She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.
She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.
‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with La Petite Bande, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’
She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.
Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.
Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.
One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’
He lifted her and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘it was good of you to open your heart to me thus.
Why, you shall have a special place in my Petite Bande. It shall be your task to ride beside me, to amuse me with your talk and tell me your secrets. How like you that?’
She kissed his hands, and she laughed with him because she was so happy.
This was a piquant situation such as he loved. So original, so amusing― to have his little daughter, for whom he was indulging in a platonic love affair, among his courtesans!
So Catherine rode in the Petite Bande. But this did nothing to endear her to her husband. Her friendship with his father seemed to make him more suspicious of her than ever.
But Catherine seemed to grow up quickly among the King’s ladies. She heard chatter of the private parties that were enjoyed in the King’s apartments; she heard of things which she had never known existed; and her thoughts, as she listened, would go unaccountably to Henry; and she could not stop imagining Henry and herself at these parties.
The second upheaval of that eventful year caused a deep alarm in Catherine’s heart. Suddenly and mysteriously, Pope Clement died. For the man she cared nothing. How could she care? She looked upon him as the destroyer of her happiness. But for his ambitions, she would have been Ippolito’s wife; and together, she and her cousin would have ruled the city of Florence. But she was diplomat enough to know that Clement was her only powerful relative, and that the King of France had agreed that she should marry his son because of the benefits such a marriage would bring to France. But, alas! The dowry was not yet paid in its entirety; and what about those tempting jewels― Naples, Milan, Genoa? A new Pope would snap his fingers at the ambitions of the Medici.
People whispered about her. It angered her that they did not think it necessary to keep their voices low when she was near. ‘Here is a fine matter!’ it was said. ‘Our King has been fooled. Where is the fine dowry, where the Italian provinces which alone made possible this marriage between a Medici girl and a Valois Prince? Here is our King’s son saddled with a marriage which can only demean himself and France.’
Catherine’s thoughts were muddled. Was she truly alarmed? She hardly knew. It was fortunate that she could show a calm front. What would happen to her now? Would the marriage be dissolved? Would she be sent back to Italy?
‘If you are,’ said a voice within her, ‘and if your marriage is dissolved, you will be free. You can return to Rome. And Ippolito will be there.’
Oh joy! To be with Ippolito once more, to be free to love. She would not have to live with a husband whom she did not love. No more of that furtive intimacy that he made so clear was solely for the begetting of children. ‘How happy,’ she murmured, ‘should I be to say goodbye to you, Henry!’
But, alas! Ippolito was a Cardinal. He could not take a wife. Nonsense!
Ippolito could break away from the Church if he wished.
She waited, uncertain of her desires, while fresh news came from Rome.
There was rejoicing throughout the Eternal City― throughout all Italy― at the death of one who had made himself despised and hated. Each night, it was said, the grave of Clement was raided by the mob, who desecrated his body, and in their hatred of him did all manner of vile things which they had longed to do to him while he lived. Only the intervention of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici had prevented an enraged populace from dragging Clement’s body on a hook through the City.
Oh, Ippolito, dearest Ippolito, thought Catherine. How like you to protect, in death, the man who, in life, made you unhappy, who wrecked our lives, when he kicked aside our love for his ambition! And thinking thus, she grew angry with Ippolito. He was not strong enough, she thought. He allowed us to be parted. The third incident of importance did not seem such at the time it took place.
She had no great liking for the Dauphin, but she had always sought to please him, and he had grown to like her mildly. One day he sought to honour her, and being in need of a new cupbearer he thought to please her by selecting a young Italian whom she had brought with her in her suite. Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli was a handsome and very patriotic young man whose earnestness had pleased Catherine, so that she was glad now to hear that he had been selected for favour.
‘I am deeply grateful for the honour you do my countryman,’ she told the Dauphin.
Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.
* * *
A lovelier spot than that on which Diane’s castle of Anet stood could not be found in the whole of Europe. Past its high stone walls flowed the Eure, and beyond it stretched out the gently sloping vineyards. Diane, under Henry’s guidance, was doing everything humanly possible to make the place all that huntsmen could desire; she had enclosed a small but thick forest in which wild beasts were preserved; her stables were acknowledged to contain some of the best horses in the country; the castle itself combined luxury with comfort, and to Henry it was home.
He was growing up. He was past sixteen, and out of this idyllic friendship that had begun on the day of his first encounter with his beautiful benefactress, passion was beginning to grow.
