There were members of that tiny Huguenot force who trembled at the thought of the mighty army which had come to attack them; but when Henry of Navarre heard who was at their head he laughed aloud.
Before his men went into battle, he addressed them in his coarse Béarnais fashion, which, though it might offend the ears of elegant ladies, put great heart into soldiers about to go into battle.
‘My friends, here is a quarry different from your past prizes. It is a brand-new bridegroom with his marriage-money still in his coffers. Will you let yourselves go down before this handsome dancing-master and his minions? No! They are ours. I see it by your eagerness to fight.’
He looked about him at the glowing faces of the men touched by the faint dawn-light. His shrewd eyes twinkled. They would beat the dancing-master no matter how many cannon he had against their two, no matter if he had five hundred men to twenty of themselves.
Now for that little touch of spirituality which, he was aware, was so necessary to men such as these before they went into battle.
‘My friends,’ he resumed, ‘all events are in the hands of God. Let us sing the twenty-fourth verse of the one hundred and fifteenth psalm.’
Their voices rose on the morning air: ‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’
The sun now appeared above the horizon and, before it was high in the sky, Navarre, at the cost of twenty-five men had inflicted a loss of three thousand on the enemy.
Joyeuse, bewildered, found himself surrounded by Huguenots, and saw that they recognized him. Fresh from the court, he believed his, beauty must appeal to these men as it had to others; but these warriors saw no handsome mignon; they saw their enemy, a sinner from the cities of the plain who had led the King into extravagance and folly.
Joyeuse in horror cried out: ‘Gentlemen, you must not kill me! You could take me and demand a reward of a hundred thousand crowns. The King would pay it. I assure you that he would.’
There was a second’s pause, and then the shot rang out. Joyeuse opened his beautiful eyes in astonishment before he fell bleeding to the ground.
This was the greatest victory that the Huguenots had ever won, and all knew that they owed it to that quality in their leader which almost amounted to genius. The King’s army had been a mighty one, and even though it had been under the command of Joyeuse, would, but for Navarre, have gained the victory. The careless philanderer could throw off his laziness after all; he was a great soldier; the careless joker was, after all, a great King.
It was a fact that the character of the King of Navarre had been gradually undergoing a change for some time. There were occasions when he was a great leader, but almost immediately afterwards he would revert to the man they all knew so well. He was a man of contrasts, of a strange and complex nature. The rough Béarnais with his coarse, crude manners hated to see suffering; it affected him more deeply than it did most people of his time; and yet the emotion of horror and pity which it aroused in him were so fleeting that they would pass if he did not act at once. Now these feelings came to him as he surveyed the carnage of that battlefield, and it robbed him of his feeling of triumph. His men rejoiced while he mourned for the slain. He was a great soldier who hated war; he was a coarse and careless man, fond of horseplay and discomfiting his enemies, who in a moment could change to one far in advance of his time to whom cruelty and suffering could be utterly distasteful. He had little relish now for the conqueror’s feast which was prepared for him; he commanded that the fallen men should be treated with respect, and that everything possible should be done for the relief of the wounded.
He knew that he had won not only a great battle but a moral victory. He could push on while his men were drunk with success, for they were now ready to face anyone—even Henry of Guise.
But this new King of Navarre had suddenly reverted to the old one, and he was filled with one desire and one only. He longed for his Corisanda. Loving was so much more satisfying that killing; dallying with a beautiful mistress more to his taste than contemplating carnage. He was a great soldier, but he was an even greater lover; for while the former calling gave him brief triumph, the latter, he knew, would not lose its charm for him as long as there was life in his body.
And so, neglecting the great opportunity that he had won, he prepared to forget military matters and return to Corisanda.
* * *
The war dragged on; in some parts of France there were local truces; in others the battles still blazed. The King of France, overcome with grief, must have fresh entertainments to stifle his sorrow in the loss of Joyeuse. The country was in revolt—Catholics and Huguenots together—against the fantastic extravagances of the King. The yearly cost of keeping his birds and dogs, with the great retinue of attendants he must employ solely to look after them, was enough to feed a town for that period. He paid great sums for miniatures which were bought by him from the greatest artists, but when they were his he cut them up that he might paste them on his walls. He wallowed in all the luxuries and comforts which went with his position and lightly discarded every responsibility.
The Sorbonne voted in secret that the crown should be taken from a King unworthy to wear it. Guise had made a trip to Rome to confer with the Cardinal Pellevé, who had supported his claim. As a result of these two moves, a third followed—the League presented the King with an ultimatum. He must establish the Inquisition in France while he took every measure to suppress the Huguenots.
The King was filled with rage at the arrogance of the Leaguers. Catherine begged him to ask for time to consider this proposal. Meanwhile, she secretly let Guise know that she was working for the League and him, and meant to do everything in her power to persuade the King to do as Guise and his Leaguers demanded.
