In the royal apartments Louis embraced his Queen.

“You are now truly Queen of France, my dear,” he said. “And it gave me great pleasure to witness your coronation.”

“It was an impressive ceremony, and I trust I did all that was expected of me.”

“You acted with perfect composure as you always do.”

She was momentarily moved because of his pride in her; and she was ashamed because of the many times she had wished him dead. She still did, but she was sorry that it had to be; and she had an impulse then to throw herself on to her knees before him and beg him to understand the motive behind her desires. She wanted to explain: It is not you personally, Louis, for you have shown me nothing but goodness; it is simply that, having been forced to marry when I love elsewhere, I cannot live without hope that I may one day be free.

He was shrewd, she knew; and often she wondered whether he understood more than he let her believe. Had he noticed the change in her since the arrival of the English party? Others had—Marguerite for instance. Marguerite was clever, yet like most people had her blind spot, and that was where her brother was concerned. She thought that every woman must be in love with him and ready to follow when he beckoned; and he had certainly beckoned to Mary.

Life was too complicated; and she was simple in her desires. She knew what she wanted—so few people did that—and when one knew so certainly, it was possible to make a straight path toward it. She was as certain of this as she was of being alive: one day she would marry Charles, because Louis must die sooner or later and, when he did so, she had her brother’s permission to marry where she would. It was this knowledge which helped her to live through these days.

She wished it were possible to explain all this to this kind, tired old man; but of course it was not. Louis was tolerant and indulgent—but not to the extent he would need to be to accept such a situation.

When they retired she said: “I am so tired tonight.”

“My dear,” he replied, stroking the long golden curls, “it has been an exhausting day for you.”

She lay down and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. He bent over her and kissed her forehead gently before lying down beside her.

Perhaps he was relieved; for he too was very tired. He was asleep almost at once. She was not. She lay breathing as quietly as she could, trying to propel herself into the future, reminding herself that every hour that passed was bringing her nearer and nearer to her heart’s desire.

And in the morning Louis left for Paris. He wanted to be there to receive her when she made her ceremonial entry into his capital.

The grand procession was moving toward Paris, led by a guard of Swiss archers, the heralds of France and England, and the peers of France. The noblemen themselves followed with the Princes of the Blood Royal leading; and it seemed that each had endeavored to outdo all others by the splendor of his equipage.

Mary herself rode in her litter; she was dressed in cloth of gold and on her head was her glittering crown; with her hair falling about her shoulders she looked like a fairy queen. Beside the litter, mounted on a magnificent charger, himself a-glitter with jewels, rode the Dauphin.

He chatted lightly with her as they rode along, but behind his conversation was the urgency of his desire. He told her that there had never been a queen or a woman in the world to compare with her; and she listened complacently, all the time wondering whether she would see Charles at the banquet and whether she could arrange to have him beside her.

“Since you have come to France you are more beautiful than ever,” he told her. “I ask myself why this should be.”

She smiled absentmindedly and he went on: “I think I know. You have become happier, since you have been in France, than you were when you arrived.”

“That may be so.”

“And that is due to some of us … or one of us?”

She smiled at the group of people who were calling greetings to her.

“When we are in Paris,” went on François, “it will be easier for us to meet.”

“In Paris?” she repeated idly.

“You shall see.”

“I shall see,” she echoed, and the Dauphin was satisfied.

They had reached the Porte St. Dennis on which a tableau had been set up, and there was a halt to admire it. It represented a ship in which were sailors who chanted a welcome to the beautiful Queen.

This was the first of the tableaux and what were called mysteries; at several points in the city they had been set up and at each of them the cavalcade must stop while praises were sung to the Queen. Thus the journey to Notre Dame was punctuated by many halts; and when the cathedral was reached and Mary was received there, and had attended the service in her honor, she was beginning to feel tired because it was nearly six o’clock. But the long day was by no means over. She would have supper at the Palais de la Cité, but this she must do in public and during the meal she would be the center of attention. She dared not show how weary she was. She must continue to smile; and all the time she was watchful because she knew that somewhere among the crowds who stared at her was Charles Brandon, and she would certainly see him at the joust, which would take place within a few days’ time, to celebrate her coronation.

Always the Dauphin was at her side; continually he whispered to her, waiting for her to give him that encouragement for which he sought and which he was certain he would soon be given.

Louis had taken up his residence at the Hôtel des Tournelles so that, he had said, all the attention should be concentrated on the Queen. Mary wondered whether he was glad to escape the ceremonies. At the Tournelles he would be resting in his apartment, eating simple food which had been specially prepared for him, and going to bed early, so that when she joined him he would be ready, as he said and as she dreaded, to be a good husband to her.

In the meantime she had some respite, and she strove to forget what the future held for her. Tonight she would be alone.

In the grande salle of the Palais de la Cité, Mary took her seat which had been placed on that tablet of marble from which proclamations were made. The room—which was two hundred and twenty-two feet in length—was hung with rich tapestry; and round the walls were effigies of the Kings of France, from Pharamond, that Knight of the Round Table who was said to have been the first King of France and reigned in the fifth century, to Louis XII himself.

Mary’s attendants were headed by Claude and Marguerite, and she was conscious of their watchful eyes, particularly when François was near. She felt sorry for poor Claude and wanted to tell her that she need have no fear, and that she herself had no intention of becoming François’s mistress. Not that that would prevent him from giving the poor creature cause for jealousy.

How different it will be when Charles and I are married! sighed Mary.

She was thankful on account of her good health that day, for it had been a long and trying ordeal; and as she sat in that magnificent hall she suddenly saw the English party among the diners, and with them Charles.

Across the assembly their eyes met, conveying messages of love and longing.

Mary was no longer weary; and none who had not witnessed the day’s pageantry would have guessed that she had been the center of it; she was gay, fresh and sparkling.

Many people watching her said to themselves: “The Queen is in love.” And because the Dauphin was never far from her side, because he too was unable to hide his feelings, it was whispered that a delicate contretemps was brewing.

“Watch the Dauphin and the Queen!” was the whisper that passed round the hall.


A HIGH STAGE had been erected in the park of the Hôtel des Tournelles and on this had been put a couch, for the King’s gout was troubling him again and he was too indisposed to be able to sit in one position for long at a time. Yet he must be present on this occasion, because the English had come over specially to test their skill in the joust against the French champions, and already the excited people of Paris were crowding into the Rue St. Antoine which adjoined the Park of Les Tournelles where the lists had been set up.