Madame Serpent (18 page)

She smiled at him, and, looking at her, he wondered how he could ever have thought the little Piedmontese could have resembled her. There was no one on Earth who could compare with Diane.

‘My dear,’ she said, gently and caressingly, ‘there is no need to be sad. You went away, but now you are back. That, it would seem to me, is a matter for rejoicing.’

‘You will forgive me?’ he pleaded. ‘You will understand? It was a passing fancy― quick to demand satisfaction, and satisfied, I found that it had gone. It grew out of my longing for you.’

‘I always knew that,’ she told him. ‘For me and for you, there is one love and one love only.’ She turned towards him, took him into her arms. ‘There is no talk of forgiveness, love,’ she went on. ‘They whispered; they jeered.

Madame
d’Etampes
, you know. It might have been humiliating― for some.’

‘How I hate that woman! That they should dare to humiliate you, and that I should be the cause of it, grieves me deeply. It makes me hate myself. I wish I had been killed in battle before that happened.’

She kissed him tenderly, as she had done in the beginning of their

relationship. Henry’s love for her was fierce and passionate; hers for him held in it a good deal that was maternal.

‘Then would it have been my turn to be desolate,’ she said. ‘There is one thing I could not have borne― and that that you did not come back to me.’

They sat down with their arms about each other. ‘Diane― it is forgiveness, then? It is as though― that never happened?’

‘There is nothing to forgive. It is, as I always knew, and have just explained, a nothing― a bagatelle. You were lonely and she was there, this pretty little girl, to amuse you. I am grateful to her because she made you happy for a time. Tell me this, you would not like her brought here― to Paris?’

‘
No!
’

‘You no longer love her?’

‘I love only one; I shall always love only one.’

‘Then you no longer desire her?’

‘When I realized what I had done, I never wanted to see her again. Oh

Diane, my only love, can we not forget it happened?’

‘We cannot do that, for I have heard that there is to be a child.’

He flushed a deeper red.

She laughed. ‘You were ever one to forget your status. That child will be the son― or daughter― of the King of France. Had you forgotten that?’

‘I am filled with shame. You are so good, so beautiful. You understand this wickedness of mine just as you understood my weakness, my folly, my shyness, and my shame. When I am with you, I cannot help but be happy, even though I have soiled this beautiful union of ours by my infidelity.’

Diane snapped her fingers. Her eyes were brilliant; her mouth smiled, for she was thinking that the court would soon be thinking it had laughed too soon.

She was going to take charge of this matter. It pleased her that the court should see her as Henry’s beloved friend rather than his mistress; the first and most important person in his life, his spiritual love.

‘My darling‚’ she said, ‘the child must be looked after; it must be educated in accordance with its rank.’

‘It’s rank!’

‘My dear, it is
your
child. That alone makes it of the utmost importance in my eyes. Henry, have I your permission to take charge of this matter? When the child is born, I wish to have it brought to France. I wish, personally, to superintend its education.’

‘Diane, you are wonderful!’

‘No,’ she smiled lightly. ‘I love you and would see you respecting yourself, taking to yourself that honour which is your due.’

He put his arms about her. ‘I dreamed about you,’ he said. ‘I thought of you continually, even when I was with her.’

Diane had slid into his arms. She had put aside the practical Frenchwoman now; she was ready to receive his adoration, which, from experience, she knew would quickly change to passion.

―――――――

Catherine did not see her husband until the next day. Madalenna had

managed to slip out of Diane’s apartment when the lovers were sleeping, so Catherine knew what had taken place.

She spent the night weeping silently. She knew that she been wrong to hope.

The clever witch had only to smile on him to cast her spell over him.

He appeared next day, flushed and triumphant, the forgiven lover who

understands that his peccadillo is to be forgotten; he was wearing the black-and-white colours of Diane.

The court admired the
Sénéchale
more than ever; Catherine’s hatred for her was greater. Madame
d’Etampes
was disappointed; more, she was worried.

When the little Piedmontese gave birth to Henry’s baby, the
Sénéchale
kept her word; she had the child brought to her and made arrangements for its

upbringing.