She was beset by fainting fits and nausea at this time, and her rheumatism was so bad that she could scarcely walk; the gout was attacking her; and it seemed to the worst of bad fortune that, now when she needed all her faculties, she should be denied that good health which had been hers throughout her life. She was nearly sixty-nine, which was a great age; but her mind was as good as it had ever been, and she cursed her failing body. Her spies seemed less alert than they had once been; that was because she herself was failing. She was no longer the energetic Queen Mother, gliding about the palace, opening doors with her secret keys and coming, upon people unawares. Now she must walk with the aid of a stick whose tapping betrayed her; or she must be carried in a litter; the pain in her joints had become so great that even such a stoic as herself could not ignore it. Those fainting fits betrayed her. All the people whom she had successfully governed in their youth had now grown up. The three Henrys were the most important figures, and the Queen Mother—who had once held their destinies in her hands—was being forced into the background; and not because her mind had weakened, not because her purpose had failed, but because of the disgusting decay of a body which was becoming senile while her mind retained its full vigour.
She had never given in; and she would not do so now. She would go on with what she had begun; the throne should be kept for Henry, even though he, in his folly, had left his mother’s side and tried to hold his power on ground undermined by the folly of his favourites, by the impudence of Navarre and the secret aspirations of the Duke of Guise.
The House of Valois had never been in such a dangerous position as it was now; and this, to Catherine, was like a nightmare. That which she had dreaded above all things was about to come to pass, unless she could find some means of preventing it.
Philip of Spain had offered Guise three hundred thousand crowns, six thousand lanzknechts and twelve hundred lances, to be sent to his aid as soon as he broke with the King and established the Inquisition and the Catholic faith in France as it was in Spain.
Epernon, cleverer than Joyeuse, had not met with disaster in the field. He had bribed the Swiss mercenaries, who had been fighting for the Huguenots, to join the King’s army and link up with the King’s Swiss Gu
ard in Paris. He was now just outside Paris with the guards, waiting for the King to summon him to the city. Guise had announced his intention of coming to Paris. He declared he had heard that there was a plot among the Huguenots to rise and murder Catholics in retaliation for the St Bartholomew massacre. The King’s answer was to forbid Guise to come to Paris.
Catherine, in that magnificent palace, the Hôtel de Soissons, which she had built for herself, lay in bed too weak to rise, her mind tortured with the knowledge of impending catastrophe.
The King was at the Louvre, which was well fortified with his Swiss Guard; the people of Paris were tense, waiting. If ever a city had been on the edge of revolt, Paris was at that moment.
As Catherine’s thoughts meandered through those gloomy avenues, one of her dwarfs, who was standing by the window, turned to her in great excitement
‘Madame,’ he cried, ‘the Duke of Guise comes this way.’
Catherine painfully lifted herself. ‘Nonsense! The King has forbidden the Duke to come to Paris. He would not dare.’ She thought: this cannot be. This cannot be. This must not be. He would not dare to come. The King is protected by his Swiss Guard, but the people of Paris would give their allegiance to Guise if he came among them now.
The excited dwarf jumped up and down, clapping his hands, pulling at the tassels on his red coat. ‘But, Madame, I swear it is the Duke of Guise.’
‘Take him away!’ cried Catherine. ‘Whip him. I will teach him not to tell lies to me!’
The dwarf began to whimper and to point to the window; and others had joined him there now.
‘Madame,’ said Madalenna, ‘he does not lie.’
Catherine could hear the shouting in the streets. So Henry of Guise had ignored the King’s command.
* * *
Henry of Guise was determined to see the King, for in commanding Guise not to enter Paris the King had shown he was not aware of current events. The last place which must be forbidden to the man who saw himself as the future ruler of France was its capital.
Guise knew that he was walking into danger. The King was sure to be well guarded, and if Guise entered the Louvre he would be in the midst of enemies. He had therefore decided to enter the city in disguise and present himself to Catherine—who had declared herself to be his friend—in order to explain his desires to her and insist that she accompany him to the Louvre. She still had some influence over her foolish son and she might be able to maintain the peace between them, while Guise laid before the King the demands of the League. But even though he was enveloped in a long cloak and a big slouched hat covered his face, he was very soon recognized, for there were few men in France of the stature of Guise. He had scarcely entered the city when a young man ran along beside him crying: ‘Monseigneur, show yourself to the people. There is no sight they would rather see.’
Guise wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and pulled the brim of his hat down over his face. But it was no use: too many recognized him, and a crowd quickly gathered about him.
‘It is Le Balafré himself. Praise the saints he has come to rescue us.’
The people came running into the streets. The news spread quickly that their hero was among them.
‘Vive Guise!’ they cried. ‘Le Balafré is here.’
They kissed his cloak; they brought out their rosaries and rubbed them against his garments.
‘Vive le pilier de l’église!’
Flowers were strewn before him; a garland was placed about his neck. Men brought out their knives to show him. ‘Let any traitor lay hands on our great Prince, and we shall know how to deal with him.’
Guise pushed his way through the hysterical crowd.
‘À Rheims!’ someone shouted; and the crowd took up the cry.
And so at length he came to the Hôtel de Soissons.
As soon as Catherine was sure that he was on his way, she dispatched a messenger to the King to tell him that Guise was in Paris. Then she prepared herself to receive the Duke.
As he knelt by her bed, she saw at once that he was not quite so calm and self-assured as usual.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I have come to you first, knowing that you are my friend.’
