Madame Serpent

by Jean Plaidy

  expect the rest of the world to understand this friendship of ours? They laugh.

  They sneer. Mademoiselle d’Heilly― I should say Madame d’Etampes― has slandered us, Henry.’

  ‘How dare she!’

  ‘My darling, she dares much. Her position enables her to do so with

  impunity.’

  ‘I have always hated her. Oh, how dare she breathe a word against you!

  Were she a man, I should challenge her.’

  ‘My chivalrous darling! A king’s son may not challenge another, you know.

  You never do yourself justice. You are ever ready to forget your rank. I had to show you with my love and admiration that you were worthy of the world’s

  regard. I did. My God, I am glad that the task was mine. Every moment has been a joy to me. But now it is over. You have a wife. You must have children. You are no longer a boy who can visit a woman, if you wish to avoid gossip.’

  ‘Diane, I care not for that. I care for no one but you. Let them say what they will. I must come to you. I love you― you only. Nothing else in my life is of the slightest importance to me. I was miserable, and you changed my life so that I cannot live it without you. If they say I love you, then they are right.’

  She said quietly: ‘It is not wise, is it, this friendship of ours?’

  He stood up and turned his back to her. She knew that he was greatly

  excited, and that he was going to say that which he dared not say while he looked at her.

  He stammered: ‘If― they― say that I am― your lover and you are my―

  mistress― then I am honoured. They could not shame me by such talk. They could only make me long that this were so.’

  She did not speak, and suddenly he turned, and running to her, threw himself at her feet, burying his face in her black-and-white satin gown.

  ―――――――

  He stayed a week at Anet. He did not hunt. He spent the days with her as

  well as the nights. He was in a state of ecstasy; he was overwhelmed, shy and masterful in turns.

  She thought: It is delightful to be loved like this.

  He talked a good deal, and it was unusual for him to talk very much, even to her; he sat at her feet, kissing her hands, as he poured out his heart to her. He explained his hatred for his father’s way of life, and how he had always longed for one love― one love alone; he had little dreamed that such a blessing could come to him. He wished he were not a King’s son. Then he might not be

  married to a wife whom he could not love; he could have married Diane. He would have been completely happy if their union could have had the blessing of the Church.

  He wanted no other than Diane; he never would as long as he lived. She must not talk to him of age, for what did age matter to lovers? He wanted her to know that she was enshrined in his heart forever.

  ‘There will be your duty to your wife,’ she reminded him.

  ‘That is impossible now. It would be more distasteful even than before. I could never banish your image from my mind for one moment. I have not done so since I have known you.’

  ‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you are so wonderful.’

  ‘ I? ’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘But I am so unworthy.’

  ‘No, no. You are young and delightful and you mean everything you say.

  You enchant me. I could not bear to lose you now. Henry, never let anyone part us.’

  ‘Never!’ he swore.

  They exchanged rings. ‘I shall wear yours always,’ he told her.

  They kissed solemnly.

  ‘These are our marriage vows,’ he told her.

  ―――――――

  His father sent word for him to return to Paris at once. He laughed. ‘I refuse to go.’

  ‘Henry, you must be wise. You dare not enflame his anger.’

  ‘I have no wish to go to Paris. There is only one place where to I wish to be.

  Here― with you― at Anet. This is our home, Diane― yours and mine.’

  ‘Do not let this wonderful love of ours bring harm on either of us,’ she

  begged. ‘Remember the ruthless power of your father. He is quick to anger. He knows that you are with me. If you will not protect yourself from his anger, you must protect me.’

  She knew that would be enough to send him riding back to Paris.

  The court was at Fontainebleau, Francis’s favourite spot in the whole of

  France; he had not completed it to his satisfaction, and at this time was absorbed by the artistic work of Il Rosso on his, Francis’s, own gallery. Fontainebleau had a hundred delights to offer― a mixture of wild country and cultivated gardens, with the little Seine close by, pushing its way through the vineyards.

  Francis was weary. He was trying to whip up his old enthusiasm for the new war he was proposing to carry into Italy. He could never stop thinking of Italy, and longed to add it to his possessions. It was a bitter blow that Clement should have died when he did, before he was able to pay Catherine’s dowry.

  And then there must be petty matters at home to worry him. He was not

  well, and his sickness was manifested by an ugly abscess which made him feel weak and ill until it burst and healed. It was not the first time this troublous thing had worried him, and his physicians said that it was a good sign that it did appear, for if it did not, his condition would be serious. Francis, like Henry of England and Charles of Spain, was suffering from the results of excesses.

  Anne, who heartily disliked Diane, had pointed out to him that Catherine

  had, as yet, no children. How, demanded Anne, could the poor child hope for them, when her husband spent time with the old woman of Anet? The King

  should talk to his son and point out where his duty lay.

  While Francis could smile at his mistress’s jealousy of a woman who was

  almost as beautiful as herself, though some ten years older, he conceded that there was some truth in what she said.

  Nearly two years of marriage and no child born to the young pair! It was far from satisfactory with the Dauphin still unmarried. The Dauphin himself

  presented yet another problem. A wife for young Francis was needed quickly.

