‘Have I not told you that all the news you gather must be brought to me?

Now, Madalenna, tell me everything. What is the court saying concerning my husband and his newest mistress?’

‘I― I do not know.’

‘You need not be afraid, Madalenna. The only time when you need be afraid of me is when you hold anything back.’

‘They are laughing at― the Sénéchale.’

Catherine burst into loud laughter which she suppressed almost immediately. ‘Yes? Yes?’

‘Though some say she never was his mistress, and that she but mothered him, tutored him― and since she is but his great friend and adviser, this matter will not change their relationship.’

Catherine put her face close to that of the girl. ‘But we do not say that, eh, Madalenna? Those who say it have no sly little maid to hide in cupboards and spy on those two in their tender moments.’

Madalenna flushed and drew back. This was another of her mistress’s traits which frightened her― the loud laughter, the sudden coarseness of one who to the world outside her apartment was so demure, one might almost say, prudish.

‘I should not have done it, Madame, but for your orders.,’ said Madalenna.

‘But you remember, Madalenna, that when you obey orders you work for yourself. If you were found― shall we say in a cupboard?― you would doubtless have some story to tell.. There will be need, I doubt not, when the Dauphin returns from Piedmont, for you to hide in yet another cupboard.’

Catherine laughed again. She pinched the girl’s check. ‘Have no fear, my child. You will work well. And I shall reward you by keeping you beside me.

You would not wish to return to Florence, Madalenna. Life is very cruel in Florence. You never saw my kinsman Alessandro. Any, Madalenna, who would leave Paris for Florence would not be in their right senses. And who would go back to Italy when they might stay in France? Do not fret. You shall stay. Now tell me what was said about me.’

Madalenna looked at the floor. ‘They say it is odd that he can get this humble girl with child― and wife.’

‘What else?’

‘They say he has a fondness for Italian―’

‘For tradesmen, eh? Do they not say their merchant Dauphine has given him a taste for trade?’

Madalenna nodded.

‘But it is not at their Dauphine they mock, is it, Madalenna? It is at Madame Diane, is it not?’

‘Madame d’Etampes is delighted. There is to be a great ball in honour of the King,’ she added quickly, hoping to divert Catherine’s attention.

‘In honour of the Piedmontese!’ said Catherine, laughing again.

But when she dismissed Madalenna, she wept a little, sitting upright that she might more easily hold back her tears. The girl’s name was Filippa; she had heard it mentioned without knowing why people discussed her. Filippa, the Piedmontese. She tried to see those prim lips kissing the imagined face which must be very beautiful― dark, soft, Italian beauty; Italian love that was quick and passionate, as fiercely demanding as her own.

How cruel was life! It seemed more cruel that it should have been an Italian girl, and so young. Where do I fail? she asked herself again and again. Why should he love an unlettered girl of my own race, and despise his noble wife? But when she joined the masque and overheard the whisperings, the sly jests, the allusions, she was happier, because she believed this to be Diane’s tragedy rather more than her own.


* * *

Henry was coming back to Paris, and Catherine was filled with eager anticipation that alternately soared to hope and down to despair.

She spent much time at the secluded house that backed the river. Special perfumes were made for her; she had become practised in the art of using cosmetics. Henry, she was determined, should find a different Catherine on his return.

He was seducible; the little Piedmontese had proved that.

She would win from the girl as the girl had won him from Diane.

She was pretty now; she smelt deliciously of the strange perfume which the Ruggieri brothers had made especially for her; she felt her spirits rise when she heard the trumpets and horns of Henry and his company as they rode through the streets of the capital.

With a madly beating heart, she went down to the court of the Bastille where the King would ceremoniously receive his son.

The walls were hung with the loveliest of French tapestry for this occasion, and the hall was illumined by a thousand torches. There was to be a banquet, followed by a ball.

Francis, who loved such occasions, looked younger than he had for some weeks and his magnificence outshone that of all others.

Henry came into the court on a flourish of trumpets; he went at once to the King, who embraced him warmly and kissed him on both cheeks. Then Henry received the Queen’s embrace.

‘And here,’ said Francis, putting an arm about Catherine and bringing her forward, ‘is our dear daughter and your beloved wife, who‚ I need not tell you, has been living for this day since you left her side.’

Catherine, her heart hammering under her elaborate corsage, lifted her eyes shyly to her husband’s face. He embraced her formally. She saw in him no delight at seeing her again. She told herself that he was hiding his pleasure, that he was ashamed‚ because of the scandal which he would know to court. Yet she knew that she was deceiving herself.

‘Henry,’ she whispered, so softly that none but he could have heard.

He stepped back, prepared to greet others who came forward to kneel and kiss the hand of their future ruler.

Soon it would be the turn of the Grande Sénéchale to kneel to the Dauphin; and not only was Catherine watching, but she knew that, all about her, sly eyes would be turned towards those two, that jewelled fingers would preparing to nudge silk-clad ribs; the whole court, not the King and Madame d’Etampes, would be waiting to see the greeting between these two.

And now― Diane. To Catherine, she had never seemed so beautiful as she did at this moment. Her black-and-white gown was decorated with pearls; there were pearls in her raven-black hair. Serene, and completely sure of herself, she did not betray for a moment that she was aware of the interest she was creating, although, of course, she knew that everyone in the hall was watching her.

