by Jean Plaidy
Margot and Turenne sighed with relief. Fosseuse was a sweet child who knew that she owed her advancement to the Queen and the Queen’s lover. She was wise enough to suspect that if she wished to keep her high place it would be as well to keep also in the good graces of those two; and this she did to the complete satisfaction of all concerned.
At this time, Margot wrote in her memoirs: ‘Our court is so fine and pleasant that we do not envy that of France. My husband is attended by as fine a troupe of lords and gentlemen, folks as seemly and gallant as I ever met at court; and there is nothing to regret in them expect that they are Huguenots. But of that diversity of religion one hears no one speak. The King and his sister go on one side to the preaching, and my retinue to Mass in a chapel which is in the park; after which we all meet and walk together in the very fine gardens with their long paths, edged with laurels and cypresses, or in the park which I have caused to be laid out, along paths stretching for three thousand paces beside the river; and the rest of the day we spend in all sorts of seemly pastimes, the ball usually taking place in the afternoon and evening.’
Some of the Huguenots were not so content. Their Queen, they murmured, had brought vices to their court. She had grafted on to the pure tree the fruit of Babylon.
Margot shrugged, elegant shoulders. She was happy; she was on moderately good terms with her husband; she had found a means of having her own way with him through La Fosseuse; her mild sister-in-law, Catherine, gave her little trouble; Mademoiselle de Rebours had completely lost her power; and Monsieur de Turenne continued to please.
This paradise was invaded by couriers from Paris. Her brother’s hatred had followed Margot to Nérac.
Neither side was very pleased with the peace which the Queen Mother had taken such pains to bring about. The king of France suspected his, sister of being an evil influence at the court of Nérac; he was now wishing that he had never allowed her to join her husband, and was seeking means of having her brought back. His couriers, therefore, brought letters to Navarre telling him that evil stories were circulating in France concerning the Queen of Navarre; in these were related the scandalous behaviour of that lady, who was, it was said, now deep in amorous intrigue with the Count of Turenne; it was hinted that these two not only made immoral love, but dangerous plots.
When Navarre read these documents, he laughed. He was less satisfied than the King of France with the peace which had been made. He was ready, therefore, to allow hostilities to break out once more in the hope that a new peace might be made.
He called Margot and Turenne to him and, assuming an air of mock-horror, he showed them the slander which the King of France had written of them.
The two lovers were prepared to defend themselves, but they soon realized that there was no need to do that. Navarre, showing quite clearly that he believed all the French King had said, asked mockingly: ‘How can a man allow such things to be said of his virtuous wife? This is an insult which can only be answered with the sword.’
Turenne agreed with the King that the terms of peace were not satisfactory; and Margot agreed with her lover. In a very short time there was again war between Huguenots and Catholics—a war which the people of France, who had few illusions as to its real cause, ironically named LaGuerre des Amoureux.
In Paris, Catherine watched events with increasing gloom, for during that war Navarre proved himself to be a fighter who would have to be reckoned with in the future. One by one towns fell before him; it soon became apparent that he could win this Lovers’ War. It was doubly gratifying, in view of this, to note that he had not left his follies behind him. He was so enamoured of that silly child, the little Fosseuse—barely in her mid-teens—that on the brink of victory he would leave the field because the desire to be with her was urgent and immediate, and of greater importance to him than victory over the armies of the King of France. Again and again he lost his chances, merely by throwing them away. For one thing, he declared Nérac neutral; and to this the Catholic party had agreed, providing Navarre should not return to it while the war was in progress; but Fosseuse was at the Château of Nérac, and when Navarre desired his mistress, nothing else was of any importance at all. On one occasion when it was discovered that Navarre had broken his word and was actually in the castle, cannon shots were fired into it. Margot was furious at her husband’s folly, but Navarre only laughed. This was fair play, he insisted, and he was ready to take the consequences. He was with his beloved Fosseuse: he was ready to risk his castle for that satisfaction. Only the great skill of his soldiers under his leadership saved the castle on that occasion.
From this it was easy to see that Navarre, although a brave man and a commander of genius, was yet completely the thrall of his own sensuality. Catherine fervently hoped that he would continue to be so bound; the weaknesses of others added greatly to her own strength, and it was gratifying to contemplate that, but for this foible of the King of Navarre, the war might have had disastrous effects on the King of France. As it was, hostilities dragged on for nearly a year and might have gone on longer had not Anjou suggested that through his friendship for his brother-in-law of Navarre he might be able to make the peace. Anjou was still obsessed by his dream of a French Empire, which he planned to bring about through a war in Flanders. It seemed to him absurd that Frenchmen should fight Frenchmen when they might fight foreigners to the glory of France. He set out for Nérac, where he was received with much affection by Margot and friendship by Navarre.
The Paix de Fleix was duly signed, but no one had much faith in these peace treaties now. There had been too many of them. They were flimsy, creaking bridges that linked one war with another.
Having arrived at Nérac, Anjou did not seem in any hurry to leave it. He declared himself to be enchanted with the place, but it soon became apparent that it was not the place which enchanted him so much as one of the ladies living there. Anjou seemed as determined to pursue trouble as Margot was; the lady he chose to honour with his devotion was none other than La Fosseuse, the King’s mistress.
