Louise was exultant. There would be none between François and the throne. He was not quite twelve years old, so there would have to be a Regency. Her mind was busy. She would impress upon him the need to keep his mother at his side.

She could scarcely contain herself. She paced up and down her room. Once again Jeanne de Polignac implored her to hide her exultation; if it were carried to Court that she had exulted because the King was dying she might be accused of sorcery, or at least treason. Had she thought of the consequences of that? She must not forget that Anne of Brittany was the Queen and her enemy.

“They’ll not dare harm the King’s mother. François loves me as he loves no other. He would not allow it.”

“François is yet a boy.”

“François will be King. Perhaps at this moment he is King. They will cry Le roi est mort, Vive le Roi—and they will mean Vive le Roi François Premier.”

“It is too soon to triumph.”

Louise embraced her good friend. “How wise you are to warn me. But I am so happy I cannot contain my happiness.”

Louise was downcast when the King recovered.

In the streets of Paris the people rejoiced because the “Father of his People” was still with them. But he was very weak, and it seemed that he could not live long.

Louise’s spirits were soon rising again. The King an invalid. The Queen an invalid. It seemed unlikely that they could produce a healthy heir, yet Anne would insist that they go on trying as long as there was life left in them both.

Anne, desperately afraid that she was going to lose her husband, decided that she would go on a pilgrimage to her native Brittany; and she left the King in the care of his physicians.

Louis lay limply in his bed and, when his Queen had been absent for some days, he sent for his old friend, Georges d’Amboise.

“Georges,” he said, “I fear my end is not far off.”

Georges was too wise a man to deny this, because he knew the King would not respect untruthfulness.

“At Amboise Louise of Savoy will be waiting for the moment when that boy of hers will mount the throne. It is coming, Georges, and the Queen and I shall not be able to prevent it. François Premier will follow me.”

“Sire, you are a little better. I had it from your physicians. There may be some time left to you.”

“I may get up from this sick bed, yes. But methinks I shall soon be back in it. I am worried about my daughter. I should like to see her Queen of France.”

“A match with François would be appropriate, Sire.”

“The Queen is against it.”

Georges looked at his master shrewdly. He saw the command in his eyes. It was the old cry of “Let Georges do it.” Georges d’Amboise must find a way in which a match between the heir presumptive to the throne of France and the King’s daughter should be made without delay.

Georges went away and considered the matter. The Queen was in Brittany. The affair should be concluded in her absence. Louis would have to answer to her when she returned and, as he hated to ignore her wishes, if one did not wish to displease the King there must be a very good reason.

Georges went back to his master.

“It is the will of the people,” he said, “that the Princess Claude should be betrothed to François.”

Once again, Georges had done it.

The two enemies watched the ceremony. Anne was sullen, but she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it, because the people of Paris had sent a deputation to the King begging that their Princess be married to their Dauphin.

Louise was not, in truth, displeased, although determined to hide this fact from Anne. But she could not prevent her eyes shining with contentment as they rested on twelve-year-old François, so tall, so handsome, so bright-eyed, every glorious inch of him a Dauphin, and turned to poor sickly seven-year-old Claude who looked as though she would not live long enough to consummate the marriage.

Louis was well pleased. He did not suffer from the same envy as Anne did, and could not help eyeing the boy with satisfaction. It was good that a branch of the royal family could produce a boy so worthy in every way of his destiny.

The King recovered his health in some degree; but his physicians warned him that he must take care. He should eat frugally, always have his meat boiled, and retire early, making sure that he did not tax his strength in any way.

He consulted with Georges d’Amboise and they decided that, now François was the King’s prospective son-in-law as well as his heir, he should be at Court under the eye of the King.

De Gié had disgraced himself when Louis had been dangerously ill by presuming that the King was as good as dead. He had made an effort to seize control, that he might have charge of the young Dauphin and guide him in all matters.

Louis had understood the Maréchal’s action and thought it not unwise in the circumstances. There was always danger to a country when a king died and his successor was a minor. But de Gié had attempted to restrain Anne of Brittany, and for that reason she insisted that he be punished.

Louis had to face his wife’s anger, and that was something he never cared to do. However he did save de Gié from execution, but the Maréchal lost his post and was sent into exile.

This was another reason why François, deprived of his governor, should come to Court.

“It is not fitting,” said Anne, “that wherever the boy is his mother should be. He must learn to stand on his own feet.”

Louis agreed with her; and as a result François was summoned to Chinon where the Court was in residence.

When he had left, Louise was desolate.

“For the first time in our lives we are apart,” she wailed.

Jeanne reminded her that it was because her son was accepted as Dauphin that he must go to Court; and was that not what she wanted more than anything else?

“But how dismal it is without him. There is no joy left in the place.”

François was an immediate success at Court. The King could not help being amused by his high spirits, nor admiring his energy. In addition he was already witty, so that he found friends, not only among the sportsmen, but among those who were interested in ideas.

Although but a boy he was already drawing about him his own little court.

“That is as it should be,” said the tolerant Louis. “As the old King grows more infirm it is natural that men and women should turn to him who will next wear the crown.”

Anne transferred her hatred of the mother to the son.

