Madame Serpent (11 page)

‘I fear not, Holiness.’

‘Daughter,’ said the Pope. ‘The Dauphin of France does not enjoy the best of health. Have you forgotten what your position would be were he to die?’

‘No, Father.’

‘The Duke of Orléans would become the Dauphin of France, and you the

Dauphine. And with the death of the King―’ The Pope’s voice took on a hint of malice as a picture of the handsome sensualist, who delighted in the lusts of the flesh, lying dead, rose before his eyes. ‘With the death of the King,’ he repeated, and added quickly, ‘for death is something to which, my daughter, we all must come, and with the death of that delicate boy, you would be the Queen of

France. Have you thought what this would mean?’

‘I have, Father.’

‘One frail life between you and the throne of France. And should this

circumstance― shall I say happy or unfortunate circumstance?― come about, I trust you would be ready to do your duty by your family.’

‘I would pray that that should be so, Father.’

‘Never forget the need for prayer, and remember this may well happen for

the good of France― and Italy. It may be the will of God that this should be.

Have you prayed regularly that your Union should be fruitful?’

‘Regularly, Father.’

‘That is well. Rise, my daughter.’

She stood up, and the Holy Father rose with her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. The Pope was puzzled, unsure of the King of France. What had he meant by the boy’s being an inadequate lover? Had there been some subtlety behind that remark after all?

The Holy Father said very quietly: ‘My daughter, a clever woman can

always get herself children.’

AT THE French court it was thought that the little Italian was colourless; she was too quiet, too eager to please. They did know, they could not guess, what emotions were hidden from them. Catherine rejoiced in the hard training which had taught her to smile when she was most unhappy.

During the first year, she mourned Ippolito. It seemed to her that the

memory of her handsome cousin would be with her forever.
I am the most
wretched person in the whole of this country,
she assured herself.

At the same time, she was finding it difficult to recall very clearly what Ippolito looked like; the tones of his voice had become blurred and, odd though it was, when she tried to conjure up images of her cousin they would become merged in that of her young husband.

She could not hate Henry, although she wanted to. She wanted to feel

towards him as he did towards her. She embarrassed him, she wanted to tell him that he embarrassed her. ‘Do you think I want to be with you!’ she longed to shout at ‘Why, when we are together, and you think it is you I wish to love., it is not. It is Ippolito! If you think that I desire you, then you are mistaken. It is Ippolito whom I want, whom I have always wanted and always shall.’ There

was in her a passion, n a desire which frightened him. He was so cold; he wanted to keep aloof. Love between them― but that was the wrong word for

it― was to him a duty which he undertook as he might a penance. Love! There was no love. Only the need to get children.

He avoided her as much as possible. Whenever he could, he would escape to the Chateau d’Anet, where his great friend would entertain him. Catherine could not understand that friendship between the beautiful widow and her husband.

What could two such people have in common? Why was it that he sought the

company of such a dignified, such a worldly woman, when his wife, his own age, was ready to be his friend even if she could never love him.

Catherine felt shut in by youth and inexperience. She was lonely often,

frightened sometimes. She was indeed a stranger in a strange land.

But for the friendship of the King, she would have been desperately

unhappy. When he talked to her she would he conscious of an exhilaration; she would be actually glad that she had come to France. He enchanted her; he

fascinated her. She felt that, in a strange way which was incomprehensible to her, she was in love with the King. It was her delight to think over his

conversation with her and those about him; to try to read what was in his mind.

Sometimes she would say to herself: if only Henry were like his father! And then, again, she would be glad that he was not, for although Henry avoided her, he avoided other women as well. It was only that attachment to a woman old enough to be his mother that persisted. Catherine thought she understood. Henry had no mother, and he felt the need of one. Henry was only a boy. She

wondered― not without excitement― when he would become a man.

Life seemed to be made of pleasure. There was always a masque about to

begin, or a banquet to prepare for, balls, jousts, and journeys. The meeting of Francis and Clement had not been solely the occasion of the marriage of their young people; they had made plans for campaigns against Spain and England.

The King, loving pleasure so much that it was never easy to tear himself away from it, yet yearned for military successes to wipe out the defeat of Pavia. As for the Pope, he was always ready for a new ally, providing that ally kept his plot secret. And who could be a better ally than the King of France, now tied to him by the bonds of relationship?

So, while awaiting the fruition of his schemes, Francis, being impatient, must be kept amused. There was Marguerite to soothe him with her sisterly devotion; Anne d’Heilly to respond to the love he gave her; many lovely women to divert him. He kept close to him some twenty or thirty young women, all renowned for their beauty and their wit. Wherever he went, they rode with him, and he would listen to their counsels rather than to those of his masculine advisers. It was not sufficient to be beautiful enough to charm his senses; they must be clever enough to please his lively mind. Theirs was the task of providing erotic and intellectual pleasure for their master. If his appetite was jaded, they must serve up old dishes garnished to taste like knew. No sultan ever had a more solicitous harem. They must be skilled in the arts of lust and politics; they must be strong to endure hours in the saddle without fatigue; perfectly formed that they might sport with grace in a mirror; sharp-witted enough to converse with foreign ambassadors. Entry into this esoteric band was reserved for the very talented, and was considered the highest honour which could befall a lady of the court. Catherine longed to join the Little Band. She could not, of course, be one of those to those whom the King made love, but she fervently wished that on that on those days when they rode off together and would be away for the whole of the day, that she might be with them. Anne, the King’s favorite mistress, was head of the Little Band, and she had shown preference for the little Italian.

If only I could join
, Catherine would think. Not only would it show Henry that his father, who despises him, is fond of me, but I should have many happy days in which to forget my melancholy.