‘That was wise of you,’ she said. ‘But why are you in Paris? Do you not know that this may cost you your life?’
The roar of the crowd outside seemed to grow louder in the silence which followed those words. It might cost Guise his life, but what other lives would that mob demand as a reprisal for the man they adored?
‘I know it,’ he answered, ‘and for that reason I come to you first. You have agreed with me that the King dare not stand against the League. He must agree to its demands. Delay is dangerous to him . . . and to France. I must see him at once; and therefore I have come here to ask you to accompany me to the Louvre.’
She must accompany him, she knew. Ill as she was, she dared not let him go alone. Who knew what her son might do if he imagined that for a moment he had the upper hand? And what dreadful consequences might follow! If ever her son had had need of her, he had need of her now.
She called her attendants to help her dress, and when she was ready was helped into her litter. Through the streets her litter was carried, while the Duke of Guise walked beside it.
Even Catherine, in all her years of danger, had never experienced anything quite like that walk from the Hôtel de Soissons to the Louvre. She laughed cynically to herself. Here was the woman the Parisians hated most, side by side with the man they loved and admired more than any other. Madame Serpent, the Italian Woman, Queen Jezebel! And with her as her friend and ally, Henry of Guise, Le Balafré, the most aristocratic and adored Prince in France.
She listened to the mingling jeers and cheers.
There she is. She dare not show her face. Murderess! Italian! Remember the Queen of Navarre! Remember the Dauphin Francis! That was a long time ago. That was the beginning. It went ill with us when we let Italians into France.’
But for Le Balafré they would have broken up her litter; they would have dragged her from it and torn her flesh from her body; they would have kicked her corpse through the streets. That was their mood. Before this they had hated sullenly; now they hated vociferously; before they had uttered insults; now they were ready to hurl stones and use knives. The mood of Paris had changed and the storm was rumbling louder.
But beside her, to protect her, was their hero. The cheers were for him; the insults for her.
‘How beautiful he is!’ they cried. ‘Ah, there he goes. A true King! Shall we tolerate these vipers . . . these Italians!’
They were illogical; they were fools. She wanted to shout: ‘My mother was French, my father Italian. This Duke’s father was French—or of Lorraine, if that is enough—but his mother was Italian!’
They would answer: ‘Ah, but you are the daughter of merchants; he is a Prince. You were brought up in Italy; he was brought up in France. He fights with the sword; you with your morceaux Italianizés, which you learned in your vile country how to use.’
Catherine lay back in her litter. She was stimulated rather than frightened. She felt better, riding in a litter with a murderous populace about her, than she had in bed surrounded by her attendants. Now her ailments were forgotten.
Her expression did not change when she heard the ominous shout in the crowd: ‘À Rheims! Monseigneur, when do you go to Rheims?’
They reached the Louvre, and they were received in grim silence. The Swiss Guard filled the corridors and staircases. The Duke walked through them with apparent unconcern, but surely even he must tremble. Catherine noticed with some satisfaction that his face had lost its healthy colour. It was like a man’s might be if he knew he was walking into a lion’s den. King Henry was waiting to receive them, his hands trembling, his eyes betraying his fear. One of his courtiers had, when he had heard that the Duke was on the way, offered to kill him as he came into the room. The King had hesitated. He wanted Guise out of the way, but he was not sure whether he dare give t
he order for the deed to be done.
He was in a state of terrible uncertainty when the Duke with Catherine came into the audience chamber, where he stood, surrounded by counsellors and guards, waiting to receive them. As soon as his eyes fell on the Duke his fury burst forth.
‘Why do you come here thus?’ he demanded. ‘You received my orders?’
The Duke did not say that he took orders from no one, but his haughty looks implied it. Catherine sent a warning glance at the Duke; and from him she turned to her son; her eyes pleaded with him to be calm, for she knew that he was so angry that he could be capable of any folly.
‘Did I command you not to come, or did I not?’ cried the King. ‘Did I command you to wait?’
Guise said coldly: ‘Sir, I was not given to understand that my coming would be disagreeable to you.’
‘Then it is!’ cried the King. ‘It is.’
‘Sir, there are matters of which we must speak.’
‘I shall be judge of that.’ The King looked about him for the man who had offered to kill Guise, but Catherine had intercepted that look and understood its meaning.
‘My lord,’ she said quickly, ‘I must speak with you. Come with me.’ She did not lead him from the room, but to the window. About the Louvre the crowd had gathered. They carried sticks and knives. They were crying: ‘Vive Guise! Hurrah for our great Prince!’
Catherine murmured: ‘My son, you dare not. This is not the time. This is not the way. You have your guards, but he has Paris.’
The King was shaken. Like his brother Charles, he was terrified of the people. He remembered that whenever he went into the streets, he was greeted by silence; or if any spoke it was not to wish him long life, but to fling at him some insulting epithet: ‘Concierge of the palace! His wife’s hairdresser! Keeper of beggars!’ Remarks which were thrown quickly and sullenly at him; and those who delivered them made off before they could be recognized, while the mob made way for the traitor and laughed behind their hands at their King.
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