Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

She was going to take charge of this matter. It pleased her that the court should see her as Henry’s beloved friend rather than his mistress; the first and most important person in his life, his spiritual love.

‘My darling‚’ she said, ‘the child must be looked after; it must be educated in accordance with its rank.’

‘It’s rank!’

‘My dear, it is your child. That alone makes it of the utmost importance in my eyes. Henry, have I your permission to take charge of this matter? When the child is born, I wish to have it brought to France. I wish, personally, to superintend its education.’

‘Diane, you are wonderful!’

‘No,’ she smiled lightly. ‘I love you and would see you respecting yourself, taking to yourself that honour which is your due.’

He put his arms about her. ‘I dreamed about you,’ he said. ‘I thought of you continually, even when I was with her.’

Diane had slid into his arms. She had put aside the practical Frenchwoman now; she was ready to receive his adoration, which, from experience, she knew would quickly change to passion.

* * *

Catherine did not see her husband until the next day. Madalenna had managed to slip out of Diane’s apartment when the lovers were sleeping, so Catherine knew what had taken place.

She spent the night weeping silently. She knew that she been wrong to hope.

The clever witch had only to smile on him to cast her spell over him.

He appeared next day, flushed and triumphant, the forgiven lover who understands that his peccadillo is to be forgotten; he was wearing the black-and-white colours of Diane.

The court admired the Sénéchale more than ever; Catherine’s hatred for her was greater. Madame d’Etampes was disappointed; more, she was worried.

When the little Piedmontese gave birth to Henry’s baby, the Sénéchale kept her word; she had the child brought to her and made arrangements for its upbringing.

It was a girl, and, to the amazement and admiration of many, the Sénéchale had the child christened Diane.

THERE was a tension at Loches. Everyone felt it, from Anne to the humblest worker in the kitchens. Diane, in continual conference with her young friends, the de Guises, seemed to have grown an inch taller and a good deal more haughty. She saw herself clearly now as the power behind the throne. Catherine, outwardly meek, felt a new strength within her. But for her, these two women who believed themselves to be so far above her in wit and intelligence would not be in their present position! It was stimulating to shape the destinies of others, even while, because one worked in shadow, one must be treated as though of no account.

Icy December winds were whistling through the bare branches of the trees in the palace gardens, and the snow was falling.

The King lay ill; and many believed he would never leave his bed.

It was not only the court that was uneasy; It was the whole of France. And it was not only this illness of the King’s that gave rise to tension. The Dauphin, with Charles of Orléans, and a retinue of noblemen, was travelling south to welcome Charles V of Spain into France. And the illness of Francis, together with the friendly invasion of Francis’s perennial enemy was sufficient to set tongues clacking, while speculation as to the wisdom of this unprecedented visit was offered in all the wine-shops from Paris to Le Havre and from Le Havre to Marseilles.

It was that stern Catholic, Anne de Montmorency, who was responsible for the friendly overture to Charles V. He had, on the illness of the King, taken over the reins of government, and when he had done this, he acted promptly. He had broken off friendly relations with the English and the German Princes, the Turks and the Duke of Cleves. He had persuaded Francis that alliance with Spain might mean the acquisition of Milan― which the death of Clement had snatched from the King just when he had thought the marriage of the Medici girl and Henry had brought it to him― and Francis could always be dazzled by the very name of Milan. And when Charles V had to journey from Spain to Flanders to subdue his rebellious subjects in the latter country, what better gesture of friendship to offer him safe passage through France, which would mean such saving of Charles’s time and pocket!

The invitation given was accepted― with a lack of ease on both sides; and so, Henry had ridden off rather sullenly much as he admired and respected his friend Montmorency could not relish the idea of welcoming as a guest of France, the man who had once held him a prisoner.

Courtiers huddled round the great fireplaces at Loches cussing the coming of the King of Spain and the possible departure of the King of France. There was a gloom about the palace. Loches, set on the top of a lofty rock, with a dark history of misery and pain that seemed to cling to it, with its underground dungeons, its torture-rooms, its noisome pits and its oubliettes, was hardly the pleasantest of French châteaux. There was scarcely a member of the court who did not long to return to Fontainebleau. The fact of the King’s being sick meant that lavish entertainments ceased, and that young ladies who taken on airs with royal favour, now seemed to shrink as they moped in corners. The court of France lost half its vitality when its King lay sick.

Catherine sat on a stool stretching her hands to the blaze while she listened to the conversation of those about her.

Young Guy de Chabot, the son of the Seigneur de Jarnac was a gay and dashing fellow, reckless in the extreme, a young man who gave himself up to the pleasures of love-making as fervently as men like Montmorency gave themselves to soldiering. He was talking now to a handsome captain of the Guards, Christian de Nançay, another such as himself. Idly Catherine listened to their conversation.

‘The King,’ said de Chabot, ‘should choose his women with greater care.

Depend upon it, La Feronnière has brought this sickness on him.

‘My friend,’ whispered de Nançay, ‘there you speak truth. The woman is herself suffering at this very time.’

‘Our King has his enemies,’ went on de Chabot. ‘One understands that the husbands and fathers of those whom he seduces cannot find it in their hearts to love him as easily as do the wives and daughters. Odd, is it not, and can at times be inconvenient. I have heard that the husband of La Feronnière the woman should pass this little trouble on to our Lord King.

