She, for a moment of folly, was to blame. Her hatred had triumphed over her common sense, just as love so often had in her scenes with Henry.

The court left Loches and travelled by stages to Paris, a magnificent reception was afforded the Spaniard! Catherine watched it all listlessly. What were the schemes and plots of others when her own life was threatened? She watched the entry of Charles into Paris; she was with the King and Queen at one of the windows of the Hotel de Montmorency in the Rue de Saint-Antoine; yet it was not at the Spaniard she looked, but at the young man who rode beside him― her husband, who beginning to hate her and long to be rid of her; and indeed since she had shown unfriendliness to his mistress, Catherine believed he was turning over in his mind how he could do this.

She watched the uneasy Charles presented on behalf of the city with a huge silver figure of Hercules draped with a lion’s skin of gold; at Notre Dame she heard a Te Deum sung for him; she was unimpressed by these ceremonies, for all she could think of was: what will become of me now? Tue whole court was laughing because, during a hunting party, the young and mischievous Duc d’Orléans had leaped to the horse which was being ridden by Charles V and shouted ‘Your Imperial Majesty is my prisoner!’ And Charles, feeling that that moment which he had dreaded had come at last, cursing himself for a fool to have entered his enemy’s country galloped off through the forest with the young Duke clinging to him. How chagrined was Charles to learn that this was the boy’s idea of a joke! And how his French hosts laughed at his expense! In Catherine’s heart there was no room for laughter, since this new fear for her fate had possession of it.

In spite of the gaiety and festivities, the men and women of the court had time to whisper, and their whispers concerned the little Italian Dauphine.

Catherine, knowing they whispered, would lie awake at night and wonder.

Was it true that a divorce was being planned?

It was some time ago that she had heard of Alessandro’s death. He had been stabbed by an obscure relative of hers, who had immediately become the hero of Florence. The young assassin’s sister been used as a decoy, and Alessandro had died as violently as he had lived.

What perilous lives we lead, we Medici, she thought. Clement, Ippolito, Alessandro― they had all died suddenly, had certainly been murdered.

Was she any more secure than her relatives?

They would not kill her; yet she believed she would prefer death to what they were proposing to do.

She thought of the aunt of this Charles whom France was now honouring with feats and ceremonies. That aunt had been another Catherine― Catherine of Aragon, and wife of the King of England. She had been divorced because she could not bear a son. And again, ostensibly for the same reason, that King’s second wife, having no powerful relatives to protect her, had lost her head.

Catherine de’ Medici had now no powerful relative to protect her.

They would not kill her. She would not care if they did. They would divorce her, and banish her; and she would never see Henry again.

‘All these years married,’ they were saying, ‘and no child! What good is such a wife to the heir to the throne? He can get children; witness the Piedmontese. For such a one as this Medici, there is only one thing: divorce!’

She wept; when she was alone, she stormed. How could she get children when she scarcely ever saw her husband!

She had not thought it possible for her hatred of Diane de Poitiers to grow.

But during the visit of Charles of Spain, she learned that it could.


* * *

Francis, having shaken off sickness once again, and feeling stimulated by the passing through France of his enemy, spoke to Catherine of the relationship between herself and Henry she rode beside him when they were out with the Petite Band. Anne had stayed in the palace that afternoon; she was tired, she said. Francis missed her; he had asked his daughter-in-law to ride with him, since he felt it his duty to speak to her. It was an unpleasant duty, and he wished to done with it as soon as possible. Seven years married and no child! A grave matter for a Duke of Orléans; a disastrous one for a Dauphin of France!

‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘this is a sorry state of affairs. All these years married― and no sign of a child. Can you explain it?’

‘I can only say, Sire,’ she answered sadly, ‘that if the Dauphin were with me as much as he is with the Sénéchale―’

The King sighed. ‘That boy angers me,’ he interrupted. ‘How like him this is! He is heir to the throne, and he sets his responsibilities light beside his infatuation for a woman. It is incredible.’

‘Sire, I had hoped his infatuation would not last so long,’

‘With that boy anything is possible. Well, Catherine, something must be done, you know. Seven years is a long time. I should have thought it was impossible for him to get children but for the affair at Piedmont. You must not be outdone your young fellow country-woman, daughter.’

He whipped up and rode away. Catherine was in no mood to amuse him. He left her desolate. So he was turning against her, she felt. His voice had sounded less cordial than usual. You must not be outdone― Undoubtedly he had emphasized must. He meant that if she did not soon become enceinte, she could not remain married to his son.

And if I were not married to Henry, thought Catherine, I should no longer wish to live. The King was moody today; had he already decided on the divorce?

She need not have worried. Francis had not given her another thought. He was feeling too unwell to enjoy the chase; he was thinking wistfully of the days of his youth. He thinking also of Anne, and wondering why she had not accompanied him this afternoon. How did she, who was still young and so beautiful, feel towards this aged man that he was becoming? The love of a mistress could not be counted on as could the love of a mother and a sister.