  The King was tired and his abscess was throbbing; and Italy was as far out of his reach as ever, in spite of his second son’s undignified marriage.

  When Henry stood before him, Francis saw the difference in his son at once.

  The conquering lover! So Diane had scorned the father and taken the son. Was the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy quite sane?

  The King dismissed his attendants with a wave of the hand. ‘So,’ he said,

  ‘without permission you absent yourself from court. You were always a boor.

  You came home smelling of a Spanish prison. Foy de gentilhomme! You shall not play your peasants’ tricks in my court.’

  Henry was silent, though there was hatred in those dark eyes of his.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded the King.

  ‘You know. Did you not send for me at Anet?’

  ‘At Anet! Carousing with your aged mistress!’

  Hot colour burned in the Prince’s face. His hand went to his sword.

  Francis laughed. ‘ Pasques Dieu! She has put some fire into you, then! She has taught you that a sword is to be used and not merely to impede the gait.’

  This reference to his awkwardness stung Henry to speech. ‘The example you have set us does not― er― does not―’

  Francis cut in: ‘Come along! Come along!’ He mimicked Henry’s voice. ‘―

  is not one which my brothers and I, in the interests of virtue, should follow! That is what you are stammering about, is it not? But do not, my son, have the effrontery to place yourself with the Dauphin and the Duc d’Angoulême. These are men. They take their pleasure, but they are not ruled by one woman, so making themselves the laughing-stock of the court.’

  Again that quick movement to the sword-hilt, that sharp pace
forward.

  My God, thought the King. I am liking this boorish son of mine the better when he shows anger.

  ‘It― is easy to see people laughing at others,’ said Henry, ‘but we do not always see them laughing at ourselves.’

  ‘Ah! There’s subtlety here. Pray explain your meaning.’

  ‘I care not if people laugh at me. Who are these people to laugh at a pure love? The morals of this court― set by yourself― are a matter to make the angels weep.’

  Diane, thought the King. You have done your work well. ‘You are insolent, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Take care that you do not arouse my anger as well as my contempt.’

  ‘I care not for your anger, Sire.’

  ‘What!’ cried the King in mock anger. I will put you in a dungeon― and

  there your mistress cannot visit you.’

  ‘You are amusing yourself at my expense.’

  The King went to his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen to me, my son. Do what you will. Have twenty mistresses. Why not? It is sometimes safer to have twenty than to be faithful to one. I no longer doubt that if any dare laugh in your face, you would know how to deal with him. But there is a serious outcome of all this flitting back and forth to Anet. What of the little Duchess, your wife?’

  ‘What of her?’

  She is young; she is not without charm; get her with child, and then think of the months you might, with a free conscience, happily spend at Anet or

  wherever the fancy took you. None drank more freely of the fountain of love than I; yet however sparkling the drink, never did I forget my duty to my house and country.’

  Henry was silent.

  ‘Think of these matters,’ said Francis more gently. ‘I would not keep you from your pleasure. The good God knows I am glad to see you growing up at last, for in faith I thought you never would. Women are a complement to the life of a man. Do they not give us birth, pleasure, children? I rejoice to see your inclinations take a natural turn, and I leave you to deal with any that should mock you. But I do ask this of you: remember your duty to your wife and to your line.’

  Francis smiled at the sullen face before him and gave the boy’s shoulder a not unkindly slap. Let us be friends, Francis was saying. After all, you are my son.

  The long bright eyes were even a little wistful. He was rather big strong-looking boy.

  But Henry looked away from his father, back into his childhood and there he saw the gloomy shadow of a Spanish prison.

  It was Francis’s nature to forget what was unpleasant; but Henry forgot his friends― nor his enemies. He turned from the affection his father was offering him. There was one person in the world― and only one― whom he could love

  and trust.

  At the jousts next day, he rode into combat, defiantly and proudly displaying the black-and-white colours of Diane de Poitiers.

  CATHERINE THE WIFE

  THE ENTIRE court was laughing at Henry’s passion for Diane. He, with a

  wife of his own delectable age, to fly from her to the bed of a woman more than twenty years his senior! It was like the opening of one of Boccaccio’s tales or something from the Queen of Navarre’s Heptameron.

  When Catherine heard it, she was so moved that it was necessary for her to shut herself into her own apartments, She felt furiously angry. The humiliation of it! The whole court laughing at Henry, his mistress, and his poor, neglected wife!

  When she looked at herself in the mirror she scarcely recognized herself.

  Her face was the colour of a tallow candle, and the only brightness was the blood where her sharp teeth had bitten the flesh of her lips. Her eyes were cruel with hatred. She was an older Catherine now.

  She walked up and down her room, murmuring angry words to Henry, to

  Diane. She was imploring the King to send her back to Italy. ‘Sire, I will not stay here to suffer this humiliation.’

  Then she laughed aloud at her folly, laughing bitterly until she flung herself on to her bed weeping.

  It is the humiliation of it, she told herself.

  She kept repeating that with a vehemence which shook her.

  I should not otherwise care.

