The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘But you seem to think that other prim Huguenot, the sainted Eléonore, will keep me from my pretty little man.’

  ‘There is a difference. You know it, my dear. Antoine is the easier.’

  ‘Perhaps, my darling,’ said Isabelle, ‘that is why the Queen Mother gave him to you. She reserved the more difficult task, you see, for me.’

  ‘Oh, it is not so difficult. It will just need a little more time, perhaps.’

  ‘How fortunate we are! Two such charming men. And of what rank! Good times lie ahead of us.’

  ‘I’m all impatience,’ said Louise, springing off the bed. ‘I’ll wager you I’ll get my man before you do.’

  ‘Oh, I think that you may do that, since mine is the more difficult task. Good luck with Antoine.’

  ‘The best of good fortune with Louis. I wonder who will make the better lover.’

  Isabelle snapped her fingers. ‘There will be little to choose. They have both had much experience.’

  ‘You must remember that they have been in the hands of the saint and the leader for many years. Powers wane and happy tricks are forgotten.’

  ‘We shall have to remind them of better days, my darling.’

  They laughed so much that the others looked their way. No questions were asked. All the ladies knew that these two had been singled out for some special task by the Queen Mother that day, and at such times questions were never asked.

  * * *

  It was warm in the salle du bal. Antoine sat back feigning to watch the dancers, but he was too much aware of the woman at his side to notice them.

  It seemed to him that rarely had he seen such a beautiful woman; she was seductive too; the low-necked gown showed her bare breasts, the nipples delicately reddened to match her lips. The perfume which came from her inflamed his senses; but more enchanting than her sensuous beauty was the homage, the adoration in her eyes.

  She was saying: ‘My lord King, this is the greatest night of my life. To sit near you, to listen to your talk, that gives me great joy. Often have I watched you from a distance, not daring to approach one of such high rank; and when this night you asked me to partner you in the dance, I thought I should die of delight.’

  ‘My dear lady, you must not continue to worship from afar. You must perform that duty at closer quarters.’

  She drew nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I am bold,’ she said. ‘There is something within me that makes me bold, something which I cannot control. I beg of you, my lord, do not ask me to come closer, for if I did my feelings might get the better of what is fitting in the presence of one so exalted.’

  ‘It is right, I am sure, that you should come closer,’ said Antoine. ‘I have no objection to being worshipped at very close quarters by one so fair as you are, my dear Mademoiselle de la Limaudière.’

  She smiled wonderingly. ‘See how my hands tremble at the touch of Your Majesty.’

  ‘Why so, Mademoiselle Louise?’

  ‘I will be bold and shameless. It is because for a long time I have seen no one at this court but yourself.’

  Antoine gripped her hand. ‘You are very fair, Louise. I was thinking that of all the beautiful women gathered here in this court, there is not one to compare with you.’

  ‘Such words delight me … coming from you, Sire.’

  ‘It would be an easy matter,’ said Antoine, ‘for me to fall in love with you.’

  She lifted his hand and kissed it shyly.

  ‘Ah, if that were so, how happy I should be! There is nothing I would not do for you, my dearest lord.’

  ‘Then …’ he said; and she leaned forward breathlessly. He frowned, and seizing his goblet drank off his wine. ‘Louise,’ he went on, ‘how enchanted I should be if I might become your lover!’

  ‘My lord, I would give twenty years of my life to be yours.’

  She saw the lust in his eyes, the pulse at his temple. She marvelled at the power of Jeanne of Navarre, who had kept such a man faithful to her for so long. She felt a determination to defeat that woman’s power over him. She wished not only to do what was necessary and obey the wishes of her exacting mistress, the Queen Mother, but to follow her own desire.

  ‘My lord,’ she said breathlessly, ‘when?’

