Pavia had made of the century’s greatest lover its most incompetent general.

‘The Emperor,’ Henry was saying, ‘has made a triumphant return from the East. He has twice defeated Barbarossa; he has taken Tunis, and the whole of the Christian world rejoice because he has brought with him many who were made slaves to toil for the barbarians. And what has my father done? He looks about him for an enemy of the Emperor― and makes a treaty with the Turks!

With infidels! This Most Christian King! He’d make a treaty with the Devil to get a woman or a country.’

‘I beg of you, Henry, my dear Henry, speak quietly. If it should get to the King’s ears―’

‘Then should he hear the truth for once. I do not think that would harm him.’

‘He is angry,’ said Catherine gently, ‘because Milan was promised to us through our marriage. But then, my kinsman died.’

She looked at Henry anxiously. Did he hate his marriage because of Clement’s untimely death, as did the rest of France? How she longed for him to tell her that he was pleased with their marriage, that he was happy to be united to her, even though she had not brought him the promised riches.

He did no such thing. He could only think of his father’s disastrous military campaign.

‘Milan was scarcely defended at all!’ he said. ‘We could have taken it. But my father hesitated, and now― it is too late. Would I were there. I would have taken Milan― and held it.’

‘You would!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Henry, you would do brave things, I know. I should be so proud of you― so honoured that my husband was known throughout the world for his courage.’ He did not move away from her. She said eagerly, thinking of the love potion she had in her drawer, awaiting a moment when she could give it to him: ‘You will take some refreshment, Henry?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I cannot stay now.’

She should have let him go then, but she was intoxicated by having him with her. ‘Henry, please, please. Share a cup of wine with me. I scarcely ever see you.’

‘I― I have not the time,’ he said firmly.

Her control snapped. She cried: ‘You would have, did you spend less time with Madame la Grande Sénéchale.’

He coloured hotly and he looked at her with distaste. ‘She is an old friend,’

he said with hauteur.

‘Indeed she is. Old enough to be your mother. Madame d’Etampes says she was born on the day the Sénéchal was married.’

Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I do not care to hear what that harlot says and I should advise you, in view of your position, to choose your friends more wisely.’

She faced him; she was so miserable that she could not hide her anger.

‘I have not forgotten, Monsieur, that the lady is the most influential at court.’

‘I have not forgotten that she is the most immoral.’

‘Why should it be more immoral for the King to have a mistress than for the King’s son to leave his lawful wife― night after night― for the sake of― an old friend!’

He was white with anger. He did not know how to deal with this situation.

He had done his duty and it had not been easy; but if she were going to make such scenes as this it was going still harder.

And then she began to cry; she flung her arms about his neck, for when her control broke suddenly the floods seemed to flow the faster for having so long been pent up.

‘Henry,’ she sobbed, ‘I love you. I am your wife. Could not― could we not?

―’

He stood rigid. ‘I think there has been some― misunderstanding,’ he said, and his voice was cold as icicles in January. ‘Pray release me, and I will explain.’

She let her hands fall to her side, and stood staring at him, while the tears started to roll down her cheeks.

He moved towards the door. ‘You have misunderstood,’ he said. ‘Madame la Grande Sénéchale is a great friend of mine and has been for years. Our relationship is one of friendship only. She is a lady of great culture and virtue.

Pray do not let me hear you slander her again. It is true that you are my wife but that is no reason for vulgar displays.’

‘Vulgar!’ she cried through her tears. ‘Is love then― vulgar?’

He was all eagerness to get away. She deeply embarrassed him. She tried to fight off the heartbreaking emotion that was racking her, but she could not do it.

She had made a grave mistake, but having made it, she was reckless, not caring what she did. She knelt and caught him by the knees.

‘Henry, please don’t go. Stay with me. I would do anything to please you. I love you― far more than anyone else could possibly love you. It is only because our marriage was made for you by your father that you do not like it.’

‘Please release me,’ he said. ‘I do not understand you. At least I thought you reasonable.’

‘How can one be reasonable and in love? There is no reason in love, Henry.

It cannot last, can it, this infatuation for a woman old enough to be your grandmother?’

He threw her off, and she allowed herself to fall back heavily on the floor.

She lay there crying while he strode out of the room. But as soon as the door closed she realized how stupidly she had been behaving and still was behaving.

This was not the way.

She got up slowly and dragged herself to the bed. She threw herself on to it and sobs shook her body― but they were silent sobs.

After a while, they stopped. One does not weep, she said to herself, if one wishes to succeed. One makes plans. ――――――― Henry did not come near her for several days after that, and she felt that if she left her apartments and mingled with the men and women of the court she might betray something of this heartbreaking jealousy. She prayed, on her knees and as she went about her rooms, for the death of Diane.

‘Perhaps, Holy Mother, some terrible sickness that need not kill her, only disfigure her― Guide the hand of Sebastiano di Montecuccoli. Put the right thoughts into his head. It would be for Italy, Holy Mother, so there could be no sin in it.’

Madalenna brought news to her.

‘The King has sent for the Dauphin, Madame la Duchesse. He is to go to his father in Valence. This is bad, people are saying. They say things are very bad for France.’

