Only then was the King left in peace to make his way to his mistress’

apartments. Life was more difficult for Henry than it had been for Francis.

Francis had cared nothing for propriety. He would have ordered his courtiers to put ten women to bed with him if he so desired. But Henry must be sure that he had been left for the night before he could rise and go to his mistress.

How Catherine loved him― for his primness, for his greatness, for his desire to do good! Life was indeed strange when it forced her to give all the affection she had to this man who was so unlike herself in every way.

On this night of early summer he came to her apartment which adjoined his own. How stern he looked! So determined to do his duty! They had two children now; she laughed to herself slyly because he did not know that before the year was out, they would have a third. Yesterday, she had all but fainted when sitting in her circle, and only her iron control had kept her sitting, smiling in her seat.

She was not one to give way to ailments, and she was able to ignore the sickening faintness. She must ignore them, for if she did not, the rumours would start. The Queen was enceinte once more! And then goodbye to Henry for many months. Goodbye to love― or what did service as love.

Henry was sad because he had recently attended the obsequies of his father, and death would have a saddening effect on one as sensitive as Henry. He had decided to have the bodies his brothers, Francis and Charles, interred in state at St. Denis at the same time as that of his father. It had been an extravaganza― that State burial; no expense had been spared.

The three coffins, each adorned with a recumbent effigy of its’ occupant, were borne outside the walls of Paris to Notre Dame des Champs. The people of Paris had lined the streets to watch the solemn cortège.

Many sons, Catherine was thinking as she watched her husband, would have rejoiced, would have said: ‘My father is dead, my elder brother is dead; and because of this, I am the King.’

But not Henry.

He spoke of the funeral as he sat by the bed. He always chatted awhile before he snuffed out the candles. He was regular in his habits; and he wanted these visits of his to seem natural; he did not wish to hurt her feelings by letting her guess that all the time he was with her he was longing to depart.

He never gave any sign, by word or look, that he was longing for an announcement from her. He was so courteous; it was small wonder that she loved him. But alas, he was so easy to read and it was impossible for one as astute as she was to be deceived.

So he would chat awhile, playing nervously with bottles on her table, then join her, and afterwards chat again and leave her. The interludes were almost always precisely of the same duration. She laughed to herself― painful, bitter laughter.

How many little Valois would people their nurseries before he decided they need get themselves no more? How long before that happy dream was realized― Diane, old and wrinkled, or better still, dead; and the King visiting his Queen not for duty’s sake, but for that of love?

‘You are sad, Henry,’ she said.

He smiled; his smile was shy, boyish, charmingly congruous in one who was fast turning grey.

‘I cannot forget the burial,’ he said.

‘It was very impressive.’

‘My father― dead. And my two brothers carried off in the prime of their lives.’

She was not eager to speak of his brothers. Did he, even now, when he thought of Francis, think also of her? Suspicion was hard to disperse; it could persist through the years.

‘Charles was no friend to you, Henry.’

‘You are right. As I watched the cortège and grieved for my brothers, Saint-André and Vieilleville were beside me. They remarked on my grief and Saint-André begged Vieilleville to tell me something that happened many years ago at Angoulême. Then Vieilleville told me. He said, Sire, when owing to the folly of La Châtaigneraie and Dampierre, the last Dauphin, Francis and yourself fell into the Charente? I did remember this and I told him so. He then told me how the news that my brother and I were drowned was carried to my father, who was overwhelmed with grief; but in his own apartments my brother Charles was so seized with joy that he was overcome by it. And when he heard our lives had been saved he was overtaken by a severe of fever which experienced doctors attributed to sudden transition from great joy to deep sorrow. Truly Charles was no friend to me.’

She raised herself on her elbow. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘if he had lived and had married the niece or the daughter of the Emperor, he would have been a dangerous enemy to you.’

‘That is so.’

‘Therefore, you should not be sad. King Francis is dead, but he did not die young, and he had his full measure from life! France never had a better king than you will make, Henry. I pray young Francis will be exactly like his father when on that day, which I trust is far, far in the future, he will take his place on the throne.’

‘You are a good and loyal wife, Catherine,’ said the King.

That made her happy. I shall win him, she assured herself. I have but to remember to go cautiously. But how it was to be careful when she was with Henry. With everyone else she was clever and cunning, but in her state of tremulous excitement which her husband aroused, caution deserted her.

She could not resist speaking of Madame d’Etampes, who had hastily left the court, but whose fate was still undecided.

Desperately, Catherine wanted Anne to be left in peace. Not that she cared for Anne; she cared for none but― Henry. But if she could plead successfully for Anne, Diane was not allowed to wreak her vengeance on her enemy, what triumph!

You are a good and loyal wife! Those words were as intoxicating as the most potent French wine.

‘I was thinking of your father, Henry, and that poor misguided woman whom he loved. He begged of you to spare her. You will respect your father’s wishes?’

Immediately she knew she had been wrong to speak.

‘You are ill advised to plead for such a one,’ he said. ‘I have learned this concerning her: she was as great an enemy to me as ever my brother Charles was. He, with her help, was arranging with young Philip of Spain to attack me when reached the throne. My brother promised to make her Governess of the Netherlands if he married the Infanta. In return for this, she was helping him with money.’

