by Jean Plaidy
‘How are you this morning, my dear mother?’ he asked.
She smiled painfully. She hated to admit how ill she felt; always despising illness in others, she had no wish to complain of her own; she never gave sympathy and she expected none.
‘I am improving, thank you,’ she said. ‘I expect to be about again very soon. I am tired of lying abed. And how is Your Majesty?’
‘Ah, very well, Madame. Very well, indeed. There is a reason.’
‘A reason?’ She raised herself a little and tried not to wince from the pain in her limbs.
‘Yes, Madame. I am truly the King of France this day, for there is no longer a King of Paris.’
She had grown pale. ‘My son, what do you mean?’
‘He died this morning?’
‘Died! Died . . . of what?’
‘Of loyal thrusts, Madame. The friends of the King removed his enemy.’
She lost control. She was weak from her pain and unaccustomed inaction. She said shrilly: ‘You mean you have killed Guise?’
‘You do not seem pleased, Madame. I had forgotten he was a favourite of yours.’
She cried out: ‘Oh, my son, where will this end? What have you done? Do you not know what you have done?’
‘I know that I am the true King of France now, and that is all I care.’
‘Make sure,’ she said grimly, ‘that you are not soon the King of nothing at all.’
His eyes glinted. ‘I understand, Madame. You grieve for your very dear friend!’
‘I have no friends. I have only my devotion to you.’
‘Yet that devotion sets you weeping for my enemies?’
‘Enemy he was, my son; but there are some enemies who must be allowed to live. You have done murder.’
The King laughed aloud. ‘You, Madame, to accuse me of murder! How often during your lifetime have you done murder?’
She sat up in bed; her eyes were tired and quite expressionless. Not foolish murder,’ she said; ‘never foolish murder. You have killed a man whom Paris loved. I pray that Paris will forgive you.’
The King was bordering on hysteria. ‘You dare to talk thus to me! If I have learned to murder, from whom did I learn? Who is the most notorious murderess in France?’
‘You do not learn your lessons well, my son,’ she answered wearily. ‘But what is done is done. God grant that no ill will come of it.’ She was weeping from very weakness, but she quickly controlled her tears. ‘You should not be here. You must take Orleans at once. You must not give them a chance to arm against you. Oh, my son, what will Paris do? You dare not show yourself in Paris. I beg of you, inform the Legate: She lay back on her pillows. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she murmured. ‘Where will this end? I cannot say. I only know that what I have worked for all my life lies in ruins about me. Where are my children? Only two left to me! My daughter, a runaway, a wanton wife! My son, the King of France, but for, how long? Oh, God, how long?’
The King stared at her. He sensed that she was in a prophetic mood and her words terrified him.
But she had thrown off her gloom. The lifelong habit, of never looking back, of accepting what it was impossible to reject, returned to her.
She began giving orders.
‘Where is the Cardinal of Guise?’
‘He has been arrested.’
‘Let him go free:
The King narrowed his eyes. He would follow his mother’s lead. He would do as she used to do in the days of her prime. He must not forget that she was a sick old woman now, very weak, and probably wandering in her mind. He would humour her. The Cardinal of Guise should be let out of the dungeon in which he had been placed after the murder of the Duke, but only to face the daggers of the King’s friends.
‘My son,’ pleaded Catherine, ‘you must listen to me:
‘Mother,’ he said gently, ‘you have been ill. You do not know how matters go. Rest assured that I shall forget nothing that you have taught me. Have no fear—I will handle this affair as you yourself would handle it:
She lay fretting in her bed. She had tried to rise, but nausea had overtaken her, and she fell back fainting. Her women were about her and she looked at them with distaste. Where was Madalenna? Where were the ladies of her EscadronVolant? What had they been doing? Why had she not been warned of these terrible plans of her son’s?
They thought her old. They thought her finished; but she would never be finished while there was breath in her body. She sent for Madalenna.
‘What has happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘Why was I not informed? What news? What news?’
‘Madame, the Cardinal of Bourbon has been arrested. The Duke’s mother, the Prince of Joinville and the Duke of Elboeuf are all in prison. All those Guises on whom the King could lay his hands . . . all of them are in prison.’