  Antoine was disturbed. Such adventures as this had been numerous before his marriage, but even as the temptation was here before him, he remembered his wife. He loved Jeanne. She was not, it was true, beautiful as this woman was beautiful. Love between himself and Jeanne had been a serious dedication, the obligation to produce children, and make sure that they could provide heirs to the throne of Navarre. Acts of love performed for such a set purpose held less of pleasure, less of passion than the old erotic excitements which he had known so well. The woman tempting him was very beautiful; but he must think of Jeanne, of the domestic atmosphere of that Huguenot household which she had made for him; he thought of her strength, her rectitude, her decided views. There was no one on Earth like Jeanne, so good, so worthy, so capable of making him really happy in a peaceful home.

  He turned his eyes from the woman at his side.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘you are very beautiful; you are very desirable. I will not deny that you tempt me. But, I am not a free man. I am happily married to the best of wives, and it is my wish to remain completely faithful to her.’

  Louise said with shame in her voice: ‘My lord King, I beg of you, forgive me. I have been shameless and I have allowed my feelings to override my respect for Your Majesty. I beg of you to tell me you forgive me.’

  ‘It is I who should ask forgiveness,’ said Antoine. ‘You have honoured me. Mademoiselle Louise, believe me, it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to love you. Indeed I do already.’

  She drew nearer. ‘My lord …’

  ‘You must know,’ he said gently, ‘that I am a faithful husband.’

  ‘I would be grateful for one kiss, for one embrace.’

  He sighed. ‘You are young. You must not talk thus to a man who is married and so much older than yourself.’

  ‘I could talk to only one man thus,’ she said with quiet dignity.

  He stood up and they danced together; and after a while they left the dancers and went out into the grounds. It was a warm night, and the exotic shrubs which King Francis had, at great expense, brought to adorn the palace gardens filled the air with their scent.

  Antoine put his arms about Louise and kissed her. He let his hand rest on her warm bare breast.

  ‘Enchanting!’ he whispered. ‘Intoxicating! But, my dear, it must not be. I am a faithful man. A man who owes much to his wife. Why, but for her, I should not be a King.’

  ‘It is she, I am sure, who owes much to you,’ answered Louise. ‘What is rank? What is position? What is anything compared with love? She has your love, and I would die to possess it.’

  He kissed her again, and permitted himself a little freedom with her person. Not very much, he was saying to himself. I must be faithful to Jeanne. What an extraordinary thing that I should be faithful for so long! What an extraordinary man I am! Jeanne is faithful to me, but she is never tempted. Jeanne is cold and I am warm. But she loses her temper with me. She has said some cruel things. She has criticised my actions. Even now, the letters she writes are often full of reproaches. She thinks that I am being imposed upon; she sees me as the tool of the Queen Mother and the Guises. She thinks I have no sense. Whereas this woman – this delightful and passionate woman, this seductive Louise – thinks that every thing I say and do is wonderful. That is how a wife should feel towards a husband; that is the right attitude towards a King.

  ‘Let us walk,’ he said; and he put his arm about her as they walked.

  ‘Louise,’ he said, ‘you are delightful, and my senses long for you. Ah, duty! What a hard taskmaster, my dear! And a man in my position is never free from duty. Always he must think of it. Always he must eschew his pleasure, subdue his desires.’

  She turned and pressed h
erself against him. ‘I would rather die than interfere with your duty, Sire.’

  He kissed her fervently. Why not? he was thinking. Just once. Just for one night.

  But he could not dismiss the memory of Jeanne. If she heard of any lapse from virtue, she would never forgive him, and it would be the end of their happy life. He must remember that he and his brother, with Jeanne, were putting themselves at the head of the Huguenots. An intrigue with a court beauty would, by their followers, be looked upon with extreme disfavour. Still, who need know? Nonsense! Everybody would know. He was watched wherever he went. No doubt he was being watched now. Their kisses would have been seen. Well, he might as well carry this affair to its natural conclusion, for even if he did not there would be many to say that he had done so.

