Whereupon she again fell to weeping bitterly, for she was very frightened indeed. But she felt herself lifted on to the royal knee and rocked in the royal arms as though she were a child. Hope came back, so bright, that it was more dazzling than the rubies and sapphires on the royal doublet.
Francis was thinking quickly. He had almost made up his mind to the divorce. As he wiped her tears he was thinking: if Henry spends too much time with one who is too old for childbearing and in any case could only give him bastards, let Henry stay childless. Then, on the death of Henry, would Charles, if he still lived, mount the throne.
How pleasant it was to play the chivalrous role when one could feel that it did not after all involve any great folly. He could please the little daughter who showed her affection so charmingly, and at the same time he could please Anne, rarely one had the experience of pleasing two women at the same time.
‘My child,’ said the King, ‘God has willed that you are my daughter-in-law and the Dauphin’s wife; therefore, who am I to have it otherwise? Rest happy, my child. Perchance it might, ere long, please God to accord you and the Dauphin the grace which you desire more than anything in the world.’
Catherine lifted eyes to his face that, while full of tears, seemed radiant with joy. Her mind was working quickly. It was only postponement, she knew; but it would mean at least another year of grace. And who knew what might happen in a year?
She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. She was incoherent― purposely so― because she wished to drop the ceremonious approach and tell the King of her adoration of gracious self.
She begged he would pardon her for her indiscretion. She thanked him again and again; she asked nothing but to stay near him, to see him each day, to listen to his poetry and songs.
Catherine marvelled at herself. How calm she was now! How cleverly she had enacted this scene! Each word she had uttered had been the right word. How sad, how tragic, that she who could so bemuse the clever father, must expose herself so pitifully to the simple son!
At last he dismissed her; they parted with vehement protestations of devotion on her part, gracious admission of affection on his.
Here was defeat for the Catholic party. The King had given the Dauphine a reprieve.
* * *
Diane was alarmed. She had noticed Anne’s growing friendship with young Charles of Orléans. The King seemed to dote on that young man more than ever, whilst his distaste for his elder son more marked. Francis had postponed― indefinitely it would seem― this matter of the divorce. Could this mean Anne was trying to persuade her royal lover to juggle with the succession, to set his younger son above his elder? Surely, that had never happened during the whole history of France; but who knew what a King, weakened by disease, priding himself on his chivalry, might not do for a woman with whom he was infatuated?
Diane saw immediately what she must do. She must make every effort to turn the barren marriage into a fruitful one.
She begged an audience with the Dauphine.
Catherine received her in her apartments, and they talked idly of Italy and the artists of that country; but Catherine guessed why she was honoured by this visit from her husband’s mistress, and in spite of her excitement, she felt the humiliation keenly.
Looking at the serene, lovely face before her, mad thoughts whirled in Catherine’s brain. She wondered if she might arrange for men to enter the woman’s chamber whilst she slept, and then mutilate or even murder her.
I hate her, thought Catherine, as she smiled sweetly. She little knows I have set Madalenna to watch them together. She would have me think that they are platonic friends. Little does she know that I have seen through Madalenna’s eyes. Would I could find some way of seeing them together myself. ‘Madame,’ Diane was saying, ‘you are fully aware of my the Dauphin. It is of such long standing. I have been a mother to him.’
An incestuous mother, thought Catherine bitterly.
‘Our friendship began when he was very young, and it will endure to my death, for I am older than he is, and it is almost certain that I shall die before him.’
Would it were tomorrow! How I should rejoice to see you, a dagger through your heart, and your black-and-white gown stained with your blood! And those serene features, serene no longer, but twisted in the agony of death! I will insist that Cosmo or Lorenzo find me a poison that will make a victim die a long and lingering death which will seem to be the a natural malady. ‘I know him so well,’ went on Diane. ‘I know his thoughts even when he does not confide in me― although he does confide in me frequently. Now, my dear friend, it is important that you and the Dauphin have children. I am your friend― your very good friend― and I tell you so.’
‘Madame, you tell me nothing new. The whole court knows that I pray each night for a child.’
‘The Dauphin is rarely with you,’ smiled Diane. ‘His presence would be more effective than your prayers.’
She paused, but Catherine forced herself to silence, her thoughts raced on. And why is he not at my side? Because you are luring him from me. I hate you. If I had a poisoned draught, how gladly would I force it down your throat! How meek she is, thought Diane. Really I wonder that I thought her worth removing. That little outburst was nothing. It was to be expected. It was because she made it before my enemies that it seemed important in my eyes. She is the very wife for Henry. They must have children. Diane was smiling, picturing the birth of Catherine’s children. Diane herself would supervise their education, choose their nurses and their teachers. They should be hers as surely as was their father.
‘Madame la Dauphine,’ continued Diane, ‘I think I know why the Dauphin is chary of visiting your chamber. Will you forgive the frankness of one who longs to be your friend, yearns to help you, who wishes to see your nurseries full of healthy babies?’
Catherine bowed her head to hide the violent hatred in her eyes.
‘Then I will tell you. When the Dauphin visits you, be not too loving. You are fond of him, I know, and his visits are rare; but do not make too much of them. Let him think that it is with you as it is with him― a duty, not a pleasure.
