Now was the turn of the Catholic party to feel discomfited. Diane had not expected de Chabot to be so insistent. The young fool had declared would not be satisfied until he had faced his slanderer in the lists. He cared not that what he was saying was tantamount to challenging the heir to the throne.
Catherine laughed to herself when she was alone. Henry was in an embarrassing position. And who had led him there? Diane! Was it not true that she had spread the scandal so that de Chabot must demand satisfaction? People were saying that Diane’s hatred for Anne d’Etampes had put the Dauphin in a very unpleasant situation. They did not know that it was meek Catherine who had sowed the seed.
It was intolerable. This foolish de Chabot, reasoned Diane, was thirsting for a fight. It was illegal to challenge the heir to the throne. The fool should have known that. He could not be allowed to go about demanding satisfaction, for although he did not mention Henry’s name, all knew to whom he referred.
Competently, Diane looked about her for a scapegoat, and her thoughts rested on a certain Francis de Vivonne, a good-looking young man with a great reputation for military valour. He was reckoned to be the best swordsman in France and its finest wrestler. At one time he had been a favourite of the King’s; but he was essentially an ambitious man, and he preferred to bask in the warmth of the rising sun while seeking to avoid the scorching rays of that which was about to set. He was just the man who would eagerly seize a chance of gaining the favour of a man who must shortly be King.
Diane sent for the man and told him her wishes; and that very night, when the company had eaten and the banqueting hall of Les Tournelles was filled with men and women of the court, de Vivonne swaggered up to de Chabot and caught him by the arm.
‘Monsieur de Chabot,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘It has come to my ears that you are eager to defend your honour against one who has spoken against it.’
There was a hushed silence in the hall. De Chabot flushed, then grew pale.
The King leaned forward in his chair; his brows drawn together in a frown.
Anne d’Etampes had turned pale. Henry had flushed scarlet; and Catherine, feigning surprise, wished that she could burst into her gusty laughter.
De Chabot spoke at length. ‘It is true that lies have been bruited about concerning me. I shall not rest until I have had satisfaction of the man who has spoken against me.’
Henry’s face went an even deeper shade of scarlet, but Catherine noticed miserably that his eyes went to Diane as they used to do when he was young and uncertain how to act. Oh, what would she not have given for him to have turned to her like that!
De Vivonne, now assured that he had the attention of all, broke the silence.
‘I am that man, de Chabot. It was that you cynically boasted of the impropriety which you thought it proper later to deny.’
De Chabot’s sword was out of its sheath. ‘You lie!’
Immediately de Vivonne’s sword crossed his.
‘I speak truth. Come, you have declared yourself eager to avenge your honour. Here is your chance―’
The King rose in his chair.
‘Stop! Come here, both of you. How dare you cross swords thus unceremoniously in our presence!’
They put away their swords and came to stand before the King.
‘I will hear no more of this matter!’ said Francis. ‘I am weary of it. If you value your freedom, go your ways in peace.’
The two men bowed. They mingled with the crowd.
Francis saw that Anne had momentarily lost her poise. She was terrified.
She was in love and her lover had been challenged by the most skillful dueller in the country. It was said that certain death was the fate of any who fought with de Vivonne.
Catherine, watching her, understood her feelings, for was she not also in love? She saw Anne’s glance at Diane, saw the hatred flash in them. Diane was smiling serenely. She scored a victory. But one day, Diane, thought Catherine, there will be no victory for you, no triumph; only bitter humiliation and defeat. ‘Enough of this foolery!’ cried Francis. ‘Have the musicians in and we will dance!’
* * *
Anne paced down the King’s private chamber while Francis lay back watching her. Her fair curly hair was in disorder and the flowers which adorned it had slipped down to her ear. Her agitation made her all the more delightful in his eyes. She was no longer young; but Anne would never lose her beauty, never lose her charm. He liked to see her thus, worried, frightened; it made her seem vulnerable and very human. De Chabot’s youth might please her; but she was realizing that Francis’s power was the more important, since only through it could she enjoy the former’s youth.
He thought of her in various moods, in various situations. How delightful she had been in the first months of their love― enchanting him with her perfect body and her agile mind; she had brought new delights to a man who thought he had tasted all. And now old age had attacked him, and the coming of that old monster had been hastened by this pernicious malady from which he could not escape. He thought of her― retaining her youthful energy with de Chabot, with de Nançay. And he doubted not that if he made inquiries other names would be mentioned. But he did not wish to know. She was a part of his life and it was a part he could not do without. It was more kingly to shut his eyes to what in all honour he could not face, to feign ignorance of matters which he did not wish to know.
This, thought Frances, is the tragedy of old age. It is a king’s tragedy as well as a beggar’s. Who would have believed, twenty years ago, that I, Francis, the King of France, with the power of France behind me could allow a woman to deceive me while I pretend to deceive myself! Henry, the King across the water― what would he have done in like case?
