Queen Jezebel

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Even for an Italian woman,’ she admitted.

  ‘Ah, Madame, you have spoken truly. I hope that one day there will be slipped into her wine that morceau Italianizé. That is what I wish, Madame. It is the wish of all Paris.’

  She came away smiling. Better to win their hatred than their indifference. She wanted to laugh aloud. The Queen Mother ruled France. She was glad they realized that.

  They were singing a song about her in the streets of Paris now. It was insolently sung even under the windows of the Louvre itself.

  ‘Pour bien sçavoir la consonance

  De Catherine et Jhésabel,

  L’une, ruyne d’Israel,

  L’autre, ruyne de la France:

  ‘Jhésabel maintenoit l’idolle

  Contraire à la saincte parolle,

  L’autre maintient la papaulté

  Par trahison et cruaulté:

  ‘Par rune furent massacrez

  Les prophètes à Dieu sacrez,

  Et l’autre a faict mourir cent mille

  De ceux qui suyvent l’Evangille.

  ‘L’une pour se ayder du bien,

  Fist mourir un homme de bien,

  L’autre n’est pas assouvie

  S’elle n’a les biens et la vie:

  ‘En fin le jugement fut tel

  Que les chiens mengent Jhésabel

  Par une vengeance divine;

  Mais la charongne de Catherine

  Sera différente en ce point,

  Car les chiens ne la vouldront point.’

  Well, words could not hurt her. She herself sang the song. ‘It is pleasant to think,’ she said to her women, ‘that the people of Paris have no intention of throwing my flesh to the dogs.’ She laughed loudly. ‘Ah, my friends, these people are really fond of me. They like to think of me. Have you noticed that that wicked old lecher, the Cardinal of Lorraine, is now regarding me with some affection? He never did before. But now, he is not so young, and he is terrified of death, for that man was always a coward. He still wears a suit of mail under his clerical robes. But he looks at me with love because he says to himself: “I cannot live many more years. Soon I must face God.” The Cardinal, my friends, is a very devout man, and when he thinks of the life he has led he trembles. And then he looks at me and says to himself: “Ah, compared with the Queen Mother, I am as innocent as a babe.” And for this reason he grows fond of me. So it is with the people of Paris. Did I ride through the streets brandishing a sword on those August days and nights? No, I did not. But they did. Therefore it is comforting for them to recount my wickedness. They can then say: “Compared with Queen Jhésabel, we are innocent indeed.” ‘

  One day Charlotte de Sauves brought a book to Catherine.

  ‘I think Your Majesty should see it,’ she said, ‘and that those who are guilty should be taken and punished.’

  Catherine took the book, which was called The Life of St Catherine, and turned over the leaves. When she discovered that the title was an ironical one and the St Catherine was herself, she began to chuckle. There were hideous caricatures of her, only just recognizable in which she appeared quite gross. In these books were enumerated all the crimes of which the people of France accused her; everything evil that had happened in France since she, a little girl of fifteen, had ridden into the land to marry the King’s son, were, according to the authors of this book, due to her.

  Charlotte stood by, waiting for an outburst of wrath, but instead there came a loud guffaw.

  Catherine called her women about her and read aloud to them.

  ‘This is the story of your mistress, my friends. Now listen.’ And she read until she was so overcome by mirth that she had to put the book away from her.

  ‘It is well,’ she said, ‘that the French should know that they have a strong woman to rule them. Why, had I been given notice that such a book was about to be written, I could have told the authors many things of which they know nothing; I could have reminded them of much which they have forgotten. I could have helped them to make a bigger, finer book.’

  Some of the women turned away that she might not see the looks of horror on their faces. They were depraved enough, since they were her creatures, but sometimes she revolted them. They realized that she, this Italian woman, this strange mistress of theirs, was different from others. She cared only for keeping power. She did not think beyond this life. This was why she could kill, and laugh at her killing, even be proud of it; she had no conscience to worry her.

  Some of them remembered two boys they had seen among those pilgrims who had gone to look at the remains of Coligny, which had been hung on a gibbet at Montfaucon. One of those boys—he was only about fifteen years old—had broken down suddenly and flung himself on the ground while bitter sobs shook his body. The younger of the boys had stood very still, bewildered and frightened, too numbed by grief to weep as his brother did. When one knew that the fifteen-year-old boy was François de Coligny, and the younger one was his brother Andelot, that was an unforgettable tableau. One remembered too that Jacqueline de Coligny, in spite of her condition, had been carried off from Châtillon and put in a prison at Nice. Such matters haunted the memory. Moreover, these women were beset by superstitious fear. They remembered the miracle of Merlin, about which the Huguenots talked continually. Coligny’s pastor had escaped on that night of terror. He had lain on the roofs after Téligny had been shot, and at length, weary beyond endurance, had clambered down from the roof to find himself beside a barn. Here he hid, and each day a hen came and—by the Grace of God, said the Huguenots—laid an egg beside him. This nourished him and kept him alive until the massacre was over.

  Such stories were alarming, for it seemed that God was sometimes on the side of the Huguenots, even though the Virgin had made a hawthorn flower in the Cemetery of the Innocents.

