But the people of France still believed her to have been involved in the Dauphin’s death. She was an Italian with much to gain, and that was good enough grounds, in their eyes, for murder. Yet I am innocent of this, she assured herself. I never thought to remove poor Francis. She could hear the trumpeters now, and Henry came in to escort her, for on a ceremonial occasion such as this, he could not sit with his mistress. He looked noble in his splendid garments but he frowned at his wife and she sensed his uneasiness.
‘The air is thick with rumour,’ he said, and his glance seemed distasteful as it rested upon her. ‘Would my brother were alive!’ he continued with great feeling. ‘Why should those have wished to destroy my family?’
Catherine went towards him eagerly and slipped her arm through his. ‘Who knows what plans are afoot?’ she said.
‘They are saying the Italian lied.’ Now he would not look at her.
‘They will always say something, Henry.’
‘I would my father had not arranged this spectacle. Or I that you and I need not be present.’
‘Why?’
He turned to her. He looked into her dark eyes that seemed to have grown sly, secretive. She repelled him today more than she usually did. He had thought he would get used to her; he had even begun to think that he was getting used to her, but the mysterious death of his brother he did not want even want to look at her. He did not understand her; and how could he help knowing that her name figured largely in the whispering scandal now circulating through Paris, through Lyons, through the whole of France? She was queer, this wife of his. She, who was calm and self-contained in company, was an entirely different person when they were alone. Now, when shortly they must see a man suffering a horrible death, her eyes gleamed and twitched with eagerness as she plucked his sleeve.
He did not understand her; he only knew that when he was with her, he was filled with a nauseating desire to escape― from the clinging hands, the pleading eyes and the lips, too warm and moist, which clung over-long to his flesh.
‘Why?’ he repeated impatiently after her. ‘You know why. You and I stand to gain so much by my brother’s death. Had he lived, I should have remained a Duke, you a Duchess; now, the poisoned cup is being prepared for us, we shall be King and Queen of France one day.’
She said in that low, husky voice which she reserved for him: ‘I have a feeling that my husband will one day be the greatest King France has ever known.’
‘He would have been happier if he had been born to kingship, and had not to step into his murdered brother’s shoes!’ He turned abruptly; he was afraid that what was whispered about her was true! He found, to his horror, that he could believe it. ‘Come!’ he said coldly. ‘Let us not be late, or there will be my father’s anger to face.’
They took their places in the glittering pavilion. Catherine knew that all eyes were on her; and in the hush that followed, she heard the faint rustling of silk and brocade, and whispering of voices.
Diane sat with the Queen’s ladies, upright, haughty, magically beautiful, so that Catherine’s control threatened desert her, and she felt like crumpling into tears. It was not that she should be so old and yet so beautiful. What chance had a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, against such a one? Oh, Montecuccoli, she thought, you have given the promise of queen-ship when what I wanted was to be a beloved wife and mother! She moved closer to the jewelled figure of her husband. Was it her fancy, or did he move slightly away from her? His went to Diane, and now he was the devoted lover whom Catherine wanted for herself.
I hate her! she thought. Holy Mother of God, how I hate her! Help me― help me destroy her. Send a blight to destroy that bright beauty; send humiliation to lower that proud head― Kill her, that the one I love may be mine. I wish to be a Queen and a well-loved wife. If this could happen to me, I would give my life to piety. I would never sin again. I would lead a blameless life free from even venial sins. Holy Mother, help me. Oh, Henry! Why do I, so carefully nurtured, so balanced, s controlled, why do I have to love you so madly when you are enchained by that sorceress! The heralds were trumpeting, and everyone was rising in his or her seat for the ceremonial entry of the King and Queen. Francis looked weary. He was mourning both the death of his son and the devastation of Provence. Catherine, watching him, that he would not be influenced by the whisperings concerning herself.
She sat back now, for the wretched prisoner was being carried out. Could that be handsome Montecuccoli! He was unrecognizable. He could not walk, for both feet had been crushed to pulp in the cruel Boot. His once clear brown skin was yellow now; in a few weeks they had changed him from a young to an old man.
Catherine was quick― and greatly relieved― to see that he had retained that noble and fanatical air. Bruised, bleeding and broken he might be, but he wore his martyr’s crown. She had not been mistaken in her man. He knew what terrible death waited him, but he was resigned; perhaps he felt that his greatest torture was past. Four strong men were leading out four fiery horses; they needed all their strength and skill to hold the animals. Catherine’s mind switched back to a scene in the Medici Palace when she had sat with her aunt and the Cardinal watched the death of a faithful friend.
She had shown no emotion then. It had been important that she showed none. Now, it was far more important.
Each of the Count’s four limbs was attached to a different horse.
Now― the moment had come. Young girls leaned forward in their seats, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement; young men caught their breath.
There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.
She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.
THE LOVE CHILD
THREE WOMEN who watched the horrific spectacle knew that from now on their lives would be different.
