She smiled, fingering the jewels at her throat. A short while ago, they belonged to Anne d’Etampes, presents from Francis. Diane wished Anne could see her wearing the gems.
Regally, Diane dismissed her attendants that she might be alone with the King. They sat together in one of the window seats, he with his arm about her.
‘Excellent news, my loved one,’ he said. ‘Catherine is enceinte.’
‘That is wonderful. I had thought there was a look about her of late.’
‘She all but fainted, and I guessed.’
Diane nodded. Sly Catherine had tried to withhold the news. Diane laughed.
Poor, humble little Queen. How much happier it was to be the sort of Queen she herself was! How pleasant to be able to be sorry for the real Queen of France!
Henry had no secrets from Diane. He said: ‘She tried to plead for Anne d’Etampes.’
Diane was immediately alert.
‘My dear, how foolish of her!’
Diane was smiling, but she was disturbed. She pictured the placid face of the Queen― the dark eyes were mild, but was the mouth inscrutable? Surely Catherine would never dare to intrigue with Diane’s old enemy. Diane turned her face to the King and kissed him, but whilst he embraced her, her thoughts ran on. To rule a King needed more caution, more shrewdness than to rule a Dauphin. Henry was sentimental and he had promised his father on the latter’s death-bed to protect Anne d’Etampes. Diane recalled now with what fury she had heard the news that Henry had sent a kind message to Anne on her retirement to Limours when Francis died; in it he had hinted that she might return to court. He had promised his father; he insisted. He was a good man, though unsubtle; but he was also a grateful lover, a man to remember his friends. Anne de Montmorency was already back in favour, and there was a man Diane must watch lest he receive too much favour; but for the time, Montmorency, who had his own score to settle with Anne d’Etampes, was Diane’s ally.
Dear, simple Henry! It was but necessary to show him how Francis’s mistress had plotted against Henry with his Charles for him to see that he was justified in releasing himself from any death-bed promise he had made to a man ignorant of the woman’s duplicity. Anne’s property was confiscated, her servants sent to prison; and her husband, been eager enough to profit from her relationship with Francis, now accused her of fraud, and she was herself sent to prison.
Diane felt that Anne d’Etampes was paying in full for those insults she had directed against the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy. And now― this meek little Catherine must take into her silly head to plead for the woman.
She would, of course, have to learn her lesson. She must realize that she could only be allowed to retain her position as long as she submitted to the uncrowned Queen.
‘I trust,’ said Diane later, ‘that you informed the Queen of the perfidy of Madame d’Etampes in conspiring with your enemies against you?’
‘I told her of this. I fancy she was distressed. She declared herself surprised.’
Well, she might, thought Diane. She would have to be made to realize that it was solely through the clemency of the King’s mistress that his wife was allowed to bear his children.
* * *
Diane couldn’t help feeling that it was again necessary to teach Catherine a lesson. She was beginning to think that the Queen’s new standing had gone to her head. After all, reasoned Diane, the woman was but a Medici, descended from Italian tradesmen; Diane herself was a great lady of France, with royal blood in her veins. Yes, Catherine must understand that she owed her position to Diane; and, moreover, that her success in retaining it depended on Diane.
Catherine would learn a lesson more thoroughly, Diane was sure, if it were given in front of others. Therefore she chose a moment when there should be many august witnesses of the Queen’s discomfiture.
It was the occasion of one of those gatherings which, as Queen, Catherine held from time to time. The King was not present; but among the distinguished company was Diane, Henry’s sister Marguerite, Montmorency, and Francis de Guise.
Diane began asking the Queen if she would at some time be kind and gracious enough to show her the plans she had made for the alterations to the castle of Chenonceaux.
‘Why Madame!’ replied Catherine, ‘I should be delighted to show them to you. Of course, you understand that I have not the gifts of my gracious father-in-law, and my plans, I fear, leave much room for improvement.’
‘Madame, I should be glad to see them.’