“Brash! Conceited! Altogether too sure of himself and his future,” was her verdict.

“Louis,” she insisted, “we must get a son.”

The King was weary. He would have preferred to let matters rest; but Anne was indefatigable. She herself was as weak as he was; she had never recovered from the birth of her stillborn son, and had never ceased to look back with great bitterness on that event.

When Anne triumphantly announced that she was pregnant, this news brought little pleasure to anyone but herself. Louis was alarmed, because he was aware of her state of health and wondered whether she would survive another ordeal like the last. He was so much older than she was that he had always believed she would be with him to the end; and the thought of losing her now that he was so infirm depressed him. He wished that she could have accepted François as placidly as he did. As for Louise, she was beside herself with anxiety. She had lulled herself to a sense of security of late, because she had been certain that Anne could not produce a boy. Yet she was capable of becoming pregnant, and Louise recognized in the woman a spirit as indomitable as her own. Such women had a habit of getting their own way; and when two such were fighting each other, Fate could take a hand and give the victory to either.

François himself was now old enough to feel apprehension. Life at Court suited him well. He was the darling of his set; and he accepted their adulation as gracefully as he had accepted that of his mother and sister. Not only had he good looks and charm but he was the Dauphin—the most important man at Court next to the King, and the King was old and ailing.

He had discovered too what he believed from now on would be the greatest of all pleasures: making love to women.

He did not want any change. To be Dauphin at the Court of France was a wonderful life.

One bright day Louise’s anxieties were miraculously swept away. The Queen had given birth to a child who lived, but the child was a girl and little Princess Renée could present no threat to François the Dauphin.

“And this must be the last,” Louise told Jeanne. “She can never manage it again.”

François pursued his way at Court, charming all. Marguerite was now married to the Duc d’Alençon. Poor Marguerite, she was a most reluctant bride; but she had been brought up to do her duty and, although she suffered so intensely that it was feared she might die of melancholy, she went through with the marriage.

François, to whom she confided all things, wept with her, for her sorrows would always be his. She was seventeen, François fifteen; and he was angry with himself because he was powerless to help her.

There was little point, he said, in being Dauphin if one could not have one’s way. He wanted to go out and kill Alençon so that the man could not marry his sister.

Marguerite, who had declared that she would rather be dead than have to live with the man whom they had chosen for her husband, forgot her own grief when she saw how upset her brother was.

“Why, my dearest,” she said, “I would marry ten such men rather than that you should be unhappy on my account. Smile, François. What does it matter whom I marry? I shall love one man until I die, and that is you, my brother.”

They embraced; they kissed; they mingled their tears.

“And you know, Marguerite, my pearl of pearls, I shall never love a woman as I love you.”

“I know it, for we are as one, beloved. We are part of that trinity to which I am honored to belong, while feeling myself unworthy.”

François assured her that she and their mother were the most wonderful of women, and when he was King of France he would do all in his power to make her the happiest woman alive. She should leave her husband; she should come to Court; they would be together always.

Marguerite was comforted. “No world could ever be desolate which contained my beloved brother,” she told him.

The Court was at Blois and François was in love.

He had seen the girl on her way to church; she was demure, keeping her eyes downcast and he had followed her. He did not want her to know that he was Dauphin; he wanted her to love him for himself alone, and he had come to suspect that many of the women at Court showed a preference for him partly because of his rank.

This girl was different. She was not of the Court. He did not know who she was, but he suspected she was the daughter of some not very prominent citizen.

After church he followed her to a house in the town; it was a humble enough dwelling from his viewpoint and he was only the more enchanted by this; it seemed incredible that one so fair and dainty could live in such a place.

For days he watched for the girl. He hung about near the house; and one day when she was going to church he waylaid her as she crossed the churchyard.

“I beg of you,” he said humbly, “stay awhile. I would speak with you.”

She turned and faced him. She was very young, and more beautiful seen closely than from afar. He was filled with happiness because he noticed that her gown, though tastefully made, was of simple material, and very different from the garments worn by Court ladies.

“What have you to say to me?” she asked.

“That you are beautiful and I have long desired to tell you so.”

She sighed. “Well, now ’tis done,” she said, and turned away.

He laid a hand on her arm, but she shook her head. “I know that you are the Dauphin,” she said. “It is not fitting that you should be my friend.”

“How did you know who I am? And I tell you it seems very fitting to me, because I am eager to be your friend.”

“I should always know you,” she replied. “You have changed very little. You don’t remember me though.”

“Pray tell me your name.”

“It is Françoise,” she said.

“Françoise!” He took her by the shoulders and peered into her face. Then he laughed aloud with pleasure. “Little Françoise! Our baby … grown into a beautiful girl … the most beautiful girl in France.”

Françoise lowered her eyes. He thought he had discovered her afresh; but she had seen him many times when he rode with the King or members of the royal party. She had thought him the most handsome, charming creature in the world, and when she had seen the women clustering round him, a great sadness had touched her. She had longed then to be young again—a baby whom he held in his arms. She had felt it was the greatest sadness in her life that he should be the Dauphin of France and she a humble maiden. If he had been a shepherd, or a lackey of the Court, how happy she could have been!