He whipped up and rode away. Catherine was in no mood to amuse him. He left her desolate. So he was turning against her, she felt. His voice had sounded less cordial than usual. You must not be outdone― Undoubtedly he had emphasized must. He meant that if she did not soon become enceinte, she could not remain married to his son.
And if I were not married to Henry, thought Catherine, I should no longer wish to live. The King was moody today; had he already decided on the divorce?
She need not have worried. Francis had not given her another thought. He was feeling too unwell to enjoy the chase; he was thinking wistfully of the days of his youth. He thinking also of Anne, and wondering why she had not accompanied him this afternoon. How did she, who was still young and so beautiful, feel towards this aged man that he was becoming? The love of a mistress could not be counted on as could the love of a mother and a sister.
Marguerite, Queen of Navarre had been ambitious for him; Anne was ambitious for herself. He remembered now, how, in the first years of his love for Anne, she had demanded the jewels which he had given to his former mistress, Madame de Chateaubriand; not, she said, of their value, but because of the beautiful devices engraved on them, which the King’s sister had composed. He had been completely under the spell of Anne, and had asked Madame de Chateaubriand to return the jewels. But Anne had been cheated then, for the Chateaubriand had outwitted her by the jewellery melted down so that the inscriptions written for her should not be passed on to another. He had admired his former mistress for that gesture; but Anne had furious been with him and with her. Anne was always imperious, always sure of herself. She was beautiful still and many admired her; that should be so, for Francis must have of the best; but he often wondered if the admiration of those about her was expressed more actively when he was not present. His thoughts went to Admiral Chabot de Brion, Christian de Nançay, Guy de Chabot and others― even including the poet Marot.
Although he could not trust her, he was unhappy without her. If he accused her of infidelity, she would immediately refer to his own failing in that respect.
The sexes were equal at the court of France. It was not for the most promiscuous man in France to complain of his mistress’s lovers.
He could find no pleasure in the hunt without her, so he decided to cut short the afternoon’s sport and return to her. First thing he did when he reached the palace was to go straight to Anne’s apartments. There he found one of her women, Mademoiselle de Colliers, in a state of great agitation; she stammered and blushed, and even dared to attempt to detain him. He brushed her aside and went into chamber, where Christian de Nançay was hastily struggling into his clothes. Anne, in a wrap of cloth of silver, her fair hair in disorder, was, he saw at once, completely at a loss. Mademoiselle de Colliers came running into the room. The girl was more frightened than the guilty pair.
Francis, the purple blood in his face, his heart pounding, summed up the situation at once; the afternoon was hot oppressive, and the girl was terrified because, having set to watch at one of the windows for the King’s return, she had fallen into a doze and had awakened only when it was too to warn her mistress.
Now this sort of thing was very amusing― when it happened to anyone else.
Anne was guilty; he only had to look at her to see that. Nançay looked like a man who knows his career is ruined; as for the girl, she was so beside herself that she knelt at the King’s feet, embracing his knees, lifting her young imploring eyes He strode to the window and called for his guards. He kept his back on the three people in the room, and stood there looking down on the courtyard. He felt too ill for anger. He suspected something of this. He was seeing himself, old, tired and ill, compared with this vigorous young captain of the Guards. This would not have happened ten years ago― five years ago. He understood perfectly. It was no use blaming Anne because she contrived to amuse herself with the handsome young man while the tiresome old one was out of the way, He would have done the same himself. He saw the situation too clearly for his anger to remain.
He was all-powerful; he could imprison the young man; he could cast off Anne. And what then? How would he replace he who was irreplaceable? Anne would lose her position as first lady in the land and he would be wretched without her.
The guards were coming into the room.
He turned, assuming great anger, and pointed to the captain, ‘Arrest that man!’ he said. ‘Let him reflect in prison on the impropriety of conducting here, in her mistress’s own room, an intrigue with an attendant of Madame d’Etampes. ‘
The guards seized young de Nançay, who was now feeling considerably relieved in his mind.
‘Get up,’ said Francis to the girl, ‘and leave us.’
Thankfully, she scrambled to her feet and hurried off.
Francis turned to Anne. ‘I think you will agree,’ he said, as the door closed, leaving them alone, ‘that my conduct was as restrained as yours has been abandoned.’
Anne was nonplussed, and he was delighted to see her at a loss. He would punish her now by keeping her in doubt as to her fate.
* * *
The story of the King’s discovery of de Nançay with his mistress leaked out.
Poor little Mademoiselle de Colliers had not, as she feared, lost her reputation.
Everyone knew who was the heroine of that little farce. De Nançay had been the favorite’s lover for weeks. Malicious stories were bruited about, not only concerning Christian de Nançay― who was very soon released― but all the young noblemen who circled about Madame d’Etampes; and these stories originated from Diane’s supporters.
Catherine was too deeply concerned with her own troubles to pay much attention to the skirmishes between the mistresses of the King and Dauphin until she sudden realized that that she might turn this state of affairs to her advantage.
Anne was her friend; they were often together; it was not difficult to plant ideas in Anne’s fertile mind.