Anne d’Etampes left the pavilion feeling apprehensive, ten years she had ruled the King of France and, through him, France. There was no one in the land more important than herself; even men such as Montmorency and the Cardinal of Lorraine, if they wished to enjoy the King’s favour, must first seek that of his beloved Duchess. The most beautiful woman of the court, she was also one of the cleverest. Francis had said of her that among the wise she was the most beautiful, among the beautiful the most wise. She saw her power now, hanging by a thread; and that thread was the life of the King.
The King and the new Dauphin, it would be said, were different as two Frenchmen could be; but in one important point there was a similarity. Francis, all his life, had been guided by women; in truth, he had been ruled by them, but so subtly that he had never realized it. In his youth there had been his mother and later his sister; their rule had been overlapped by that of Madame de Chateaubriand, who, in her turn had been ousted by Anne herself. These four women had one quality in common; they were all clever; Francis would not have tolerated them if they had not been. So much for Francis, And Henry? He was of a different calibre; there had been no loving parent and sister in his childhood; instead, there had been Spanish guards to jeer at him. But the woman had appeared at the right moment, a woman who had those very qualities which delighted the father― beauty and wisdom; and more completely under the sway of a woman than Francis had ever been, was young Henry in the hands of Diane de Poitiers.
There was more in this hatred of Diane and Anne for each other than mere jealousy. They were each too clever to care that the other might be considered more beautiful, except where beauty could be counted as a weapon to gain the power they both desired.
The more intellectual of the two women was Anne. Writers and artists
of the court were her close friends, and they, like herself, were in the new faith which was beginning to spread over the continent of Europe. Anne passionately wished to see the Reformed Faith brought into France. She had many with her; all the ladies of the Petite Bande, for instance, and they were most influential in the land; then there was her uncle, the Cardinal of Melun, and Admiral Chabot de Brion.
The admiral was more than a supporter, for, believing in the equality of the sexes, Anne saw no reason why, since Francis was to unfaithful her, she should remain faithful to him.
Diane, the enemy of the Reformed Faith, had sworn to fight against it.
Montmorency, now the closest male friend of the Dauphin allied with his young friend’s mistress. The Cardinal of Lorraine supported Diane, with three of his nephews, young men of great energy and ambition: these were Francis, Charles and Claude, the sons of the Duke of Guise. With such adherents, Diane could feel strong even against the influential woman of the court.
So Anne, thinking of these matters, wondered afresh what mischievous enemy of hers had, by proxy, slipped the poison into the Dauphin’s cup.
But there was nothing to be done but wait and watch, and lose no opportunity of ousting her rival. The Dauphin was young; the woman was old; and the little Italian was not without charm.
Try herself as she might, Anne could not help but see herself as the moon that is beginning to wane.
* * *
As Henry led Catherine back to their apartments, she also was thinking of the change that had come over her life. Her face was impassive; she gave no sign that the scene she had just aroused any emotion in her. Henry looked yellowish-green. He had seen death before; he had seen even such cruel death; but this touched him more deeply than anything he had ever seen before. He wished he had not so much to gain from his brother’s death.
Catherine turned to him as soon as they were alone. ‘How glad I am that it is over!’
He did not speak, but went to the window and looked out.
Surely, thought Catherine, he must be glad. A short while ago a Duke, now a Dauphin― with the crown almost within reach. He must be secretly rejoicing.
She went to him and laid a hand on his arm. She was sure he did not notice her touch, since he did not draw away from it.
She said: ‘Now it is avenged, we must try to forget.’
Then he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘ I cannot forget,’ he said. ‘He was my brother. We were together― in prison. We loved each other. I could never forget him.’
His lips trembled, and, seeing him softened by his memories she sought to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Oh, Henry, I know. He was your dear brother. But you must not grieve, Henry, my love. You have your life before you. Your wife who loves you― and longs to be a wife in very truth.’
She saw at once her mistake. She who was sly in intrigue, was clumsy in love; intrigue was natural to her, but love, coming suddenly, she did not understand its ways.
He disengaged himself. ‘I would I knew who had killed him,’ he said; and his eyes glowed as they looked straight into hers. She flinched and he saw her flinch.
He turned from her quickly as though he wished to put great a distance between them as possible, as though when was near her he could not rid his mind of a terrible suspicion.
‘Henry― Henry― where are you going?’ She knew where he was going, and the knowledge enflamed her, robbing her again of that control which she had learned was her strongest weapon.
He said coldly: ‘I do not think it necessary that I should keep you informed of my movements.’
‘You are going to her again― again. You desert your wife on such a day― to go and make sport with your mistress.’ She saw the hot colour creep up under his skin; she saw his mouth set in the prim line she knew so well.
‘You forget yourself,’ he said. ‘I have told you that Madame la Grande Sénéchale is not my mistress. She is my greatest friend whose calm good sense gives me great relief from the tantrums of others which I must endure from time to time.’