  But he could not bear the thought of Jeanne’s steadfast eyes looking at him in horror. Jeanne, for all her wisdom, was a very simple woman. She thought fidelity between husband and wife was natural, not, as it assuredly was, the most unnatural thing on Earth!

  And I am a natural man, thought Antoine angrily, kissing Louise again.

  Then he told her about his home life and why he could not enter into a love affair. ‘My wife is a very wise woman, a great leader and a great Queen …’

  ‘Yet she does not understand your needs,’ said Louise.

  ‘No. In a way … you are right.’

  Then he was telling her, not of his happiness with Jeanne, but of their quarrels, their misunderstandings.

  ‘I do not understand how she can bear to be away from you,’ said Louise.

  ‘She is a Queen, with Navarre to rule. I must be here to work with the Queen Mother. For people of our rank there is little domestic life.’

  ‘Were I your Queen I would let nothing stand in the way of being with you.’

  There were more embraces. Why not? thought Antoine, hesitating; first saying Yes; then saying No.

  But when he retired that night, Jeanne’s was the victory.

  ‘My darling,’ were his parting words to Louise, ‘it would be better if we did not see each other. The temptation would be too great, and I must be a faithful man.’

  ‘I would do anything in the world to please you,’ said Louise.

  And that night, when the palace was quiet, she slipped along to the apartments of the King of Navarre.

  His gentleman raised his eyebrows at the sight of her, but she smiled and gave him a nod of understanding.

  ‘I carry no dagger,’ she said, ‘to kill the King. You may search me.

  She was naked beneath her robe.

  ‘I come,’ she continued, ‘at the invitation of the King of Navarre. Do not attempt to stop me or you will have to answer to him.’

  So Louise went through to Antoine’s bedchamber. She stood by the bed.

  ‘My King,’ she whispered.

  ‘Louise!’

  ‘I could not stay away,’ she said.

  This is no fault of mine, the King of Navarre told himself.

  * * *

  The next day Antoine was remorseful. He had been unfaithful. He was in love. Louise de la Limaudière was the most enchanting creature he had ever known. But he must do without her. He must eschew such love.

  He wrote a long letter to Jeanne.‘MY DEAREST WIFE, – I sigh because you are not here with me. I think of you all the time. Never forget that I am your loyal and affectionate husband. Other ladies have no power to move me. To me they seem ugly. I am bored when I do not see you … oh, much more than you can ever know. You must have pity on me … for my nights are sleepless and I have grown a little thinner. I shall not revive until I see you …’

  He wrote on fervently and passionately, assuring himself that he did not wish to be an unfaithful husband.

  * * *

  Louise had possession of him now, and the entire court knew it. He disregarded the sly glances and whispers, for he could not do without her. She was so passionate, so loving, and she adored him so blindly; she saw his virtues where his wife saw his faults.

  She said to him one day: ‘Your brother is a little shocked by our love, my darling.’

  ‘Ah, Louis has a nobler character than I.’

  ‘That I will not believe.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Though in some ways he is another such as myself, though he too needs a woman to love him, see how sternly he sets his face against such solace!’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes. He sees himself as a leader. He never forgets that he is the Prince of Condé – a man to whom many look as their leader.’

  ‘I doubt that he is as virtuous as you seem to think. I will show you something. Let us give a merry party … a small party. Let us give it in your apartments, and let there be none but you and I, a friend of mine and your brother. Shall I tell you a secret? My friend loves the Prince. She is pining for love of him. She feels towards him as I feel towards you. Would you not give him a chance to be happy?’

  ‘No!’ cried Antoine. ‘He would be tempted, for he is a man who once found beauty irresistible. Who is the lady?’

  ‘You have seen her, my lord. Oh, I beg of you, do not look too closely at her or I shall suffer a torment of jealousy. She rides with the Queen Mother and the rest of the ladies. Her name is Isabelle de Limeuil.’

  ‘A lovely girl.’ He kissed Louise. ‘Nay, fear not. There is none for me but you, my sweet Louise.’