But on the day the Dauphin was due to leave for Valence, Henry came to the apartment. She was lying on her bed feeling tired and heavy-eyed. How she wished that she had been up, her hair neatly braided, herself perfumed and elaborately gowned.

He came and stood by the bed, and he was almost smiling, as if he had completely forgotten their last encounter.

‘Good day to you, Catherine.’

She held out her hand and he kissed it, perfunctorily it was true, but still he kissed it.

‘You look happy, Henry. Is the news good?’ Her voice was flat, she was setting a firm guard over her feelings.

‘For the armies, it is bad,’ he said. ‘But for myself, good; for I think I may shortly be joining my father in Valence.’

‘You― Henry― to go with the Dauphin?’

‘Francis has taken to his bed. He is sick. He cannot leave yet to join my father.’

‘Poor Francis! What is wrong?’

‘Very little. I have hopes that my father may command me to take his place.’

‘He will doubtless wait a day or so. What ails your brother?’

‘He has been playing tennis in the sun. He played hard and was thirsty, and, as you know, he drinks only water. The Italian fellow took his goblet to the well and brought it back him full. He drank it all and sent the man back for more.’

Catherine lay very still, staring at the carved goddesses and angels on the ceiling. ‘Italian fellow?’ she said slowly.

‘Montecuccoli. You know, Francis’s Italian cupbearer. What does that matter? The heat and the water made Francis feel ill, so he retired to his rooms.

My father will not be pleased when he hears the news. He will upbraid him for drinking water.’

Catherine did not answer. For once, when Henry was with her, she was scarcely aware of him, for she could see nothing but the fanatical eyes of Montecuccoli.


* * *

The whole court was mourning the death of the Dauphin. None dared carry the news to Francis, who, in Valence, knew only that his son was sick.

The shock was overwhelming. The young man had been alive and well only a few days before. True, he was not exactly virile, but he was strong enough to play a good game of tennis. His death was as mysterious as it had been sudden.

The court physicians agreed that his death must have been due to the water he drank. All those about the young man had been shocked by his preference for water, which he drank immoderately, while he rarely took a drink of good French wine. He had been overheated and told his Italian cupbearer to bring him water.

His Italian cupbearer!

Now the court had begun to whisper. ‘It was his Italian cupbearer, you see.’

The King had to be told, and it fell to the lot of his great friend the Cardinal of Lorraine to break the news; but eloquent as the Cardinal was― and never yet had he been found at a loss for a word― he could not bring himself to tell the King of the terrible tragedy. He stood before his old friend, stammering that the news he had was not very good.

Francis, crossing himself hastily, and thinking immediately of his eldest son whom he knew to be ill, said: ‘The boy is worse. Tell me. Hold nothing back.’

He saw tears in the Cardinal’s eyes and commanded him to speak.

‘The boy is worse, Sire. We must trust in God―’

His voice broke and the King cried out: ‘I understand. You dare not tell me that he is dead.’

He stared at those about him in horror, for he knew that he guessed correctly.

There was silence in the room. The King walked to the window, took off his cap, and, lifting his hands, cried: ‘My God, I must accept with patience whatever it be thy will to send me; but from whom, if not from Thee ought I to hope for strength and resignation? Already hast Thou afflicted me with the diminution of my dominions and the army; Thou hast now added this loss of my son. What more remains― save to destroy me utterly? And if it be to do so, give me warning at least, and let me know Thy will in order that I may not rebel against it.’

Then he began to weep long and bitterly, and those about him wept in sympathy and dared not approach him.

In Lyons, the whispering campaign had started. Catherine was aware of it first in the looks of those she passed on the staircases and in the corridors.

People did not look at her, but she knew they looked after her when she had passed.

Madalenna brought her the news.

‘Madame la Duchesse, they are repeating that his cupbearer was an Italian.

They say that had they not let the Italians into their country, their Dauphin would be alive today.’

‘What else do they say, Madalenna? Tell me everything― whatever it is they say you must tell me.’

‘They that there is another Dauphin now― a Dauphin with an Italian wife.

They say the future Queen of France will be an Italian. They ask if it was the Italian count who killed the Dauphin.’

It was not long after that when Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli was arrested.


* * *

Against his father’s order, Henry rode to Valence. Francis was inclined to be indulgent in his sorrow. Now he must look at this son, whom he could never love, in a new light. Henry was the Dauphin now. He was precious. Francis could not help feeling that some ill luck was dogging him and he trembled for his remaining sons.

‘Foy de gentilhomme!’ he said to Henry. ‘Methinks I am unluckiest man in France― my army defeated and my Dauphin dead!’

Then the soldier in Henry spoke. ‘Your army is not defeated yet, Father, and I am here to try to prevent that. You have lost one son, but you have another who stands before now.’

Then Francis embraced the boy, dislike temporarily forgotten.

‘Pray, Father, allow me to join Montmorency at Avignon.’

‘Nay!’ cried Francis. ‘I have lost one son. I must guard well what remains.’

Henry would not let the matter rest there and after a while he succeeded in persuading his father to let him join Montmorency.

And then it was that Henry formed his second friendship, and one almost as strong as that he felt for Diane.