‘Your meaning is perfectly clear to me,’ he said, resting on his elbow to look at her.

‘I trust that you will respect my wishes.’

‘Have no fear on that score, Madame. May I wish you goodnight?’

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

She was angry with him. He might at least have shown some sign of regret, even if he had made no attempt at persuasion; he had no manners; he was an oaf, a provincial. It was an insult to have married her to such a man even though he was a King. She looked at the ornate curtains of the bed while she trembled with anger.

He said, after a pause: ‘I perceive your inability to remain still, Madame. Should I attribute this to anger at my unworthiness to occupy this place in the bed, or may I put it down to your desire for me?’

‘You may certainly not put it down to the latter,’ she said sharply; but she was glad he had started to talk again.

‘Do not be too harsh with me, I beg of you,’ he pleaded. ‘We of royal blood cannot choose our wives and husbands, and it is well to make the best of what are chosen for us.’

‘Make the best! What do you mean?’

‘To smile instead of fume. To enjoy friendship, since love is out of the question.’

‘So you feel friendship for me?’

‘If you will but extend the hand of friendship, I shall not refuse it.’

‘That,’ she agreed, ‘would, I suppose, be better than being enemies. But is friendship possible between us? We are of different faiths.’

He lay back on his satin pillow and folded his arms behind his head. ‘Faith?’ he said with a laugh. ‘What has faith to do with us?’

She sat up startled. ‘I do not understand you, Monsieur. You are a Huguenot, are you not?’

‘I am a Huguenot,’ he said.

‘Then you know what I mean by faith.’

‘I am a Huguenot,’ he continued, ‘because I am my mother’s son. My dear Marguerite, had you been her daughter, you would have been a Huguenot. Had I been your father’s son I should have been a Catholic. It is as simple as that.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘some change their faiths. Your mother did. Why, even Gaspard de Coligny was a Catholic once.’

‘These fanatics may change their faiths; but, my dear wife, such as you and I were not meant to be fanatics. We are not unlike in our love of life. We mean to enjoy it, and faith can stand in the way of enjoyment. So our faith is a little thing. You are a Catholic; I am a Huguenot. What of it? You know what you want from life and you get it. I am the same. Our faiths are not our lives, Marguerite. They are things apart.’

‘I have never in the whole of my life heard any talk thus!’ she declared. ‘Is this the Huguenot way?’

He laughed. ‘You know better than that. Why, they are more fanatical than the Catholics, if that be possible. It is just my way . . . and perhaps yours.’

‘But I had thought you . . . as the son of your mother . .

‘I am many men, Marguerite. I am one man to the King, another to your mother, and yet another to Monsieur de Coligny; and ready to be yet another to you, my friendly wife. You see, when I was a baby I had eight different nurses and was reared on eight different kinds of milk. There are eight different men inside this body, which alas! does not find favour in your sight. I am sorry for your sake that I am not as tall and handsome as Monsieur de Guise.’

‘And I am sorry I do not possess the blue eyes and golden hair of Madame de Sauves.’

‘It is true yours are black,’ he said with mock regret. ‘Yet,’ he added maliciously, ‘they are not unattractive. But we stray from the point. We talk of lovers and I would speak of friends.’

‘You are suggesting that as I cannot love you as a husband I might as a friend?’

‘I am suggesting that it would be folly for us to work against each other. I am the King of Navarre; you are the Queen. We should be allies. You, as a good wife, should watch my interests; as a wise wife you should do this, because, my dear Margot, my interests happen to be yours from this day on.’

‘Interests?’

‘Oh, come! You know we live in a web of intrigue. Why, have your brothers and mother brought me here?’

‘In order that you might marry me.’

‘And why should they wish for this marriage?’

‘Surely you know . . . to unite Huguenots and Catholics.’ ‘Is that the only reason?’

‘I know of no other.’

‘And if you did, would you tell me?’

‘That would depend.’

‘Yes. It would depend on whether it was to another’s interest that I should be told. But your interest is my interest now, my Queen. If I lose my kingdom, you lose yours.’

‘That is true.’

‘Then you will help me to preserve that which you share with me?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I might.’

‘You will find me a lenient husband. It is necessary, of course, that we should stay together this night—the etiquette of your royal house demands it—or, in my leniency I should leave you. But it is only one night in our married life. You understand me?’

‘You mean that I shall not interfere with you nor you with me. That seems sound enough.’

‘Ha,’ said the King of Navarre, ‘if all people were as sensible there would be many more happy marriages in the land. I will make no attempt to stop your friendship with Monsieur de Guise, but you, while so fondly admiring his handsome person, his charming manners, and his elegance, will remember, will you not, that the gentleman, while the friend of the Princess Marguerite, might well be the enemy of the Queen of Navarre?’

She answered coldly: ‘Madame de Sauves has beautiful eyes; she has charming golden hair; but you know, do you not, that she is my mother’s chief and most trusted spy?’

He took her hand and pressed it. ‘I see that we understand each other, my dear wife.’

The candles guttered as she murmured: ‘That is a great consolation.’

He answered: ‘There might be other consolations.’

She was silent and he leaned over her to kiss her.

‘I would rather you did not,’ she said.

‘Believe me, it was merely a matter of etiquette.’

Margot laughed. ‘Some of the candles have gone out,’ she said. ‘In the dimmer light you seem different.’

‘And you, my love,’ he told her.

They were silent for a while and he moved closer.

