Margot was so angry that she wanted to return to Paris at once. Indeed, this behaviour on the part of Navarre seemed as good an excuse as any. She knew that she would continue to feel out of place in this little court, which seemed barbaric when compared with the ceremonious state observed at the Louvre, Blois or Chenonceaux. But Catherine calmed her, refraining with an effort from reminding her daughter that this journey had not been made solely for Margot’s pleasure.

Catherine surveyed her band of ladies; they would very soon do their work. In the meantime let the boor of Béarn show them that he cared nothing for Paris manners and Paris ways. Let him frolic awhile with his little Fleurette and Picotine. It would not be for long. Dayelle had already lifted in admiration those beautiful almond-shaped eyes to the King of Navarre; and although he had pretended to be completely absorbed in his humble mistresses, he cast an occasional glance at the beautiful Greek. He was, Catherine reasoned, the son of Antoine de Bourbon and Jeanne of Navarre, so there must be some good taste in him. Catherine was confident that Dayelle—or, failing Dayelle, Madame de Sauves or one of her women—would lure the King away from his humble playmates in due course.

Catherine directed Margot’s attention to a man whom the latter had favoured a year or so before, when they were in Paris together. This was a handsome nobleman named du Luc. Margot was pleased to be entertained by this gentleman; and this, thought Catherine, would keep her satisfied at Nérac for a little while.

And Margot did become absorbed. She amazed her subjects, and it was only a few of the most puritanical who looked upon her as a wicked, brazen woman. Her delight in living captivated most of them, and now that she had a lover who satisfied her temporarily, this love of living was apparent to all. What did she care for the puritans? She cared only for those who admired her. She appeared in public dressed in gowns designed by herself—gowns which would have startled even the court of France. She appeared in red wigs, blonde wigs, and sometimes without a wig, showing her abundant dark hair, which was more beautiful than any wig. She danced in white satin, in purple velvet, in cloth of gold and silver; she favoured Spanish velvet the colour of carnations and had one gown of this material and colour which was weighed down with sequins. She adorned herself with jewels and plumes. She was the magnificent, the fantastic Queen of Navarre. Once she appeared at a function in a robe which had needed fifteen ells of fine gold material, while about her neck hung a rope of four hundred pearls. Diamonds sparkled in her hair, which was decorated with white feathers. She would put on a different personality with each dress. In the gold-thread gown she was all regal dignity; in carnation velvet she would dance madly and recklessly, sometimes with amorous glances at du Luc, sometimes with speculative ones at the handsome Henri de la Tour, the Vicomte de Turenne, who was beginning to interest her. She sang romantic ballads composed by herself; she showed the people of Nérac how to dance those dances which were fashionable in Paris—the Spanish pavana and the Italian corrente.

Her mother looked on, watching her daughter as well as Dayelle and Navarre.

Navarre himself was reluctantly fascinated by his wife. She could have used her influence with her husband had she wished. Ah, thought Catherine, if only she would obey me. If only she were a member of my Squadron! But Margot’s weakness in her mother’s eyes was her lack of any motive beyond the gratification of her sexual desires.

It was when Margot was in her apartments after that ball at which she had enchanted many in her carnation-coloured Spanish velvet, that Navarre came to her. She now seemed to him more attractive than any woman at his court. He was amused by Dayelle, who was obviously at the Queen Mother’s command, just waiting for him to notice her; but this wife of his, with her elegance, her arrogance and her sharp wit, he had to admit—while the most infuriating—was the most fascinating person he had ever met.

He decided to spend the night with her.

She raised her eyes slowly and looked at him with that haughty disdain to which he had become accustomed, and his desire for her faded and the impulse came to him to strike her. He was the King of Navarre, he would like to remind her; and though she was its Queen, her title came through him.

He sat on a stool, his knees apart, a hand on each knee.

She shuddered at this most inelegant attitude, and she noticed that his jacket was torn, and splashed with wine. No amount of jewels or ornaments could cover his slovenliness; and having other plans, Margot had no wish to entertain him tonight.

He dismissed her attendants and, when they had gone, he came over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened, wrinkled her nose, wondering when he had last washed. She could see the dirt under his nails; it seemed more noticeable than all the sapphires and rubies on his hands.

‘How delightful it is when Paris deigns to come to Nérac!’ he said.

‘I am glad that Your Majesty is pleased.’

He put his hand under her chin and, jerking it up, kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She was unresponsive. She had seen him make the same gesture that morning to Xaintes, her chambermaid.

‘You do not seem to like my kisses, Madame.’

‘Monsieur, I am not a chambermaid.’

‘Ah,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder, ‘you must not be jealous. What was that? A little frolic. Nothing more.’

‘Such frolics,’ she said, ‘might be conducted with a little secrecy, I suggest.’

‘In Paris perhaps, for in Paris everything is sham. Here in Nérac . . . if a King wishes to kiss a chambermaid, that is very pleasant . . . both for the King and the chambermaid.’

‘It is not so pleasant for the Queen.’

‘What! Can a Queen be jealous of a chambermaid?’

‘No, Monsieur, she cannot; but she can be sensitive of her dignity, of her honour.’

