‘Why have you become so dignified? A few weeks ago, my dear Princess of France, my Queen of Navarre, you were asking for the privilege of acting as midwife to my mistress.’
‘My kind heart got the better of my good sense,’ she said.
‘Your kind heart will have to repeat its action, my dear.’
‘You insult me.’
‘Then it is no more than you deserve. You will take care of Fosseuse.’
‘I will do nothing of the sort.’
He caught her by the shoulder, but something in her expression set him laughing. She had great difficulty in steadying her own expression.
‘You are the most maddening woman in France,’ he said.
‘And you, Monsieur, are the crudest, coarsest, most hateful . . .’
He shook her and kissed her; and they were both laughing together.
‘No one amuses me as you do,’ he said. ‘It is a pleasant thing to be amused. If you were less immoral, I could easily love you.’
‘Alas!’ sighed Margot. ‘If you were a little cleaner in your personal habits I could love you.’
‘If you took fewer lovers . . .’
‘And you took an occasional bath . . .’
They laughed again and she said: ‘Enough of this folly. You need have no fear. I will look after the girl.’
‘My sweet Margot!’
He would have embraced her, but she drew back. He looked down at his feet and let out a great roar of laughter.
‘So much do I admire you,’ he said, ‘that I shall now leave you. Tell Turenne that he takes so many baths of late that he reminds me of one of the dandies of the Louvre, and nothing . . . nothing on this Earth . . . would induce me to follow his example.’
Later Margot discussed the situation with Turenne.
‘This will be the end of Fosseuse, my dear. She will regret showing her insolence to me.’
‘What do you plan?’ asked her lover.
‘Ah, my dear! You too? Can you be thinking as those others thought? I see it in your eyes. You say to yourself: “This is the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici.” But I would not murder. In this case it would be folly. Now that the King has suffered so much anxiety over Mademoiselle de Fosseuse, he is already half out of love with her. He does not like to feel anxiety. After all, it is the duty of a King’s mistress to lure him from troubles, not to cause them. Fosseuse will come with me. I will take her away, and she will not see the King for some weeks . . . and during that time, you will make sure that he sees others. I think it may well be that our pretty little Fosseuse will find that someone else has taken her place when she returns to court. If this thing were bruited abroad, the King would be less pleased than ever. Why should it not be? It is ridiculous to try to keep such a matter secret. My darling, we cannot allow this girl, who has shown us how arrogant she can be, to work against us.’
Turenne agreed. The King must be provided with a new mistress, for it was obvious that La Fosseuse had reigned too long.
Margot managed the affair very satisfactorily, but Fate helped by allowing the child to be still-born. The King’s little affair was over, and so was the brief glory of the little Fosseuse, who, to her great chagrin, when she returned to the court, found that the King was amusing himself with several light love affairs; but as these proved to be nothing very serious, La Fosseuse tried to regain her position, and she might have done so but for the fact that Diane d’Andousins, the Countess of Gramont, whom Navarre had loved at the time of the Countess’ marriage when he was a boy of fourteen, had reappeared in his life. She was the Corisanda of his youth, and he was enchanted to find her more beautiful than he remembered her.
But the story of the King’s love affair with Mademoiselle de Fosseuse continued to live after that affair was over. It was discussed throughout the country, and the scenes which had taken place between the King and Queen of Navarre were exaggerated until it seemed that the court of France talked of nothing but the shameful lives lived by those two sovereigns.
The people in the streets talked of it. The Parisians shivered and starved while they grumbled and compared the misery of their lives with the wanton extravagance of those of the royal family.
* * *
Catherine had suffered a crushing blow through her old enemy Spain, and, as always at such times, she felt the need to act quickly and to neutralize those enemies nearer home, since there was little she could do to lessen the power of the great and perennial enemy.
It had been a tragic miscalculation on her part, and the King did not hesitate to remind her of this. He was falling so completely under the spell of Joyeuse and Epernon that all they suggested seemed right, and if it should happen to fail it immediately became, in his eyes, of no importance. But when the mother, who had sheltered him from babyhood, who had schemed to put him on the throne and keep him there, made an error of judgement, he was the first one to blame her.
The King of Portugal had died suddenly and there had been two men who laid claim to that throne; both of these claimants were the nephews of Philip of Spain—one named after his mighty uncle and the other Antonio. Then Catherine surprised everyone by declaring herself a claimant to this throne. The late King’s family, she announced, was illegitimate; and by delving into the past she found an ancestor of her own who had been connected with the Portuguese throne. Philip of Spain treated this with scorn, and Catherine, in high indignation and at a crippling expense to France, mustered a fleet to support her claim. The French were not good sailors; whereas the Spaniards were the greatest sailors in the world, with the exception of the English, and Catherine should have known that her men would have no chance against them. Her fleet was routed at Terceira, and those ships which did return home presented a miserable sight to all who saw them. Philip of Spain took the throne of Portugal for his namesake, and the people of France had yet another grievance against the King and his mother.
‘We have been taxed to starvation to pay for her follies. She murders the courtiers with poison and the people with starvation. How long shall we tolerate the Italian woman and her vile nest of vipers?’