Guy de Chabot, that stupid, reckless man who had once before shown himself to be Diane’s enemy during the scandal concerning himself and his stepmother, said: ‘Is Madame la Sénéchale thinking of improving on the plans of our gracious Queen?’
‘That may be so, Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane coldly, for the man’s manner was insolent. He had shown himself a fool once before; she was sure that he was ready to do so again. He should realize that he was already in the King’s bad graces; he could not help himself by showing a lack of respect towards the King’s mistress.
Diane turned from him to Catherine.
Catherine said: ‘I had thought of altering the southern façade and building the nine arches which Thomas Bohier projected― was it thirty years ago?’
Catherine glowed. She could not help it. Chenonceaux was one of her enthusiasms; it had given her so much pleasure to plan reconstructions when she had been smarting under humiliation. She was trapped, as she could be by her emotions into speaking too glowingly.
Marguerite, who was very clever and able to talk interestingly on most subjects, joined in. There was something kind about Marguerite, and she was glad to see the in the usually pale face of the Queen. Montemorency added his judgments; but artful de Guise guessed what was coming and remained silent.
Catherine said: ‘One of these days I shall start work on Chenonceaux; I shall invite all the greatest artists to help. I shall have the gardens laid out with flower borders; and I shall have ornamented grottoes and fountains.’
Diane answered coolly, since the moment could no longer be delayed: ‘It is my sincerest hope that you will grace Chenonceaux with your presence whenever it is your desire to do so.’
Catherine stopped to look at Diane. Only by the faintest flicker of her eyelids did she betray her feelings. She smiled while she forced herself to hold her hands to her side and not rush forward to slap the serene and charming smile off the face of her enemy.
This was cruel, bitter humiliation. Diane had known of her love for Chenonceaux; deliberately she had trapped her into betraying her enthusiasm, her longing to claim the claim the place as her own; then, before all these people, she had shown that her desires were as nothing beside those of the woman who was the real Queen of France.
Never, thought Catherine, have I hated quite as much as I do now. Not even when I have watched her at Saint-Germain through the hole in the floor. ‘So―’ began Catherine, and hated herself because she hesitated, aware as she was of the sly, laughing eyes of Francis de Guise, of the consternation in those of Marguerite, of the sympathy of de Chabot.
‘The King has been good enough to bestow upon me the castle of Chenonceaux,’ said Diane. ‘The gift is in recognition of the valuable services rendered the State by my late husband.’
It was impossible not to admire the way in which Queen Catherine calmly went on discussing Chenonceaux after congratulating Queen Diane on the acquisition of what was, in Catherine’s mind, one of the most charming residences in France.
Indeed, thought Diane, the Italian woman learns her lessons with grace.
Catherine was thinking: one day, every score shall be settled. You shall escape nothing, Madame.
* * *
‘Monsieur, you are downcast today.’
Guy de Chabot found that, in this dance where one’s partners changed continually, it was his turn briefly to dance with Queen Catherine.
He inclined his head. ‘I am,’ he answered, ‘and I hope my condition does not give offe
nce to Your Gracious Majesty.’
‘We would prefer to see a smile upon your lips.’
He put one there.
‘And not a forced one,’ she said.
Now they must come closer in the dance and she took advantage of this to whisper to him: To not be downcast. There is a way out, Monsieur.’
Guy de Chabot looked straight into the eyes of the Queen, and he felt that he had never really looked at Catherine before.
Her lips were smiling, her eyes serene; and yet, he thought, there is something about her― something lurking there, something as yet not fully developed, something of the serpent― But what a fool I am. Anxiety, fear of death is making me fanciful. He did not understand her meaning and his blank expression told herself.
‘You fear de Vivonne,’ she whispered. ‘Do not. There is a way out.’
