by Jean Plaidy
It was always a delight to have a pen in her hand, so she wrote to him immediately, purely on state matters, for she realized that she must go slowly with Monsieur de Pybrac.
Catherine in her litter was a little sad. The rigours of such a journey brought home to her the fact that she was growing too old for such an undertaking. Completely unsympathetic with the sufferings of others, she determined to master her own. Previously she had been able to ignore her minor ailments; but it was not so easy now. Her rheumatism came regularly with the winter, and she could not laugh at it as she had once done. ‘Oh, that,’ she had said. ‘That is my rente. It comes regularly with the first cold winds.’ But now it compelled her attention, and it was often too painful to allow her to walk, so that sometimes she must ride on a mule. This made her laugh, for she knew that, being far too fat and heavy for the creature, she made a comic figure; but she was always ready to laugh at herself. ‘I look like fat old Marechal de Cossé now,’ she declared. ‘I wish my son, the King, could see me, for there is nothing in the world I should like to hear so much as his laughter.’
She worried about Henry. What was he doing now? She longed to see him. Had she been wise to leave him? What was Henry of Guise planning? Was that League of his becoming too powerful? She did not trust her son-in-law. She had with her a goodly band of men, all of whom would work for her son, she was sure. She had several members of her Escadron with her, whom she could use to good purpose. If only she could trust her daughter to work for her! But how could one trust Margot? She seemed to have little desire but to intrigue with her lovers. She was doubtless planning a campaign of love at this moment.
And that indeed was the case. Margot had received a fulsome note from Pybrac in which he declared that his one desire was to serve his mistress.
That letter was a delight to Margot. She wrote back telling him how she admired him. She hinted that he might become something more personal to her than her Chancellor if he cared to do so.
When Pybrac received this letter that modest young man was terrified. He had heard many tales of his wayward mistress, but he had not believed that such a brilliant creature could look his way. That letter which he had written to the Queen, he had written as a servant, not as a lover. He remembered what had happened to another lover of Margot’s, the Comte de la Mole. It was not for such as himself to venture so far into that dangerous orbit.
He therefore did not answer that warm, inviting letter of hers, and when she demanded to know why, he wrote that he had not intended his letter to be taken as a love letter; he had written in an exaggerated manner, it was true, but he explained that the fashion in letter-writing was exaggerated, and he merely followed the style of the day. When he had said he loved her, it was as his Queen; when he said he had wished to serve her, it was purely in the role of Chancellor. He craved her pardon for not replying at once to her letter, but he had been ill and unable to do so.
When Margot received this letter she was furious. She could not believe that anyone, whom she had selected for a lover, could refuse her. Impetuously, without waiting to consider the justice due to Pybrac, she wrote to him:
‘There is no use to excuse yourself on the score of illness for not answering my letter. I suspect that this illness and the responsibility of handling my seals, have damaged your health. I, my dear Pybrac, am as concerned for your health as you for mine, so I am asking you to return my seals.’
After that rebuff Margot was a little subdued; she wondered whether she was going to enjoy her new life; she was already thinking regretfully of the Paris court where men’s manners were as elegant as their clothes; she thought of her boorish husband and she thought of Henry of Guise.
Then she wept a little and looked through her tears at the magnificence of her litter.
‘If they had let me marry the man I loved,’ she muttered, ‘what a different life mine wquld have been! As it is, I am the most unfortunate Princess that ever lived!’
Navarre was exhilarated by the prospect of seeing Margot again. Trouble-maker she certainly was, but she never failed to amuse him. He was fully aware that the object of this visit was to spy upon him, and so he was not unprepared for that.
Margot herself was not so eager for the meeting. She had agitated for it when she was in Paris because she was always driven by a desire to make things happen, and a journey through France had seemed an exciting project. But now that it was all but completed, she was wondering again and again how she was going to adjust herself to the humbler court of her husband when she was already beginning to feel homesick for the French court. She was still suffering from the slight which her ex-Chancellor had given her, and she was realizing that she bad been foolish to demand his resignation from office, because it was generally known for what reason the efficient young man had been dismissed.
She was feeling indisposed, she said when they were nearing Toulouse, and not well enough to accompany her mother to the meeting-place; she would, therefore, take a short rest, and, with her attendants, come along afterwards.
Navarre looked for her in vain, while Catherine embraced him and congratulated him on his healthy looks. In his blunt Bearnais way he told her that she was not looking as well as when he had last seen her, and he trusted that the journey had not been too strenuous for her. He looked at her with that shrewd twinkle in his eyes and added that he greatly appreciated the honour of her coming, but he feared the journey might have taxed her strength and he hoped that she would not undertake too much during her stay in his dominions.
‘Ah,’ responded Catherine, ‘I have come merely to chaperone my daughter and to admire your scenery, which is superb.’
He then asked for his wife and was told of Margot’s indisposition.
‘Then, Madame,’ he said, ‘you will forgive me if I ride to her. I long to see her.’
Catherine gave her permission, for she guessed that if she did not he would ride off without it.
