‘A curse on Navarre!’ he cried. ‘A curse on his harlot wife! There will be no peace for this realm while either of them live.’

‘She must go back to her husband,’ said Catherine. ‘What is done cannot be altered. My dearest son, those friends of yours advised you to behave as you did, not for the good of France, but on account of their own petty jealousy. You must not allow personal feelings to enter into the government of a country.’

He frowned. That was the most she dared say against his mignons. Meanwhile, she wondered how she could rid herself of those two, Epernon and Joyeuse, the most dangerous of them all. But so many of his mignons had died that she feared he would be suspicious of her if any further accidents overtook them; and she could not bear to lose that little affection, that little respect which he still had for her.

But she should rejoice. Such matters as this should prove to him that his mignons only led him into folly. It proved something else; it showed up clearly the growing shrewdness of Navarre.

Envoys were being sent back and forth between the courts of Paris and Nérac. The King of France was placating the King of Navarre. He was now weakly declaring that he had not meant what he had said regarding his sister, and that he had been misinformed; it was a fact, he realized, that very often virtuous Princesses were not exempt from slander.

Secure in his little kingdom, Navarre laughed with glee. Although he adored—for the time being—his beautiful Corisanda, and although she carried his child, he was not altogether sure that he wanted to lose Margot, that most amusing and amazing of women; and he might, if the King of France offered him big enough concessions, consider taking her back.

And at length he did agree to take her back, since, as the main concession, the King of France had withdrawn his Or risons from several towns close to Navarre’s domain.

Navarre laughed, well pleased. Margot’s trip to the court of France had been advantageous as well as highly diverting.


* * *

There was consternation throughout the Louvre and throughout Paris. In the court of Nérac there was such excitement as had rarely been known there before. Even the King of Navarre was silent, contemplating the future.

The Duke of Anjou had fallen seriously ill, and there was little hope of his recovery.

Margot was weeping for her brother; she had loved him, some said, more than a sister should love a brother. Yet, in spite of her grief, Margot was as alert as was her husband and his ministers. If her brother should die there was nowhere in the world where that event could be considered of more importance than at Nérac.

In the streets of Paris people were whispering against the Italian woman. ‘They say that Jezebel has poisoned him.’

‘But can that be so? Her own son?’

‘Her own son! What of poor little Francis the Second? What of poor mad Charles? They’ll tell you that she sent those two to the grave before they need have gone. Many have received her Italian poisons—son, daughter, cousin . . . what matters it to her? She is evil . . . this Queen Jezebel of France.’

But Catherine sincerely regretted the sickness of her son and was, in fact, frantic with anxiety. Anjou dying! What would happen if Henry were to die? These children of hers did not seem to be able to grow to maturity. Henry himself had aged far beyond his years. If Henry died, Navarre would be next in succession. It was true that Margot would be Queen of France, but could she trust Margot? Could she trust Navarre?

The people in the streets were fools to think she would poison this son. They did not understand her. They did not know that her murders were not real murders; they were merely eliminations of tiresome people who stood in the way of the power of the house of Valois—nothing more! There was no personal feeling in the killing of those who must be removed. Had she murdered that woman who had caused her years of humiliation and torture during the lifetime of her husband? No! Diane de Poitiers had gone free simply because, when Catherine would have been able to murder her, Diane had ceased to be of any importance.

Catherine felt herself to be a sorely misunderstood woman. But the slander of the streets had never hurt her. Why should she bother herself with it now? Could she be feeling this faint resentment because she was growing old, because she sometimes felt weary of the continual struggle to hold the power she had won?

Her thoughts went at once to her old enemy, Philip of Spain. How would he react to the death of Anjou? What would he do to prevent the Huguenot King of Navarre’s becoming the King of Catholic France? She was sure he would do something. The Netherlands were not causing him so much anxiety now as previously. Parma had done good work for his master; and a few months ago the Prince of Orange, that bulwark of all Protestants, had been assassinated. Thus Coligny’s daughter Louise, who had married the Prince after the death of Téligny, had lost both her husbands in violent circumstances. Coligny’s wife, Jacqueline, was still in prison, where she had been since the murder of her husband. Catherine must watch those Huguenots. She must watch Philip of Spain. Poor Anjou had been ineffectual in life, but his death was going to make him the important figure he had always longed to be.

The news came that Anjou was dead. His poor Valois constitution had not been able to throw off the inflammation of the lungs. Anjou dead . . . and Henry of Navarre was heir to the throne of France. The whole of Europe was alert. A Protestant King of France was going to alter the balance of power. England prepared to send help to the Netherlands under Leicester; and in spite of the loss of the beloved Prince of Orange, the Netherlanders were filled with new hope. Philip of Spain had turned an anxious eye towards Paris and was calling his council meetings. He was looking to the one man in France who, he knew, would never allow a Protestant to rule; and Henry of Guise, the leader of the Catholic League, was fast becoming the most important man in France.

