The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘I will write and tell her of the proposed exchange, Madame.’

  ‘You will also mention that the King’s bastard is spoiling Mademoiselle de la Limaudière’s slender figure.’

  ‘Madame, I …’

  ‘That,’ said Catherine, ‘is a command.’

  * * *

  The Monastery of Poissy at which the Council was held was not far from Saint-Germain; and to this monastery during those summer weeks came the important figures from the Catholic and Protestant movements. The Council was, as Catherine realised later, doomed to failure from the start.

  When people were concerned with religion, they became fanatical. They would not give way. Endlessly they discussed the different tenets. What did it matter, Catherine wondered, how the sacrament was taken? Yet endlessly they must discuss and continually they must disagree on such subjects as the Ordination, Baptism, the Laying on of Hands.

  Catherine, as she looked round at these great ones assembled in the monastery refectory, was thinking: Why do they fight each other? Why do they die for these causes, these stupid quibbles?

  They were all the same: the crafty Cardinal of Lorraine and the mighty Duke of Guise; Calvin, who mercifully was not present; Théodore de Bèze; Michel de l’Hôpital, that fine Huguenot Chancellor to whose wise judgement she owed a good deal; Jeanne of Navarre and Eléonore de Condé; yes, they were fanatics, every one.

  And what did she expect to come from the Council which she had arranged? Nothing – precisely nothing. They would never agree, these two factions. Nor did she wish them to; she only wished to let them think she hoped they would agree. For herself, she had no religion; for her there could only be expediency. But it was good, for her, that others should possess this fanaticism, since it made them vulnerable, while those who did not have to consider a faith were free to turn this way and that, to act not for what was right for their faith, but for what was to their own material advantage.

  * * *

  The excitement brought about by such a Council caused tension throughout the entire country. The Huguenots believed that the Queen Mother was, after all, on their side. Catherine, worried at the thought of what disaster might threaten herself and her family if Antoine turned Catholic and allied himself with the Guises, now began to show favour to the Huguenots. She wished to be sure of their support, although she realised that a section of the Huguenot community wished to eliminate the monarchy altogether and set up a presidency in its place.

  However, the Huguenots were in Paris, Saint-Germain and Poissy in full force; and it seemed that those who rallied to that cause were almost as numerous as the Catholics.

  Catherine therefore pretended not to notice that prêches were openly held even in the apartments of the palace itself; and when de Chantonnay, in a rage, pointed this out to her, she replied blithely that she had seen nothing of them.

  Even the children were aware of the tension.

  Catherine’s darling Henry was attracted by the Huguenot Faith. It was new, and novelty always appealed to the intellectual set to which Henry belonged. Henry was quick to sense his mother’s moods and to follow them; and she listened smilingly while he talked of de Bèze and his wonderful sermons.

  There were quarrels in the children’s apartments, particularly between Margot and Henry. Henry would make his sister stand in a corner while he preached to her, repeating all that he could remember of de Bèze’s sermon. But Margot would not be intimidated.

  ‘I am a Catholic,’ she asserted stoutly. ‘I belong to the true faith. I and my husband-to-be will always support the true faith.’

  ‘Your husband-to-be is a Huguenot,’ retorted Henry.

  That made Margot laugh scornfully, for she was as determined never to marry Henry of Navarre as she was to remain a Catholic.

  ‘My future husband is a Catholic.’

  ‘It may be,’ teased Henry, ‘that you do not know who your future husband is to be, Mademoiselle Margot.’

  ‘Indeed, I do know. We have arranged it between us.’

  ‘What is his name? Tell me that, for I think there is some mistake here.’

  ‘You should know. It is the same as yours.’

  ‘Henry. That is correct. He spent his early days in a peasant’s cottage and he drank a peasant woman’s milk. That makes a peasant of him.’

  Margot tossed her head, throwing back her long black hair. ‘You think that I would marry that oaf!’

  ‘I think you will, for it has been arranged that you shall.’

  ‘His hands are unclean. His hair is unkempt. I would not marry a peasant, brother.’

  ‘As that peasant happens to be the future King of Navarre, you will, my dear sister.’

  ‘It is another Henry whom I shall marry.’