Now they were not so close, and it was impossible to whisper. De Chabot’s heart beat faster. It was true that he was afraid. He was not a coward, but he supposed that any man seeing death staring him in the face, feared it. He must face de Vivonne in mortal combat, for he had been challenged and had given the consent which King Francis, for the sake of Anne d’Etampes, had denied. De Vivonne was the best swordsmen in France and to fight him was to fight with death.
There were times when one could swagger, pretend one did not know the meaning of fear; but this quiet Queen caught something in his face which he did not realize he had shown.
I am young, he thought; I do not wish to die. What a gay adventure it had seemed, loving the King’s mistress, as many had before him, and some after. And now she, so beautiful, completely desirable, was languishing in prison and he was challenged to a duel which meant certain death.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, here was the Queen to him that she knew a way out. But what way out little Catherine show him? It was the wish of the King, and King’s powerful favourite that he should die. How Queen save him?
The Queen had very little more power than he had. Why, only a short while ago he had seen Madame Diane humiliate her cruelly over this matter of Chononceaux. And yet, suddenly, he had been made aware of the power of the Queen. He could not help it, but it made him shiver slightly, even while it filled him with hope. It was like being suddenly in a dark place by someone he had not known was near him. It was the Queen who had spoken to him; yet it was not the Queen’s mild eyes that looked at him but the of a serpent, calm, patiently waiting for the moment poisonous fangs could be plunged into an enemy.
He had no opportunity of speaking to her for a while. He must continue in the dance, and now he had another saucy-eyed girl who regarded him with favour. He was very handsome, this de Chabot; and the fact that all believed he was not long for this world seemed to add to his purely physical charm. But just now he could think of nothing but the Queen.
He had wondered at her meekness over the affair of Chenoniceaux. He remembered now how unnatural he had thought it, for a wife and Queen, to accept insult so mildly. But was she so mild? He felt that for a moment she had lifted a veil and shown him some secret part of Queen Catherine. He understood it; it was perfectly clear. The King and Madame Diane had decided he should die. He had been the lover of their old enemy; he had given the King, when he was Dauphin, some uneasy moments; he had swaggered about the court challenging him who had dared cast a slur on his honour and that of his stepmother, knowing full well that those who had done so were Dauphin Henry and his mistress. Now he was asked to pay for that folly. But what if, contrary to expectation, it were not de Vivonne who was victor in the combat, but de Chabot. What a surprise for the crowd who would come to see him die. What embarrassment for the King and his mistress. Diane had been prime mover in this affair. Might it not be that the King be so discomfited that he would feel resentment against her on whom he now doted? Yes, de Chabot could see how the Queen’s mind worked. And if she could turn defeat into life, what joy!
He did not see her in the dance again, but later that evening he had occasion to pass close to her. He looked at her pleadingly and he did not look in vain.
‘Tomorrow evening. Masked. The house of the Ruggieri on the river.’
He inclined his head.
It was with apprehension and hope that he went to keep his appointment. It was difficult not to run through the streets of Paris. It was necessary to wrap himself in a sombre cloak that would cover his extravagant court garments; he would doubtless return after dark, and he had no wish to encounter a party of rogues. Moreover, she had said, ‘Masked’. It would not do for any to discover that de Chabot was meeting the Queen at the house of her astrologers.
A new thought struck him. What if this meeting had nothing to do with the combat? He was attractive; he had been much sought after. Surely this could another love affair. With Catherine de’ Medici! He felt cold suddenly, wishing himself back in the palace.
Impossible, he thought. But was it? It was said that the Queen was neglected as soon as she became pregnant, that it was at Madame Diane’s command that the King gave her children. People laughed.
‘What a mild little thing is this Queen of ours. The Italian creature has no spirit.’ And yet, for a moment at the dance, when he had looked into her eyes, he believed he had seen a different woman from her whom the court knew. Could it be that she had no plan of helping him, that she desired him as a lover just as many had before her?
He stopped. He had come to the river; he saw the house of the Italian magicians, and for some minutes he could not take the necessary steps which would lead him to the front door.
