by Jean Plaidy
God had deserted him. He was unlucky in battle; the sons he had loved had been taken from him, and the one who irritated him at every turn was left. His mistress was unfaithful and he no longer had the energy, nor desire, to seek others.
A day at the chase tired him. What was left to a sick old man who had once been a vigorous youth?
Sorrowing he had returned to Paris after the death of Charles; but though a bereaved father, he was still a King. He must remember that Charles could no longer bring glory to France through a rich marriage, and that once more Milan been dangled under his nose only to be snatched away when he was preparing to grasp it. So France and Spain must go to war again.
Peace was made with the English, fortresses strengths new allies sought, as Francis prepared to renew his claims on Milan.
But, missing his son bitterly, he could only be halfhearted about war.
He had the young Count of Enghien with him constantly that they might talk of Charles. The Count had known the boy better than any other had, for they had been the closest friends. Francis made the young man go over and over those last hours of Charles’s life. Francis saw the taverns where they had caroused with men and women eager to snatch a few hours of riotous life before death took them; he saw the death-cart rattling over the cobbles, and the priest walking before it, muttering prayers for the dead and the dying; but most vivid in his mind was the imagined picture of that macabre scene in the dead girl’s bedroom, with young Charles, so vital, so beautiful then― shouting as he plunged his sword into her bed, until the polluted feathers flew about him like a snow-storm.
‘You and I loved him better than did any others,’ said Francis to the young Count. ‘There is none to whom I would rather speak of him than to you.’
So, d’Enghien came into the King’s personal service, and stayed with him; and after a few months, Francis felt that the young man filled, in some measure, the terrible gap which the death of Charles had made in his life. He reflected bitterly that it was strange he should find comfort in this young man while his own son Henry had nothing to offer him.
―――――――
Elizabeth was nearly a year old, and it was time she had a successor. Henry, at Diane’s command, was coming to Catherine regularly now; and each night, she perfumed herself, put flowers in her hair, wore her most seductive garments, and prepared herself to greet her husband.
As for Henry, familiarity bred tolerance. He no longer saw her as the
repulsive young girl who had come to him at the time of his brother’s death. He did not like Catherine, but he had learned not to dislike her; and Catherine felt that from dislike to indifference was quite a big step forward. Give her time―
for time was on her side, not Diane’s― and she would one day win him. She need have no fear that she would be banished now and her life could be spent at his side. She must go on pretending for a while that she did not care that her husband in name was Diane’s in truth; and that the children whom she had
borne were Diane’s to love and cherish and plan for. She must try not to brood because it was Diane who was always at their cradles when they were sick and that it was Diane who gave instructions; Diane to whom to whom young Francis turned when he was in trouble or wished to ask a question. She must not feel bitter when little Elizabeth clucked with pleasure to be taken on to that sweetly smelling black-and-white lap. Instead, she must wait, seeking every advantage that might result in Diane’s downfall and her own closer intimacy with Henry.
She would rise― or stoop― to anything that would bring about such changes; she would neglect nothing, however seemingly insignificant.
Henry would soon be with her. He spent an hour with Diane before he came
to her. That was the jam to sweeten his pill, thought Catherine bitterly. He was longing her to tell him that she was expecting another child, for then these duty visits of his could cease, and he could go to Anet― his real home― and there stay with his beloved mistress and not have to give a thought to his wife.
Even if it were so, thought Catherine, I would hold back the news until I could no longer conceal it.
What could she say tonight to keep him with her a little longer than he
usually stayed, to show him that she was cleverer than Diane, more capable of ruling a man or country?
She thought of the court. The biggest scandal at the moment was Madame
d’Etampes’ love affair with Guy de Chabot, one of the most fascinating of young men. He was married to one of the sisters of Anne d’Etampes, but the King’s favourite was not inclined to let this small matter stand in the way of her pleasure.
How, wondered Catherine, did Anne draw men to her? In spite of flagrant
infidelity, the King continued to cherish her; and yet, Catherine, who was true and loyal, who would give everything she possessed to win her husband’s
regard, was ignored and slighted!
Henry came in. She lay back on her cushions and looked at him yearningly.
How he had changed since she had first seen him in Marseilles, a shy, sullen boy! Now he was a man― heir to the throne, a man of dignity, slow still, but one to inspire respect. His black hair had a few silver threads in it, although he was only twenty-seven.
Tonight, she decided, she would speak to him of Anne d’Etampes and her lover; passionately, she wished him to know that although outwardly, she was Anne’s friend, she wished to serve none but him. In his presence humility always possessed her. She wanted to tell him that, if he commanded it, she would serve Diane. She felt the old indiscretion coming to the fore. If she did not curb her tongue she would be telling him soon how she set Madalenna to spy on the people of the court. She would tell him that she would put all her spies at his disposal― for Madalenna was not the only one.
She checked herself in time.
‘Is it not scandalous how Madame d’Etampes conducts herself!’ she said.
‘The whole court is talking of this latest love affair.’