Would he have been so deceived? Never! Frances remembered another Anne with whom, in the days of his youth, he had flirted and whom he had sought to seduce; he remembered her later at Calais― black-eyed and beautiful, proud with the promise of queen-ship. That Anne had lost her head, because the King of England believed― or pretended to believe― that she had deceived him.
Then there had been little Catherine Howard on whom the King had doted, and yet she too had been unable to keep her head. Now, had the King of France been another as the King of England, his Anne might have feared to take lovers as she did. But alas!― or should he rejoice because of it? Francis the First of France was not Henry the Eighth of England. There were two things they had in common nowadays― old age and sickness. It was said that old Henry’s present wife was more of a nurse than a wife. Well, he, Francis, was full of faults, but hypocrisy was not among them. With him the power of seeing himself too clearly had amounted to almost a fault; it had certainly brought its discomforts.
He bid Anne come to him and arrange his perfumed cushions.
She said: ‘Is that better? Are you comfortable now, my beloved?’
‘How many years have I loved you?’ he said. ‘It started before I was a prisoner in Spain.’
Her face softened and he wondered if she also was remembering the glowing passion of their days together.
‘You wrote to me verses in your Spanish prison,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget them.’
‘Methinks the professional verse-maker could do better. Marot, for instance.’
‘Marot writes verses for all and sundry. It is the verses that are written by the lover to his mistress that have the greatest value.’
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and went on: ‘My dear, this dual must not take place.’
‘Why not?’ He supposed he would give way, but he was going to frighten her first. ‘It will give the people pleasure,’ he went on. ‘Do I not always say they have to be amused?’
He smiled at her. ‘I am hard put to it to think up new amusements for my people. And here is a ready-made entertainment. A public combat. What could be better?’
‘It would be murder.’
‘And how my people enjoy to see blood spilt! Think of it, my darling! Th
ere will be those who gamble on de Chabot and those who wager on de Vivonne. A gamble! A duel! I’ll wager Monsieur de Vivonne will be the victor. It is true, my love, that he is the finest swordsman in France. I was better― once. But alas! I have grown old and others take my place― yes, take my place.’
She narrowed her eyes, whilst his smouldered. She knew he was thinking of de Chabot’s making love to her, as de Nançay had been when he discovered them. He would be amused to have her lover murdered by the best swordsman in France, for de Vivonne would avenge the King’s honour as well as that of the Dauphin.
She repeated: ‘It would be murder.’
‘Oh come, my love, your opinion of de Chabot is unworthy of him. He is not such a poor, craven fellow that he is going to fling aside his sword and beg for mercy as soon as de Vivonne holds his at his throat.’
‘He is no craven, certainly!’ She spoke with vehemence.
‘Then doubtless, he will give a good account of himself,’ said the King.
‘He will, but still it will be murder.’
‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The young fool would have brought this on himself. What matters it if he is his mother’s lover? Who should care?’
‘His stepmother.’ she said.
‘Mother― stepmother― I do not care. But the fellow should not have made such a fool of himself. He should not have gone about lusting for revenge.’
‘It was natural.’
‘How gracious of you to champion the young fool, my dear. So charming of you to take so much trouble to save his life.’
She said: ‘It is of the house of Valois that I think.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’
‘Sire, you know this is not de Vivonne’s quarrel. It is the Dauphin’s.’
‘What of that?’
‘It demeans your royal house that another should take Dauphin’s quarrel.’
‘Yet this young man declares his honour must be avenged.’
‘He is young and hot-blooded.’
The King looked at her slyly. ‘I warrant he is; and very reason it would seem he finds favour with some.’
‘Francis, you must stop this duel. This kind of combat cannot take place without your consent. I implore you not to give it.’
There were tears in her blue eyes; he could see the beating of her heart disturbing her elaborate bodice. Poor Anne! Indeed, she loved the handsome fellow. She was asking for his life as she had once asked for Madame de Chateaubriand’s jewels.
She threw herself down beside him, and, taking his jeweled hand, kissed it; she laid her face against his coat.
Odd, thought the King. The King’s mistress pleading with the King that he might spare the life of her lover. The sort of situation Marguerite might have put into one of her tales.
He drew his hand across the softness of her throat as it were a sword to sever the lovely head from the proud shoulders.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked; and he replied: ‘Thinking of my old friend, the King of England.’
She laughed suddenly with that quick understanding which had always delighted him. He knew all. De Chabot was her lover, and she was pleading for his life because she could not bear to be without him.
He joined in her laughter.
‘Dear Francis!’ she said. ‘I would that we could start our life again. I would that this was the first evening we met. Do you remember?’
He remembered. There was no woman he had loved as he had loved Anne d’Heilly. He was getting old and he had not long to live; and Anne saw, staring her in the face, a future at which she dared not look too closely.
She clung to him.
‘Francis― let us be happy.’
So much she given him; so much would she continue to give to him; and all she asked in return was complaisance and the life of her lover. So how could he, the most chivalrous of men, refuse to give her what she asked?
* * *
All during the last months of that year there was uneasiness throughout the court. The old order was dying. People were wondering what changes would be made when the new king came to the throne.