  ‘You love your brother, do you not?’

  ‘He is a great man, and I honour him. He has my respect as well as my love.’

  ‘Then … give him a little fun. There could be no harm in asking him to the party.’

  So they planned the party. It would be amusing, thought Antoine, to see how Louis reacted to the proffered charms of Isabelle de Limeuil; and if he too became involved in a love affair he would not be able to look down his handsome nose at his brother Antoine.

  It was a successful party; there was plenty of laughter and good wine.

  Isabelle had never, thought Louise, looked quite so attractive. Condé seemed to think so too. He was a passionate man and he had been celibate too long; the separation from his saintly Eléonore had made him a ready victim to temptation. He guessed that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother, for he knew her to be a member of the Escadron Volant, and he was fully aware of the purposes to which the Queen Mother put these ladies. But the beauty of Isabelle was intoxicating; and the next day he was in no position to reprove his brother.

  * * *

  The whole court was now laughing at the affairs of the Bourbon brothers. Catherine’s feelings were a little mixed. She was triumphant at Antoine’s moral downfall, delighted for more reasons than one. This was the first step in her scheme. What was Madame Jeanne going to say when the news reached her? Would she remember how smug she had been that night when her husband had carried her off in a Spanish galleon that he might make love to her, his wife? Was she going to be quite so haughty now? It would be amusing to observe the reactions of Jeanne. That, however, was a minor issue. The main point was the effect on the Huguenots of what Louise had achieved.

  And the other pair? Catherine frowned. Condé in love … and with that harlot! What an enchanting lover he must be! She could not help it if she remembered those conversations which had taken place in a dungeon under the château of Amboise. What a fool she was! She was fat; she was getting old; let her compare her grossness with the slender beauty of Isabelle de Limeuil, Isabelle’s youth with her age. Isabelle would be wise too in the ways of love. For a moment Catherine thought of those other lovers – Henry and Diane – spied on through a hole in the floor. She would not, for anything, go back to those days of anguish and humiliation. Love? It was not for her. And what did this love amount to? What did it bring but jealous torment, a temporary satisfaction. No, it was not love she wanted; it was power. There was no time to waste, watching Isabelle and Condé through a hole in the floor; she would not bother to listen to their conversation through a tube leading from her apartment to theirs. No! She was do
ne with that folly. She had no time for it.

  She sent for Louise, and when the woman knelt before her, she bade her rise and make sure that they were not overheard.

  ‘Now, Mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘you have done well and I am pleased with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame. It is my pleasure to serve Your Majesty.’

  ‘You now have the confidence of the King of Navarre, I believe?’

  ‘I believe so, Madame.’

  ‘How is he with you? His desire, I trust, has not weakened through too much satisfaction?’

  Louise was prepared. It was a trait of the Queen Mother that she liked to hear details of the exploits of her Squadron. She took a vicarious pleasure in their experiences through their reports. One must submit to her wishes, enter into her coarseness. Sometimes it was easier than at others; but Louise was half in love with Antoine and did not enjoy discussing the more physical details of their love-making. However, the Queen Mother must be obeyed in all things.

  After a while, Catherine said: ‘I think that you have his confidence, and now is the time to widen your mission. The King of Navarre is a Protestant, and as such he puts himself in danger. I wish him to become a Catholic. That is your next task.’

  ‘But … Madame … a Catholic! Change his religion! That will be a very difficult task, Madame.’

  ‘But not one beyond you, I am sure, Mademoiselle.’

  The girl looked frightened. How strange these people were! thought Catherine. Even this harlot was appalled at the thought of discussing religious doctrines between bouts of love-making.

  Catherine laughed. ‘It will give you something to talk about when you are not in the act of love-making. Holy Mother, woman, would you wear out the poor little man!’

  Louise did not smile. ‘His religion, Madame, it seems apart … a sacred thing. I had not thought. He … he is of the Reformed Faith.’

  ‘And you, I trust, Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, are a good Catholic?’