Catherine waited apprehensively. She held long and secret councils with the King; but the King was in no mood for business, for he had recently had a new collection of monkeys and parrots sent to him and was deciding which friends should share them with him. There were his dogs to claim his attention; there were his mignons to amuse him and charm his time away. Epernon and Joyeuse were rivals in his affections now, and if he gave Joyeuse a present, he must cap it with a more extravagant gift to Epernon; and that only resulted in increasing Jealousy on the part of Joyeuse. Epernon had been given the Colonel-Generalship of France; Joyeuse had therefore to be made Admiral of France; then Epernon must have the government of Metz, Verdun, and Toul. And so it went on. The richest men in France were Epernon and Joyeuse; and if Joyeuse were the richer one day, on the next Epernon must be.

Joyeuse, back from Rome, wanted to be married. He asked for a rich wife, a woman who could bring him honour. ‘You have a wife, dearest Sire; and you know it is my aim to be as like you as possible.’

The King was amused. His darling should have a wife; and his bride should be the Queen’s own sister, who could bring him a very large dowry.

Joyeuse clapped his hands with glee and, with the King and the other mignons, began planning the wedding festivities. These were to last for two weeks and they were going to cost a fabulous sum. That was unimportant. The people of Paris loved festivities, and it was well known that people must pay for what they liked.

So the people looked on at the wedding of Joyeuse; and after Joyeuse was married, Epernon must be married too.

The King was at his wit’s end to provide an equally rich wife for darling Epernon; as for his wedding festivities, coming so close to those of that dear wretch Joyeuse, he really did not know how he was going to provide such a show and so prevent Epernon’s being hideously jealous. He managed it partly by rifling the Municipal Treasury; and he thought of a very good way of adding to the proceeds of that robbery; he put up the price of judgeships. He and his darlings laughed together. For a King there were always ways and means of finding money.

The Battus loomed into prominence once more. The King and his mignons organized processions through the streets. It was such fun, after the ceremonies in their gorgeous jewelled garments, to parade in sacks. They had white sacks which were so much more charming to look at than the sacks previously worn; and these white sacks looked delightful with skulls embroidered on them.

The King was enthusiastic. It did show the people—after those really extravagant weddings of the two darlings—that the King and his friends were a very religious band of young men at heart.

Catherine tried remonstrating as she watched uneasily. She knew that all eyes were on Paris now. Elizabeth of England watched; William of Nassau watched from Holland and Zeeland; Henry of Navarre waited slyly, as one who could afford to wait; Philip of Spain was on the alert; and Henry of Guise was at hand. Had the two latter exchanged secret communications which had not come into the Queen Mother’s hands? she wondered.

The ridiculous ceremonies went on; there were bursts of extravagant feasting; the shivering Parisians looked through the windows of the Louvre and saw the King in a woman’s gown of green silk; they saw his mignons dressed as court ladies.

Paris looked on, silent and sullen, while revolution quivered in the air of that city.

Six

CATHERINE, THROWING OFF THE RIGOURS OF HER INCREASING YEARS, trying to ignore the nagging pain of her rheumatic limbs, for the first time being careful of what she ate—for too many years she had shown little restraint where those foods which she loved were concerned—bestirred herself to fresh energies. Disaster was near. Her power might at any moment be snatched from her. She realized that during the last few years she had followed will-o’-the-wisps; she had travelled about the country making peace, removing her enemies, keeping the crown safe—so she had thought; and because one man had seemed to lose his ambition, to have been content with his place in life, she had ignored him; and thus he had been free to continue with his secret work and, like some underground creature, he had tunnelled beneath the very foundations of her power, so that instead of its being on firm ground, it was ready to totter. She should have known that the most ambitious man in France would never lose his ambition. She should never have allowed her attention to be diverted from Henry, Duke of Guise.

What did he plan? His League was now the most powerful force in France. Insidiously it had grown, and in silence, while the attention of those who should have watched it had been cunningly directed to minor dangers. And the League was working against the King.

Catherine looked back on the years of her son’s reign. The clever though effeminate young man he had been in his teens had changed. The better side of his nature had been suppressed, so that now, apart from those moments when he displayed his wit and an unexpected grasp of affairs, he seemed nothing but a decadent fop. His health was poor, his constitution weak; and there was a strain of cynicism in him which seemed to indicate his belief that his life could not be a long one and that he intended to use it exactly as he pleased for that reason. He had disappointed his mother, and she had allowed herself to be hurt. There had been times when she had let her love for an ungrateful son override her love of power. She should have been wiser and remembered a bitter lesson which another beloved Henry had taught her years ago; and she thought now of those years of misery and humiliation, of the wasted torture of watching her husband and his mistress through a hole in the floor; so much unhappiness had been the result of self-inflicted wounds. She was surprised that she had not learned how futile that line of conduct could be, for evidently she had not learned this lesson, since, with this Henry as with the other, she had allowed her emotions to intrude into her plan for living. Emotion should have had no part whatsoever in the life of Catherine de’ Medici.

But that was over now; yet it had taken the threat of disaster to show her the folly of her ways. She loved her son, but it was more important to keep her power than his affection. If necessary, she might have to work against him.