Anne, having saved the life of her lover when Francis refused the duel between him and de Vivonne to take place enjoyed a temporary respite. She knew it could not last. The King’s bouts of illness were growing more and more frequent, he did not care to stay in any place for more than a few days now. He hunted often, although he was too ill to enjoy the chase; but he always said that he would go, and if he was too old and sick to ride, he would be carried there.
Anne prayed daily for his health. The Reformed party watched uneasily while the Catholic party waited hopefully.
Catherine felt stimulated by the de Chabot affair, which she herself had cunningly brought about. She felt that if she wished it, eventually she could make puppets of all these people about her while she herself was the puppet-master.
She longed for power. She would use all her cunning to achieve it. If the love of her husband and the affection of her children were denied to her, why should she not work for power?
She had learned to work in the shadows.
She watched the King growing weaker with each passing day. She was tender to him, solicitous, showing great eagerness to serve. And she smiled, remembering that in her wisdom, she had made friends with Diane and, because of that deeply humiliating effort, she now had children, so that she need not, as poor Anne d’Etampes, fear the death of Francis. Those children, who had come to her out of her wisdom and her cunning, had given her the security for which she had once to plead with the King.
Up and down the country went the court at the bidding of its restless King.
A week at Blois; another at Amboise; to Loches; to Saint-Germain, and back to Les Tournelles and Fontainebleau. And then― on again.
* * *
It was February and the court had travelled down to and come to rest at the Château of La Roche-Guyon. Here they would be forced to stay awhile, for the snow was falling incessantly and the sky was still heavy with it. Great fires were built up in the huge fireplaces; Anne, with Catherine and members of the Petite Bande, put their heads together in order to devise some means of diverting the King from his gloom.
They planned masques and plays; there was dicing and cards; balls, when the company planned extravagant fantastic fancy dresses. But the King would not be amused; he hated to be forced to stay in one place when he wished to go on, and the King’s mood, as always, was reflected in his courtiers. They stood about in melancholy groups, asking themselves and each other what they could possibly do to relieve the tedium. They were like fretful children, Catherine thought, with too many toys. As for herself, what did she care if the snow kept them prisoners here. Henry was here and Diane was here. It made no difference to her whether they were at Les Tournelles or Loches, Fontainebleau or La Roche-Guyon. She still had her hours of agony to endure when the Dauphin was, as she knew full well, making love to Diane; she still had her moments of hope when ceremony demanded that he sit beside her or dance with her; there was still the bittersweet hour when he dutifully came to her apartments. And to set beside jealousy, there was always hope; and neither of these altered by place or time.
The snow was piling up high in the courtyards; it lay along the castle walls.
Never had the old château seemed so gloomy, and the King was growing more and more irritable, bursting into sudden temper over matters which would once have called forth nothing but a grunt of amusement.
It was midday and they had just eaten heavily; the old were drowsy; the young were fidgety. Why, asked one young nobleman of the Count d’Enghien, could not the King go to his chamber and sleep, or perhaps take a beautiful girl to keep him company― two beautiful girls? He had but to tender the invitation.
The Count replied sadly that the King was not the man he had been.
‘Come here, Catherine, my dear,’ said Francis, ‘and sit beside think of some game we might play to relieve this tedium? Of al
l my châteaux, I think that after this I shall hate La Roche-Guyon most.’
Catherine looked at Anne, who. was sitting on the other side of the King’s chair. Anne lifted her shoulders; she was listless. The King looked very ill today.
‘There is nothing, Sire, but to watch the snow and be glad that we are in this warm château and not out there in the cold,’ said Catherine.
‘The child would bid me count my blessings!’ said the King. ‘Why, in the days of my youth we had some good fights in the snow.’
‘Sire, let there be a fight now!’ cried Catherine.
‘Alas! I am old to join in it.’
‘It is pleasanter to look on at a fight than to take part in it,’ said Anne, ‘come, you slothful people. The King commands you to fight― to take up arms against each other―’
‘Armfuls of snow!’ cried Catherine. ‘A mock battle! It will be amusing.’
Francis with Catherine, Anne, Diane, and other ladies and some of the older men, ranged themselves about the while the young men rushed out to the courtyards.
Catherine, watching the fight, smiled to herself. Even in a game, it seemed, there must be two parties. D’Enghien was the leader of the Reformed party; d’Enghien for the King and Anne. For the Catholic party and Diane― and Henry of course, and with him the dashing and imperious Francis de Guise. It was the latter who concentrated his shower of snow on the Count. Henry, as Dauphin, must necessarily keep aloof. The two young men, de Guise and d’Enghien, were heroes of the fight. Diane was watching them closely; and Catherine watched Diane.
‘Bravo, Count!’ cried the King when his favourite scored a neat hit.
‘And bravo, de Guise!’ Diane was bold enough to shout when that handsome fellow threw his snowballs with accuracy.
Even there, in the group surrounding the King, there was evidence of the two parties. Only one person kept silent― the wise one; she who was content to be thought meek and humble and in reality was more cunning than any.
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