by Jean Plaidy
He stared, and fell backwards. It seemed to him that a man stood in the closet, a tall man of noble countenance, who looked down on him with stern and haughty eyes.
‘Coligny!’ screamed Anjou, and he fell on his knees, dropping the candle, which was extinguished. ‘Oh . . . Coligny . . .’ he gasped, ‘come back from the dead . . . to haunt me . . .’
His friends rushed to him, bearing lights. They grew pale when they saw what Anjou had seen. Some covered their eyes with a hand to shut out the vision. But one man, bolder than the rest, lifted his candle high and looked full into the face of what the others had believed to be the Admiral’s ghost.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is the Admiral to the very life. But . . . it is only a picture.’
Anjou went back to the main apartment, and spent the rest of the night in writing what he called his confession.
The next day he left the town in haste; he had no wish to-stay in a land where such cruel tricks were played upon him.
But he had learned something. The massacre of St. Bartholomew would never be forgotten while men lived on Earth, and those who had taken part in it would be held in horror and dismay by countless millions of their fellow men.
Anjou was in a high fever by the time he reached Cracow.
Margot was restless. Her love affair with Monsieur Léran, who had been so charmingly grateful since she had saved his life on the night of the massacre, was palling; and Margot was discovering that, although she could remain faithful to Monsieur de Guise for years, she could not be so for long to any other. At times she still hankered after the handsome Duke, and she would have taken him back but for his attachment to Charlotte de Sauves. She knew Charlotte too well; Charlotte never released a man until she was tired of him, and Margot had an idea that Charlotte was going to love Guise as constantly as she herself had. Surprisingly, it seemed that Charlotte could be in love, for she had changed, growing more softly beautiful; and Margot, sensing this had a good deal to do with Henry of Guise, was jealous, but her pride remained stronger than her jealousy.
She knew that in refusing to allow herself to be divorced from Navarre and married to Guise she had wounded her former lover deeply. He would never, she knew, forgive the slight; he would remember it against her as he had remembered his father’s death against Coligny. He no longer looked her way; he no longer sent those appealing and tender glances towards her. If he noticed her at all, it was to let her know how deeply absorbed he was in his new love affair, how delightful he found Charlotte de Sauves.
Dissatisfied, jealous and bored, Margot looked about her for fresh excitement. Perhaps she needed a new lover. But who was there? There was none who specially pleased her; if she selected one for his charming manners, for his handsome face, she would, before she realized what she was doing, find herself comparing him with Henry of Guise, and there would begin once more that battle between desire and pride.
She supposed it was not too late to ask for that divorce and to marry him. He would undoubtedly consent; it was ambition first with Monsieur de Guise; but should she marry him to satisfy his ambitions? And what if he continued his liaison with Charlotte de Sauves after their marriage!
No, she had sworn to have finished with Henry of Guise, and finished she had. She must find another lover, or some excitement. But now . . . what excitement was there? Masques, ballets . . . all commonplace to her; she could no longer be excited by a new gown, by a new wig or an exaggerated hairstyle. As for lovers, she must first be in love; and how could she fall in love at will?
It was while she was in this state of restlessness that one of her women, Madame de Moissons, who had always been anxious to serve her since Margot had saved her husband’s life at the time of the massacre, came to her and asked if she might have a word with her in private.
Madame de Moissons, who had suffered great mental torture when the life of her husband had been at stake, was a woman who lived in continual terror of further risings; it was this fear Which had now caused her to seek the help of Margot.
‘I would speak with Your Majesty alone,’ she said, ‘if you would grant me that honour.’
Margot, guessing from the woman’s demeanour that she was deeply perturbed, immediately granted the request.
When they were alone, Madame de Moissons burst out: ‘I do not know if I do right in telling you what I have discovered, but I think Your Majesty may know how to act. It concerns the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon. They plan to escape, join a Huguenot force and take the offensive against the Catholic army.’
‘They cannot be so foolish.’
‘Indeed yes, Madame. That is what they plan. Madame, can you plead with them, stop them? They will plunge France into civil war once more. There will be more bloodshed and when it starts who knows where it will end?’
‘They are like irresponsible children,’ said Margot. ‘And when is this plot to be put into effect?’
‘As soon as is possible, Madame. But the King of Navarre finds it difficult to tear himself away from Madame de Sauves, to whom, as you know, he is deeply attracted.’
Margot was seized with a jealous fury, but she managed to say calmly to Madame de Moissons: ‘Leave this to me. I will see that this plot is foiled.’
‘Madame, I would not care to bring trouble on the King of Navarre, who has always been so good to my husband.’
‘He will be safe enough,’ said Margot; and she dismissed the woman.
When she was alone she threw herself on to her bed and thumped the cushions angrily. She, Marguerite, the Princess of France and the Queen of Navarre had, she considered, been most vilely used. Her lover had deserted her for Madame de Sauves; and her stupid husband made dangerous plots and then hesitated to put them into action for love of the same woman. Henry of Guise had sworn to love her for ever and it seemed as though he had forgotten her; she and her husband were to have been allies, if not lovers, and he, with Alençon, had made this plot without her knowledge. She did not know who angered her most—Guise, Navarre or Charlotte de Sauves.