I think he would come more often if you did that.’
Catherine’s cheeks were flushed, not with modesty at the delicate matter― as Diane believed― but with fury. So he had told this woman of her passionate entreaties of love, of her tears, of her desire! He had told her enemy!
She had need of all her control to stop herself slapping that calm and arrogant face. But she must remember that the King had only postponed her banishment. She could not continue to hold her place if she did not bear a child.
This hated enemy alone could help her to that goal. Therefore must she smile and simper; therefore must she pretend to respect one whom she hated. This bitter humiliation was the price asked for ultimate power. Once it was hers, it would be her happy lot to turn the tables on this woman, and every insult should be paid for with interest.
So the girl with the meek smile and flushed cheeks listened of her husband’s mistress; and that very night the Dauphin visited her. So urgent was her love that she was happier to have him on these terms than not at all.
And so, every night from then on at his mistress’s command, Henry visited his wife.
Catherine followed Diane’s advice, and she found that after a while, Henry became almost friendly. He consoled himself and her. ‘A duty, a necessary act.
Once you are pregnant we shall have a long respite until it is necessary to think of the next one.’
What romance for a passionate girl! When he left her she would weep until morning.
But in less than a year after her tearful and touching scene with the King, the court was ringing with the joyous news. ‘Madame la Dauphine is enceinte! Let us pray the saints that it is a male child!’
* * *
Three hundred torch-bearers lined the route from the King’s apartments to the church of the Mathurins. It might have been midday, such light did they give. I
n the procession which was led by hundreds of the gentlemen of the households of the Dauphin, came the King of Navarre, and the dukes led by the Monsieur d’Orléans, with the Venetian Ambassador and the Papal Legate with other cardinals and priests.
These were followed by the Queen, the Princesses led by Marguerite, the King’s daughter; Madame d’Etampes― showing no sign of the chagrin she was feeling― was more extravagantly dressed and more beautiful than any; and in the these ladies, the royal baby was carried.
The church was decorated with finest Crown tapestries in its centre was a circular platform covered in cloth and on this platform stood the Cardinal of Bourbon waiting to perform the baptismal ceremony.
As soon as the procession had reached the church, set out; the sounds of tumultuous cheering seemed to shake the foundations of the church, as, smiling graciously, acknowledging the acclaim of his people, the King reached the Mathurins to act as godfather to the little boy who was named after him.
On the circular dais stood the Duc d’Orléans, the second godfather, and Princess Marguerite, the godmother. The baby seemed lost in his magnificent christening robes― a tiny, red, wrinkled-faced creature, a future King of France.
When the ceremony was over, the baby, surrounded ladies of the court, was taken back to the palace. The feasting and rejoicing that must crown such an important event begun. There must be balls and masques, dancing, plays and jousts to celebrate this addition to the House of Valois, Francis was the toast of the hour.
But there was none more delighted with him than his mother. She watched him in wonderment― this shriveled creature who had given her security.
She held him fiercely to her breast. Her little Francis! Henry’s son!
But even as she did so, fear came to her. He seemed so small and fragile.
There must be more sons to make his mother feel safe.
THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR
IT WAS APRIL at Fontainebleau. In her beautiful bed with its rich hangings of brocade and wonderfully woven tapestry, lay the Dauphine. Her eyes were lustreless, her fair hair spread out on the pillows; her thick pale skin seemed almost yellow in the sunlight; otherwise she showed little sign of the ordeal through which she had recently passed. She was strong and young; childbearing was easy for her.
She was not discontented as she lay there, although she wished that her Elizabeth had been another boy. Still, there would be boys yet. There would be many children. She allowed her lips to curl cynically, for Madalenna, sitting at her window seat, was intent on her work, and could not note her mistress’s expression. Diane had decreed that the Dauphin should be the father of many children; therefore it would be so. As for Catherine, she had proved, by producing these two children, born within two years of each other, that she was no barren wife.
How lucky she was that her husband’s mistress had decided to allow his wife to bear his children! He visited her apartments regularly― on his mistress’s instructions― albeit he came like a schoolboy going unwillingly to school; but nevertheless he came.
It was senseless to nourish this bitterness. She should congratulate herself.
She had a son and a daughter and there could no longer be any suggestion of divorce.
Everywhere in France― unpopular as she was― she was regarded as the future Queen. She was― though still called the Italian woman― the Dauphin’s wife; and France was beginning to take its Dauphin to its heart.
Henry had proved himself an excellent soldier in the last few years, for the King could not leave his war with Charles V forever long and Henry took a big part in it. He was without much imagination, but he was as brave as a lion; he was kindly too, a just disciplinarian; he was the sort of leader men liked to follow; and eager as he was to prove a worthy general in his father’s eyes, he rarely erred on the side of recklessness. His men were fond of him and the sober backbone of the country liked him. France adored its licentious, charming, and artistic King; it was hoped that he would live long to enjoy his pleasures; it was gratifying to hear of the works of ort collected and to know that he employed the best artists in the world to beautify his palaces; it was amusing to hear of the erotic joys, of the beautiful women who delighted mirror-panelled chambers.