It was a girl, and, to the amazement and admiration of many, the
Sénéchale
had the child christened Diane.

THERE was a tension at Loches. Everyone felt it, from Anne to the humblest worker in the kitchens. Diane, in continual conference with her young friends, the de Guises, seemed to have grown an inch taller and a good deal more

haughty. She saw herself clearly now as the power behind the throne. Catherine, outwardly meek, felt a new strength within her. But for her, these two women who believed themselves to be so far above her in wit and intelligence would not be in their present position! It was stimulating to shape the destinies of others, even while, because one worked in shadow, one must be treated as

though of no account.

Icy December winds were whistling through the bare branches of the trees in the palace gardens, and the snow was falling.

The King lay ill; and many believed he would never leave his bed.

It was not only the court that was uneasy; It was the whole of France. And it was not only this illness of the King’s that gave rise to tension. The Dauphin, with Charles of Orléans, and a retinue of noblemen, was travelling south to welcome Charles V of Spain into France. And the illness of Francis, together with the friendly invasion of Francis’s perennial enemy was sufficient to set tongues clacking, while speculation as to the wisdom of this unprecedented visit was offered in all the wine-shops from Paris to Le Havre and from Le Havre to Marseilles.

It was that stern Catholic, Anne de Montmorency, who was responsible for

the friendly overture to Charles V. He had, on the illness of the King, taken over the reins of government, and when he had done this, he acted promptly. He had broken off friendly relations with the English and the German Princes, the Turks and the Duke of Cleves. He had persuaded Francis that alliance with Spain might mean the acquisition of Milan― which the death of Clement had snatched from the King just when he had thought the marriage of the Medici girl and Henry had brought it to him― and Francis could always be dazzled by the very name of Milan. And when Charles V had to journey from Spain to Flanders to subdue his rebellious subjects in the latter country, what better gesture of friendship to offer him safe passage through France, which would mean such saving of Charles’s time and pocket!

The invitation given was accepted― with a lack of ease on both sides; and so, Henry had ridden off rather sullenly much as he admired and respected his friend Montmorency could not relish the idea of welcoming as a guest of

France, the man who had once held him a prisoner.

Courtiers huddled round the great fireplaces at Loches cussing the coming of the King of Spain and the possible departure of the King of France. There was a gloom about the palace. Loches, set on the top of a lofty rock, with a dark history of misery and pain that seemed to cling to it, with its underground dungeons, its torture-rooms, its noisome pits and its
oubliettes
, was hardly the pleasantest of French châteaux. There was scarcely a member of the court who did not long to return to Fontainebleau. The fact of the King’s being sick meant that lavish entertainments ceased, and that young ladies who taken on airs with royal favour, now seemed to shrink as they moped in corners. The court of France lost half its vitality when its King lay sick.

Catherine sat on a stool stretching her hands to the blaze while she listened to the conversation of those about her.

Young Guy de Chabot, the son of the Seigneur de Jarnac was a gay and

dashing fellow, reckless in the extreme, a young man who gave himself up to the pleasures of love-making as fervently as men like Montmorency gave

themselves to soldiering. He was talking now to a handsome captain of the Guards, Christian de Nançay, another such as himself. Idly Catherine listened to their conversation.

‘The King,’ said de Chabot, ‘should choose his women with greater care.

Depend upon it, La Feronnière has brought this sickness on him.

‘My friend,’ whispered de Nançay, ‘there you speak truth. The woman is

herself suffering at this very time.’

‘Our King has his enemies,’ went on de Chabot. ‘One understands that the

husbands and fathers of those whom he seduces cannot find it in their hearts to love him as easily as do the wives and daughters. Odd, is it not, and can at times be inconvenient. I have heard that the husband of La Feronnière the woman should pass this little trouble on to our Lord King.

De Nançay snapped his fingers. ‘My God! The King has suffered from the

disease for many years. This is merely a reoccurrence of an old malady, depend upon it.’

They knew Catherine heard them, but what did they care? The quiet little

mouse was of no consequence.

