Other ladies were waiting to be presented to the Queen, and Marguerite and her mother moved away.

Keeping her hand on her mother’s elbow Marguerite piloted Louise out of the main salon into a small room. There she shut the door and said: “Maman, I fear you may betray your feelings.”

“That girl!” said Louise.

Marguerite looked over her shoulder significantly.

“That girl!” whispered Louise. “She is so young … and she’s beautiful too. They say Louis can scarce wait for the night and the blessing of the nuptial bed. How can you look so calm, Marguerite, when this very night our hopes may be blighted.”

“Louis is old, Maman.”

“He has taken a new lease on life.”

“It only appears so. The flush on his cheeks is not good health but excitement.” Marguerite took her mother by the shoulder, drew her close and whispered in her ear: “And excitement could be harmful to him.”

“He could die tonight … and the damage could already be done.”

“Dearest Maman, we have to be careful, not only of our words but our looks. Infatuated as Louis is becoming, he could be very susceptible to our slightest mood.”

“Oh, Marguerite,” sighed Louise, “you who have suffered so much with me must understand my feelings this night.”

“I understand absolutely, Maman, and my feelings are yours. We must pray and hope …”

“And watch. Watch the girl, Marguerite, and see that, when we cannot do so, those whom we can trust carry out our wishes. An alarming thought has occurred to me.”

“Yes, Maman?”

“Louis, as you suggest, may be incapable of getting her with child …”

Marguerite’s eyes were full of warning.

Louise hissed: “She is very desirable, that girl. She seems full of dignity but there is a smoldering fire within her.”

“I noticed it,” said Marguerite.

“So if Louis should fail, there might be others to … to …”

Marguerite closed her eyes; there was an expression of fear in her face, and Louise’s own fears were but increased to know that Marguerite shared them.

The King might be too old to provide the heir to France; but what if the young Queen took a lover, and what if he were young enough … virile enough … ? A bastard could inherit the throne, and none be sure that he was a bastard. A bastard to appear at the eleventh hour and oust François from what should be his!

It was unbearable, the greatest of tragedies.

I never suffered quite so much through all the years of anxiety as I do at this moment, thought Louise.

The beautiful young Mary Tudor could cause her greater concern than Anne of Brittany had ever done.

The nuptial bed was being blessed, and the night which Mary had dreaded for so long was about to begin. She listened to the words of benediction. They were sprinkling holy water on the bed while they prayed that she might be fruitful.

She looked at the great bed with its canopy of velvet embroidered with the gold lilies of France. The silken counterpane had been drawn back; her women had undressed her and she was naked beneath the robe which enveloped her.

She thought of that other ceremony when she had lain on a couch and the Duc de Longueville had removed his boot and touched her bare leg with his bare foot. This would be very different.

Louis in his disarray looked older than he had at the marriage ceremony; she could see how swollen his neck was; it hung over the collar of his gown; there was still a faint color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright as they met hers.

In what a different mood from hers did he approach this nuptial bed; it was clear that he was growing impatient of the ceremony while she wished it would go on and on through the night. He was longing for that moment which she so dreaded.

And now it had come. They were in the bed together and one by one those who assisted at the ceremony departed from the room.

Mary lay in the nuptial bed. It was over, and it had been less horrifying than she had believed it would be. Louis was no monster. He had begged her not to be afraid of him; he told her that she enchanted him; that he had never seen anyone as beautiful; he loved her dearly already and it would be his pleasure to show her how deep went his devotion.

He must seem very old to her; he understood that. It was inevitable since she was so young. He could imagine how sad she must be to leave her brother’s Court and come to a strange land to be with strangers. But she would find here the best friend she had ever had in her life—her husband.

It was a comfort to discover that he was so kind. Had she been of a meek nature she would have been very grateful to him, and could have given him some mild affection. But Charles’s image never left her. She longed for Charles; she was capable of strong passion, but only for Charles. He did not know, this kind old man, how he was making her suffer. If he would be good to her there was only one course of action he could take: Leave her alone and then, as soon as possible, die and make her a widow.

But this was something which even she, who sometimes thought that she could endure her lot better if she could be perfectly honest and say what was in her mind, could not betray. She must be submissive; she must pretend that she was shocked by the consummation of the marriage because of her innocence and not because she longed for another man.

She could rejoice at the King’s infirmity when he lay beside her, exhausted.

“You are delightful,” he told her. “Would that you had come to me twenty years ago.”

That was an apology for his weakness. He need not have apologized. She loved his weakness.

And now he slept, and she lay wide awake, saying to herself: If it does not last too long, I can bear it.


BUT NEXT MORNING when the King had risen and she was with her attendants, she thought of Charles and wondered if he were thinking of her this day. Then it seemed to her that she was defiled, and a great melancholy came over her.