She cried: ‘I cannot lie here while such things are happening. Have my litter prepared. I will be carried to the Cardinal of Bourbon. I must talk to him.’
While her litter was being prepared, news was brought to her that the Cardinal of Guise had been murdered.
Does the King not see, she asked herself, that he brings the knife near to his own throat? Does he not see that when he pulls down the pillars of our state, like Samson, he destroys himself?
She was carried into the prison of the Cardinal of Bourbon.
‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are my friend, my wise old friend.’
But the old man lifted his head and laughed at her; there was hatred and contempt for her in his glance. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘these are your deeds. These are your tricks. Ever since you came into France you have played your tricks. And now. . . you are killing us all.’
‘I had nothing to do with the murder of Guise . . . nor that of his brother,’ she cried. ‘This crime breaks my heart. May God damn me if I ever sought it.’
‘Madame,’ said the Cardinal, ‘I can say now what I have not dared say to you before: I do not believe you.’
‘You must believe me. Why should I commit such folly? Do you think I am ignorant of what this means?’
He turned away from her. He was too old to care what happened to him. He was worn out, as she was.
She felt the tears on her cheeks. She was faint and sick, and the journey, she knew, had used up most of her waning strength. ‘There is nothing I can do,’ she said. ‘I see that now. No one will believe that I had no hand in this.’
‘Madame,’ said the Cardinal, ‘why should they believe you when your hands are red with the blood of so many?’
‘He was a great man . . . whom France needed.’
‘There have been other great men, Madame, whom France needed.’
The close air of the dungeon was too much for her; she felt that she would faint if she stayed.
‘This is too much for me to bear,’ she muttered. ‘I am too old now for such shocks. My sorrow will cause my death. I know it . . . as I know these things.’
She was taken back to her bed, and the news spread through the castle that she was very ill indeed.
When, in her exile, Margot heard that the Duke was dead, she wept bitter tears for the lover of her youth.
It seemed to her that the men she had loved best had all died violent deaths. Guise, La Mole and Bussy . . . all dead, for Bussy had been killed by the husband of one of his mistresses when, in the lady’s bedchamber, disturbed by the husband, he had climbed through the window, and in doing so had caught his doublet on a nail, where he had hung until the husband had arrived to stab him to death.
She wept afresh for each of them in turn; but in particular she wept for Guise; and she shuddered to contemplate the future of her family, for, like her mother, she knew that her brother would pay for his crime.
She waited from day to day for news, desolate because she had been put outside the sphere of action, and there was only a lover left to her whom she must continually compare with the incomparable Guise.
The King of Navarre heard the news with gravity, for he knew that these
events would affect him more than any man in France. In the weeks that followed the murder of Guise, while he waited for news, he seemed to age, to acquire new dignity; and it was as though that other Navarre, who had at times looked out of his shrewd eyes, took over the control from the irresponsible adventurer. The time would come when he must be ready to take on his responsibilities, eventually to show himself as one of the greatest Kings the French were ever to know.
There were times when Catherine was too ill to know what was said to her. News was brought to her, for when she was conscious, she demanded that it should be; but she was not always sure where she was. She thought she was a little girl in the Convent of the Murate, stitching at an altar cloth while the nuns told her the story of the Virgin’s cloak; she thought she was, riding through the streets of Florence while the Florentines called for Medici blood; then she was a bride with a sullen bridegroom; she was a queen with a husband who loved her not and did honour only to his mistress; she was a jealous wife peering through a hole in the floor of her apartment; she was mixing a potion for someone whom she wished to remove; she was withholding Paré from her son, Francis; she was scorning Mary Queen of Scots; she was instructing mad Charles’ tutors how to pervert him; she was waiting for the tocsin which would tell Paris that the St Bartholomew was about to begin. The shades of what she had been seemed to stand about her bed.
This was death; she knew it and she accepted it.
But when her strength rallied a little she must know what was happening about her; death receded then and she remembered the tragic state of affairs which she had been unable to avert. Then she would know that Paris was mad with fury, and that it called for the blood of the King; she knew that the man who had murdered the hero of Paris would never be allowed to evade the terrible retribution which Paris would demand.