Anne
d’Etampes
strolled up to the two young men. They were once alert; rumour had named them both as her lovers. They bowed, they kissed her hands; they were, thought Catherine, rather ridiculous in their efforts to outdo each other. Anne had that quick smile, which held so much promise, for both of them.

They were two of the most handsome men at court, and Anne was very fond of handsome men.

Catherine watched them, joking, laughing, gaily flirting. Anne was

beautiful, and only the closest observer, such as Catherine, saw how very worried she was.

Diane came to the fireplace and with her was Francis de Guise and Merot

the poet. Princess Marguerite, the King’s daughter, joined them; and as they settled themselves about the fire, Catherine found herself drawn into the group.

The tension had heightened. It always did when these two women on whom

the court looked as rival queens found themselves together.

Diane, very lovely in black and white, wearing on her finger the great ruby which Henry had given her, showed that she saw herself as the rising queen.

Anne, in blue that matched her eyes and her lovely fair hair to perfection, was more beautiful, more gay than Diane. The setting sun, thought Catherine,

watching avidly that she might not miss a gesture, is often more magnificent than when it rides the sky.

‘What gallant courtiers you must find Monsieur da Nançay and Monsieur de

Chabot,’ said Diane slyly. ‘They are always at your side.’

‘Indeed they are,’ retorted Anne. ‘I fear there are some who envy me the

smiles that come my way.’

‘Then that is wrong of them!’ cried Diane. ‘I always say
Madame la

Duchesse d’Etampes
has earned well her favours.’

‘Madame
la Grande Sénéchale
is kind indeed. I myself said the same of her.’

The little circle was uneasy. In a moment they would called upon to take

sides, always a dangerous matter, Chabot nervously turned the subject to the coming of Charles V. He declared himself eager for a sight of the ogre.

‘A strange thing,’ said Princess Marguerite, ‘that he should be coming as my father’s guest― the man who imprisoned my father and my brothers. It is

beyond my understanding.’

‘But it all happened long ago!’ said de Guise. ‘It is one of those things best forgotten.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne; ‘it happened long ago.
Sénéchale
, you will remember more clearly than any of us. You were a wife and mother at the time; I was but a child.’

Diane said: ‘You must have been very talented, Madame
d’Etampes
. I believe, at the time of the King’s imprisonment, Madame de Chateaubriand was jealous of you on the King account.’

‘An uneasy matter for Frenchmen,’ said de Guise quickly, ‘to have the

Spaniards on their soil, even though they come I friends.’

‘A far more uneasy matter for Spaniards!’ put in the poet Marot.

‘I wish they would hurry and reach us. How dull are the days of waiting!’

Anne laughed as she spoke, but she did not feel like laughter. The
Sénéchale
, with her boldness, always disturbed her, always made her feel that her days of power were fast approaching an end.

‘I had thought Madame
d’Etampes
could not find the days― nor the nights dull,’ said Diane quietly.

‘It is true I was born with gaiety in my heart,’ said Anne. ‘But I should like to see the party here. I long to clap eyes on the mighty Charles.’ She noticed Catherine sitting there. ‘Our little Dauphine would wish to see her young husband, is that not so, Dauphine?’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders.

‘Shame!’ cried Anne. ‘Did there speak the dutiful wife?’

Catherine did not know what had come to her. She had been thinking of

Henry while they had been talking and, seeing Diane there, hating her so

fiercely, realizing that even in a battle of words with Anne she could shine, she had felt her hatred submerging her control.

She forced herself to laugh now.

‘Dutiful?’ she said bitterly. ‘Should I be dutiful? Ask Madame
la Sénéchale
with whom he spends his days and nights.’

Anne was delighted. There was a smile on almost every face. The little

Medici been able to discomfit Diane as Anne failed to do.

Diane, to her annoyance, felt a faint colour rise to her cheeks. She hated any reference to her love affair with the Dauphin; she would have everyone believe that she was his spiritual adviser.

Anne tittered. ‘Well, we may take the word of the poor, deserted, little wife.’