If Diane was capable of hiding her feelings, the Dauphin was not. He flushed and his eyes shone, so that it seemed to those close observers that he was no less in love with her than before. But into his eyes had crept a certain misery, a wretchedness and shame. There was a faint titter, which the King’s sharp glance immediately suppressed, though he himself was laughing inwardly.

Henry looked like a remorseful husband, he thought.

Diane rose, smiling; she said her words of welcome as everyone else had, and then she turned and gave her attention to the eldest son of the Duke of Guise. The Dauphin’s miserable eyes followed her.

The King commanded his son to sit beside him as he had much to say to him concerning military affairs.

The comedy was ended.

At the banquet which followed, Henry must, for courtesy’s sake, sit next to his wife, while Diane took her place with the Queen’s ladies. But everyone― and Catherine more than any― noticed that his eyes kept straying towards that regal figure in black and white, and that Diane seemed very happy talking to the Queen and her ladies of the charitable schemes they intended to carry out.

After the banquet Diane seemed to avoid the Dauphin, and kept at her side those redoubtable allies of hers, the young de Guises.

Catherine took an opportunity to slip away from the festivities. She called Madalenna to her. The girl’s eyes were round with fear; she had been dreading the return of the Dauphin; she knew, before she was told, what would be expected of her.

‘Go,’ said Catherine, her eyes glittering in her pale face, ‘go to the apartments of the Sénéchale. Make sure that you are hidden. I wish to know everything that takes place between them.’


* * *

When Diane retired to her apartments, Henry followed her after a short interval.

Diane was smiling serenely while her women asked her if they should help her disrobe.

‘Not yet, Marie. I think I may have a visitor.’

She had hardly spoken when there was a tap on the door.

‘Marie,’ she said, ‘should it be the Dauphin, tell him I will see him. Bring him in and leave us.’

Henry came shyly into the room, and she was reminded vividly of the boy whom she had met in the gardens on the first occasion they talked of horses.

Diane, smiling graciously, held out both her hands. Her women went out discreetly and shut the door.

‘I am so happy that you are returned,’ said Diane.

‘And I― am wretched,’ he answered.

‘Henry, that must not be. Please do not kneel to me. Why, it is I who should kneel to you. Come, sit beside me, as you used to do, and tell me what it is that makes you so wretched.’

‘You know, Diane.’

‘You mean the young Italian girl at Piedmont?’

He burst out: ‘It is true, Diane. All they say is true. I cannot understand myself. It was as though some devil possessed me.’

‘Please, do not distress yourself, Henry. You love this girl?’

‘Love? There is only one I love, only one I shall ever love in my life. I knew that all the time. But I was lonely, longing for you so much. Her hair was raven black, and it grew like yours, in ripples. You were not there, Diane, and I tried to grasp at what seemed like your shadow.’

She smiled at him, and, looking at her, he wondered how he could ever have thought the little Piedmontese could have resembled her. There was no one on Earth who could compare with Diane.

‘My dear,’ she said, gently and caressingly, ‘there is no need to be sad. You went away, but now you are back. That, it would seem to me, is a matter for rejoicing.’

‘You will forgive me?’ he pleaded. ‘You will understand? It was a passing fancy― quick to demand satisfaction, and satisfied, I found that it had gone. It grew out of my longing for you.’

‘I always knew that,’ she told him. ‘For me and for you, there is one love and one love only.’ She turned towards him, took him into her arms. ‘There is no talk of forgiveness, love,’ she went on. ‘They whispered; they jeered.

Madame d’Etampes, you know. It might have been humiliating― for some.’

‘How I hate that woman! That they should dare to humiliate you, and that I should be the cause of it, grieves me deeply. It makes me hate myself. I wish I had been killed in battle before that happened.’

She kissed him tenderly, as she had done in the beginning of their relationship. Henry’s love for her was fierce and passionate; hers for him held in it a good deal that was maternal.

‘Then would it have been my turn to be desolate,’ she said. ‘There is one thing I could not have borne― and that that you did not come back to me.’

They sat down with their arms about each other. ‘Diane― it is forgiveness, then? It is as though― that never happened?’

‘There is nothing to forgive. It is, as I always knew, and have just explained, a nothing― a bagatelle. You were lonely and she was there, this pretty little girl, to amuse you. I am grateful to her because she made you happy for a time. Tell me this, you would not like her brought here― to Paris?’

‘ No! ‘

‘You no longer love her?’

‘I love only one; I shall always love only one.’

‘Then you no longer desire her?’

‘When I realized what I had done, I never wanted to see her again. Oh Diane, my only love, can we not forget it happened?’

‘We cannot do that, for I have heard that there is to be a child.’

He flushed a deeper red.

She laughed. ‘You were ever one to forget your status. That child will be the son― or daughter― of the King of France. Had you forgotten that?’

‘I am filled with shame. You are so good, so beautiful. You understand this wickedness of mine just as you understood my weakness, my folly, my shyness, and my shame. When I am with you, I cannot help but be happy, even though I have soiled this beautiful union of ours by my infidelity.’

Diane snapped her fingers. Her eyes were brilliant; her mouth smiled, for she was thinking that the court would soon be thinking it had laughed too soon.