She realized that she was becoming increasingly anxious to show Henry that she was not dull and stupid, that she was worthy of some notice. Indeed, she was piqued by this young husband of hers Not that she should have cared. He was of no account. The King had nothing but contempt for him, and Catherine was not surprised, considering the way he would and stammer when spoken to and had hardly a smile for anyone.

Why should she care? She kept telling herself that it was not his regard she sought. Let him escape to Anet whenever he could; she did not care.

In such contempt did the King hold his son that he would not give him a

separate establishment even now that he was married. Catherine did not mind that. It meant that they must share household with the other young Princes and Princesses. And a grand household it was― far grander than anything Catherine had ever known before― with its hosts of officials, chamberlain’s equerries, pages, doctors, surgeons, ladies and gentlemen, stewards, and pages. Still, it was expected that Henry should have an establishment of his own.

Catherine was much less lonely living with the other young people than she would have been in a household of their own. She was growing quite fond of them all. Young Francis, a delicate boy, was gentle in his manners and kind to the little stranger; his clothes were very sober in cut and colour, and he preferred drinking water to wine. The two Princesses, Madeleine and Marguerite, were quiet little girls, but eager enough to be friends with her. As for young Charles― his father’s favourite― she secretly disliked him. He was too

boisterous and found it immensely funny to play rather unpleasant practical jokes on the members of the household. Catherine had found a dead rat in her bed on one occasion; and on another a pail of icy water had fallen on her head when she entered a room. She bore these tricks with good humour; she did not wish to offend one so beloved of the King, and she gathered that she had not fared badly at the hands of young Charles. She had heard that one of the women of the household― a pious creature― had, on going to her bed at dusk, found a man there, naked and dead. Catherine’s quiet acceptance of the tricks played on her was such as to make the young
Duc d’Angoulême
feel that she was not a worthy subject for his, and she was very quickly left in peace.

She wondered how quiet, sensitive Henry could be the brother of such a one.

She was, even more than she realized, bringing Henry increasingly into her life, by continual comparisons with others. She made up her mind, time and time again, to tell her husband of the love she had had for her cousin in Italy; but she never did.

Three important events took place in that first year. The first of these was her election to the Little Band. An excellent horsewoman, she knew she could qualify in that respect, and she decided to tell Francis of her desire.

Most humbly, she begged for an audience in private, and when she stood

before him she became overcome with fear and wanted to run away. Francis

watched her with amusement.

‘You must forgive, Sire,’ she blurted out. ‘I am afraid I came to you

thoughtlessly. Please give me leave to retire.’

‘Indeed, you shall have no such leave until I hear what is on your mind.’

‘I dare not.’

‘I know. It is that husband of yours.
Foy de gentilhomme!
It is no use coming to me, little Catherine. It is true that I sired him. Yes my dear, I am responsible for that dark deed! But do not ask me make a man of him, for it would grieve me to deny you anything, and in asking that you would ask the impossible.’

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘it was not of Henry I wished to speak, but of myself.’

‘Ah! A happier subject, my little one!’

‘I am a good horsewoman, I believe, Sire. You yourself complimented me.

It was this that gave me temerity―’

‘Well, well?’

‘On occasions, with a light remark, I have had the great honour of seeing a smile appear on your face. I― I think I have pleased you―’

She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were

watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.

She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.

‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with
La Petite Bande
, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’

She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her

leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.

Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be

looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the

adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.

Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.

One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’

He lifted her and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘it was good of you to open your heart to me thus.

Why, you shall have a special place in my
Petite Bande
. It shall be your task to ride beside me, to amuse me with your talk and tell me your secrets. How like you that?’

She kissed his hands, and she laughed with him because she was so happy.

This was a piquant situation such as he loved. So original, so amusing― to have his little daughter, for whom he was indulging in a platonic love affair, among his courtesans!

So Catherine rode in the
Petite Bande
. But this did nothing to endear her to her husband. Her friendship with his father seemed to make him more

suspicious of her than ever.

But Catherine seemed to grow up quickly among the King’s ladies. She

heard chatter of the private parties that were enjoyed in the King’s apartments; she heard of things which she had never known existed; and her thoughts, as she listened, would go unaccountably to Henry; and she could not stop imagining Henry and herself at these parties.

The second upheaval of that eventful year caused a deep alarm in

Catherine’s heart. Suddenly and mysteriously, Pope Clement died. For the man she cared nothing. How could she care? She looked upon him as the destroyer of her happiness. But for his ambitions, she would have been Ippolito’s wife; and together, she and her cousin would have ruled the city of Florence. But she was diplomat enough to know that Clement was her only powerful relative, and that the King of France had agreed that she should marry his son because of the benefits such a marriage would bring to France. But, alas! The dowry was not yet paid in its entirety; and what about those tempting jewels― Naples, Milan, Genoa? A new Pope would snap his fingers at the ambitions of the Medici.

People whispered about her. It angered her that they did not think it

necessary to keep their voices low when she was near. ‘Here is a fine matter!’ it was said. ‘Our King has been fooled. Where is the fine dowry, where the Italian provinces which alone made possible this marriage between a Medici girl and a Valois Prince? Here is our King’s son saddled with a marriage which can only demean himself and France.’

Catherine’s thoughts were muddled. Was she truly alarmed? She hardly

knew. It was fortunate that she could show a calm front. What would happen to her now? Would the marriage be dissolved? Would she be sent back to Italy?

‘If you are,’ said a voice within her, ‘and if your marriage is dissolved, you will be free. You can return to Rome. And Ippolito will be there.’

Oh joy! To be with Ippolito once more, to be free to love. She would not

have to live with a husband whom she did not love. No more of that furtive intimacy that he made so clear was solely for the begetting of children. ‘How happy,’ she murmured, ‘should I be to say goodbye to you, Henry!’