She went to Catherine and put an arm round her. ‘Why, my little one, I weep for you. But never mind, for he will come back to you. You are so docile, so

charming, so young!’

Diane said: ‘I am sorry, Madame
la Dauphine,
that you feel deserted. When the Dauphin returns perhaps I may persuade him to leave you less alone.’

Diane rose and walked away. There was a silence that lasted for a few

seconds before everyone began speaking of the preparations for the reception of the Spaniards.

―――――――

Catherine knew that she had been wrong. Diane was planning to remove her, for she had discovered that Catherine was not the submissive wife she had been believed to be. Catherine harboured grudges; she was inclined to be possessive.

Diane had tolerated the Italian girl because she had believed her to be of no importance. But no one insulted Diane with impunity.

Catherine was afraid. Life was too difficult. One was careful, watching

every word, every look― and then came an unguarded moment and the work of years was forgotten.

Henry returned to Loches, and Catherine’s fear increased. She could find no pleasure in the rich displays which were arranged for the guests. The banquets, balls, the plays, and tournaments meant nothing to her. Henry was looking at her with hope in his eyes, and the hope was that he might rid himself of her forever.

She, for a moment of folly, was to blame. Her hatred had triumphed over her common sense, just as love so often had in her scenes with Henry.

The court left Loches and travelled by stages to Paris, a magnificent

reception was afforded the Spaniard! Catherine watched it all listlessly. What were the schemes and plots of others when her own life was threatened? She watched the entry of Charles into Paris; she was with the King and Queen at one of the windows of the Hotel de Montmorency in the Rue de Saint-Antoine; yet it was not at the Spaniard she looked, but at the young man who rode beside

him― her husband, who beginning to hate her and long to be rid of her; and indeed since she had shown unfriendliness to his mistress, Catherine believed he was turning over in his mind how he could do this.

She watched the uneasy Charles presented on behalf of the city with a huge silver figure of Hercules draped with a lion’s skin of gold; at Notre Dame she heard a
Te Deum
sung for him; she was unimpressed by these ceremonies, for all she could think of was:
what will become of me now?

Tue whole court was laughing because, during a hunting party, the young

and mischievous
Duc d’Orléans
had leaped to the horse which was being ridden by Charles V and shouted ‘Your Imperial Majesty is my prisoner!’ And Charles, feeling that that moment which he had dreaded had come at last, cursing himself for a fool to have entered his enemy’s country galloped off through the forest with the young Duke clinging to him. How chagrined was Charles to learn that this was the boy’s idea of a joke! And how his French hosts laughed at his expense! In Catherine’s heart there was no room for laughter, since this new fear for her fate had possession of it.

In spite of the gaiety and festivities, the men and women of the court had time to whisper, and their whispers concerned the little Italian Dauphine.

Catherine, knowing they whispered, would lie awake at night and wonder.

Was it true that a divorce was being planned?

It was some time ago that she had heard of Alessandro’s death. He had been stabbed by an obscure relative of hers, who had immediately become the hero of Florence. The young assassin’s sister been used as a decoy, and Alessandro had died as violently as he had lived.

What perilous lives we lead, we Medici,
she thought. Clement, Ippolito, Alessandro― they had all died suddenly, had certainly been murdered.

Was she any more secure than her relatives?

They would not kill her; yet she believed she would prefer death to what

they were proposing to do.

She thought of the aunt of this Charles whom France was now honouring

with feats and ceremonies. That aunt had been another Catherine― Catherine of Aragon, and wife of the King of England.
She
had been divorced because she could not bear a son. And again, ostensibly for the same reason, that King’s second wife, having no powerful relatives to protect her, had lost her head.

Catherine de’ Medici had now no powerful relative to protect her.

They would not kill her. She would not care if they did. They would divorce her, and banish her; and she would never see Henry again.

‘All these years married,’ they were saying, ‘and no child! What good is

such a wife to the heir to the throne? He can get children; witness the

Piedmontese. For such a one as this Medici, there is only one thing: divorce!’