‘I― see.’

‘You see that, being ignorant of what is passing, you should not plead for my enemies.’

‘Henry, had I known that she was guilty of this infamy― had I known that she had conspired against you―’ In her agitation, she rose from the bed and would have come to stand before him; but as she did so, and stretched for her robe, the dizziness overcame her, and valiantly as she tried to hide it, it had not passed undetected by the sharp eyes of King; for after all, he was continually looking for the very symptoms she was trying to hide.

‘Catherine, I fear you are not well.’

‘I am very well, Henry.’

‘Allow me to help you to bed. I will call your women.’

‘Henry― I beg of you― do not disturb yourself. A faintness― nothing more.’

He was smiling down at her solicitously almost. ‘Catherine― can it be?’

His smile was tender now, and how handsome he looked! He was pleased with her; and she longed now, pathetically, to keep his pleasure.

No finesse. No subterfuge now. She wished only to please him.

‘Henry, I think it may be. You are pleased?’

‘Pleased! I am delighted. This, my dear, is just what I was hoping for.’

She was so happy that his irritation with her had turned to pleasure, even if this did mean her fertility released him from of visiting her instead of his mistress.


* * *

The uncrowned Queen of France! Surely this was one of the most enviable positions in the land for a practical and ambitious woman to hold. What a happy day for Diane when Francis the King had commanded her to befriend his son!

She received Henry in her apartments, which were more splendid, more stately than those of the Queen.

‘How beautiful you are!’ he said as he knelt and kissed her hands.

She smiled, fingering the jewels at her throat. A short while ago, they belonged to Anne d’Etampes, presents from Francis. Diane wished Anne could see her wearing the gems.

Regally, Diane dismissed her attendants that she might be alone with the King. They sat together in one of the window seats, he with his arm about her.

‘Excellent news, my loved one,’ he said. ‘Catherine is enceinte.’

‘That is wonderful. I had thought there was a look about her of late.’

‘She all but fainted, and I guessed.’

Diane nodded. Sly Catherine had tried to withhold the news. Diane laughed.

Poor, humble little Queen. How much happier it was to be the sort of Queen she herself was! How pleasant to be able to be sorry for the real Queen of France!

Henry had no secrets from Diane. He said: ‘She tried to plead for Anne d’Etampes.’

Diane was immediately alert.

‘My dear, how foolish of her!’

Diane was smiling, but she was disturbed. She pictured the placid face of the Queen― the dark eyes were mild, but was the mouth inscrutable? Surely Catherine would never dare to intrigue with Diane’s old enemy. Diane turned her face to the King and kissed him, but whilst he embraced her, her thoughts ran on. To rule a King needed more caution, more shrewdness than to rule a Dauphin. Henry was sentimental and he had promised his father on the latter’s death-bed to protect Anne d’Etampes. Diane recalled now with what fury she had heard the news that Henry had sent a kind message to Anne on her retirement to Limours when Francis died; in it he had hinted that she might return to court. He had promised his father; he insisted. He was a good man, though unsubtle; but he was also a grateful lover, a man to remember his friends. Anne de Montmorency was already back in favour, and there was a man Diane must watch lest he receive too much favour; but for the time, Montmorency, who had his own score to settle with Anne d’Etampes, was Diane’s ally.

Dear, simple Henry! It was but necessary to show him how Francis’s mistress had plotted against Henry with his Charles for him to see that he was justified in releasing himself from any death-bed promise he had made to a man ignorant of the woman’s duplicity. Anne’s property was confiscated, her servants sent to prison; and her husband, been eager enough to profit from her relationship with Francis, now accused her of fraud, and she was herself sent to prison.

Diane felt that Anne d’Etampes was paying in full for those insults she had directed against the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy. And now― this meek little Catherine must take into her silly head to plead for the woman.

She would, of course, have to learn her lesson. She must realize that she could only be allowed to retain her position as long as she submitted to the uncrowned Queen.

‘I trust,’ said Diane later, ‘that you informed the Queen of the perfidy of Madame d’Etampes in conspiring with your enemies against you?’

‘I told her of this. I fancy she was distressed. She declared herself surprised.’

Well, she might, thought Diane. She would have to be made to realize that it was solely through the clemency of the King’s mistress that his wife was allowed to bear his children.


* * *

Diane couldn’t help feeling that it was again necessary to teach Catherine a lesson. She was beginning to think that the Queen’s new standing had gone to her head. After all, reasoned Diane, the woman was but a Medici, descended from Italian tradesmen; Diane herself was a great lady of France, with royal blood in her veins. Yes, Catherine must understand that she owed her position to Diane; and, moreover, that her success in retaining it depended on Diane.

Catherine would learn a lesson more thoroughly, Diane was sure, if it were given in front of others. Therefore she chose a moment when there should be many august witnesses of the Queen’s discomfiture.

It was the occasion of one of those gatherings which, as Queen, Catherine held from time to time. The King was not present; but among the distinguished company was Diane, Henry’s sister Marguerite, Montmorency, and Francis de Guise.