Catherine said, as they rode together in the Petite Bande: ‘How the King loves the Duc d’Orléans! I think it would need very little make him pass over the Dauphin in favour of Monsieur d‘Orléans. I am sure he wishes young Charles were his elder son and Henry the younger.’
Anne gave her a swift glance. What a stupid little thing the Italian girl was!
She was thinking, as Catherine meant her to. The sill creature― to sow such seeds! Of course it was not possible― but was it? Could Anne, she asked herself, persuade Francis to disinherit his elder son in favour of the younger?
Would the law of France allow even its King to meddle with the line of succession? If it could be done, it must be done. It would make all the difference in the world to Anne d’Etampes if Charles of Orléans became the King of France instead of Dauphin Henry. With Charles on the throne, Madame de Poitiers would be of no consequence whatever. And this Italian child would be of no importance either!
She really was stupid to put such an idea into the mind of one, who, if it were possible to bring it about, alone could do it.
She did not know how violently Catherine’s heart beating; nor did she realize that the Italian had noticed the disturbing effect her words had had.
Catherine’s plan was desperate; but the plan suited her need. Now it was for Madame d’Etampes to start courting Charles of Orléans, and then Diane must realize that it was imperative for Catherine to have a child at once.
Alert herself, she set Madalenna to watch. Catherin. little. She watched Diane and Anne; and she knew that she herself was more clever than either of them. Diane had not yet realized why Anne was making herself so pleasant to Charles― She would soon, though; and then, thought Catherine, Henry will come to me, ready to give me a child.
How stimulating it was, this working in the dark! And foolish were those two women to show so openly their antagonism to one another. Catherine watched their maneuvers and smiled secretly.
Diane successfully brought ruin on the Admiral Chabot de Brion. He had been funding his coffers with St
ate money, but in Diane’s eyes his sin was that he was a secret lover and supporter of Anne. With admirable adroitness, Diane secured his banishment from court before Anne could successfully intervene.
Anne naturally sought immediate retaliation she set herself the task of bringing about the disgrace of none other than the great Montmorency.
She could not have done that, Catherine knew, had not events played right into her hands. Francis had tried to keep out of these women’s quarrels which were dividing his court. When his health improved, he promised himself, they should be stopped. The Catholic party who supported Diane! The Reformed party that clustered round Anne! He would show them that there should be one party and one party only― the King’s party.
But Francis could now see that Charles V of Spain had no intention of keeping the promises he had made when he was the guest of France. One of the reasons he had been invited to use French spoil as though it were his own was because of a hint he had previously given as to the future of Milan. He had suggested that the young Charles of Orléans might marry the daughter of Ferdinand of Austria, and, to show his approval of the proposed match, had said that he would dispose of the duchy and state of Milan in such a manner that the French King would have every reason to be content. How could he have said more clearly that the Milanese should be given to Francis by way of his young son! But after journeying through France and subduing Flanders, Charles V had changed his mind. He did not now feel quite so dependent on the friendship of France, and he suggested that Francis should renounce all claims to the Milanese, in return for which he would give his eldest daughter Duke of Orléans, and the Netherlands would be her dowry, to come to her after his own death.
The very mention of Milan always moved Francis deeply. To think that the long-desired possession had been dangled under his nose, only to be snatched away, infuriated him. And when he learned that Charles V had bestowed Milan upon his own son Philip, Anne was beside him, whispering in his ear.
‘You may depend upon it, Montmorency knew of Charles’ perfidy in the beginning. He deliberately disguised it. He does not wish the Duke of Orléans to have Milan, since then he would become too powerful to please his brother the Dauphin. It is not you, Francis, for whom Montmorency works; it is for Dauphin Henry. Have you not seen the friendship between them? Sire, are you to stand by and see them work together against you?’
The result of this was that Francis, to the rage of Diane and Henry, and to the delight of Anne, banished the once-favoured Montmorency, the great general, the Constable of France, to his château in the country.
Anne had won the bigger battle.
The fight continued. The mighty war of religion had started in France.
Catherine, watching closely, saw that Anne d’Etampes was becoming more and more friendly with Charles of Orléans.
* * *
The entire court was discussing the unsatisfactory state of the Dauphin’s marriage. What use was it― this fruitless union? Why had there not long ago been a divorce?
It was obviously the fault of the Italian. Henry had proved his manhood in Piedmont.
It was Diane who fostered such talk. The Italian shown some spirit; she was the friend of Madame d’Etampes. If Catherine was not the meek wife Diane had hitherto believed her, then Diane wished her removed.
Anne was sympathetic. She hinted to Catherine that she would plead her case with the King. She would do this, Catherine knew, because it suited her for the Dauphin to continue with this childless marriage. If there was a divorce, and a new marriage for Henry― a marriage which produced children― how then could she persuade the King to displace Henry for Charles of Orléans?
Catherine knew that that plan had taken deep root in Anne’s mind; if only Diane would realize it, Catherine was sure she would cease to agitate for a divorce.