This naturally proved very enlivening for the court. There was a return of that rivalry, that horseplay which the brothers-in-law had enjoyed in connexion with Madame de Sauves some years before. They both indulged in practical jokes on each other, and as before, these grew so wild that they bordered on the dangerous.
It was Margot who put a stop to this. She called her brother to her one day and talked to him with great earnestness. ‘Dearest brother,’ she said, ‘I know you love me.’
Anjou kissed her tenderly. He was very susceptible to flattery and admiration, and Margot had seen to it that he received these in great measure from her.
‘I would,’ she continued, ‘that your love for me was of such magnitude that it transcended that which you bear for all others.’
‘Dearest and most beautiful sister, why should you wish for what is already yours? There is no one whom I adore and admire as I do my own beautiful sister.’
‘La Fosseuse?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘Dear Margot, that is indeed love . . . but a passing love. But for you, my love is eternal.’
She embraced him, lavishing caresses upon him. ‘That delights me. Now I know that you will listen to my advice. You are wasting your time here, dearest brother. You are a great general. In your hands lies the glory of France. You should seek an Empire, not a woman.’
Margot enjoyed playing on his susceptibilities; she made him see himself as the empire-builder, the future King of France, the greatest King that France had ever had. And so well did she do this that, not long after that conversation, he was taking a regretful leave of Fosseuse; duty called him, he explained; he was a man with a mission.
He left Nérac and eventually arrived in Flanders, where he collected an army and entered Cambrai; but as usual he had planned without caution, and Philip of Spain had not been idle. In a few months Anjou found himself in a precarious position, faced by the might of Spain and without money to continue the campaign. Defe
ated, he went to England, begged Elizabeth for a loan which she granted, and returned to make war in Flanders.
But his departure from Nérac meant only temporary peace for those of that court.
La Fosseuse had become enceinte. This irritated Margot for two reasons; first that the King’s mistress could produce a child while his wife could not; secondly, the meek little girl changed with pregnancy and did not remain meek; she was no longer content to take orders from the Queen. Moreover, Mademoiselle de Rebours, disgruntled at having lost the King’s favour and blaming Margot for this, seized upon every opportunity for spreading scandal about both the Queen and La Fosseuse.
If it became known throughout the country that a daughter of the great House of Montmorency was about to bear the King’s bastard, there would be—particularly in certain Huguenot quarters—a great deal of shocked dissatisfaction. In view of this, Margot decided to take matters into her own hands, as she said, for the good of all concerned.
She commanded Fosseuse to come to her, and when the girl stood before her, she looked at her with kindness and said: ‘my dear Fosseuse, this thing has come about and it is no use blaming anyone for it. We must do our best to keep it quiet. As you know, it would do the King’s cause much harm throughout the land if it were known that you were to bear this bastard. The Huguenots are puritans and they do not like what they call immorality among their leaders. For the King’s sake and your own, since it is not suitable for a daughter of your house to bear a child while still unmarried, I offer you this solution: I propose to take you with me to our very secluded estate of Mas Agenais, which, perhaps you do not know, lies on the Garonne between Marmande and Tonneins. There you shall have the child in great quietness and no one will be any the wiser. I suggest that when the King and the court leave for a hunting party, we accompany them part of the way; then you and I with our ladies and attendants, will leave the King’s party for Mas Agenais.’
La Fosseuse listened to this suggestion and lifted suspicious eyes to the face of the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici.
‘Madame,’ said Fosseuse, ‘nothing would induce me to accompany you and your friends to a quiet spot.’
And with that she curtsied, and, leaving the Queen, went straight to her lover. When he saw how distraught she was, he demanded to know what had happened.
‘It is the Queen,’ said Fosseuse. ‘She plans to murder me.’
‘How so?’ demanded Navarre angrily. It seemed to him, as it did to his mistress, possible that the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici would plan to eliminate those she wished out of the way.
‘She proposes a hunting party on which we shall all set out; then she and her women will take me to a secluded chateau where I shall stay with them until my child is born. I will not go. I know that she intends to murder me.’
‘Ventre-saint-gris!’ cried the King. ‘I believe she would try it too. Don’t fret, my love. You shall not go with her.’
He strode to Margot’s apartments. She was reclining on a couch, and she turned and looked at him with haughty dignity, moving her head elegantly to one side in a mute plea that he should not come too near her; since she had asked him to wash his feet, he had taken a great delight in them. He would sit smiling at them—and she believed he had not yet washed them.
‘So,’ he said, ignoring one or two of her attendants, ‘you follow your mother.’
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.
‘See here, Madame,’ he cried, ‘enough of those haughty looks! What is this about taking Fosseuse off to a lonely spot to murder her?’
‘I do not understand why my offer of help should be construed as intent to murder,’ said Margot.
‘You . . . help her?’
‘Why not? Your Huguenots will not be pleased when they hear about the bastard. I remember your father’s plight when his mistress bore him a child. We Catholics are more broadminded, you know. A little confession . . . and we are forgiven. But you chose the more rigorously righteous religion. I merely wished to help you and Fosseuse.’