  Henry laughed aloud. ‘Henry of Guise? I tell you, you will have to look higher than that.’

  ‘No one is higher than Henry of Guise. He is the highest man on Earth. His father is the greatest man in France.’

  ‘Treason!’ cried Henry.

  Margot laughed. ‘Everybody is afraid of Le Balafré.’

  ‘Henry of Guise is your lover, Margot, and you should both be whipped. He should be banished, and you should be married at once to the peasant with the dirty hands and undressed hair.’

  Margot smiled scornfully. ‘I would never marry Henry of Navarre. I hate him. He knows I do, and he hates me. How I wish that he had not come to court with his mother for this Council!’

  ‘You must become a Huguenot, for you are to marry a Huguenot.’

  ‘I will never become a Huguenot; nor will I marry one.’

  Henry snatched her prayer-book and threw it into the fire.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Margot, her eyes blazing as fiercely as the flames, ‘that you are not struck dead for that.’

  ‘Do you? I wonder you are not struck dead for clinging to the old faith. If you do not change, I will have you whipped. I will ask our mother to have it done.’

  ‘She would not dare to whip me, or have me whipped, for such a reason.’

  ‘Do you think she would not dare to do anything she thought fit?’

  Margot was silent, and Henry went on: ‘I will have you killed, for if your beliefs are wrong you deserve to die.’

  ‘Very well,’ cried Margot. ‘Have me whipped. Have me killed. I would suffer the worst that could happen to me rather than damn my soul.’

  And so the quarrels went on – in the children’s apartments, in the monastery of Poissy, and throughout the tortured realm of France.

  * * *

  Jeanne, the deceived wife, the Queen possessed of a husband who was plotting against her, who was planning to give her kingdom away, had arrived in Paris with her two children, Henry and little Catherine.

  When she had first heard the terrible rumours concerning Antoine, she could not believe them. She knew that he was weak, but for all his faults he had loved her. Theirs was to have been the perfect, lasting union. How could he have written those letters assuring her of his faithfulness if all the time he was indulging in a love affair with this Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, La Belle Rouet as they called her? Jeanne would not believe it. He had written only a short time ago to tell her that other women ceased to attract him. Surely he could not be so deceitful.

  She was filled with horror at the idea that he could intrigue with Spain. This she would consider even more false than his conjugal infidelities, for with the woman he deceived only her, but with Spain he deceived not only her, but her children, since he was ready to throw away their heritage for his own aggrandisement.

  She was bewildered, not knowing to whom to turn for advice and for the truth.

  The Queen Mother had offered her apartments in the Louvre that she might be near her dear friend, and that she might often see those little ones whom she thought of as her own, for, said Catherine, she looked upon the bride-to-be of her son and the bridegroom-to-be of her daughter as her own children. But Jeanne had never trusted Catherine, and she preferred to
take up her residence in the Palais de Condé.

  Here fresh revelations awaited her. Eléonore, who had come to court for the Council of Poissy, received her sister-in-law.

  They embraced, and as she looked into Eléonore’s face Jeanne realised that she also had her troubles. The forthright Jeanne plunged straight into the subject which was uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Eléonore, you can tell me if this is true: I have heard terrible stories. They say that Antoine is in love with a woman of the court.’

  ‘Oh, my dearest sister, alas, it is true.’

  Jeanne’s eyes blazed. ‘I shall never forgive him for this. I hate philanderers! Is there not enough for us to do … our work … our cause …? And yet he deceives me. He brings our cause into disrepute at the same time. Oh, Eléonore …’

  Jeanne covered her face with her hands; she was afraid she was going to weep. She hated to show weakness, but she was so wretchedly unhappy.

  Eléonore put an arm about her.

  ‘Dearest Jeanne, I understand your troubles. It is better that you should hear all this from one who loves you and suffers with you. Antoine, you know, has become the lover of that court woman. Jeanne, my dearest, you must prepare yourself for a great shock. Antoine’s son was born a few weeks ago.’

  Jeanne broke away from Eléonore’s embrace.

  ‘I hate him!’ she cried. ‘I did not know it had gone as far as this. He shall suffer for it. Oh God, to think this could happen to us! We were so happy, Eléonore. I knew that he liked gaiety … fun … pleasure … flattery, but I did not think this could ever happen to us. Oh, Eléonore, I am so miserable, so wretched.’