  And why should she care? Many a Queen had suffered similar humiliation

  before her. Why should she care?

  It is because she is so old. That is what makes it so humiliating.

  There was a voice within her that mocked her. But, Catherine, why should you care? You have no children. Perhaps now you will have none. There will surely be a divorce and you will be sent back to Rome. Ippolito is in Rome, Catherine.

  Ippolito is a Cardinal.

  But the voice within was mocking her. Think of it, Catherine. Think of the joy of it. Reunion with handsome Ippolito!

  I will not think of it. It is wrong to think of it.

  She was pacing up and down again; she was at her mirror; she was laughing; she was weeping.

  Courage, said her lips. You must go among the people of this court; you must smile at Diane; you must never show by a look or a gesture how much you hate her, how easy it would be to take a dagger and plunge it into her heart, to drop a poisoned draught into her cup.

  She hardly knew the sad and cruel face which looked back at her. They

  thought her cold, these fools. She― cold! She was white-hot with hatred,

  maddened by jealousy.

  She was a fool to her eyes to the truth.

  “What do I care for Ippolito?’ she asked of her reflection. ‘What was my

  love for him? A pleasant girl-and-boy affair, without passion, without jealousy; while in me these two now burn. No, not Ippolito. It is not he whom I love.’

  She laughed suddenly and loudly.

  ‘I could kill her,’ she murmured. ‘She has taken him from me.’

  How many jealous women had said those words, she wondered; and looking

  into those passionate Italian eyes, she answered herself: ‘Many. But few have really meant them. I love Henry. He is mine. I did not ask to marry him. I was forced to it. And now, I love him. Many women have felt this jealousy, and many have said: I could kill her. But they have said it different. I mean it. I would kill her.’

  Her mouth twisted grimly. ‘If she were dead,’ she whispered close to the

  mirror so that her breath made a mist on the glass, ‘I would make him wholly mine. I would show him love and passion such as he never dreamed of, for in me a furnace of desire is smouldering. If she were dead, he would be with me.

  We should have children to the honour of the land― his land and mine.’

  She pressed the palms of her hands together, and in the mirror she saw a

  woman with murder in her eyes and a prayer on her lips.

  It had needed this tragic sorrow to awaken her, to bring to life the real Catherine. In this moment of revelation, she knew herself as she never had before. How pale the face, how set the features! Only the blazing eyes spoke of murder. The world should see those eyes as mild, expressionless. The true Catherine should hide behind shutters, while the false smiled on the world.

  ―――――――

  How easy it was to make resolutions; how difficult to keep them! Often she must shut herself away, feigning a headache so that she might be alone with her tears. People were saying: ‘Poor little Italian! She is not strong. Perhaps this accounts― with Diane― for her inability to get children.’

  One day, having heard some light remark concerning her husband and his

  mistress, she felt her emotions too strong for her. She made her way to her apartments, told her women to leave her as she wished to rest, and when she was alone, she lay on her bed and sobbed quietly like a child.

  What could she do? Good Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri had given her

  perfumes and cosmetics; she had taken a love potion.

  They were no use. Diane had more potent magic. And when Henry did come

  to her, he was awkward and apologetic. ‘My father insists th
at we should get a child,’ he had said, as though it were necessary to make excuses for his

  presence.

  Why did she love him? He was slow-witted and by no means amusing. It

  was incomprehensible that he should be in her thoughts all day and haunt her dreams by night. He was certainly courteous and kind, so anxious that she should not know their intercourse was distasteful to him that he could not help showing quite clearly that it was. By all the laws of human nature she ought to have hated him.

  What could she, who was young and untutored in the ways of love, do to

  win him from the experienced woman who had taken had no friends whose

  advice she could ask. What if, as she rode out with the Petite Bande, she told her troubles to the King? How sympathetic he would be! How gracious! How angry his son for his lack of courtesy! And then, doubtless, he would, with

  embellishments, tell the story to Madame d’Etampes; and the two of them would be very witty at her expense.

  There was no one to look after Catherine’s welfare but Catherine herself.

  She must never forget that. That was why she must hide these bitter tears, and no one must ever know how passionately, how possessively she loved the shy young boy who was her husband.

  Alarmed, she sat up an her bed, for she could hear footsteps approaching the room. There was a timid knock on the door.

  She said in a cold and steady voice: ‘Did I not say I was not disturbed?’

  ‘Yes, Madame la Duchesse, but there is a young man here― Count

  Sebastiano di Montecuccoli― who begs to be allowed to see you. He is very distressed.’

  ‘Tell him he may wait,’ she said. ‘I am busy for a while.’

  She leaped from the bed, dried her eyes, and dusted her face with powder.

  She looked at her reflection anxiously. It was impossible to eliminate all signs of her passionate weeping. How stupid it was to give way to the feelings! One should never, in any circumstances, be so weak. Sorrow and anger were

  emotions to be locked away in the heart.

  Ten minutes had passed before she had the Count brought to her. He bowed

  low over her hand; then he lifted his sad eyes to her face.

  ‘ Duchessina,’ he said, ‘I see that this evil news has already reached you.’