The Duke’s widow was enceinte, which made her a pathetic figure. She was known as the Sainted Widow. She went through the streets of the capital in deep mourning, while the people crowded about her, kissing her robes and calling for vengeance on the man who had murdered the Duke. The sister of Guise, Madame de Montpensier, the Fury of the League, led a procession which marched through the streets, torches held high, mourning the death of the idol, calling for the death of the royal murderer.
So Paris was in tumult, and Catherine, who knew her son so well, guessed that he waited in terrible apprehension, expecting at any hour to feel the cold steel in his heart. Did he realize now, she wondered, that he should have consulted his mother before ordering the murder of such a man as Guise; did he understand at last that she, the arch-murderess, had succeeded only because of the infinite pains she had taken to accomplish her evil deeds?
Henry, the King of France, had become like an old man. His limbs shook continually, and his thinning hair was quickly going grey. He moved restlessly from room to room, because he could never be happy in any apartment; he feared that an assassin waited for him, hidden in the hangings.
And in Paris, during those tumultuous weeks, a young Dominican named James Clément sharpened his dagger every day, because he believed that an angel had appeared to him and had bidden him put to death great Guise’s royal murderer, who was the tyrant of France.
Catherine de’ Medici was dying.
People talked of it in the streets. They recalled the day she had come into France escorted by King Francis. Ah, little did he know what he was bringing into France when he brought the Italian woman!
‘They say they will send her body to Paris . . . to be laid in the magnificent tomb she has prepared for it.’
‘Let them bring her here. Let them! We shall know what to do with Jezebel’s bones. Even the dogs would scorn to eat them. There’ll be nothing for it but to throw them into the Seine. That’s what we will do with Jezebel.’
And meanwhile Catherine lay watching the fading light in her chamber. The end. She knew, as though she had lived to see it, that her son would not long survive her. She had worked to keep her sons on the throne and rule through them; and this she had achieved. She had ruled as long as she had had the strength to retain her power.
‘She cannot last the night,’ said one of her women, ‘My God, she looks dead already. Is she?’
‘No; not yet.’
‘I would not care to have her sins on my soul. What she will have to answer for!’
Catherine heard them and smiled faintly. Fools! They did not understand. She had worshipped no god; she had worshipped power. She had no religion and no desire for eternal life. She had had one great wish—to rule France through her children; and this had, in large measure, been granted her.
She heard someone whisper: ‘No one ever really loved her. How terrible that is! To go through life unloved.’
Yes, thought Catherine. None loved me. But many feared me.
And after a while she slipped away into darkness.
‘Catherine de’ Medici is dead!’
The news reached Paris.
‘The Italian woman is no more. It is her turn to face her Maker.’
The people of Paris now hoped that her body would be brought to their city that they might have the pleasure of throwing it into the Seine.
Revolution threatened the whole of France; but in Paris, while some talked angrily of the retribution in store for the King, others found time to chant:
‘L’une ruyne d’Israel,
L’autre, ruyne de la France.’
I WISH TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE GREAT HELP the undermentioned books have been to me in my research:
Paris. Bidou.
The Medici. Colonel G. F. Young, CB.
Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Edited by Dr A. Clarke.
National History of France.(The Century of the Renaissance.) Louis Batiffol. Translated by Elsie Finnimore Buckley.
France, the Nation and Its Development from Earliest Times to the Establishment of the Third Republic. William Henry Hudson.
History of France. Guizot.
Feudal Castles of France. Anonymous.
Dungeons of Old Paris. Tighe Hopkins.
Lives of the Queens of England. Strickland.
Catherine de’ Medici and the French Reformation. Edith Sichel.
The Later Years of Catherine de’ Medici. Edith Sichel.
The Favourites of Henry of Navarre. Le Petit Homme Rouge.
Mémoires de Marguerite de Valois. Marie Ludovic Chrétien Lalanne.
Les Mémoires et l’histoire en France. Charles Caboche.
Catherine de Medicis Presented Charles IX Son Royaume. Pierre Champion.
J. P.