  Catherine laughed when she heard the story of Merlin and the eggs. It was she who recalled the flowering of the hawthorn.

  ‘The good God preserve us from Heaven,’ she cried, ‘if when we get there we are going to find the Huguenots and Catholics still warring with one another.’

  It was all very well to joke about such matters under the eye of the Queen Mother; but later came fears.

  Catherine went on reading the book. She kept it with her, reading it at odd moments; and she was heard singing in her apartments:

  ‘L’une ruyne d’Israel,

  L’autre, ruyne de la France.’

  * * *

  After the massacre, Guise and Margot were no longer lovers.

  Margot, like so many others, could not forget the massacre. She believed, as did most people, that her mother had inspired it and that, more than any person in France, she was responsible for it; but she could not forget the part her lover had played in it.

  She had actually seen him, riding through the streets urging people to kill, and, she told herself impetuously, she could never love him again. He had changed, as she had; he was no longer the charming boy, but a man whose ambition meant far more to him than love ever could. He had known that she, as the wife of a Huguenot, must have been in danger, but he had neglected her. All that she had once so ardently loved in him—his beauty, his charm, his virility, and even his ambition, for she had believed then that a man must be ambitious to prove his manhood—now increased her indifference towards him.

  He came to her after the massacre was over.

  She said: ‘You keep your appointment, Monsieur, but are you not a little late?’

  He did not know that she had decided to finish with him. ‘But, Margot, you understand how I have been occupied.’

  ‘Too occupied in shedding blood to think of love!’ she said. ‘It had to be.’

  She studied him closely. He had grown older. She thought: he will age quickly. Then she smiled, thinking of Monsieur de ‘Aran, the man who had burst so dramatically into her bedchamber; he was still weak, but, thanks to her, he would recover. He was very handsome, tender and grateful. One did not always want such sel
f-satisfied, such arrogant and self-sufficient lovers as the man who stood before her now. There were some on whom too many gifts were showered; and such people knew little of gratitude for services rendered—and gratitude could be a delightful thing.

  He came to her and put his arms about her. She did not repulse him yet; she laughed up at him.

  ‘And now,’ she said, ‘there is time for love?’

  ‘My darling,’ he answered, ‘it has been long, but love keeps; and can be all the more sweet for the waiting.’

  ‘Sometimes it turns sour,’ said Margot.

  ‘You are annoyed, my darling?’

  ‘Oh no, Monsieur. I could only be annoyed when I cared deeply.’

  He did not understand. He had too high an opinion of himself. This was Margot, he thought, as he had known her so many times before—piqued, eager to be wooed into that abandonment of passion which was habitual to her.

  ‘My dearest,’ he began, but she interrupted.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘I have discovered that you are a better murderer than a lover, and you know I would be satisfied with nothing but the best. If I need a murderer, I may ask for your services. But when I need a lover, I shall not come to you.’

  She saw at once that he was not only perplexed, but suspicious. She was involved with the Huguenots and therefore might be his enemy.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, be cautious, Monsieur de Guise. Remember that you are seeking a mistress from the Huguenot camp. Why do you not take your sword and kill me! You suspect me of friendship for Huguenots. That is sufficient reason to kill me, is it not?’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ he demanded.

  ‘No. I have merely ceased to love you. You do not look so handsome in my eyes as you once did. You arouse no desire in me whatsoever.’

  ‘That cannot be true, Margot.’

  ‘It must be difficult for you to believe it. But it is true. You may go now.’

  ‘Dearest,’ he said soothingly, ‘you are angry because I have stayed from you too long. Had it been possible I should have come long ere this. You must understand that if we had not killed the Huguenots, they would have killed us’

  ‘They would not!’ she said vehemently. ‘There was no Huguenot plot. You know as well as I do that the so-called Huguenot plot was an invention of my mother’s. She wanted an excuse to murder.’

  ‘Why do we concern ourselves with such unpleasant matters? Have you forgotten all that we are to one another?’

  She shook her head. ‘But it is over now. We must look elsewhere for our pleasures.’

  ‘How can you talk so! All your life you have loved me.’ ‘Until now.’

  ‘When did this end?’

  ‘Perhaps on St Bartholomew’s Eve.’

  He put his arms about her and kissed her. She said, with dignity: ‘Monsieur de Guise, I beg of you, release me.’ And she laughed delightedly to find that she was quite unmoved by him.

  He was the haughty one now. He was unaccustomed to being repulsed. It hurt his dignity, the dignity of Guise and Lorraine.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, releasing her. But he was hesitating, waiting for her to laugh, to tell him she loved him as much as ever and that her fit of temper was over.

  But she stood still, smiling mockingly; and at length he turned angrily away and left her.

  In the corridor he almost collided with Charlotte de Sauves, for Charlotte had not expected him to come out so quickly; she had thought that Margot would call him back and that there would be one of those intense and passionate scenes to be reported to the Queen Mother.

  He caught her as she gave a little cry and pretended to be almost knocked off her feet.

  ‘Madame, I crave your pardon.’