Henry lifted his shoulders as though to say he was past being disgusted with the most disgusting woman in France.
‘This de Chabot!’ went on Catherine. ‘Is it not marvellous how he can live in style rich enough for Anne d’Etampes? The King has given that lady very expensive tastes, I fear.’
Henry was never one for scandalous gossip, even about his enemies. He did not answer. He took off his coat and flung it across the chair. for he dispensed with the help of attendants when visiting his wife. Everything connected with this painful duty, he did it in a shame-faced way. He visited Catherine’s apartments as though they were a bawdy house; in Diane’s he was natural and at home.
Catherine noted this and violent-anger surged up within her, but she was
learning suppress it as soon as it came, reminding herself that one day all insults should be paid for.
Henry might not like gossip, but she could see that he, too, was wondering how de Chabot found the money to live in grand style. He would repeat to
Diane, what Catherine had said, and this was circulated to the discomfiture of Anne. And might it not be that Anne, in that tricky way of hers, would turn the tables on Diane? That was what Catherine hoped, and every pin-prick inflicted on Diane was worth a little trouble.
‘His father, the Seigneur de Jarnac, has made a very profitable marriage, I hear,’ went on Catherine, ‘This rich stepmother of de Chabot’s is young and charming, too. It may be that it is she who makes it possible for the young man to live as he does at court.’
Catherine looked at Henry appealingly. She was telling him: You see, I have means of finding out everything that if you would but link yourself with me, my darling, you would discover how I would serve you.
‘How like him that would be!’ said Henry contemptuously. ‘I verily believe he is the kind of man to live on a stepmother.’
He blew out the candles and came to the bed.
She was trembling, as she always trembled; and she tried not to thi
nk of
what she had seen through the hole which, at Saint-Germain, connected her apartments with those of Diane.
―――――――
A stir of excitement ran through the court; the King spoke of it to his new favourite, d’Enghien, with irritation. Madame d’Etampes and her lover, de Chabot, were both furious and afraid. Catherine, whilst appearing to be
unconcerned, looked on with delight. Now she was in her favourite role.
Unseen, she had stirred up trouble, and now she could watch the effect, while none realized that she had had a hand in it.
The matter concerned de Chabot and the Dauphin himself. It had happened
in this way: surrounded by courtiers and ladies of both the Reformed and the Catholic parties, Henry found de Chabot at his side. De Chabot’s dress was as magnificent as that of the Dauphin, and Henry had been filled with a violence of feeling such as he rarely experienced. Here was this popinjay, deceiving the King with the woman Henry hated more than any other, since she was the
declared enemy of Diane.
Henry, remembering a conversation he had had Catherine, said impulsively:
‘How comes it, de Chabot, that you are able to make such a show of
extravagance? I know the revenues which you enjoy are not great.’
De Chabot, embarrassed by this question, which was unexpected, said: ‘Sir, my stepmother keeps me in everything I require. She is a most generous lady.’
Henry shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
As soon as Diane heard of this matter, she realized how ill-chosen had been de Chabot’s words; she saw at once a chance to spread a scandal concerning the latest and favourite lover of Anne d’Etampes.
Diane started the whispering through the Catholic party.
‘My dear, de Chabot has admitted to the Dauphin that he is the dear friend of his stepmother.’
‘She keeps him! Well, he is a handsome one, that! And that old man, his
father, must be very feeble.’
When de Chabot heard how his words had been misconstrued, he hurried
home to his father’s château, where he managed to convince the old man that there was no truth in this mischievous scandal. And, returning to court, he was determined, cost what it might, to avenge the insult.
Now was the turn of the Catholic party to feel discomfited. Diane had not expected de Chabot to be so insistent. The young fool had declared would not be satisfied until he had faced his slanderer in the lists. He cared not that what he was saying was tantamount to challenging the heir to the throne.
Catherine laughed to herself when she was alone. Henry was in an
embarrassing position. And who had led him there? Diane! Was it not true that she had spread the scandal so that de Chabot must demand satisfaction? People were saying that Diane’s hatred for Anne d’Etampes had put the Dauphin in a very unpleasant situation. They did not know that it was meek Catherine who had sowed the seed.
It was intolerable. This foolish de Chabot, reasoned Diane, was thirsting for a fight. It was illegal to challenge the heir to the throne. The fool should have known that. He could not be allowed to go about demanding satisfaction, for although he did not mention Henry’s name, all knew to whom he referred.
Competently, Diane looked about her for a scapegoat, and her thoughts
rested on a certain Francis de Vivonne, a good-looking young man with a great reputation for military valour. He was reckoned to be the best swordsman in France and its finest wrestler. At one time he had been a favourite of the King’s; but he was essentially an ambitious man, and he preferred to bask in the warmth of the rising sun while seeking to avoid the scorching rays of that which was about to set. He was just the man who would eagerly seize a chance of gaining the favour of a man who must shortly be King.