As for Diane herself, she was fond of the boy. She looked upon him as she might have looked upon a delicate plant which, after a doubtful start, had blossomed into unexpected beauty. He was her creation. She had pruned away the awkwardness until dignity had developed in its place; quiet he was, for she could not cultivate where there was no root; but she had taught him self-confidence; she had made him conscious of his royal standing. He was deeply grateful to her.
She had been quick to sense the change in his attitude toward herself. Once she had been a goddess, a saint in a stained-glass window; now she was the perfect woman. He had become a husband since the first days of their friendship, but nearly two years of married life, while doubtless it had made him aware of love and passion, had not taught him to love his wife.
Diane had known for some time that this was a problem she had to face.
expecting him to arrive at Anet on this day. Soon she would hear the horns of the huntsmen who would ride with him. She would see him, at the head of his attendants, come clattering into the courtyard, colour in his usually pale cheeks, his eyes bright with eagerness at the thought of seein
g her.
She was fresh and perfumed from her bath. This odd habit of taking frequent baths alarmed her women. They thought that the baths contained some magic which kept her young; it amused Diane to see the fearful way in which they poured out asses’ milk and emptied it away when the bath was over. They asked themselves how any woman could, without the aid of magic, preserve a perfect figure such as Diane possessed, after the birth of two children. It was no use telling them that exercise did that for her. They would not believe it. Diane was up with the dawn, when she rode for two hours in the fresh morning air; after that she returned to her couch, where she read until midday, thus preserving not only an elasticity of body, but of mind. Diane said she lived by regular habits which she had proved to be good; those about her said she lived by magic.
As a practical Frenchwoman, she now knew that the time had come for her to make a decision. Henry was yearning to be her lover, but the suggestion that he should become so, must, as all suggestions between them, come from her.
She was by no means a sensual woman, and she did not feel the desire for a lover; she had been a faithful wife to her middle-aged husband, and she felt it no great hardship to live without him. Her horror at the King’s advances had been genuine; but now she could calmly consider those of his son.
She was more fond of Henry that she was of anyone also, even her own daughters. He was so dependent upon her; he adored her so naїvely. Would, she wondered, physical contact lessen or strengthen the bond between them? This step from the stained-glass window to the bedchamber needed a good deal of consideration. One thing was certain: Henry was in need of love, physical love.
If Diane did not give it, would he look elsewhere? If he did, and if he found it, Diane’s rule would necessarily decline. There were many people who thought the Italian girl colourless; Diane was not so sure. It might be that the girl preferred to keep in the background than make blunders. It was not folly which would lead her to act thus, but wisdom.
What was she to do? She was fond of the boy; she had come to regard him as important in her life. Was she to lose him to his wife or a possible mistress?
Moreover, for all his modesty, he was the King’s son― a person of some consequence in the court. Diane needed influential friends at court.
Mademoiselle d’Heilly was growing in importance― she had now been married to the Duke of Etampes to give her standing and respectability at court and she had always hated Diane. The woman was loved devotedly by the King; Diane must be loved in the same devoted manner by the King’s son. No! She could not risk losing Henry; he was too important to her both practically and emotionally.
She said to her woman: ‘Madeleine, do I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?’
‘I think you may, Madame. I heard the horn full five minutes ago.’
Diane was smiling as she went to the window. She saw him ride into the courtyard at the head of his party. Yes, he was indeed a noble youth. He leaped from the saddle and called to his grooms with that air of authority which had grown from her coaching, and which he seemed to put on when he came to Anet.
A page came in. ‘Monsieur d’Orléans is here, Madame.’
‘Tell him he may come to me here.’
She was lying on the couch when he came in. She dismissed her attendants.
He knelt and kissed her left hand, and with her right, she touched his hair. It was thick and dark. She caressed it lightly, and he lifted his head and looked at her, so that she saw he was filled with emotion.
‘I had thought you would be here earlier,’ she said. ‘It seems long since you came.’
‘I rode hot-foot,’ he answered. ‘Never have miles seemed so long.’
‘You look at me oddly, Henry.’
‘You are so beautiful.’
She laughed lightly. ‘I am glad I find favour with you, my dearest friend.’
He kissed her hand again; his lips were hot and he was quivering with his passionate desire for her.
Marriage had indeed changed him. She thought: how is he the little Italian? She was faintly jealous of the child, envying her her youth and her status as his wife.
She said: ‘I think of you often, my dearest. Henry, I think I am a little jealous.’
He lifted his head to stare at her, not understanding; he was always slow of understanding.
‘Jealous,’ she said, ‘of Catherine.’
He flushed and looked quickly away from her. She liked his shyness,. How much more appealing it was than his father’s practiced ways!