  ‘I sympathise, my dear,’ soothed Eléonore. ‘I too am unhappy at this time. You see, Jeanne, I suffer your humiliation – not only yours, but that of my own.’

  Jeanne stared at her sister-in-law. ‘You mean that Louis also …?’

  ‘Louis too,’ said the Princess of Condé. ‘Mademoiselle de Limeuil is his mistress.’

  Jeanne took Eléonore’s hands and pressed them against her breast. ‘And I so wrapped up in my own troubles that I do not think of yours, which are as great! Oh, Eléonore, if I could but be calm as you are!’

  ‘My dearest Jeanne, these husbands of ours are weak men, but we love them. We must forgive them.’

  ‘I shall never forgive Antoine.’

  ‘But you will see when you grow calmer that you must. There are your children to be thought of. We must overlook these lapses. There are more important things to be done than waste our energies on domestic quarrels.’

  ‘But I thought you and Louis were so happy. It always seemed so. As for myself and Antoine – oh, you sit there smiling calmly! You may forgive them; I never will!’

  ‘But you must. Our enemies have brought this about. They have laid the bait and our husbands have fallen into the traps. We must fight for them … with them.’

  ‘You may. I never will. I hate Antoine. Not only for his infidelity, but for his lies … his hypocrisy.’

  ‘Oh, Jeanne, my dearest sister, how well I understand, but …’

  ‘There are no buts.’ Jeanne laughed suddenly, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘You and I are different, Eléonore. You are a saint and I am … a woman.’

  * * *

  In the Palais de Condé Antoine faced the fury of his wife.

  ‘So, Monsieur, you have a son. I congratulate you. And what a charming mother! Chief harlot of the court, so I hear. What do you plan for this bastard of yours? The throne of Navarre, or the throne of Sardinia? I gather you have not yet made up your mind what to do with my kingdom.’

  Antoine tried soothing her. ‘Now, Jeanne, my dearest wife, pray listen to me. Louise de la Limaudière? That is nothing. A lapse, I admit, but that is all. You are my wife, my dearest wife. It is our lives that are important. You have lived too much away from the court of France. Your little courts of Pau and Nérac … well, my dear, they are not the court of France.’

  ‘Evidently not, since in them we are old-fashioned and ungallant enough to respect our marriage vows.’

  ‘Why, Jeanne, I care for no one but you. Do you not see that?’

  ‘So then, it is your custom to give sons to women for whom you do not care?’

  ‘It was a lapse – a pardonable lapse. Any but you would sec that. I was away from you. I am a man.’

  ‘You are a fool! A conceited popinjay, as easily fooled by a harlot as by a Spanish Ambassador.’

  ‘Jeanne …

  ‘Sardinia!’ she cried. ‘That was a lapse, I suppose. A pardonable lapse!’

  She looked at him, and it seemed to her that she looked at a stranger. There he stood, a man of forty-five – not a young man any more – old enough to have some sense, to know when and why people flattered him. His beard was getting grey, but his hair was frizzed and curled; his clothes were more extreme than those of anyone else at court. The sleeves of his coat were puffed with gorgeous satin, and his plumed hat was set with gems. He was conceited in the extreme. He was a fool, an arrogant fool, a deceitful husband; and she loved him.

  She stifled the impulse to run to him, to remind him of the happiness they had enjoyed together, the joys of the simple life they had led in the despised courts at Nérac and Pau. Oh God! she thought. Then we were happy. I could have made him happy for ever if I had kept him with me, if they had not made him Lieutenant-General at the court of France, if he had never been important to these unscrupulous seekers after power. But how could this beautiful, elegant creature, who thought more of the line of his coat and the set of his hat than of high politics, how could he resist their flattery, which they would give him as long as they could use him?

  She longed for him just as she had in the beginning. She remembered him as a young man at the christening of poor little King Francis. She remembered him in his Spanish galleon at the wedding of King Francis. And now … he had betrayed her, betrayed her both as a wife and as a Queen, betrayed her home and her kingdom.

  She must not weaken because she loved him. She held him off.