Catherine would stand at the windows of the Louvre and look out; she would see the people huddled together, gesticulating; now and then one would turn towards the palace and shake a fist. She heard what they said as she mingled with them in the markets. ‘Jezebel . . . Queen Jezebel! Only you’d not find a dog to eat her flesh!’
They sang:
‘L’une ruyne d’Israel,
L’autre, ruyne de la France.’
But they sang it sullenly, not gaily; and it was that brooding sullenness which Catherine feared more than anything It was like a smouldering fire, she knew, ready to break into flames.
She must watch all her enemies. And what of those two at Nérac? What did they plot and plan?
She spoke to the King while he fondled his lap-dogs. ‘My son, we should have your sister back at court.’ The King looked at her in dismay. ‘It is much pleasanter without her.’
‘That may be, my darling. But how do we know what she is about while she is away from us?’
‘It is Navarre who is more to be feared than Margot.’
‘I am not sure. They are both dangerous. Ask them to pay us a visit. I should feel happier if they were here on the spot. I can find a woman for him, and you know that I have means of hearing most things that go on around me. It is not easy when they are so far away. Unfortunately, my listening tubes do not extend to Nérac.’
‘They would not come, even though I commanded them.’ ‘She would; and it might be possible to get her help in luring him here.’
‘Would you keep them prisoners here?’
‘I would see that he did not find it easy to escape again.’
‘But do you think she would come? Do you remember how importunate she was when she wished to get away?’
‘My dear son, Margot is never happy in one place for long at a time. She writes now that she has no news worthy of report, for Gasco
ny grows news only like itself. By that she means that she longs for the court of France. She wants to hear about Paris. She only has to think of the Seine and her eyes fill with tears! Do you think any place but the court of France could please Margot long? Depend upon it, she now wishes to return as once she wished to go. We should have no difficulty in persuading her to return.’
‘But what of Navarre? Would he agree to her coming?’
‘If it were put to him as Margot would put it, he would agree. She would doubtless offer to act as his spy here at court. We should see all that she wrote to him. It would be our task to get her to lure him here. I will suggest that she comes. I am sure that she must be tired of Monsieur de Turenne; I am astonished that she was faithful to him for so long. What does the air of Béarn do to these two? Navarre was faithful to La Fosseuse until she wearied him with her troubles; and now they say he is showing the same fidelity to Corisanda. Oh, certainly Margot will have grown tired of Turenne ere this. That must be why she says Gascony grows only news like itself!’
Very well,’ said the King. ‘Ask them both to come. I should feel happier to have Navarre here as my prisoner.’
‘Send her a gift of money. Tell her that you would like to see her. Be warm and loving. I doubt not that then she will come.’
Catherine was right. Although Navarre refused his invitation bluntly, Margot was delighted with hers. Navarre reminded Margot that his mother had died in Paris, very suddenly, very mysteriously. ‘Remember Monsieur de Coligny,’ he said. ‘Remember hundreds of my friends who once went to Paris for a wedding.’
Margot lifted her shoulders. ‘It may be better for me to go alone. I will keep you informed of all that happens at court. It is well that you should know something of what they are planning.’
He agreed with this, and Margot made her preparations for the journey. There was a reason, other than boredom with her husband’s court and her distaste of staying too long in one place, why she wished to leave for Paris. When Anjou had stayed at Nérac there had been a very charming gentleman in his suite, a certain Jacques de Harlay, who was the Lord of Champvallon. Margot and he had been mutually attracted; there had been one or two tender meetings between them; unfortunately, they were surprised during one of these, in somewhat compromising attitudes, by Margot’s greatest enemy at the court—a sly and very virtuous Huguenot, Agrippa d’Aubigné. D’Aubigné, a gentleman of Navarre’s chamber, was as fond of writing as Margot was and, like her, took a great delight in chronicling the events of his day as they occurred. He knew his Scriptures well; he believed that he who was without sin should cast the first stone; and as he was certain that he himself was without sin, he had always a very big stone ready to cast. To such a man a beautiful, fascinating and vivacious Queen such as. Margot seemed the embodiment of all evil; his hatred of her coloured all his writings; nor was it his pen alone which he employed against her.
Margot at that time, deeply involved with Turenne, had no great wish to give him up for the handsome Champvallon, who would leave the court of Nérac with Anjou; but she wrote to him frequently and in a more hyberbolic style than she usually employed, even in her love letters. ‘Farewell, my beautiful sun, she wrote, ‘you beautiful miracle of nature. I kiss you a million times on that loving, beautiful mouth.’ Such letters did not always find their way direct to the one for whom they were intended, and Margot’s passion for Champvallon was known to others besides themselves.
Now, having tired a little of Monsieur de Turenne, Margot looked forward to reunion with Champvallon in Paris.
Arriving at the capital. Margot was warmly welcomed by Champvallon, but less warmly by the King and her mother. She saw now that they had asked her to come so that they might keep her under surveillance, and that they had no intention of altering their attitude towards her.