She acted impulsively as she always acted; and, rising from her bed, she went to the King.
He was with their mother and she asked if she might speak with them alone.
‘I have discovered a plot,’ she said.
They were alert. Neither of them trusted her, but they could see that she was not only excited but angry.
‘Tell us, my dear,’ said Catherine, and the sound of her mother’s voice sobered Margot. What was she doing? She was betraying her husband and her brother. She took fright. She had no wish to harm either of them; she discovered in that moment that she was quite fond of them both.
She temporized. ‘If I tell you what I have discovered, will you promise me that no harm shall come to the two people who are most deeply involved?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Catherine.
‘Charles,’ said Margot, ‘I want your word. I have discovered something which it is my duty to tell you, but I cannot do so until you promise me, on your sacred honour as King of France, that you will not harm those two involved’
‘I give my word,’ said the King.
Catherine smiled sardonically. So her word was not good enough! It seemed that all her children were banding together against her.
‘My husband and Alençon plan to escape from Paris, to join their friends and form an army which they intend to use against yours.’
The King began to sweat, his fingers to twitch,
‘You have proof of this?’ asked Catherine.
‘No. I have only heard of it. If you search their apartments, doubtless you will find evidence.’
‘We will have their apartments searched at once,’ said Catherine. ‘You have done well, daughter.’
‘And your promise not to harm them is not forgotten?’
‘My dear Marguerite, do you think I would hurt my own son and him who has become my son through his marriage with you . . . mischievous as they may be! Now, there is no time to be lost.�
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Catherine was as energetic as ever. She made Navarre and Alençon her prisoners as a result of what she discovered; but they were not confined to dungeons, and continued to live, under guard, at the palace.
Henry of Guise faced the Queen Mother.
‘Their friendship,’ he said, ‘began at the siege of La Rochelle. I cannot understand it. They are an ill-assorted pair. Something must be done to separate them. They are full of mischief, both of them. This plot of theirs proves that. Madame, something must be done immediately.’
Catherine studied him. She feared him, as much as she feared anyone in France, and yet that cool courage of his, that handsome presence, inspired admiration even in her. A surprisingly disloyal thought came to her then. She wished that this Henry had been her Henry. She would have loved him then with a great devotion and together they would have shared all the power in France. But he was not her son and because this was the case she resented that arrogance of his, that insolent manner of telling her what should be done, as though he were the master and she a favoured servant.
In accordance with her usual habit, she hid her resentment and wore an expression of humility. ‘You are right, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said. ‘You may rest assured that after this scare I will do something to spoil their unnatural friendship.’
‘Madame,’ said Guise, ‘I do not trust the King of Navarre. I do not think he is such a fool as he would have us believe. He poses as a frivolous man, thinking of nothing but women.’
‘Ah,’ said Catherine, ‘a man can think of women and politics at the same time, can he not?’
Guise ignored the barb and went on: ‘His manner, I feel sure, is a pose. He should be kept under strict surveillance. And as for the Duke of Alençon . . .’ Guise shrugged his shoulders.
‘You may speak out,’ said Catherine. ‘Though he is my son, I know him as a man who is full of mischief and who must be watched.’
‘But for our good fortune in discovering this plot, these two might have made good their escape. There are still enough Huguenots in the country to cause us trouble, Madame.’
‘It is indeed fortunate that we discovered the plot in time. We owe it to Madame de Sauves, did you know?’
The Duke raised his eyebrows, and Catherine, who knew him so well, realized that his heart had begun to beat a little faster at the mention of his mistress in this connexion.
‘The King of Navarre, as you know,’ went on Catherine, ‘is more interested in women than in politics. He found it difficult to tear himself away from the lady—otherwise he would have escaped before we realized what he was about. His hesitation betrayed him, Monsieur.’
‘We must be grateful for that, Madame.’
‘Very grateful indeed to that fair lady, who is, I am told, irresistible to so many.’
‘Madame, the first thing we must do is to drive a wedge between Navarre and Alençon.’
‘Leave that to me, Monsieur.’
‘How will you accomplish it?’
‘As yet I am unsure, but I am giving the matter my deepest consideration. You will see how I intend to separate those two, and you will see it in a very short time. Now, if you will forgive me, I must ask you to leave me, as I have much to do which I dare neglect no longer.’
As soon as he had left her, alone as she was, she began to laugh.
‘Ah, Monsieur de Guise,’ she chuckled, ‘you will soon see how I plan to separate those two.’
She went to the door, called her dwarf and sent him in search of Madame de Sauves.
‘And see,’ she added, ‘that when she arrives, she is left alone with me.’
Charlotte came immediately.
‘You may sit, my dear,’ said Catherine. ‘Now tell me: how progresses your affair with the King of Navarre?’
‘Just as Your Majesty commanded it should.’
‘You must be a witch, Charlotte, to keep such a man dancing attendance on you without receiving any satisfaction.’
‘I have behaved in accordance with Your Majesty’s instructions,’ said Charlotte.
