“What is it, my dear?” demanded Louise, and François, who was with his mother, came swiftly to his sister’s side.

“I have just left the Queen,” stammered Margaret.

“And she has told you …,” began François.

Marguerite shook her head. “I can’t believe it, and yet …”

“My dearest, it is unlike you to be incoherent,” François murmured.

“Come, come,” put in Louise impatiently. “What is it?”

“I was studying her figure and thinking that it had thickened even since yesterday. She was seated and suddenly rose; I am sure my eyes did not deceive me, but it seemed that something beneath her gown moved.”

“Is it so far gone then!” cried Louise in panic. She began counting on her fingers. “They were married in October. Could it have happened then? Impossible. Old Louis would have been so proud, he would never have kept the secret.”

“Not a child,” said Marguerite slowly, “definitely not a child. It was as though something … slipped.”

The three looked at each other.

Louise spoke first. “It’s impossible. Would she attempt to trick us? For what purpose? What can she hope to gain from it?”

“Some amusement,” suggested François, and he began to laugh, partly with relief. For if what had entered his mind were indeed true then he would be a very happy man.

“We must find out,” declared Louise.

“How?” asked Marguerite.

“How, my dear! I shall go to her apartments. I shall see what it is she wears beneath her garments.”

“You cannot mean, Maman,” protested Marguerite, “that you will go to the Queen’s chamber and ask to see what she wears beneath her gown! Remember she is still the Queen of France.”

“My dear Marguerite, if your eyes have not deceived you as that girl is trying to deceive us, I am—at this moment—the mother of the King of France. I fancy my son would allow no one to criticize my actions. Is that not so, Sire?”

“Mother, if I ever forget what I owe to you I should never deserve to wear the crown.”

“Then I shall take this chance. Come with me, Marguerite. But wait awhile. We will prepare her for our meeting. Go, my dear, and send one of the pages to the Hôtel de Clugny to tell the Queen that we beg leave to call on her.”

Mary patted her body affectionately. A visit from Louise and Marguerite! When the former came she could always be sure of some amusement; she never felt ashamed of duping her, as she did Marguerite.

“How do I look, Anne?”

“Very enceinte, Madame.”

“What would you say, my child? Three months?”

Laughter bubbled to Anne’s lips. “It would seem, Madame, that you carry a large and healthy boy and have been doing so for more than three months.”

“And if I look larger than other women that is natural, Mistress Anne. Do I not carry a little king? Do I carry him high? They tell me that that is a sign of a boy.”

“Oh yes, Madame. But you are far too large.”

“We will leave it now, Anne. I shall remain thus until the English embassy arrives. See who is at the door.”

Anne came back, her eyes sparkling. “Madame d’Alençon with her mother, Madame.”

Mary went to her couch and reclined there, looking wan.

“How is that, Anne?”

“Excellent, Madame.”

“Bring them in. And then go discreetly into the corner and sit there with your needlework. You must look very serious. Remember that you are in a chamber of mourning.”

Mary might have been warned by the militant glare in Louise’s eyes, but she scarcely looked at her.

She smiled wanly and held out her hand.

“Welcome,” she said in a quiet voice. “It does me so much good to see you here. And Marguerite also. Welcome too, my dear.”

“We have been hearing accounts of your health which give us some concern,” Marguerite told her.

“My health? You must not be so anxious on my behalf. It is all so natural.”

“And how are you feeling, now, Madame?”

“A little tired. A little sick now and then. With diminished appetite, and now and then a fancy for some odd thing.”

“I trust your servants are taking good care of you.”

“The utmost care. The little Boleyn is a treasure.”

“I would,” said Marguerite, “that you would allow me to be with you more frequently.”

“At such a time I am happy to be with little Boleyn. I am in no mood even for your sparkling conversation.”

Louise had spoken little, but her sharp eyes never left the Queen’s reclining figure for one moment.

She came close to the couch and two spots of color burned in her cheeks, as she said: “I trust, Madame, that you did not catch the King’s complaint when you nursed him so carefully.”

“The King’s complaint?”

“Gout!” hissed Louise, as with a swift movement she leaned over the couch and touched that spot where the padding beneath Mary’s gown was thickest.

“Madame!” Mary began indignantly, leaping from the couch as she spoke.

Louise, so triumphant, so conscious of the fact that as privileged mother of the King she was in a position to act as familiarly as she cared to with the Dowager Queen, jerked up the Queen’s gown, exposing the layers of petticoats; and not content with that she probed further until she was able to pull at the padding.

Mary shrieked her protest but Louise was in command now.

“A new fashion perchance from England?” asked Marguerite, and there was laughter in her voice.

“Exactly so,” answered Mary. “Did you not like it?”

“It gave you the appearance of a pregnant woman,” went on Marguerite, for she saw that her mother was struck speechless by the mingling of delight and fury.

“Is that so?” replied Mary calmly. “Then that must have pleased some, while it displeased others.”

“Your royal body is more charming in its natural state,” went on Marguerite.

Mary sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I feel you may be right.”

By this time Louise had recovered her speech, and all the anxiety of years was slipping from her. But she had to make sure. She took Mary by the arm and shook her.

“You will tell me,” she said, “that you are not with child.”

Mary’s mischievous eyes looked straight into Louise’s. The little game was over. She had to tell them the truth.

“Madame,” she said, “I am not with child. I trust that ere long I may have the pleasure of greeting the King and saying, as all his subjects will wish to: ‘Vive François Premier.’ ”


HE SAT OPPOSITE HER in the mourning chamber. He was at his most handsome and insouciant. The anxiety was over; moreover it was a thing of the past because it had gone forever.