Margot was unperturbed. She was in her beloved Paris; she was at the court of France where she belonged; she took an immense delight in her surroundings and many of the courtiers were declaring that the sun had come back to shine once more upon them. She was the centre of all balls, masques, and entertainments; she was the leader of fashion; and as she was by this time passionately in love with Champvallon, she was enjoying life.
Sometimes she encountered Henry of Guise, and these meetings never failed to excite her. He was still the lover of Madame de Sauves, but Margot knew that his dreams of his future greatness occupied him far more than any mistress ever could. The League, under his guidance, was spreading across the land. There were occasions when she longed to ask him to tell her of the League’s activities, of his plans which, had they all gone as she had once so ardently desired, would have been her plans, her dreams, her hopes.
But there was Champvallon to remind her that she had done with the old passion for Henry of Guise. Why fret about it when there was a new one, and when there had been many in between, and would be many more to follow.
Catherine was urging Margot to persuade her husband to come to Paris, but Navarre sent continuous refusals. Catherine knew that as soon as Margot had arrived at court she had begun to act as her husband’s spy, but that had been expected and provided little occasion for anxiety, for Catherine believed she intercepted all their correspondence.
Margot had been some months at court when an incident occurred which aroused the King’s wrath to such an extent that he determined on revenge.
His beloved mignon, Joyeuse, had desired to become the Archbishop of Narbonne and envoy to the Holy See, and although this young man was not yet twenty-one years of age and was completely lacking in the necessary qualifications, he had so charmingly begged for the honour that the King had been unable to resist throwing it to him as though it were a sugared plum—even though it meant that the darling must absent himself from court for a while to visit Rome. While Joyeuse was in Rome, Henry sent dispatches to him, but the royal courier had been waylaid and shot, and these dispatches were stolen.
The King was furious, half suspecting his mother, for this smacked of her methods, yet he decided he would blame his sister, for he was looking for a charge to trump up against her.
He wished to take his revenge in a manner which would bring her the greatest shame, and, acting without consulting his mother, but taking instead the advice of his darlings, he chose the state ball as the occasion.
Margot looked as striking as ever that night; she wore her hair loose about her shoulders and adorned with diamonds; her dress was of scarlet velvet.
She was dancing when the King gave a sign to the musicians to stop. The dancers stood silent, wondering what was wrong. The King then strode to that spot where his sister stood.
‘Behold!’ he cried, addressing the assembly. ‘Behold this wanton! My friends, I am ashamed to own her as my sister. I could not begin to enumerate her crimes to you. There are too many, and I, mercifully, am unaware of them all. I might name forty men who have been her lovers . . . but, my friends, that would by no means complete the list. There is one Champvallon. Do you know that she bore his son recently here in Paris? This is so. With wicked secrecy she endeavoured to keep this from us, but we are not foolish, nor so blind as she thinks.’
Margot’s eyes blazed. ‘You . . .’ she cried. ‘You . . . with your painted mignons . . . to call me immoral . .
The King’s eyes narrowed, and Margot was aware that two of his mignons had taken their stand on either side of her. Beware! mocked their eyes. No one speaks to the King of France as you have . . . and lives!
Margot’s fear was greater than her fury. Never before had she realized the depth of her brother’s hatred. She had been foolish to plague his mignons, to show her enmity towards them. She saw now how right her husband had been when he had refused to walk into the trap by coming to Paris. She was sure this was a prelude to her arrest.
She looked appealingly at her mother.
Catherine stood silently watching. She was sick at heart. These children of hers, with their folly, were wrecking all that she had worked for. This st
ory would be told all over the streets of Paris, distorted, enlarged; and the sum of the iniquities of the house of Valois would be totted up afresh, with the result that there would be a bigger total for the discontented to grumble over.
‘Brother,’ said Margot, ‘you have been listening to lies. I have no child.’
Her mother whispered to her: ‘Say nothing. Depart at once. Go to your apartments. It is your only chance if you would escape your brother’s anger.’
Margot bowed and, holding her head high, walked out while the assembly, in silence, made way for her.
Her women gathered round her in her apartments. What now? they asked each other.
Margot lay on her bed, apprehensive, yet enjoying, as usual, a dangerous situation; and, although the King had accused her of having an illegitimate child, and that news would soon be all over Paris, all over France, she was not entirely displeased. Her sterility—the result of the sins of her grandfathers—was deeply regretted by her; so, if she could not bear children, it was a little gratifying to be suspected of having done so.
Nothing more happened that night, but when she awakened it was to find sixty archers in her bedchamber. This was a meaningless indignity put on her by the King, for they had not come to arrest her, but merely to bring a message from him commanding her to ‘deliver the city of her presence without delay’.
As Champvallon, when informed of the scene in the ballroom during which his name had been mentioned, had fled to Germany fearing the vengeance of the King, Margot decided to obey her brother without delay, and accordingly set out that very day for Gascony.
The King came delightedly to his mother. ‘There, you see! I have rid our court of that spy, and done it promptly. As Ep. ernon said from the first, it was a mistake to bring her here.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘My son, how I wish that you would take my advice before you act rashly. It is far better to have such a dangerous person under our eyes than far away. And I greatly fear that your manner of dismissing her was most unwise.’
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