Marguerite, Queen of Navarre had been ambitious for him; Anne was ambitious for herself. He remembered now, how, in the first years of his love for Anne, she had demanded the jewels which he had given to his former mistress, Madame de Chateaubriand; not, she said, of their value, but because of the beautiful devices engraved on them, which the King’s sister had composed. He had been completely under the spell of Anne, and had asked Madame de Chateaubriand to return the jewels. But Anne had been cheated then, for the Chateaubriand had outwitted her by the jewellery melted down so that the inscriptions written for her should not be passed on to another. He had admired his former mistress for that gesture; but Anne had furious been with him and with her. Anne was always imperious, always sure of herself. She was beautiful still and many admired her; that should be so, for Francis must have of the best; but he often wondered if the admiration of those about her was expressed more actively when he was not present. His thoughts went to Admiral Chabot de Brion, Christian de Nançay, Guy de Chabot and others― even including the poet Marot.

Although he could not trust her, he was unhappy without her. If he accused her of infidelity, she would immediately refer to his own failing in that respect.

The sexes were equal at the court of France. It was not for the most promiscuous man in France to complain of his mistress’s lovers.

He could find no pleasure in the hunt without her, so he decided to cut short the afternoon’s sport and return to her. First thing he did when he reached the palace was to go straight to Anne’s apartments. There he found one of her women, Mademoiselle de Colliers, in a state of great agitation; she stammered and blushed, and even dared to attempt to detain him. He brushed her aside and went into chamber, where Christian de Nançay was hastily struggling into his clothes. Anne, in a wrap of cloth of silver, her fair hair in disorder, was, he saw at once, completely at a loss. Mademoiselle de Colliers came running into the room. The girl was more frightened than the guilty pair.

Francis, the purple blood in his face, his heart pounding, summed up the situation at once; the afternoon was hot oppressive, and the girl was terrified because, having set to watch at one of the windows for the King’s return, she had fallen into a doze and had awakened only when it was too to warn her mistress.

Now this sort of thing was very amusing― when it happened to anyone else.

Anne was guilty; he only had to look at her to see that. Nançay looked like a man who knows his career is ruined; as for the girl, she was so beside herself that she knelt at the King’s feet, embracing his knees, lifting her young imploring eyes He strode to the window and called for his guards. He kept his back on the three people in the room, and stood there looking down on the courtyard. He felt too ill for anger. He suspected something of this. He was seeing himself, old, tired and ill, compared with this vigorous young captain of the Guards. This would not have happened ten years ago― five years ago. He understood perfectly. It was no use blaming Anne because she contrived to amuse herself with the handsome young man while the tiresome old one was out of the way, He would have done the same himself. He saw the situation too clearly for his anger to remain.

He was all-powerful; he could imprison the young man; he could cast off Anne. And what then? How would he replace he who was irreplaceable? Anne would lose her position as first lady in the land and he would be wretched without her.

The guards were coming into the room.

He turned, assuming great anger, and pointed to the captain, ‘Arrest that man!’ he said. ‘Let him reflect in prison on the impropriety of conducting here, in her mistress’s own room, an intrigue with an attendant of Madame d’Etampes. ‘

The guards seized young de Nançay, who was now feeling considerably relieved in his mind.

‘Get up,’ said Francis to the girl, ‘and leave us.’

Thankfully, she scrambled to her feet and hurried off.

Francis turned to Anne. ‘I think you will agree,’ he said, as the door closed, leaving them alone, ‘that my conduct was as restrained as yours has been abandoned.’

Anne was nonplussed, and he was delighted to see her at a loss. He would punish her now by keeping her in doubt as to her fate.


* * *

The story of the King’s discovery of de Nançay with his mistress leaked out.

Poor little Mademoiselle de Colliers had not, as she feared, lost her reputation.

Everyone knew who was the heroine of that little farce. De Nançay had been the favorite’s lover for weeks. Malicious stories were bruited about, not only concerning Christian de Nançay― who was very soon released― but all the young noblemen who circled about Madame d’Etampes; and these stories originated from Diane’s supporters.

Catherine was too deeply concerned with her own troubles to pay much attention to the skirmishes between the mistresses of the King and Dauphin until she sudden realized that that she might turn this state of affairs to her advantage.

Anne was her friend; they were often together; it was not difficult to plant ideas in Anne’s fertile mind.

Catherine said, as they rode together in the Petite Bande: ‘How the King loves the Duc d’Orléans! I think it would need very little make him pass over the Dauphin in favour of Monsieur d‘Orléans. I am sure he wishes young Charles were his elder son and Henry the younger.’

Anne gave her a swift glance. What a stupid little thing the Italian girl was!

She was thinking, as Catherine meant her to. The sill creature― to sow such seeds! Of course it was not possible― but was it? Could Anne, she asked herself, persuade Francis to disinherit his elder son in favour of the younger?

Would the law of France allow even its King to meddle with the line of succession? If it could be done, it must be done. It would make all the difference in the world to Anne d’Etampes if Charles of Orléans became the King of France instead of Dauphin Henry. With Charles on the throne, Madame de Poitiers would be of no consequence whatever. And this Italian child would be of no importance either!

She really was stupid to put such an idea into the mind of one, who, if it were possible to bring it about, alone could do it.