  She smiled up at him, flushed, aware that he must be noticing how beautiful she was. ‘The fault was mine, Monsieur de Guise. I . . . I was about to go to Her Majesty . . . and I had no idea that anyone could come out so quickly.’

  ‘I trust I did not hurt you?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. Indeed not.’

  He had smiled and passed on. Charlotte stood still, watching him.

  She did not go into Margot’s apartment at once, but stood outside, thinking deeply. Had Margot really meant what she had said? Was she really finishing her love affair—this most passionate of all love affairs, the most discussed at the court? Suppose this was so. Charlotte smiled. A woman should be allowed to please herself sometimes. She was weary of this game she must play with Navarre, keeping him desirous yet unsatisfied. Perhaps it would be as well to say nothing to the Queen Mother of this little scene. She might receive definite instructions regarding the Duke of Guise if Catherine were told, for there was no doubt that the Queen Mother had an uncanny knack of discovering the inner thoughts and yearnings of her Escadron Volant.

  No. Charlotte would say nothing of what she had discovered; and if the handsome Duke was in need of a little comfort—Charlotte had received no direct instructions from her mistress to deny him.

  * * *

  Catherine’s satisfaction could not last long: and if she did not regret her increased unpopularity throughout France and that her evil reputation was spreading abroad, she was perturbed to see how far the King was straying from her influence. She had thought that, having destroyed the influence of Coligny, she would be able to restore that relationship which had existed between herself and Charles before he had fallen under the spell of the Admiral; but this was not so. Charles was weaker in physical health; his bouts of madness were more frequent; but it was obvious that, tormented by the memory of those fateful August days and nights, he, like the rest of the world, blamed Catherine for the massacre, and his great desire now was to escape from her domination.

  He continually remembered the words of the Admiral: ‘Govern alone. Evade the influence of your mother.’ And he intended to do that, as far as his poor weak mind would allow him.

  Catherine knew this and it disturbed her greatly. If, as many people said, it was true that her real motive in murdering Coligny had been to leave herself in sole command over her son, she had completely failed to achieve that desired result; for Charles was further from her control than he had ever been.

  Spain, now that it had ceased to exult over the massacre, hinted that since so many Huguenot leaders were now dead—and Philip understood that the marriage had been necessary to bring the unsuspecting victims into the trap—there was no reason why that marriage should not be dissolved.

  Catherine had at first felt indignant. ‘My daughter, a bride of a few months . . . just beginning to love her husband . . . and now it is suggested that the marriage should be dissolved!’

  The Spanish ambassador smiled cynically. ‘The gentleman of Navarre is not such a good parti now, Madame, despised as he is by both Catholics and Huguenots. Not a very grand marriage for a daughter of a royal house!’

  Catherine pondered that and, after a while, it seemed to her that there was much in what he said. Even in the event of civil war—which seemed remote now that the ranks of the Huguenots were so depleted—it was hardly likely that the people of France would wish to see a man who could change sides so easily—and a noted bon vivant and philanderer at that—on the throne.

  She knew to whom the people of France would look if by some dire misfortune—and Catherine herself would fight to the death to avoid that misfortune—the sons of the House of Valois were robbed of their prior claim to the throne. He was that young man who, in Paris at least, could do no wrong. He had been the leader, one might say, in the massacre, but no one in Paris blamed him. It was said that he but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. What a good thing after all was the popularity of the mob! It excused your faults and extolled your virtues.

  Yes, Paris would delight to see its hero on the throne, even though his right to it was a little obscure.

  She pondered deeply. One must adjust one’s policy to events; and circumstances altered cases. Now it seemed that it might not have been so very unwi
se to have allowed Margot to marry Henry of Guise when those two had so desired; although it had appeared quite wrong at the time. But in view of the turn of events, and of Navarre’s recent record, a marriage between Margot and Guise had now become more desirable than that between Margot and Henry of Navarre. The Pope naturally would raise no difficulty, and Philip of Spain would be pleased. Guise was known to Spain and Rome as one of the most loyal Catholics in France. Why not a double divorce? Guise divorced from his wife; Margot from her husband; and those two, who were so passionately in love, might marry after all! Catherine smiled ironically. This seemed to be one of those occasions when the chief parties concerned could all be happy and sensible at the same time.

  She discussed the matter with the Spanish ambassador. He was favourably impressed. So Catherine next sent for her daughter, and there took place one of those secret interviews with which the children of Catherine were very familiar.

  ‘My daughter, you know that I have always had your well-being at heart . . . your position . . . you future . . . You did not know, did you, that I also concerned myself with your happiness?’

  Margot was inclined to be truculent. She too had changed. As a married woman and a Queen she seemed to have moved from her mother’s influence, even as her brother the King had done. ‘No, Madame,’ she said, insolence carefully veiled. ‘I did not know that.’

  Catherine would have liked to slap the saucy young face. ‘Well, you shall know it now. This marriage, which was so necessary, has been a tragic affair. But you do understand, do you not, my daughter, that it was a necessity at the time it took place.’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ said Margot. ‘The unsuspecting Huguenots had to be drawn into the trap, and for that reason the marriage and its ceremonies were very necessary.