He came unceremoniously to Margot’s lodgings and found her with her women, trying on a new gown.
He picked her up and gave her two noisy kisses. Margot wrinkled her nose; he smelt none too sweet, and she saw at once that a certain deterioration had taken place in his ap- pearance and manners since he had left the French court.
I was not expecting you,’ she said coldly. ‘Did you not hear that I was indisposed?’
Your indisposition would be blooming health to most, my dear wife. I doubted not that the indisposition was some new-fashioned Paris custom.’
She was aware of the old resentment; yet with it was mingled a faint attraction; his bluntness was piquant after the meaningless compliments of court gallants.
‘More beautiful than ever!’ he cried. ‘I have thought a good deal of you, Margot.’
‘And of others. We at court hear of the doings at Béarn, you know.’
‘Wherever I go there is news! Thus it is to be a King.’ ‘Wherever you go there is scandal.’
‘Not a quarrel already! Come, I will ride with you to Toulouse.’
She was not really displeased; it flattered her to think that he had ridden to meet her.
‘You must have behaved in a most ungallant manner to my mother,’ she said.
‘It was you I came to meet, not your mother.’
But later she was not so pleased with him. To see him in his native setting was to discover that while he had been at the court of France, he had been behaving, according to his lights; in a most elegant fashion. Now that he was in his own country he felt that he could be natural and proceeded to be so, to the horror of Margot and her mother and those accustomed to the Paris court. In some ways he had become like a Bearnais peasant; he mingled with the humble people of his towns and villages; he used coarse oaths; and it seemed that he had nothing to recommend him to a fastidious Princess but his wit and his shrewdness.
When she reached the court of Nérac, Margot soon learned that her husband’s favourite mistress was a certain Fleurette, the daughter of one of his
gardeners. This girl was brought into the palace when he required her; he could be heard coarsely whistling to her from a window, or seen indulging in horseplay in the gardens. Such conduct was extremely shocking to both Catherine and her daughter. He knew this, and it amused him to think of fresh ways of shocking them. He developed a passion—or pretended to—for Margot’s chambermaid; and he would stroll to the bakery in the town for a tender tête-à-tête with the boulangère, Pictone Pancoussaire.
Margot was so angry that she wanted to return to Paris at once. Indeed, this behaviour on the part of Navarre seemed as good an excuse as any. She knew that she would continue to feel out of place in this little court, which seemed barbaric when compared with the ceremonious state observed at the Louvre, Blois or Chenonceaux. But Catherine calmed her, refraining with an effort from reminding her daughter that this journey had not been made solely for Margot’s pleasure.
Catherine surveyed her band of ladies; they would very soon do their work. In the meantime let the boor of Béarn show them that he cared nothing for Paris manners and Paris ways. Let him frolic awhile with his little Fleurette and Picotine. It would not be for long. Dayelle had already lifted in admiration those beautiful almond-shaped eyes to the King of Navarre; and although he had pretended to be completely absorbed in his humble mistresses, he cast an occasional glance at the beautiful Greek. He was, Catherine reasoned, the son of Antoine de Bourbon and Jeanne of Navarre, so there must be some good taste in him. Catherine was confident that Dayelle—or, failing Dayelle, Madame de Sauves or one of her women—would lure the King away from his humble playmates in due course.
Catherine directed Margot’s attention to a man whom the latter had favoured a year or so before, when they were in Paris together. This was a handsome nobleman named du Luc. Margot was pleased to be entertained by this gentleman; and this, thought Catherine, would keep her satisfied at Nérac for a little while.
And Margot did become absorbed. She amazed her subjects, and it was only a few of the most puritanical who looked upon her as a wicked, brazen woman. Her delight in living captivated most of them, and now that she had a lover who satisfied her temporarily, this love of living was apparent to all. What did she care for the puritans? She cared only for those who admired her. She appeared in public dressed in gowns designed by herself—gowns which would have startled even the court of France. She appeared in red wigs, blonde wigs, and sometimes without a wig, showing her abundant dark hair, which was more beautiful than any wig. She danced in white satin, in purple velvet, in cloth of gold and silver; she favoured Spanish velvet the colour of carnations and had one gown of this material and colour which was weighed down with sequins. She adorned herself with jewels and plumes. She was the magnificent, the fantastic Queen of Navarre. Once she appeared at a function in a robe which had needed fifteen ells of fine gold material, while about her neck hung a rope of four hundred pearls. Diamonds sparkled in her hair, which was decorated with white feathers. She would put on a different personality with each dress. In the gold-thread gown she was all regal dignity; in carnation velvet she would dance madly and recklessly, sometimes with amorous glances at du Luc, sometimes with speculative ones at the handsome Henri de la Tour, the Vicomte de Turenne, who was beginning to interest her. She sang romantic ballads composed by herself; she showed the people of Nérac how to dance those dances which were fashionable in Paris—the Spanish pavana and the Italian corrente.
Her mother looked on, watching her daughter as well as Dayelle and Navarre.
