‘At this hour,’ he repeated. And then: ‘Yes, I know the house.’

‘I will be waiting, and we will talk of the future over a goblet of good Italian wine.’

He would have kissed her lips, but haughtily she held out her hand.

He bowed low, and, turning, she hurried out of the cell.


* * *

Catherine sat in her room. She had asked that she might be quite alone.

Looking in her mirror, she saw a woman, fattening, coarsening, who had never been really beautiful even in her youth; thick, pallid skin, sly mouth, and those flashing dark eyes.

This was an important day in her life. It was three months since she had lost her love, but that tragedy was behind her now. She must look to the future. Last evening, at dusk, she had gone to the house near the river, and there she had met that ambitious young man who wished to become her lover. He had great plans for himself, this Vidame de Chartres.

She had talked to him calmly, kindly, and affectionately over a goblet of wine.

Together they had planned to put down the mighty Guises, they had arranged to meet again, this night.

The sly mouth smiled, for Catherine realized that the ache in her heart was growing less acute. There was so much work to be done. Her eyes went to the cabinet in the corner of the room. None but herself knew the secrets of that cabinet. In it lurked death, to be administered to the enemies of Catherine de’

Medici.

For years she had planned the murder of Diane; but now that she was calm, she could see that it would be pointless to murder Diane. Yet, all those years when she had added secret after secret to her cabinet, she had thought of murder; and now murder was a part of her life, a servant, ready at her command, waiting for that moment when it could work for her.

She was not happy as she could have been with the love of Henry, but she was stimulated. She knew that a bitter battle was before her, but she also knew the strength of her armour.

She was going to fight the seemingly all-powerful de Guises. Sickly Francis was on the throne. How long could he live? Then it would be the turn of Charles. He was but a boy yet, and his upbringing was in the hands of his mother. She would get an Italian tutor for him. A face leaped to her mind. Yes, she knew the tutor she would get; and Charles should be taught a way of life that some might call unnatural. He was not strong; he was peevish― but pliable. She did not wish Charles to marry― but if he did, he must not have children. While Charles was on the throne, his mother would rule; and after Charles would come beloved Henry, whose pleasure it would be to serve his mother, as it would be hers to serve him.

Power was beckoning her, and she would have to fight for it with all her craft and cunning, in all the devious ways she had learned in a lifetime of humiliation. She would deeply relish such a fight.

Madalenna was knocking at the door.

‘Come in.’

Madalenna’s eyes were wide, her face pale.

‘You have something to tell me, Madalenna?’

‘Terrible news, Madame.’

‘Of whom?’

‘Madame, the Vidame de Chartres was released from the Bastille yesterday―’

‘Is that such terrible news?’

‘Oh, Madame― you have not heard. He died― last night. He had been out in the city― and when he returned, he was ill― violently ill. He died at midnight.’

Madalenna looked fearfully at her mistress, who was holding a kerchief to her eyes.

‘Madame,’ stammered Madalenna, ‘I wish to offer― my― my deep sympathy.’

Catherine answered from the depth of the kerchief: ‘You may go, Madalenna. Leave me― leave me―’

As the door shut on Madalenna, Catherine thrust the kerchief into her mouth to stifle the gusty laughter which was shaking her.

Madalenna’s sympathy! Perhaps others in this palace would be sorry for a woman whom they believed to have lost her lover?

Poor Vidame, she thought. This is the end of your flirtation with a Queen; it is also the end of the brilliant career you planned for yourself. You have been the first to learn that it is unwise to ignore the wishes of Catherine de’ Medici.

She was exultant. Thoughts of murder had haunted her for so long; now she would be their master. She understood much now. The future, brilliant and powerful, stretched out before her; and she was free to take what she wanted.

She had been the victim of her emotions― hot-blooded, impetuous, making so many mistakes. She had been Catherine de’ Medici in love.

But now she was free. It was the end of Catherine de’ Medici in love.

THE END