De Nançay snapped his fingers. ‘My God! The King has suffered from the disease for many years. This is merely a reoccurrence of an old malady, depend upon it.’

They knew Catherine heard them, but what did they care? The quiet little mouse was of no consequence.

Anne d’Etampes strolled up to the two young men. They were once alert; rumour had named them both as her lovers. They bowed, they kissed her hands; they were, thought Catherine, rather ridiculous in their efforts to outdo each other. Anne had that quick smile, which held so much promise, for both of them.

They were two of the most handsome men at court, and Anne was very fond of handsome men.

Catherine watched them, joking, laughing, gaily flirting. Anne was beautiful, and only the closest observer, such as Catherine, saw how very worried she was.

Diane came to the fireplace and with her was Francis de Guise and Merot the poet. Princess Marguerite, the King’s daughter, joined them; and as they settled themselves about the fire, Catherine found herself drawn into the group.

The tension had heightened. It always did when these two women on whom the court looked as rival queens found themselves together.

Diane, very lovely in black and white, wearing on her finger the great ruby which Henry had given her, showed that she saw herself as the rising queen.

Anne, in blue that matched her eyes and her lovely fair hair to perfection, was more beautiful, more gay than Diane. The setting sun, thought Catherine, watching avidly that she might not miss a gesture, is often more magnificent than when it rides the sky.

‘What gallant courtiers you must find Monsieur da Nançay and Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane slyly. ‘They are always at your side.’

‘Indeed they are,’ retorted Anne. ‘I fear there are some who envy me the smiles that come my way.’

‘Then that is wrong of them!’ cried Diane. ‘I always say Madame la Duchesse d’Etampes has earned well her favours.’

‘Madame la Grande Sénéchale is kind indeed. I myself said the same of her.’

The little circle was uneasy. In a moment they would called upon to take sides, always a dangerous matter, Chabot nervously turned the subject to the coming of Charles V. He declared himself eager for a sight of the ogre.

‘A strange thing,’ said Princess Marguerite, ‘that he should be coming as my father’s guest― the man who imprisoned my father and my brothers. It is beyond my understanding.’

‘But it all happened long ago!’ said de Guise. ‘It is one of those things best forgotten.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne; ‘it happened long ago. Sénéchale, you will remember more clearly than any of us. You were a wife and mother at the time; I was but a child.’

Diane said: ‘You must have been very talented, Madame d’Etampes. I believe, at the time of the King’s imprisonment, Madame de Chateaubriand was jealous of you on the King account.’

‘An uneasy matter for Frenchmen,’ said de Guise quickly, ‘to have the Spaniards on their soil, even though they come I friends.’

‘A far more uneasy matter for Spaniards!’ put in the poet Marot.

‘I wish they would hurry and reach us. How dull are the days of waiting!’

Anne laughed as she spoke, but she did not feel like laughter. The Sénéchale, with her boldness, always disturbed her, always made her feel that her days of power were fast approaching an end.

‘I had thought Madame d’Etampes could not find the days― nor the nights dull,’ said Diane quietly.

‘It is true I was born with gaiety in my heart,’ said Anne. ‘But I should like to see the party here. I long to clap eyes on the mighty Charles.’ She noticed Catherine sitting there. ‘Our little Dauphine would wish to see her young husband, is that not so, Dauphine?’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders.

‘Shame!’ cried Anne. ‘Did there speak the dutiful wife?’

Catherine did not know what had come to her. She had been thinking of Henry while they had been talking and, seeing Diane there, hating her so fiercely, realizing that even in a battle of words with Anne she could shine, she had felt her hatred submerging her control.

She forced herself to laugh now.

‘Dutiful?’ she said bitterly. ‘Should I be dutiful? Ask Madame la Sénéchale with whom he spends his days and nights.’

Anne was delighted. There was a smile on almost every face. The little Medici been able to discomfit Diane as Anne failed to do.

Diane, to her annoyance, felt a faint colour rise to her cheeks. She hated any reference to her love affair with the Dauphin; she would have everyone believe that she was his spiritual adviser.

Anne tittered. ‘Well, we may take the word of the poor, deserted, little wife.’

She went to Catherine and put an arm round her. ‘Why, my little one, I weep for you. But never mind, for he will come back to you. You are so docile, so charming, so young!’

Diane said: ‘I am sorry, Madame la Dauphine, that you feel deserted. When the Dauphin returns perhaps I may persuade him to leave you less alone.’

Diane rose and walked away. There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds before everyone began speaking of the preparations for the reception of the Spaniards.

* * *

Catherine knew that she had been wrong. Diane was planning to remove her, for she had discovered that Catherine was not the submissive wife she had been believed to be. Catherine harboured grudges; she was inclined to be possessive.

Diane had tolerated the Italian girl because she had believed her to be of no importance. But no one insulted Diane with impunity.

Catherine was afraid. Life was too difficult. One was careful, watching every word, every look― and then came an unguarded moment and the work of years was forgotten.

Henry returned to Loches, and Catherine’s fear increased. She could find no pleasure in the rich displays which were arranged for the guests. The banquets, balls, the plays, and tournaments meant nothing to her. Henry was looking at her with hope in his eyes, and the hope was that he might rid himself of her forever.