Navarre himself was reluctantly fascinated by his wife. She could have used her influence with her husband had she wished. Ah, thought Catherine, if only she would obey me. If only she were a member of my Squadron! But Margot’s weakness in her mother’s eyes was her lack of any motive beyond the gratification of her sexual desires.
It was when Margot was in her apartments after that ball at which she had enchanted many in her carnation-coloured Spanish velvet, that Navarre came to her. She now seemed to him more attractive than any woman at his court. He was amused by Dayelle, who was obviously at the Queen Mother’s command, just waiting for him to notice her; but this wife of his, with her elegance, her arrogance and her sharp wit, he had to admit—while the most infuriating—was the most fascinating person he had ever met.
He decided to spend the night with her.
She raised her eyes slowly and looked at him with that haughty disdain to which he had become accustomed, and his desire for her faded and the impulse came to him to strike her. He was the King of Navarre, he would like to remind her; and though she was its Queen, her title came through him.
He sat on a stool, his knees apart, a hand on each knee.
She shuddered at this most inelegant attitude, and she noticed that his jacket was torn, and splashed with wine. No amount of jewels or ornaments could cover his slovenliness; and having other plans, Margot had no wish to entertain him tonight.
He dismissed her attendants and, when they had gone, he came over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened, wrinkled her nose, wondering when he had last washed. She could see the dirt under his nails; it seemed more noticeable than all the sapphires and rubies on his hands.
‘How delightful it is when Paris deigns to come to Nérac!’ he said.
‘I am glad that Your Majesty is pleased.’
He put his hand under her chin and, jerking it up, kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She was unresponsive. She had seen him make the same gesture that morning to Xaintes, her chambermaid.
‘You do not seem to like my kisses, Madame.’
‘Monsieur, I am not a chambermaid.’
‘Ah,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder, ‘you must not be jealous. What was that? A little frolic. Nothing more.’
‘Such frolics,’ she said, ‘might be conducted with a little secrecy, I suggest.’
‘In Paris perhaps, for in Paris everything is sham. Here in Nérac . . . if a King wishes to kiss a chambermaid, that is very pleasant . . . both for the King and the chambermaid.’
‘It is not so pleasant for the Queen.’
‘What! Can a Queen be jealous of a chambermaid?’
‘No, Monsieur, she cannot; but she can be sensitive of her dignity, of her honour.’
You think too much of dignity and honour. Come, do not sit there brooding. I would like to see you gay, as you were in the ballroom. You should not brood over a few kisses. You should not wonder whether I love too much these little friends of mine.’
‘I was not wondering that,’ she said.
‘What then? What did you wonder?’
‘When you last bathed.’
He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Bathed!’ he shouted. ‘Bathed! We do not bathe in Nérac.’
‘Nérac’s King certainly does not.’
She rose and walked away from him, looking superb, with her train of velvet sweeping behind her, and the flash of her eyes matching that of the diamonds in her hair.
‘We should get ourselves children,’ said Navarre. ‘Here we are . . . a King and a Queen . . . and no heir to offer Navarre. It cannot go on. I have many sons, many daughters; and not one heir to the throne of Navarre.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I agree,’ she said,’that that is a necessity.’
She was silent for a while. She did not believe that she could bear children. She thought of all the lovers she had known. . . and never a sign of a child from any of them. Henry of Guise was the father of a large family; and as Henry of Navarre had just said, he too had many children; but by Margot, who had had a thousand opportunities, not one had been conceived. Still she was young, and they needed an heir. She sighed, but made no attempt to hide her distaste.
‘Yes,’ she repeated at length, ‘it is a necessary duty. But first I must ask you to grant me a favour.’
‘Anything!’ he said. ‘Anything you ask. What is it?’
‘You will see. You need not look dismayed. I shall not ask you to change your faith again.
No. But this is the smallest favour.’
She went to the door and called to one of her women. Navarre watched them, whispering together. Margot’s great attraction lay in her impetuous actions. The woman went away and Margot returned.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘I am impatient. What is this favour?’ ‘Simply this. It is that before you come nearer to me you will allow my woman to wash . . . at least your feet.’
He stared at her. ‘You call that a favour!’
‘I should not have asked any such favour of you, had I not been afraid that the odour of your feet would make me faint.’
He was angry. He thought of the ready surrender of the little Fleurette, who was so like her name; the thought of the eagerness of the boulangère. And this woman dared to tell him that he should wash his feet before he approached her!
‘Madame,’ he said, biting back his fury, ‘must I once more remind you that this is not the Louvre?’
‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you need not remind me. There is too much to remind me already.’
The woman had come in. She set the gold basin on the floor and stood waiting.
‘If,’said Margot, ‘you would rather the duty was performed by one of your gentlemen, please say so.’
For a few seconds Navarre was speechless. Then he turned to the woman. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.
She did not wait. She fled instantly.
Margot stood, drawn up to her full height, the velvet gown like a sheath of scarlet flame that enveloped her, her eyes flashing scorn, her lips mocking. You are dirty! said those eyes. You offend me.
He was half inclined to tear the scarlet velvet from her, to force himself upon her; but his anger was short-lived, like all his emotions, and it was already failing.