Diane sent for the man and told him her wishes; and that very night, when the company had eaten and the banqueting hall of Les Tournelles was filled with men and women of the court, de Vivonne swaggered up to de Chabot and caught him by the arm.
‘Monsieur de Chabot,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘It has come to my ears that you are eager to defend your honour against one who has spoken against it.’
There was a hushed silence in the hall. De Chabot flushed, then grew pale.
The King leaned forward in his chair; his brows drawn together in a frown.
Anne d’Etampes had turned pale. Henry had flushed scarlet; and Catherine, feigning surprise, wished that she could burst into her gusty laughter.
De Chabot spoke at length. ‘It is true that lies have been bruited about
concerning me. I shall not rest until I have had satisfaction of the man who has spoken against me.’
Henry’s face went an even deeper shade of scarlet, but Catherine noticed
miserably that his eyes went to Diane as they used to do when he was young and uncertain how to act. Oh, what would she not have given for him to have turned to her like that!
De Vivonne, now assured that he had the attention of all, broke the silence.
‘I am that man, de Chabot. It was that you cynically boasted of the impropriety which you thought it proper later to deny.’
De Chabot’s sword was out of its sheath. ‘You lie!’
Immediately de Vivonne’s sword crossed his.
‘I speak truth. Come, you have declared yourself eager to avenge your
honour. Here is your chance―’
The King rose in his chair.
‘Stop! Come here, both of you. How dare you cross swords thus
unceremoniously in our presence!’
They put away their swords and came to stand before the King.
‘I will hear no more of this matter!’ said Francis. ‘I am weary of it. If you value your freedom, go your ways in peace.’
The two men bowed. They mingled with the crowd.
Francis saw that Anne had momentarily lost her poise. She was terrified.
She was in love and her lover had been challenged by the most skillful dueller in the country. It was said that certain death was the fate of any who fought with de Vivonne.
Catherine, watching her, understood her feelings, for was she not also in love? She saw Anne’s glance at Diane, saw the hatred flash in them. Diane was smiling serenely. She scored a victory. But one day, Diane, thought Catherine, there will be no victory for you, no triumph; only bitter humiliation and defeat.
‘Enough of this foolery!’ cried Francis. ‘Have the musicians in and we will dance!’
―――――――
Anne paced down the King’s private chamber while Francis lay back
watching her. Her fair curly hair was in disorder and the flowers which adorned it had slipped down to her ear. Her agitation made her all the more delightful in his eyes. She was no longer young; but Anne would never lose her beauty, never lose her charm. He liked to see her thus, worried, frightened; it made her seem vulnerable and very human. De Chabot’s youth might please her; but she was realizing that Francis’s power was the more important, since only through it could she enjoy the former’s youth.
He thought of her in various moods, in various situations. How delightful she had been in the first months of their love― enchanting him with her perfect body and her agile mind; she had brought new delights to a man who thought he had tasted all. And now old age had attacked him, and the coming of that old monster had been hastened by this pernicious malady from which he could not escape. He thought of her― retaining her youthful energy with de Chabot, with de Nançay. And he doubted not that if he made inquiries other names would be mentioned. But he did not wish to know. She was a part of his life and it was a part he could not do without. It was more kingly to shut his eyes to what in all honour he could not face, to feign ignorance of matters which he did not wish to know.
This, thought Frances, is the tragedy of old age. It is a king’s tragedy as well as a beggar’s. Who would have believed, twenty years ago, that I, Francis, the Kin
g of France, with the power of France behind me could allow a woman to deceive me while I pretend to deceive myself!
Henry, the King across the water― what would he have done in like case?
Would he have been so deceived? Never! Frances remembered another Anne
with whom, in the days of his youth, he had flirted and whom he had sought to seduce; he remembered her later at Calais― black-eyed and beautiful, proud with the promise of queen-ship. That Anne had lost her head, because the King of England believed― or pretended to believe― that she had deceived him.
Then there had been little Catherine Howard on whom the King had doted, and yet she too had been unable to keep her head. Now, had the King of France been another as the King of England, his Anne might have feared to take lovers as she did. But alas!― or should he rejoice because of it? Francis the First of France was not Henry the Eighth of England. There were two things they had in
common nowadays― old age and sickness. It was said that old Henry’s present wife was more of a nurse than a wife. Well, he, Francis, was full of faults, but hypocrisy was not among them. With him the power of seeing himself too
clearly had amounted to almost a fault; it had certainly brought its discomforts.
He bid Anne come to him and arrange his perfumed cushions.
She said: ‘Is that better? Are you comfortable now, my beloved?’
‘How many years have I loved you?’ he said. ‘It started before I was a
prisoner in Spain.’
Her face softened and he wondered if she also was remembering the
glowing passion of their days together.
‘You wrote to me verses in your Spanish prison,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget them.’
‘Methinks the professional verse-maker could do better. Marot, for
instance.’
‘Marot writes verses for all and sundry. It is the verses that are written by the lover to his mistress that have the greatest value.’
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and went on: ‘My dear, this