Outwardly calm, Catherine was becoming inwardly frantic. She saw herself the divorced woman― she, who had already come very near to being Queen of France― banished to Italy to live her life there. She was twenty-three; for nine years she had fought a battle for her husband’s love; was she going to fail now?
She did not now weep. Instead, she looked back over the years and saw her mistakes. She should never have shown Henry her wild, passionate longing for him. She ought to have known that, as he was in love with another woman, it would repel him. But how could she― child that she had been― have known that? She had known nothing of human relationships, nothing of love.
‘Holy Virgin!’ she cried. ‘Could I but go back to be a child bride again, how differently I should behave!’
But was the use of hoping for a chance to start again. That sort of miracle never happened. The only miracles that happened were those you made yourself.
She must do something. But what?
Kill Diane? Willingly would she do that. Happily would she mix the draught that would kill her rival. But what good would that do? She dared not, even after all these years, be involved in another murder. There were many at court who would never forget how Dauphin Francis had died. Caution― caution all the time. She must make a miracle.
How? She was beside herself with grief and terror.
Passionately she loved this country, with a steadier, but none the less deep love than that with which she loved her husband. To love a person, she knew, must always be weakness, for even if love was returned, the person could die or change; but to love a country was not a foolish thing, because a country had no fluctuating towards one.
Ambroise, Blois, Chenonceaux. She saw that stately panorama of castles come and go before her eyes. She saw Paris and Notre Dame; she saw the palace of Les Tournelles and the torch-lighted hall of the Bastille; she saw the Louvre and glorious Fontainebleau. Leave these for the gloomy or the sombre, walled-in convent? Never!
Who would help her? Who save her? There was one with whom the final decision lay. He had been kind to her; he was always chivalrous. A forlorn hope, but the only one left to her.
She looked at her face in the mirror and saw there the marks of grief. Never mind. Her grief this time should be her weapon.
She had made up her mind and did not hesitate. In a very short while she would know success or failure. She was gambling on what she knew of the King’s nature. The result would depend on how deeply he desired the divorce; if his mind was made up, nothing she could do would influence him.
She went to his apartment and sent a message in to him by one of his pages, begging to be allowed to see him alone. She was set to wait in an antechamber sumptuously furnished, as were all the rooms of his apartments. She let her fingers stroke the velvet hangings; there was no luxury in the world like that to be enjoyed at the court of France. It was the gayest, most amusing, most intellectual court in the world. Here women were not merely pretty ornaments to make pleasant a masculine world; they took their place side by side with men.
This was the home she had grown to love.
‘The Virgin help me!’ she murmured. ‘I shall die if I am banished from the man and the land I love.’
The King was busy with some of his ministers and an hour of suspense elapsed before she was taken in to him. She bowed before him and, lifting anguished eyes to his, she begged that she might speak to him alone.
Those kind, tired eyes with the bags beneath them understood her glance of appeal. He waved his hands toward Cardinal of Lorraine and his Grand Chamberlain, the Comte de Saint-Pol, and the other noblemen who had made no attempt to leave him.
‘I would be alone with my daughter,’ he said.
Catherine gave him a grateful, tremulous smile, which she returned; and then seeing his jester, Briandas, who looked upon himself as a privileged person, still sprawling in the window seat, he shouted: ‘You also, Briandas. Get you gone.’
‘Sire?’ said the impudent fellow, raising his eyebrow, ‘I thought you would wish me to remain to chaperon the lady.’
Francis signed him to leave, and, bowing low and ironically, the jester went out.
It was rarely that Francis could witness, unmoved, a woman in distress.
‘Catherine, my dear one, what is it?’
She knelt and kissed his feet. He lifted her and looked y concern at her tear-blotched cheeks. He took a perfumed handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
She sobbed: ‘You are so good. I could not live without the joy of serving you.’
Now this was charming, thought the King. This was delightful. She had been able to choose her words well. This was a tender little love scene― platonic love― the most comfortable of loves. The admiration of a daughter for her father, made more exciting because the daughter was not of his blood.
‘Tell me all, little one,’ he said. ‘Have no doubt that I will do all in my power to help you.’
‘Sire, my honoured and beloved lord, I beg of you to forgive me this familiarity. It is the thought of being banished from your shining presence that gives me the courage to speak to you. I love this land; I love it through its great and glorious King. I have been happy here. It is true I have no children and my husband is bewitched by one old enough to be his mother. These are tragedies; but because on occasions I have won a smile of approval from your royal lips, I have been happy; because in some small way, I have given my gracious King some pleasure, my life has seemed to be worthwhile. I do not come to plead for what you would not willingly give, because if it were not your gracious pleasure, it could not be mine.’
‘Speak, my dear,’ He said. ‘Tell me everything that is in your mind.’
‘If it be your will that I should retire to a convent, then, though my heart be broken, this would I do. If it should be your will that I should remain here to serve you, then I shall be woman in France. But, Sire, whatever your command, I shall to my utmost power, carry out your wishes, for though to be banned from your presence will be to me a living death, I am wise enough to know that there is no joy in my life but that which comes to me through serving you.’
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