He thought he heard the whispering of a crowd. ‘Remember Dauphin Francis―’
He did not know the Queen. No one knew the Queen. Yet for a moment he had thought those beautiful dark eyes were cold and implacable like the eyes of a serpent.
He understood why the King could not love his wife. Had de Chabot not been a man who knew he could, unless a miracle happened, shortly die, he would have turned and gone back hastily the way he had come.
Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and deliberately walked on to the house of the Ruggieri.
* * *
Paris sweltered in midsummer sunshine whilst its gothic towers and spires reached towards the bluest of skies. By the great walls of the Bastille and the Conciergerie the people trooped; they came along the south bank of the Seine, past the colleges and convents, while down the hill of St. Genevieve students and artists, with rogues and vagabonds, came hurrying. They were intent on leaving behind them the walls of the capital, for quite close to the City at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, one of the grandest shows any of them had ever seen was being prepared for their enjoyment.
Tumblers and jugglers performed for the crowd; ballads― gay, sentimental, and ribald― were sung; some of these songs were written in ridicule of the fallen favourite Madame d’Etampes, who, it was believed, was destined for execution; none dared sing now the songs that very lady had set in circulation concerning Diane de Poitiers. No! Diane had risen to a lofty eminence. Let us glorify her, said the people. Madame d’Etampes has fallen from grace; therefore let us stamp upon her. If she had appeared among them, they would have tried to stone her to death.
Death was in the air. The people were going to see a man killed. They were going to see rich red blood stain the grass of the meadow and looking on with them would be the King himself, the Italian woman, and that one who was the real Queen of France, although she did not possess the title― in short, Madame Diane de Poitiers; there would also be the great Anne de Montmorency and others of the King’s ministers; in fact, those names were known throughout the land.
Small wonder that the people of Paris had turned out in their thousands to witness the mortal combat between two brave and gallant gentlemen.
De Chabot and de Vivonne were the two protagonists. Why did they fight?
That was unimportant, but it was for some long-ago scandal that de Vivonne, whom everyone expected to win, was taking over the King’s quarrel; and that de Chabot, the love
r of Madame d’Etampes before she had fallen in disgrace.
All that July the crowds waited in the fields surrounding that one wherein the combat was to take place. Bets were taken; pockets were picked; men and women lay about on the grass, amusing themselves in sundry ways whilst they waited.
And as the sun rose high, the gallants and brightly-clad ladies began to take their seats in the pavilion, which was decorated with cloth of gold and cloth of silver spattered with the lilies of France. There was Montmorency himself; the Guise brothers, the Cardinals, the Bishops, the Chamberlain― all the high officials of the court; and with them the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen.
On either side of the field were the tents of the combatants. In de Vivonne’s tent― so confident was he of victory― had already been prepared a banquet to celebrate his triumph. He had borrowed the finest plate from the richest households of the court for this occasion; soups, venison, roast meats of all varieties, sweets and fruit, and great butts wine, it was said, were in that tent; indeed the appetizing odours were floating out to the crowd. Everyone’s hope of victory with de Vivonne. De Vivonne was the King’s man; and it was believed that de Chabot had no stomach for the fight.
How delighted was the crowd with the glittering yet sinister sight which met its eyes. Just below the seat in which sat grim-faced Montmorency were five figures, all masked, all draped in black. These were the executioner and his assistants. When de Chabot was slain, it would be their lot to drag him to the gibbet as though he were a felon. It was a glorious and wonderful show― well worth waiting for. There was not a peddler, a prostitute nor a conjurer, a merchant nor a student in that vast crowd who would not have agreed to that.
Now the royal party was stepping out, so the show was all but due to begin.
The heralds blew several fanfares on their trumpets, and now there appeared the royal group led by good King Henry. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. They loved the King― though, declared some, sighing for the magnificence of the most magnificent of kings, he was not such a one as his father had been. But others, who were too young to remember the charm of Francis, thought that none could he better than their good and virtuous King who was so faithful to his mistress.
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