He was gone. She stared after him. He lied! She was his mistress. How like him to lie on such a matter, because he would think it was the noble and chivalrous thing to do! But he was noble and chivalrous in very truth.
So on this day, when she found herself the Dauphine of France, being in love, could forget her new exalted rank and must concern herself solely with the relationship of Henry and Diane.
I will find out if he speaks truth! she vowed. If I have to hide in her apartments, I will find out. ――――――― Diane, leaving the pavilion, accompanied by her women, was considering her new importance.
When they reached her apartments, she made her women kneel and offer prayers for the soul of the Count. She knelt with them, and when the prayers were over, she bade them disrobe her; she said the spectacle had made her feel a little ill, and she wished to be left to rest awhile.
She watched these women of hers closely. Annette, Marie, and Thérèse had always shown her the utmost respect, but did she now notice in their eyes something more? Perhaps they were realizing the change that had come into her life, for indeed they would be stupid if they were not.
‘Bring me a cushion here, Thérèse. Thank you.’ She was always courteous to them and she knew that they would have loved her if they had not been a little afraid of her. They believed her to be a sorceress. ‘Just put that rug lightly over me, Annette. I do not wished to be disturbed.’
They hesitated.
‘Yes?’ Diane studied her long white fingers, sparkling with jewels. On the first finger of the right hand, she wore a ruby, a present of Henry’s.
‘If it should be Monsieur d’Orléans, Madame?’
Diane raised her eyebrows and Annette blushed hotly. ‘Forgive me,’
muttered Annette, I meant Monsieur le Dauphin.’
‘If it should be the Dauphin,’ said Diane, ‘you may come and let me know.
Then I will tell you whether or not I will see him. For anyone else, remember, I am not to be disturbed.’
They left her, and she smiled to think how they would be whispering about her, awed because she made no difference in her treatment of her lover now that he was the heir to throne.
Little had she thought when, at the King’s command, she had held out the hand of friendship to his son that she would one day, become the most powerful woman in France. The King was far from well; and when he was gone, Henry, her Henry, would triumphantly mount the throne; and it would be for her to see who was at his elbow then, for her to say who should have a strong hand in the management of affairs.
Madame d’Etampes, that insolent harlot, should be banned from the court; she should pay for all the insults she had dared to throw at Diane de Poitiers. All that pleasure was to come. Diane, closing her eyes, saw herself beside the young King receiving the homage of his subjects in place of the pale-faced insignificant Italian girl. What a mercy the child was meek. Some wives might have made themselves very unpleasant.
At whose command had Montecuccoli poisoned young Francis? Was it true that he had received instructions from the Imperial generals? It was possible.
People thought that Henry’s Italian wife had a hand in the matter; but they were ready blame any Italian and they did not know the self-effacing child. They had heard stories of poisoning and violence in Italy, so they were ready to look upon all Italians as murderers.
The expected knock intruded on her thoughts.
‘Madame, Monsieur le Dauphin is here.’
‘Bring him to me in five minutes,’ she instructed.
Her women marvelled together. She did not hesitate to keep the Dauphin waiting― the Dauphin who was almost the King!
Diane took a mirror and looked at herself. She was wonderful. She was not surprised that they thought her a sorceress. No sign of fatigue; her skin as fresh as ever; her dark eyes clear.
She threw back her long hair and put down the mirror, as, the five minutes up, the door opened an
d Henry came in.
He came to the bed and knelt.
‘My dear!’ she said.
He kissed her hands in the eager way he had never lost. He was, though, no longer the quiet boy; he was an impatient lover. But he did forget that, though he had been raised to a dizzy eminence, she was still his goddess.
He rose and sat beside her on the bed. She took his face in her hands and kissed it.
‘You may be the Dauphin of France,’ she said, ‘but never forget you are my Henry.’
‘The Dauphin of France,’ he said, ‘what is that? But when you say I am yours, I am the happiest man in France.’
She laughed softly. ‘Ah! So I have taught you to make gallant speeches then?’
He turned his face to hers, and with a gesture which reminded her of the boy he had been such a short while ago, he buried his face against the soft white satin of her gown.
There was a short silence before he said: ‘Diane, who instructed that young man to kill my brother? I would I knew.’
Looking down at his dark head, she thought, Does he know? Does he suspect anyone? ‘Henry,’ she said in a whisper, ‘you cannot think of any who might have done this thing?’
And when he lifted his face to hers he said simply: ‘There are some to whose advantage it has been. Myself, for instance.’
No! she thought. It was nothing. He knows no more than I do. If he did, he’d tell me; there are no secrets between us. ‘Promise me, my love,’ she said, ‘that you will never drink rashly. Let everything― everything― be tasted before it touches your lips.’
He said quietly, ‘I have a feeling that I am safe, Diane.’ Then he turned to her eagerly as though he wished to banish unpleasantness in the happiness she could give him. ‘Let us forget this. Francis is dead. Nothing can bring him back.
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