  ‘Do not come near me,’ she said. ‘You are despicable. Weak and vain. Look at that hat! I should be ashamed of it if I were you. So that is the new fashion, is it? And so that you may preen yourself and mince about the court like a pretty man, a gallant courtier, you would deceive your wife, you would dare to exchange what is not yours for a worthless island. Let me remind you, Monsieur who call yourself King, let me remind you that you owe your crown to me!’

  It was the final insult. Antoine would bear no more. He hated criticism. She had sneered at his elegance, his rank. He could deal with an angry wife, but not with a self-righteous Queen.

  He said: ‘I see it is of no use trying to talk calmly to you. You are determined to quarrel, and I refuse to quarrel.’

  He bowed elegantly and left her. He went straight to Louise and told her all that had happened. She soothed him, flattered him; and as she caressed him, Antoine’s thoughts went to Jeanne, and it seemed to him that the Spanish Ambassador was right when he had said that it was Jeanne who was standing in his way to greatness. His crown had come to him through her! Well, she should see what the King of Spain thought of her right to that crown.

  He embraced Louise, delighting in her youth and beauty. Jeanne was plain in comparison. Louise – La Belle Rouet – one of the most beautiful women in France, adored him and had willingly borne his bastard. And Jeanne could do nothing but sneer at him, and all because he had followed that fashion which was surely perfectly natural to a French nobleman – he had taken a mistress.

  * * *

  Jeanne stayed at the Palais de Condé; Antoine kept to his apartments in the Louvre. He had become a Catholic now, and de Chantonnay was his great friend. The two were always together, and the Guises had warmed towards their old enemy. It was known that Antoine was considering divorcing his wife, for how could a good Catholic remain married to a heretic? Spain and Rome had denounced her as such, and together they had destined her
for the stake; but this as yet was kept secret, for it was necessary to get possession of the person of the Queen of Navarre before she could be handed to the Inquisition; and she had many influential friends in France who would help her to avoid capture.

  The Huguenots were outraged by Antoine’s conduct, and even the Catholics despised a man who changed his religion for those reasons which all knew to be behind Antoine’s conversion. He was named – slightingly – throughout the country ‘L’Échangeur.’ Condé, it was known, had been false to his wife; the French understood that, and it was only the more austere among the Huguenots who held it against him; but Condé had never denied his faith, nor, he declared, would he ever do so. He was in love with the beautiful Isabelle de Limeuil, but try as she might she could not persuade him to abjure his faith. Condé, like the rest of the Huguenots, was disgusted with his brother.

  As for Catherine, she did not know which way to turn. Antoine had alarmed her by changing so easily, but she trusted Condé to remain firm, and while Condé did so he would be able to provide a mighty force to hold the Guises in check.

  Jeanne had arrived too late; the Spanish schemes for Antoine had gone too far for her arrival to turn Antoine back to her. Antoine had been too dazzled by the flattering suggestions of de Chantonnay. All the same, Antoine was not unsentimental, and he still had a great affection for his wife; besides, he was a notorious turn-coat. Might it not be possible to reconcile him with Jeanne? The thought of having Mary Stuart in France again was more than Catherine could endure.

  Catherine summoned Jeanne to her presence; she wished, she said, to talk of serious matters with her.

  They faced each other, the two Queens, each mistrusting the other. Jeanne, her face pale, her eyes cold, successfully managed to hide most of her misery. Whenever she saw Antoine, on his occasional visits to the Palais de Condé, there were quarrels. He sought quarrels. He accused her of heresy and, worst of all, he threatened to take her children from her. She knew that she was in danger and that there were plots afoot concerning her; her friends advised her to leave Paris as soon as she could and make for her own dominions. She could not do this; she could not leave while this unsatisfactory state existed between herself and her husband. She was terrified that if she made preparations to depart he would insist on her leaving her children behind. She saw little of him, for most of his time was spent with his mistress and with his friends of the court. There were occasions when he would appear at the Condés’ home to quarrel with his wife; he would seem sleek, satisfied, smiling secretly as, so Jeanne imagined, he remembered incidents from the previous night’s love-making with his mistress. It was an intolerable position for a proud woman, for a Queen to whom – she never forbore to remind him – he owed his kingdom.