment’s happiness without you.’
‘Then know this also: I hate you. I loathe you and despise you. Never try to speak to me. Never try making your vile suggestions to me again. I have been a fool, but do you not think that I will find others to love me? Do not think that you can desert me, betray me … and then, when you want me again, that I shall come back like a … like a dog!’
She turned and ran back to the palace.
That evening she danced more gaily than she ever had before. She laughed and coquetted. Her eyes conveyed many a promise, and she was utterly bewitching; but when she retired to her apartments, and her women had undressed her, she threw herself on to her bed and wept so long and so passionately that they were afraid.
At last she fell silent and lay still; and in the morning when her women came to waken her, they found her skin flushed and clammy and her eyes glassy; she was in a high fever.
Catherine and the King thought that the affair of Margot and Henry of Guise had been settled to their satisfaction; the Cardinal of Lorraine and his family thought they had retreated in time from a highly dangerous situation; Henry of Guise had come out of the affair with acute melancholy which would not subside until the Princess Margot was once more his mistress. But the Princess herself lay ill – not caring if she were to die. She tossed and turned in a fever, suffering from that indifference to life which is called a broken heart.
* * *
Catherine lay very ill at Metz. She knew that no one expected her to live. She could smile seeing the hope in their faces. There was hardly anyone who would be likely to grieve for her.
As she lay in her bed, she was aware vaguely of the people about her; she was not sure where she was. At times she thought that she was in the Palace of Saint-Germain, and that in the room below, Henry, her husband, was making love to Diane. At others she thought she was riding in the forest near Fontainebleau or Amboise, and that, beside her, rode the King – King Francis, her father-in-law – and the ladies of his Petite Bande.
Then she would have moments of full consciousness. She would remember that her beloved son Henry was bravely fighting the Huguenot army, that King Charles was becoming more and more mad and must soon give place to his brother, who was growing more and more worthy of kingship. Then she would think that Margot must be married soon. The marriage with Sebastian had fallen through, as Philip of Spain now wanted him for one of his female relatives; but Margot should be married, for Margot was a wicked, wanton girl. She had taken another lover and scandalous stories were whispered about her; some said that she still had her eyes on Henry of Guise, and that only her stubborn pride prevented her from taking up her relationship with him where it had ceased on his marriage to Catherine of Clèves. They said that Margot took this new lover in order to flaunt him in the presence of young Henry of Guise, and that there was a smouldering passion between these two which must blaze up sooner or later. Catherine’s first duty was to find a husband for Margot – and who was there but the boy to whom her father had pledged her when they were little more than babies? Henry of Navarre! It would mean summoning him to court. By all accounts, he was as profligate as Margot, so they would make a good pair. Let them
marry and satisfy each other – if satisfaction were possible to either of them.
Margot would be the Queen of Navarre. Well, that had been a good enough title for the sister of Francis the First, and it should be good enough for the present Marguerite de Valois, for wicked little Margot. Catherine decided that if she ever got up from this sick-bed she would start negotiations immediately. Once she had the young Prince of Navarre at court it should not be difficult to change him into a Catholic, in spite of his mother’s teaching. She was looking forward to another conflict with Madame Jeanne.
Now her thoughts had turned to another Henry, her beloved son, her ‘All’. She knew that there was fighting round about Jarnac and that Coligny and Condé together stood in opposition to her darling. Two men – Condé and her son – were now in danger, and for both of these men she had felt tenderness. She had enjoyed those conversations with gallant Condé, the gay philanderer; she had cherished those moments when his kiss had lingered on her hand. But it was nonsense to think of such things. Who wanted love when there was power to be won?
She might have prayed for her son’s victory, but she did not really believe in prayer. There was no God for her; there was only Catherine, the Queen Mother, the power behind the throne. There were no miracles except those performed by clever people like herself.
How hot it was in this room! Her sight seemed to be fading. There were shadowy figures about her bed. Ah, there was the King, her little mad Charles; and with him her daughter, wanton Margot, as yet unwed, yet more versed in the ways of love than many a matron of years’ standing. There were others in the room, but she felt that they were too remote to be recognised.
What was happening at Jarnac? The dawn was breaking and the battle would soon begin. There was a cold sweat all over her, and she was afraid.
She wanted to call for Cosmo or Lorenzo Ruggieri. But she was no longer in the sick-room at Metz. She was somewhere out of doors, for she could feel the wind blowing on her face. Then suddenly she heard the voice of her son Henry; it was raised in prayer; then she heard him addressing his men, and she realised that she must be on the battlefield at Jarnac.
‘Condé … Condé … Condé …’ She heard the name coming to her clearly over the cold air.
‘Condé must be killed before nightfall …’
Catherine’s lips moved. Not Condé … not the gallant little Prince. She did not want him for a lover, but he was so agreeable, so charming.
Now she heard Condé’s voice. He too was talking to his men; she caught the note of fanaticism which she had noticed so many times in so many people. ‘Louis de Bourbon goes to fight for Christ and his country.’
She must have said something aloud, for the sound of her voice had broken the spell and she was back in the sick-room.
‘Mother,’ said Charles. ‘Mother, do you wish for a prelate?’
A prelate? So she was near death. Death! What was death? A beginning again … a new fight for power in a fresh sphere?
Then the room faded and she was back on the field of battle. She saw Condé clearly in the light of morning, his handsome head thrown back, a smile on his lips; and then suddenly he was down; she saw him lying on the ground, the blood at his lips, the death rattle in his throat.
‘Look!’ cried Catherine. ‘See how they flee! Condé is dead. He lies in the hedge there. He can never recover. His wound is too deep. Condé … ah, Condé … he is no more. But Henry … my darling … Henry is victorious once more. The battle is yours. Condé is dead. Coligny has fled. All honour to you, my love, my darling.’