She went on: ‘I am an old woman, Henry, compared with you. It makes me sad that I should be so old and you so young.’
He stammered: ‘You― you could never be old. You are perfect. Age? What is age? How I wish I were of an age with you! I would gladly throw away those years which separate us.’
She took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘How adorable you are, my Henry. You see, I think of you as mine. But I must not.’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why― should you not?’
‘You must not come to Anet as you have been doing, my dearest. You see― we are friends; that is all. Always I shall think of you as my dearest friend. But now you are no longer a boy. You have a wife―’
‘But what has she to do with our friendship?’
‘Everything, Henry. You have a wife― and you visit me. How can we expect the rest of the world to understand this friendship of ours? They laugh.
They sneer. Mademoiselle d’Heilly― I should say Madame d’Etampes― has slandered us, Henry.’
‘How dare she!’
‘My darling, she dares much. Her position enables her to do so with impunity.’
‘I have always hated her. Oh, how dare she breathe a word against you!
Were she a man, I should challenge her.’
‘My chivalrous darling! A king’s son may not challenge another, you know.
You never do yourself justice. You are ever ready to forget your rank. I had to show you with my love and admiration that you were worthy of the world’s regard. I did. My God, I am glad that the task was mine. Every moment has been a joy to me. But now it is over. You have a wife. You must have children. You are no longer a boy who can visit a woman, if you wish to avoid gossip.’
‘Diane, I care not for that. I care for no one but you. Let them say what they will. I must come to you. I love you― you only. Nothing else in my life is of the slightest importance to me. I was miserable, and you changed my life so that I cannot live it without you. If they say I love you, then they are right.’
She said quietly: ‘It is not wise, is it, this friendship of ours?’
He stood up and turned his back to her. She knew that he was greatly excited, and that he was going to say that which he dared not say while he looked at her.
He stammered: ‘If― they― say that I am― your lover and you are my― mistress― then I am honoured. They could not shame me by such talk. They could only make me long that this were so.’
She did not speak, and suddenly he turned, and running to her, threw himself at her feet, burying his face in her black-and-white satin gown.
* * *
He stayed a week at Anet. He did not hunt. He spent the days with her as well as the nights. He was in a state of ecstasy; he was overwhelmed, shy and masterful in turns.
She thought: It is delightful to be loved like this. He talked a good deal, and it was unusual for him to talk very much, even to her; he sat at her feet, kissing her hands, as he poured out his heart to her. He explained his hatred for his father’s way of life, and how he had always longed for one love― one love alone; he had little dreamed that such a blessing could come to him. He wished he were not a King’s son. Then he might not be married to a wife whom he could not love; he could have married Diane. He would have been completely happy if their union could have had the blessing of the Church.
He wanted no other than Diane; he never would as long as he lived. She must not talk to him of age, for wha
t did age matter to lovers? He wanted her to know that she was enshrined in his heart forever.
‘There will be your duty to your wife,’ she reminded him.
‘That is impossible now. It would be more distasteful even than before. I could never banish your image from my mind for one moment. I have not done so since I have known you.’
‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you are so wonderful.’
‘ I? ’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘But I am so unworthy.’
‘No, no. You are young and delightful and you mean everything you say.
You enchant me. I could not bear to lose you now. Henry, never let anyone part us.’
‘Never!’ he swore.
They exchanged rings. ‘I shall wear yours always,’ he told her.
They kissed solemnly.
‘These are our marriage vows,’ he told her.
* * *
His father sent word for him to return to Paris at once. He laughed. ‘I refuse to go.’
‘Henry, you must be wise. You dare not enflame his anger.’
‘I have no wish to go to Paris. There is only one place where to I wish to be.
Here― with you― at Anet. This is our home, Diane― yours and mine.’
‘Do not let this wonderful love of ours bring harm on either of us,’ she begged. ‘Remember the ruthless power of your father. He is quick to anger. He knows that you are with me. If you will not protect yourself from his anger, you must protect me.’
She knew that would be enough to send him riding back to Paris.
The court was at Fontainebleau, Francis’s favourite spot in the whole of France; he had not completed it to his satisfaction, and at this time was absorbed by the artistic work of Il Rosso on his, Francis’s, own gallery. Fontainebleau had a hundred delights to offer― a mixture of wild country and cultivated gardens, with the little Seine close by, pushing its way through the vineyards.
Francis was weary. He was trying to whip up his old enthusiasm for the new war he was proposing to carry into Italy. He could never stop thinking of Italy, and longed to add it to his possessions. It was a bitter blow that Clement should have died when he did, before he was able to pay Catherine’s dowry.
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