Madame Serpent (20 page)

could she persuade the King to displace Henry for Charles of Orléans?

Catherine knew that that plan had taken deep root in Anne’s mind; if only Diane would realize it, Catherine was sure she would cease to agitate for a divorce.

Outwardly calm, Catherine was becoming inwardly frantic. She saw herself

the divorced woman― she, who had already come very near to being Queen of France― banished to Italy to live her life there. She was twenty-three; for nine years she had fought a battle for her husband’s love; was she going to fail now?

She did not now weep. Instead, she looked back over the years and saw her mistakes. She should never have shown Henry her wild, passionate longing for him. She ought to have known that, as he was in love with another woman, it would repel him. But how could she― child that she had been― have known

that? She had known nothing of human relationships, nothing of love.

‘Holy Virgin!’ she cried. ‘Could I but go back to be a child bride again, how differently I should behave!’

But was the use of hoping for a chance to start again. That sort of miracle never happened. The only miracles that happened were those you made yourself.

She must do something. But what?

Kill Diane? Willingly would she do that. Happily would she mix the draught that would kill her rival. But what good would that do? She dared not, even after all these years, be involved in another murder. There were many at court who would never forget how Dauphin Francis had died. Caution― caution all the time. She must make a miracle.

How? She was beside herself with grief and terror.

Passionately she loved this country, with a steadier, but none the less deep love than that with which she loved her husband. To love a person, she knew, must always be weakness, for even if love was returned, the person could die or change; but to love a country was not a foolish thing, because a country had no fluctuating towards one.

Ambroise, Blois, Chenonceaux. She saw that stately panorama of castles

come and go before her eyes. She saw Paris and Notre Dame; she saw the palace of Les Tournelles and the torch-lighted hall of the Bastille; she saw the Louvre and glorious Fontainebleau. Leave these for the gloomy or the sombre, walled-in convent? Never!

Who would help her? Who save her? There was one with whom the final

decision lay. He had been kind to her; he was always chivalrous. A forlorn hope, but the only one left to her.

She looked at her face in the mirror and saw there the marks of grief. Never mind. Her grief this time should be her weapon.

She had made up her mind and did not hesitate. In a very short while she

would know success or failure. She was gambling on what she knew of the

King’s nature. The result would depend on how deeply he desired the divorce; if his mind was made up, nothing she could do would influence him.

She went to his apartment and sent a message in to him by one of his pages, begging to be allowed to see him alone. She was set to wait in an antechamber sumptuously furnished, as were all the rooms of his apartments. She let her fingers stroke the velvet hangings; there was no luxury in the world like that to be enjoyed at the court of France. It was the gayest, most amusing, most

intellectual court in the world. Here women were not merely pretty ornaments to make pleasant a masculine world; they took their place side by side with men.

This was the home she had grown to love.

‘The Virgin help me!’ she murmured. ‘I shall die if I am banished from the man and the land I love.’

The King was busy with some of his ministers and an hour of suspense

elapsed before she was taken in to him. She bowed before him and, lifting anguished eyes to his, she begged that she might speak to him alone.

Those kind, tired eyes with the bags beneath them understood her glance of appeal. He waved his hands toward Cardinal of Lorraine and his Grand

Chamberlain, the Comte de Saint-Pol, and the other noblemen who had made no attempt to leave him.

‘I would be alone with my daughter,’ he said.

Catherine gave him a grateful, tremulous smile, which she returned; and

then seeing his jester, Briandas, who looked upon himself as a privileged person, still sprawling in the window seat, he shouted: ‘You also, Briandas. Get you gone.’

‘Sire?’ said the impudent fellow, raising his eyebrow, ‘I thought you would wish me to remain to chaperon the lady.’

Francis signed him to leave, and, bowing low and ironically, the jester went out.

‘Now, Catherine, my little one!’ The charming voice, tenderly soft, sent

Catherine into floods of genuine tears.

It was rarely that Francis could witness, unmoved, a woman in distress.

‘Catherine, my dear one, what is it?’

She knelt and kissed his feet. He lifted her and looked y concern at her tear-blotched cheeks. He took a perfumed handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

She sobbed: ‘You are so good. I could not live without the joy of serving you.’

Now this was charming, thought the King. This was delightful. She had been able to choose her words well. This was a tender little love scene― platonic love― the most comfortable of loves. The admiration of a daughter for her father, made more exciting because the daughter was not of his blood.

‘Tell me all, little one,’ he said. ‘Have no doubt that I will do all in my power to help you.’

‘Sire, my honoured and beloved lord, I beg of you to forgive me this

familiarity. It is the thought of being banished from your shining presence that gives me the courage to speak to you. I love this land; I love it through its great and glorious King. I have been happy here. It is true I have no children and my husband is bewitched by one old enough to be his mother. These are tragedies; but because on occasions I have won a smile of approval from your royal lips, I have been happy; because in some small way, I have given my gracious King some pleasure, my life has seemed to be worthwhile. I do not come to plead for what you would not willingly give, because if it were not your gracious

pleasure, it could not be mine.’

‘Speak, my dear,’ He said. ‘Tell me everything that is in your mind.’

‘If it be your will that I should retire to a convent, then, though my heart be broken, this would I do. If it should be your will that I should remain here to serve you, then I shall be woman in France. But, Sire, whatever your command, I shall to my utmost power, carry out your wishes, for though to be banned from your presence will be to me a living death, I am wise enough to know that there is no joy in my life but that which comes to me through serving you.’

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.