Louise brought François and Marguerite to see the child, and from her bed Anne watched them at the cradle with narrowed eyes; she could have wept at the sight of the boy’s sturdy limbs, his glowing dark eyes, the vitality which, on instructions from his mother, he was trying to suppress.

“What a little baby!” That was the boy’s shrill voice.

“She is but a few days old, my love.”

“Was I a little baby like that once?”

“You were never a little baby. You were always a big one.”

The boy had started to jump, and his sister laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Spoiled monster! thought Anne. He thinks the whole world was made for him. But if only I had one like him …

“I like our Françoise better,” declared François. “She is pretty.”

Louise had taken his hand and turned to smile at Anne. Such high spirits! And how can one so young and innocent be expected not to say what comes into his mind? You have to admit, the baby is sickly.

Would that I could call the guards, thought Anne, and have her taken down to one of the dungeons and kept there with her precious son.

She looks ill, Louise was thinking. She cannot take confinements lightly. She will have to take care of her health, and in view of the failure she has had with Charles, and now this weak little infant by Louis, it seems she may well continue to fail.

Louise stooped to François. “You will love the little Princess when she is old enough to run about.” That’s if she’s ever able to, she thought. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took sick and died.

Louise had come to the bed. “He loves playing with little children,” she said, her expression soft again. “Madame, you should see him with the little Françoise, this child whom he and his sister brought into the château because they wanted a baby to care for.”

Besotted fool, thought Anne. Does she think everyone is going into ecstasies of admiration at the childish doings of that boy?

“He is five years old, is he not? The Princess Claude will mayhap prefer to play with children of her own age.”

The Queen closed her eyes; it was the sign of dismissal. Through lowered lids she watched the little party leave. If she thought that boy was going to marry Claude, Louise was mistaken. If she could marry Claude to a foreign Prince, if her next child were a son—Madame Louise was going to find herself and her adored François very much less significantly placed than they were at this time.

Louis had returned from the war. He was not the most successful of generals and, although he had longed to bring Milan back to France, he knew that his real genius was for home government. He was never extravagant on his own account; but he was eager to see his people living in greater comfort, and during the first years of his reign, France prospered. His subjects were aware of his virtue and conceived a great affection for him. He became known as the Father of his People.

Genial, approachable, shrewd, he was loved by those who surrounded him; he was capable of moments of irascibility, but these all knew were only when he suffered pain or was anxious over some danger threatening the country. He was, however, deeply respectful to his wife and apt to give her her way in everything; and as Anne of Brittany was a forceful woman, France was governed as much by her as by Louis.

It was a source of great disappointment that they had only one child—little Claude, who was undersized, walked with a limp and was clearly never going to be strong.

Reluctantly he told Anne they must face the fact that François had a very fair chance of following him to the throne.

“In that case,” said Anne tartly, “he should be brought up as a man and untied from a woman’s apron strings.”

Louis agreed that this was so and, sending for Maréchal de Gié, told him that he was to go to Amboise and become Governor of the household of Angoulême, his special charge being the boy François who was to be brought up in all manly activities.

De Gié recognized the importance of this task and set off with a will.

Louise received him with great apprehension, although she realized that now François was seven years old he could no longer be regarded as a baby. As for the boy himself, as long as he was not separated from his mother and sister, he was happy enough to have a chance to fence and learn how to joust.

On the day before de Gié was due to arrive at the château Louise was alone with her son and daughter. She sat with one on either side of her and put an arm about each.

“My children,” she said, “you are growing up and you will find that we cannot go on in the way we have. Soon life in the château will change. They are going to make our François into a man—and they do not think his mother, being a woman, is capable of doing that.”

“But you will be here with us, dearest Maman?” asked Marguerite anxiously.

“Do you think that I should allow anyone to part me from you? Nay, my children. We are as one—we three. We are a trinity. Let us remember it forever.”

“I shall never forget,” said Marguerite.

“Bless you, my daughter. I know you love your brother.”

“And I love my sister,” cried François.

“You love each other; and I love you both; and you love me. My dear ones, there was never such love to the world as we have for each other. Let us remember it. And one day when you, my son, are King of France, you will know that there is none whom you can trust as you trust your mother and sister—because we are as three in one: A trinity.”

François liked the new life. Maréchal de Gié was determined to ingratiate himself with one who might well be a King of France, but at the same time he laid down rules which must not be broken. He explained to the boy that these were necessary; to acquire manhood one must never ignore discipline.

François was a good pupil. Being strong and healthy he loved the outdoor life; being quick-witted, and for so long under the surveillance of his brilliant sister, he was fond of learning. He was good-natured and strangely unspoiled by the devotion of his family; he loved his mother and sister almost as devotedly as they loved him and was anxious never to displease them nor cause them anxiety.

De Gié’s first act had been to replace François’s pony with a horse. Louise came out to the courtyard to see him mounted, and tears of emotion temporarily blinded her at the sight of that upright little figure perched on the tall horse.

She had a whip made for him of gold decorated with fleur-de-lis in enamel; he was delighted with the gift and would not abandon it even when he was not riding. One of the charms of François was that, indulged as he was, he could always feel enthusiasm for small delights.

It had been necessary now to send the little Françoise back to her parents. It was no task for an embryo knight to care for a child; and as Marguerite was growing too old for such pastimes and had to increase her studies, they must say goodbye to their little protégée.

They both had plenty with which to occupy themselves, and life at Amboise seemed to François like one adventure after another.

One day Louise was at the window watching his equestrian exercises under the surveillance of de Gié. François was mounted on a new horse and he sat it boldly, brandishing his whip.

She watched him taking a jump. What a horseman the boy was becoming! He excelled in everything he undertook.

“I verily believe,” she said to Jeanne who was with her, “that he is a god in earthly guise.”

Then she caught her breath in dismay. The horse had started to rear; it had the bit between its teeth and was galloping blindly over the fields, while François was clinging to it with all his might. De Gié, who was talking to some of the attendants, had not seen what was happening, and for some seconds Louise was unable to move. She saw her life in ruins; she saw them bringing in his mangled body—her beautiful one, her beloved … dead. She would die with him. There would no longer be any purpose in life.

“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed; and she dared not look at that madly galloping animal with the small figure still managing to stay in the saddle.

She rushed down the great staircase and out of the château, shouting to all who could hear as she did so: “The Comte’s horse is running away with him. Quick! All of you. Monsieur le Maréchal! Everyone! Help! The Comte is in danger.”

By the time she had reached the field in which François had been exercising his horse, de Gié had seen what was happening and, galloping after the boy, had brought the runaway horse to a standstill. Louise, watching, felt her knees tremble so violently that she thought they would not support her. The relief was almost unbearable; for there was François, laughing as though the whole affair had been something of a joke, being led back to the spot where his mother was waiting.

He took one look at her and saw the distress still in her face.

“It is unharmed, Maman,” he called reassuringly. “See, I have not broken it.”

He held up the whip for her to see; and the fact that he had believed she was concerned for the thing brought home to her that he was after all but a child.

She laughed, but the tears were very near.

It was fitting, said the Maréchal, that François should have friends of his own age. They should live at Amboise as his equals, because it was not good that a boy should believe himself to be superior to others until he had proved himself to be so.