But the splendours of France were costly, and it was comforting to look forward to a more sober court under the King-to-be.
There would be, to some degree, a return to morality. The Dauphin, it was true, had a mistress; but the relations between them was like that of husband and wife. Nor did the people blame the young man for taking a mistress, for was he not married to the Italian, and that, in the eyes of good French men and women, was ample reason for choosing a French mistress. Yes, France was well pleased with its Dauphin.
Catherine was also pleased with her Dauphin― desperately, maddeningly pleased. Her passionate love had increased than diminished with this greater intimacy between them. Oh, how hateful it was to think that he came to her because Diane sent him!
But she had her babies now.
‘Madalenna!’ she said. ‘Bring me my baby.’
Madalenna rose and went to the cradle― a magnificent affair of cloth of silver, decorated with ribands and laces. Catherine’s face softened as the child was brought to her. She held out her arms and took the little Elizabeth into them.
‘Is she not a beautiful child, Madalenna?’
‘She is indeed,’ said Madalenna.
‘I fancy she has a look of her father about her.’
‘It is too early to say yet,’ said Madalenna.
‘Oh, come, Madalenna, look at her nose.’
‘You think it is the Valois nose?’
‘Do you? Perhaps. But I am sure those are the Medici eyes.’
‘’Madame la Dauphine, it will be well for her beauty if she has the Medici eyes.’
Catherine kissed the small face. ‘It is to be hoped also that she has the Medici nose,’ she said, ‘for I declare, Madalenna, the Valois nose is impressive and noble for a man, but somewhat overpowering, do you not think, for a little girl?’
Madalenna laughed gaily. How happy she was talking thus to her mistress.
It seemed to her now that the Dauphine was just a happy mother, not that cold, frightening mistress who sent her on secret hateful missions.
‘Go to the nursery, Madalenna, and bring young Francis to me. I would have both my children with me. Go and tell him his mother wishes to show him his little sister.’
Madalenna went, and in a few moments returned with the little Prince. He was just over two years old, small for his age, with a delicate air. He was rather a pampered little boy, for his great glittering grandfather, whose name he bore, had taken a fancy to him; and that meant that everyone else at court must do the same.
‘Come here, Francis dear,’ said his mother; and he came and stood by the bed, his great eyes fixed on her face. He seemed to regard her with awe; she would rather it had been with affection, but the awkwardness which she felt with the father seemed to come between her and the child.
‘Look my little one,’ she said, ‘here is your baby sister.’
But he could not keep his eyes on his sister: they kept coming back to his mother’s face.
‘Is she not a beautiful little baby, my Prince?’ demanded Madalenna; and Catherine noticed how naturally the boy could smile and nod at Madalenna.
Why was it that he was at ease with others and not so with herself? Perhaps she was spoken of with awe in the nursery. Was she not the Dauphine? But that was not the reason. Young Francis had no fear at all of his father; he would climb all over Henry and chuckle with glee as he pulled his beard. The child was equally at home with the King himself. Catherine had seen him try to pull the jewels off his grandfather’s coat, for which he had received a friendly tap on the cheek, and had been thrown to the ceiling with a ‘Ha! My young robber! So you would steal the Crown Jewels!’ No! There was something strange in the child’s feelings for his mother, something she could not understand.
‘Madalenna, lift him on to the bed.’
He sat there uncomfortably, she thought; as while she fascinated him, he was afraid to get too close.
‘Why, Francis,’ she said, ‘it is pleasant to have you here like this. You― and your sister― and your Maman. Is it not, my little one?’
He nodded. He was staring at the ruby on her finger, ‘Ah! Is it not beautiful, Francis? It was a gift from your papa.’ She took off the ring and gave it to him.
Now he smiled. ‘Pretty!’ he said; and tried to put it on his little finger.
‘You must wait, must you not, until you are a grown man. Then, my son, you will wear many beautiful jewels.’ She saw him, a grown man, loving his mother. She could not bear to see him as the King of France, for that would mean that Henry was no longer King. She could not imagine a world that did not contain the joy and agony of loving Henry.
She took off more rings and he played with them on the bed. She thought:
he is not really afraid of me. I could soon make him love me. He was laughing as the rings slipped from his fingers into the bed.
‘Too big,’ he said. ‘Too big for Francis.’
And she seized him and kissed him suddenly and passionately, until she noticed that he had stiffened. She released him at once, while she wondered bitterly why it was she found it so hard to make people love her― even her own children.
She must remember not to be too demonstrative with young Francis.
‘Try on this one,’ she said; and she pulled a sapphire from her finger.
He was chuckling over the jewels when Diane came in.
‘You will forgive this intrusion, Madame, I know,’ she said.
Catherine’s face was set into the fixed smile she had always to show Diane.
Fierce hatred was in her heart. How dare the woman come intruding into her private apartments! How dare she? That was easy to answer. Every bit of happiness that Catherine knew was doled out to her by this woman. ‘Your husband shall make love to you tonight.’ Make love! There was no love-making, only child-making. ‘ I will insist that he comes!’
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