‘By murdering her?’
Margot shrugged her shoulders. ‘Very well. I withdraw my offer. If you insist on leading an immoral life you cannot hope to do so in secret. You must be exposed to your righteous followers.’
‘You dare to talk to me of leading an immoral life!’
‘At least there are not these sordid complications in mine.’ ‘Do not boast of your barrenness.’
‘I have no cause to be ashamed of unpleasant consequences. I am sorry I offered to help. I merely thought that, as the reputation of this court is as dear to me as to you, I might help in this matter. That is all.’
‘How would you help?’ he demanded. ‘Did your mother leave you a selection of her morceaux when she was here?’
Margot reached for a book and began to read. Her husband stood staring at her in angry silence for a few seconds; then he strode out.
He was worried. He was anxious that his Huguenot friends should not be too scandalized, and it was a fact that these self-righteous people did not so much object to secret immorality in itself; it was when it was exposed that they held up their hands in horror; but he was still enamoured of his little Fosseuse and he did not want her to be neglected.
The weeks went by; it was now impossible to ignore the condition of the King’s mistress. Navarre began to feel that he might have been rash to neglect Margot’s offer of help.
He came to her when she lay in bed, and, drawing aside her curtains, assumed a humble air.
‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘I wish you to look after Fosseuse.
‘I can do nothing in that matter,’ she said with pleasure.
‘There was a time when I offered my assistance, but it was most churlishly refused. I will have nothing to do with the matter now.’
He caught her wrist and looked at her menacingly. ‘You will obey my commands,’ he said.
Margot was not displeased. She and Turenne greatly desired to have charge of Fosseuse, and she made up her mind there and then that she would carry out her original plan; but she must exploit the situation; she must have a little fun with Navarre to punish him for his recent rejection of the help she had offered. She wished to refuse, and be persuaded. So now she tossed her head.
‘Monsieur, you ask me, a Princess of France, your Queen, to act as midwife to your slut of a mistress!’
‘Why have you become so dignified? A few weeks ago, my dear Princess of France, my Queen of Navarre, you were asking for the privilege of acting as midwife to my mistress.’
‘My kind heart got the better of my good sense,’ she said.
‘Your kind heart will have to repeat its action, my dear.’
‘You insult me.’
‘Then it is no more than you deserve. You will take care of Fosseuse.’
‘I will do nothing of the sort.’
He caught her by the shoulder, but something in her expression set him laughing. She had great difficulty in steadying her own expression.
‘You are the most maddening woman in France,’ he said.
‘And you, Monsieur, are the crudest, coarsest, most hateful . . .’
He shook her and kissed her; and they were both laughing together.
‘No one amuses me as you do,’ he said. ‘It is a pleasant thing to be amused. If you were less immoral, I could easily love you.’
‘Alas!’ sighed Margot. ‘If you were a little cleaner in your personal habits I could love you.’
‘If you took fewer lovers . . .’
‘And you took an occasional bath . . .’
They laughed again and she said: ‘Enough of this folly. You need have no fear. I will look after the girl.’
‘My sweet Margot!’
He would have embraced her, but she drew back. He looked down at his feet and let out a great roar of laughter.
‘So much do I admire you,’ he said, ‘that I shall now leave you. Tell Turenne that he takes so many baths of late that he reminds
me of one of the dandies of the Louvre, and nothing . . . nothing on this Earth . . . would induce me to follow his example.’
Later Margot discussed the situation with Turenne.
‘This will be the end of Fosseuse, my dear. She will regret showing her insolence to me.’
‘What do you plan?’ asked her lover.
‘Ah, my dear! You too? Can you be thinking as those others thought? I see it in your eyes. You say to yourself: “This is the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici.” But I would not murder. In this case it would be folly. Now that the King has suffered so much anxiety over Mademoiselle de Fosseuse, he is already half out of love with her. He does not like to feel anxiety. After all, it is the duty of a King’s mistress to lure him from troubles, not to cause them. Fosseuse will come with me. I will take her away, and she will not see the King for some weeks . . . and during that time, you will make sure that he sees others. I think it may well be that our pretty little Fosseuse will find that someone else has taken her place when she returns to court. If this thing were bruited abroad, the King would be less pleased than ever. Why should it not be? It is ridiculous to try to keep such a matter secret. My darling, we cannot allow this girl, who has shown us how arrogant she can be, to work against us.’
Turenne agreed. The King must be provided with a new mistress, for it was obvious that La Fosseuse had reigned too long.
Margot managed the affair very satisfactorily, but Fate helped by allowing the child to be still-born. The King’s little affair was over, and so was the brief glory of the little Fosseuse, who, to her great chagrin, when she returned to the court, found that the King was amusing himself with several light love affairs; but as these proved to be nothing very serious, La Fosseuse tried to regain her position, and she might have done so but for the fact that Diane d’Andousins, the Countess of Gramont, whom Navarre had loved at the time of the Countess’ marriage when he was a boy of fourteen, had reappeared in his life. She was the Corisanda of his youth, and he was enchanted to find her more beautiful than he remembered her.