‘On my part,’ she told him, It would merely be because we are a King and Queen and etiquette makes its demands upon us.’

‘And for mine,’ he replied, ‘it would be because I find it so ungallant to be in bed with a lady and resist . . . the demands of gallantry, you understand?’

She moved away, but he had caught her.

He whispered: ‘The gallantry of Béam and the etiquette of France . . . together, my love, they are irresistible.’

Two

IN THE LOUVRE THE BALLETS AND MASQUEScontinued. Outside the common people gathered in groups. They looked up at the lighted windows and said: ‘What does it mean? Huguenots and Catholics dance together; they join hands; they sing; they watch the same tourneys, the same nymphs and shepherds. They are joined in amity . . . and yet, what does it mean?’

The days were hot; there was not a breath of wind. When it was dark the stars seemed big in the sky; and all through the night the sounds of revelry could be heard throughout the city. People danced in the streets and when they were exhausted lay on the cobbles, since Paris could not provide beds for so many visitors. It was all gaiety and celebration and yet there was hardly a person in the city who did not feel that there was something false, a little unreal, about these wedding festivities.

Least concerned of any was perhaps the bride. She danced wildly; she seemed more fascinating than ever, more alluring; the reluctant bride enjoying her role, too absorbed in her own affairs to think of anything that might be happening about her.

She was the most enchanting figure in that ballet which Henry of Guise with his two brothers and sisters had devised for the entertainment of the court., ‘The Mystery of the Three Worlds’ they called it, and it was a brilliant charade into which they had infused a certain mockery, a certain defiance of their enemies. Henry of Navarre and that other Henry, the Prince of Condé, had been dressed as knights and had been shown as entering Paradise, where they found among others such beauteous nymphs as Marguerite, the bride, and Charlotte de Sauves. They danced together rapturously to the applause of the onlookers; but it seemed that this was not the end of the ballet, for quite unexpectedly the King and his brother Anjou appeared, more richly dressed than Navarre and Condé, and there was a mock battle between the four knights which Navarre and Condé realized they must lose, for none—even in play—must overcome the King of France. And so Navarre and Condé were driven from the women; and there appeared numbers of courtiers dressed as devils who made sport with Navarre and Condé and drove them into the company of more courtiers in similar dress; curtains were parted to show a great fire, and it was understood immediately that the Huguenot Princes had been driven to Hell.

The Catholics cheered wildly as the King and Anjou danced with the ladies while the ‘devils’ pranced wildly about the bewildered Navarre and Condé, prodding them towards the fire.

The Huguenots watched in silence and with apprehension. Only the King of Navarre seemed to be enjoying himself, having a riotous time in Hell, trying to fight his way back to Paradise and almost succeeding in wresting Madame de Sauves from Anjou and carrying her to Hell with him.

Afterwards, dancing with Henry of Guise, Margot said to him: ‘You spoil the fun with such masques as that.’

‘Nay,’ said Guise. ‘All enjoyed it.’

‘The Catholics jeered,’ said Margot, ‘but the Huguenots were uneasy:

‘Then perhaps they will change their ways before they are driven to Hell in very truth.’

‘I wish that you were less of a fanatic. Fanaticism is folly.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Who has been counselling you?’

‘No one. To whose counsel do you think I would listen? I am sickened by this strife between Huguenots and Catholics.’

‘Not long ago you were a firm Catholic. Has this marriage of yours anything to do with the change?’

‘I am still a firm Catholic, and my marriage has not changed me in the least.’

‘Are you sure of that? It seems to me that you do not view your husband with the same disfavour.’

‘What is the use now that I am married to him? You are jealous?’

‘Maddeningly. What do you imagine my feelings have been these last days and nights?’

‘Ah!’ sighed Margot. ‘It was when I looked at you that I could not make the responses.’

‘I know.’

‘Henry, do something for me.’

‘Anything in the world.’

‘Then stop this baiting of Huguenots. Let us be peaceful for a change. That stupid masque of the Three Worlds, and that one in which you made my husband and Condé Turks and my brothers Amazons to beat them in battle . . . in such you go too far. All remembered how the Turks were beaten at Lepanto, and they knew what insults you intended to convey. It is tasteless and inelegant.’

‘Marriage has made you tender to these Huguenots.’

‘Huguenots! Catholics! Let us think of something else. But you cannot, can you? Even now when you talk to me, talk of love, your thoughts are elsewhere. Do I not know it? What are you thinking of? What are you hatching?’

She had moved closer to him and as she looked up into his brilliant eyes, just for a second she saw distrust in them. They had been passionate lovers; but although he desired her as she desired him, he would not trust her with his secrets, for now she was the wife of a Huguenot, and nothing—desire, passion, love—could make him forget that the Huguenots were his bitterest enemies.

‘I am thinking of you,’ he said.

She laughed, a trifle scornfully. Still, he was very handsome and to be near him was to realize afresh his charms; his vitality matched that of her husband, but how different he was. He was beautiful, elegant; he moved with grace; his manners were perfect; he was skilled in chivalry. How could she compare such a man with her coarse provincial husband, quick-witted and amusing though he might be? Henry of Guise and Henry of Navarre! As well compare an eagle with a crow, a swan with a duck. Henry of Guise was serious; Henry of Navarre careless. Henry of Guise looked for greatness and honour; Henry of Navarre for women to give him pleasure. I cannot be blamed for loving Henry of Guise, thought Margot.