The King turned to Margot and said: ‘She dreams of the battle. She has thought of nothing else since she knew my brother was to fight to-day.’
Margot watched her mother without pity, without love. There was no pity nor love in Margot; there was only perpetual bitterness, a poignant memory, and a deep longing for the man she had vowed to hate.
‘Is the end near?’ asked the King.
None was sure, but all looked grave.
The end of Catherine de’ Medici, the end of the Italian woman! What changes would that bring to France?
But in the morning Catherine was better; and when, a few days later, news of the Battle of Jarnac was brought to Metz, it was thought that to hear of her son’s victory would cheer her and help her through her convalescence.
She was sleeping lightly and Charles, with Margot and others, stood at her bedside.
‘Mother,’ said Charles gently, ‘the battle is won. This is another victory for Henry. Condé is dead.’
She smiled serenely; she was her old self now, rapidly recovering from her fever.
‘And why should you be so tedious as to awaken me and tell me that?’ she demanded. ‘Did I not know? Did I not tell you … as it was happening?’
Those in the room with Charles and Margot exchanged glances. Margot paled; Charles trembled. This woman, their mother, was no ordinary woman, no ordinary Queen; she had strange powers not given to others.
It was small wonder that she could terrify them as no one else on Earth had power to do.
* * *
After the great news of the victory of Jarnac, a strange gloom fell on the court. The King, more jealous of his brother than of any living person, was thrown into melancholy. ‘Now,’ he told his little Marie, ‘my mother will glorify him more than ever. She longs to see him on the throne. Oh, Marie, I am frightened, because she is no ordinary woman, and what she desires comes to pass. She wishes me dead, and it is said that when my mother wishes a person dead, then he is as good as dead.’
But Marie took the King into her arms and assured him that this was not so. He must be calm and brave and not think of death. He must remember he was the King.
Charles tried; but he hated his brother. He refused to let him have the cannon he asked for, which was foolish and could only lead to trouble; and he knew that if he made trouble like that, matters would be brought to a head and that vague danger which haunted him all the time would come nearer to him.
Margot was anxious. Henry of Guise was fighting with the Catholic army, and she dreaded that what had happened to Condé might happen to Henry of Guise. When he was not at court, it was safe to admit to herself that her passion for him was as strong as ever. If Henry died, she would not wish to live. She prayed hourly that he might come safely home, if only to his wife.
Catherine had her difficulties. She was quite well now, but she was being tormented by Alava, the Spanish envoy; he reproached her bitterly. She had not followed up her advantages; she had been too lenient towards the Huguenots. His Most Catholic Majesty was not pleased with the Queen Mother.
‘My lord,’ said Catherine, in mock despair, ‘what could I do? I no longer have the power that I had. My sons are becoming men, and I am just a weak woman.’
‘Madame, you rule your sons, and it is you who have given Coligny the leisure to get an army together.’
‘But, my lord, what can I do? I am as good a Catholic as you … as your master … but what can I do?’
‘Have you forgotten, Madame, the conversation you had with the Duke of Alva at Bayonne?’
‘Not a word of that, I beg of you. Such a plan would be useless if bruited abroad.’
‘It must be carried out, and it must be soon. Kill the leaders … every one. Coligny must die. The Queen of Navarre must die. They cannot be allowed to live. Madame, I hear you have means at your disposal. You have a known reputation in this art of removal. And yet the most dangerous man and woman in your kingdom – the most dangerous to yourself and your throne – are allowed to live and to build up an army to fight against you.’
‘But, my lord, Coligny is not here. He is in camp. The Queen of Navarre would not come if I asked her. I have despatched Coligny’s two brothers – Odet and Andelot – the latter in England. Was not that subtle? He dies suddenly, in that austere land. Of what – very few know. I had my friends in his suite.’
‘That was well done. But what use destroying the min
nows when the salmon flourishes?’
‘We shall get our salmon, my friend, but in good time.’
‘His Most Catholic Majesty would ask, Madame, when is good time? When your kingdom has been wrested from you?’
She put her head close to that of the Spaniard. ‘My son Henry is on his way to me. I will give him something … something which I know how to prepare myself. He shall have his spies in the Admiral’s camp, and before long, my lord, you will have heard the last of Monsieur de Coligny.’
‘I trust so, Madame.’
After that conversation and another with her son Henry, Catherine waited to hear news of the Admiral’s death. She had given her son a subtle poison which would produce death a few days after it was administered. Her son’s Captain of the Guard had been brought into the plot, for he was on good terms with Coligny’s valet. A satisfactory bribe – and the deed would be done.
She waited now for one of her visions. She wished to see Coligny’s death as she had seen that of Condé. But she waited in vain.
Later she heard that the plot had been discovered.
Coligny was a man of wide popularity, adored by too many; it was not easy to remove such a man.
Catherine began to grow terrified of Coligny. She did not understand him. He fought with such earnestness; he drew men to him. He had some quality which was quite outside Catherine’s understanding; and for that reason she wished to have peace with him. And so she arranged for the Peace of Saint-Germain, in which, so that she might be at peace with this man whose righteousness was so alien to her, she gave way to many of his demands. She had to grant liberty of worship in all towns that were already Protestant; Protestants were to be admitted to office with Catholics, and on equal terms; four towns were to be handed over to Coligny as security for Catholic good faith – Montaban and Cognac as a bastion in the south, La Charité in the centre, and La Rochelle to guard the sea.
The Huguenots rejoiced at all they had won, and Catherine felt at peace temporarily, so that she might turn her mind to domestic matters.
The Italian Woman Page 31