‘Poor Navarre! He will be sad this night. You have heard that he has been playing tricks which we shall have to punish. think it might be a charming idea if you enlivened his captivity this night.’
Charlotte grew pale. ‘Madame . . . I . . .’
‘What! Another engagement! I promise you you need have no fear. I will see that the Baton, your husband, is kept busy and that he asks no embarrassing questions.’
‘Madame,’ faltered Charlotte, ‘could I not? . . .’
Catherine burst out laughing. ‘What! An assignation with a gentleman not your husband!’
Charlotte was silent.
‘Tell me, Charlotte, is it Monsieur de Guise? He is so charming, and from the way in which he is pursued by you women it appears he must be an adequate lover. But I have always made you understand, have I not, that duty comes before pleasure?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Well, tonight you must make it your duty to enliven the poor captive King of Navarre. Now . . . no more. I have spoken. You may go, Charlotte.’
When Charlotte was at the door, Catherine called her back. ‘And come to me tomorrow, Charlotte. I shall have further instructions for you then.’
Charlotte ran along to her own apartments, and when she reached her bedchamber she drew her curtains about her bed, upon which she lay down and began to weep bitterly. For the first time in her life she was disgusted with the Escadron and wished to escape from it. She lay weeping for some time, lost in her wretched thoughts until, uncannily conscious that she was being watched, she turned her head and shrank in startled horror from the parted bed-curtains. Catherine stood there, looking at her, and her gaze seemed diabolical; but when she spoke her voice was almost tender and belied the cruel glitter of her eyes. ‘You should not grieve, Charlotte. Monsieur de Guise must learn to understand as readily as does Monsieur de Sauves. And by night one man is very like another—so they tell me.’
The curtains were drawn together again, and Catherine went away as silently as she had come.
Margot looked down at her husband, who was lying sprawled across his bed. The door was locked and outside it were members of the King’s Guard. Margot felt angry with him. He looked so inelegant lying there; he had no grace; his hair, which looked none too clean, would doubtless stain that beautiful cushion.
‘You should not be allowed to use beautiful things,’ she told him. ‘You should live in a stable.’
‘Stables can be very comfortable,’ he said reflectively, ‘and a horse is often a more amiable companion than a wife.’
She lifted her head haughtily. ‘Not only are you coarse and crude—that I accept; that I forgive—but your folly is beyond forgiveness.’
‘I was certainly a fool not to realize I had a spying wife.’
‘It was for your own good, you fool, that I stopped your folly.’
‘You call it folly because it failed. If it had succeeded it would have been very clever. And but for you, it would not have failed. Ventre de biche! I have a mind to thrash you for this.’
‘You would find yourself in a less comfortable prison if you were as foolish as that.’
‘Have no fear. I am far too lazy. To thrash such a spitfire as you, would take a good deal of energy, and I am not inclined to spend mine on you.’
‘Pray keep your coarse manners for your peasant women.’
‘I will, if you will allow me to. Why do you not take yourself off to a more comfortable apartment?’
‘Because I wish to talk to you.’
‘I am expecting a visitor.’
‘A wife of one of the gardeners, or one of the kitchen wenches?’
‘Guess again,’ he said.
‘I am not inclined to waste my energy on that! Gardener’s wife or kitchen woman, it matters not to me. I am not interested in your crude amours. What angers me is that you should have entered into such a plot as this and told me nothing of it.’
‘It did not concern you.’
‘It concerns Navarre, of which I am Queen.’
‘Only as long as I allow you to be.’
‘How dare you!’
‘Madame, you astonish me. You play the spy; you place your husband and his kingdom in jeopardy, and then you come here and tell me that my kingdom is yours.’
‘I had thought that we two had decided to be allies.’
‘We had, but you show yourself to be a very doubtful ally.’
‘And you plot such things without consulting me!’
‘If I had been successful, I should have come back for you. And how can you talk of our being allies when you so callously betray me?’
‘You are indolent as well as foolish. You do not seem to know what forces would be brought into action against you.’
‘You overrate Monsieur de Guise,’ said Navarre. ‘We who would pit ourselves against him and his Catholics do not hold him in the same reverence as you do. You involve yourself too deeply in your love affairs, my dear. You look upon your lover as a god. He is but a man. Why, is it not for that very reason that you love him? You will never be happy in love until you learn to love as I do. I have had a hundred love affairs and never a pang of remorse or wretchedness on account of any of them. Yet you . . . you are all passion, all hate, all desire. When we have more leisure you and I must compare experiences, but tonight I am expecting a visitor.’
‘You are a provincial boor,’ she cried, ‘and as for discussing my love affairs with you, I would as soon discuss them with a stable boy.’
‘Or a kitchen wench, or a gardener’s wife?’ he taunted.
She went to him and, taking his stiff hair in her hands, shook him angrily. He was almost apoplectic with laughter, and to her annoyance she found herself laughing with him.
‘There, you see,’ he said, ‘we cannot be bad friends. You betray me and I forgive you. Why, I even forgive you for spoiling the set of my hair which, although not elegant like that of your brothers, or softly curling like that of one whom it would be provincial, boorish, coarse and crude to mention at this point . . .’