You think too much of dignity and honour. Come, do not sit there brooding. I would like to see you gay, as you were in the ballroom. You should not brood over a few kisses. You should not wonder whether I love too much these little friends of mine.’

‘I was not wondering that,’ she said.

‘What then? What did you wonder?’

‘When you last bathed.’

He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Bathed!’ he shouted. ‘Bathed! We do not bathe in Nérac.’

‘Nérac’s King certainly does not.’

She rose and walked away from him, looking superb, with her train of velvet sweeping behind her, and the flash of her eyes matching that of the diamonds in her hair.

‘We should get ourselves children,’ said Navarre. ‘Here we are . . . a King and a Queen . . . and no heir to offer Navarre. It cannot go on. I have many sons, many daughters; and not one heir to the throne of Navarre.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I agree,’ she said,’that that is a necessity.’

She was silent for a while. She did not believe that she could bear children. She thought of all the lovers she had known. . . and never a sign of a child from any of them. Henry of Guise was the father of a large family; and as Henry of Navarre had just said, he too had many children; but by Margot, who had had a thousand opportunities, not one had been conceived. Still she was young, and they needed an heir. She sighed, but made no attempt to hide her distaste.

‘Yes,’ she repeated at length, ‘it is a necessary duty. But first I must ask you to grant me a favour.’

‘Anything!’ he said. ‘Anything you ask. What is it?’

‘You will see. You need not look dismayed. I shall not ask you to change your faith again. No. But this is the smallest favour.’

She went to the door and called to one of her women. Navarre watched them, whispering together. Margot’s great attraction lay in her impetuous actions. The woman went away and Margot returned.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘I am impatient. What is this favour?’ ‘Simply this. It is that before you come nearer to me you will allow my woman to wash . . . at least your feet.’

He stared at her. ‘You call that a favour!’

‘I should not have asked any such favour of you, had I not been afraid that the odour of your feet would make me faint.’

He was angry. He thought of the ready surrender of the little Fleurette, who was so like her name; the thought of the eagerness of the boulangère. And this woman dared to tell him that he should wash his feet before he approached her!

‘Madame,’ he said, biting back his fury, ‘must I once more remind you that this is not the Louvre?’

‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you need not remind me. There is too much to remind me already.’

The woman had come in. She set the gold basin on the floor and stood waiting.

‘If,’said Margot, ‘you would rather the duty was performed by one of your gentlemen, please say so.’

For a few seconds Navarre was speechless. Then he turned to the woman. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.

She did not wait. She fled instantly.

Margot stood, drawn up to her full height, the velvet gown like a sheath of scarlet flame that enveloped her, her eyes flashing scorn, her lips mocking. You are dirty! said those eyes. You offend me.

He was half inclined to tear the scarlet velvet from her, to force himself upon her; but his anger was short-lived, like all his emotions, and it was already failing.

He stooped, picked up the bowl, and threw it at the hangings. Then he began to laugh.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘shall I perfume myself? Shall I repose on black satin sheets? Shall I bathe in asses’ milk? Shall I become as one of the mignons of the King of France?’ He began to mince about the room. ‘Oh, smell my feet! Are they not enchanting? This new perfume comes from René, the Queen Mother’s poisoner.’

His anger had not entirely left him and he turned on Margot. ‘Madame, I would have you know that I am the King in this realm. If I do not wish to wash my feet, then unwashed feet shall be the order of the day. You will like my unwashed feet, as you like your brother’s scented ones. Madame, here in Béarn, we are men, not popinjays! Do I ask you to give up your baths . . . your milk baths that make your skin so white? No, I do not! Then I beg, of you, do not ask me to follow a decadent fashion of your brother’s crazy court.’

‘I only ask it,’ said Margot, ‘if you wish to come near me. The dirt and sweat of your body is so precious to you, I do not ask you to part with it . . . so long as you do not bring it near me.’

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘the price you ask is too big a one for something which I do not greatly care whether I possess or not.’

And with that he left her and went to Dayelle. Margot was pleased. She retired to her private apartments and sent one of her women with a message to du Luc, who had had the gallantry, the chivalry, to bring the manners and customs of the Louvre to Nérac.


* * *

During her stay in the dominions of her son-in-law, Catherine felt a return of her old strength. Her rheumatism worried her, but her spirits were better. She had come in order to discover what Navarre was doing in his realm so far from the court of France; to see what resources he had at his disposal; to set her Escadron loose among his ministers that they might worm out their secrets; she had come ostensibly to make peace between the King of Navarre and the King of France, to call at Nérac a council of Huguenots and Catholics, and to make one more attempt to settle their differences. She fancied she had had some success. Like a chameleon, she changed colour according to her immediate background. Here, in the Huguenot stronghold, her sympathies were for the Huguenots. She even learned to speak in the simple phraseology which these people favoured, suppressing the extravagant, flowery language which was the fashion at the court of France. There were times when this would become too much for her sense of the ridiculous, and she would shut herself in her apartments with her women, where they would amuse themselves by talking what she called ‘le langage de Canaan’, exaggerating the puritan speech, introducing into it a touch of ribaldry which would set Catherine laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks. But the next day she would greet the Huguenots calmly and, without a twitch of her lips, address them in their simplified form of language as though it came as naturally to her as to them.