Mary was constantly in the company of the Dauphin. There were whispers that he was neglecting his mistress and that all his thoughts were now for the Queen. I was alarmed at this, knowing her impulsive nature; and if she had not talked to me so fervently of her love for Charles Brandon, I should have suspected her of having a love affair with the Dauphin.

He was so very much the leader of the Court. The masques he and his sister devised were elegant and witty, and he was always at the center of them; but he had drawn the Queen into the play to share the honors with him.

I was aware of his mother and sister watching him anxiously. Louise of Savoy was such a formidable lady. Before, there had been such accord between her and Marguerite and François; they had seemed to think as one person. How well the epithet Trinity fitted. And now François was acting apart from them and giving the greatest cause for anxiety. I understood their feelings well. They knew their darling's nature. I had heard that ever since he was in his early teens he had enjoyed amorous adventures. They were part of his life. And now he was unable to hide the desire he felt for the young Queen. Mary knew this and reveled in it. I had seen her lay her hand lightly on his arm and gaze up at him, sparkling and dewy-eyed. I wondered what the King thought of the outrageous Big Boy's fondness for his lovely young Queen. I knew what Louise and Marguerite felt. Nothing could convince them that Mary was not madly in love with François, because they thought every woman must be. They had not heard those monologues that I had listened to in which she had showed so clearly that there was only one man for her. But being Mary she was enjoying the situation; and I believed it made those months tolerable to her.

Meanwhile the terrified mother and sister were watching, sure that Mary would not be able to resist their Caesar. And if François was the successful lover, what if there should be a child? They would think this very likely in the case of their virile paragon. The son of François King of France! No! No! That was not what they wanted… for the son would never be recognized as belonging to François and what use was that to the Trinity?

I wondered whether, in secret, they begged him to take care.

And what of the King? Louis was no fool. Did he see what was going on? I was amazed that he did not put his foot down, put an end to this flirtation—for it could be nothing else—which was going on between his wife and the Dauphin.

I think he was bemused by Mary. She was indeed a very lovely creature—so young and fresh with that magnificent reddish gold hair and the beautiful blue eyes; but it was her vitality which was her greatest charm. Louis had been married to poor deformed Jeanne and later to Anne of Brittany, and in complete contrast was this young girl—wayward but beautiful and spirited.

He made an effort to live up to her, although it seemed to be killing him. He would look on smiling while François beguiled her with his witty conversation; he watched benignly while they danced together or rode side by side. It sometimes seemed as though he was pleased to have François to charm her in his essentially French manner. It was as though he were saying: “This is France. Notice the courtesy of our gentlemen, the wit, the charm.” If anyone could show her these things, François could.

King Louis had changed his way of life completely, I understood. With Anne of Brittany he had retired early. It would have been a staid routine, devoid of excitement. I supposed that much of the time they were together was spent discussing matters of state. There had been two daughters, it was true—neither of them healthy. Mary must seem very charming to him. But he was obviously an old man trying to keep pace with a young and lively wife.

There was a little verse which he had been fond of quoting before the arrival of Mary:

“Lever àsix, diner àdix,


Souper àsix, coucher àdix,


Fait vivre l'homme dix fois dix.”

That was the rule he had followed. Now it was hardly likely that he would live to a hundred.

It seemed to me that everyone was watching him. How long? they seemed to ask and particularly during those Christmas revels. I wondered whether he was in pain. He would sit there smiling but he seemed to be very weary, and his eyes seemed to grow more prominent and his neck more swollen.

Like everyone else at Court, I was aware of what was going on and wondered what the outcome would be. I knew my mistress perhaps better than most; and it was my belief that she was faithful, not so much to the King as to Charles Brandon. I did not believe in this love affair with François; what I did believe was that the sense of mischief in her wanted them all to draw that conclusion. I believe she enjoyed leading François on and watching the acute anxiety of his mother and sister.

François was almost at the post. He could not be cheated now; and Mary was amused by the watchful eyes which studied her so closely, wondering all the time. Was she pregnant? Or wasn't she? Was this the end of hope for the Trinity?

Mary was not naturally unkind; but the only way she could endure the intolerable situation which had been thrust upon her was by extracting some amusement from it. She did not dislike the King; that would have been difficult for he was a very kindly man; he could not help it if his appearance was repulsive to her and she was yearning all the time for handsome Charles Brandon. The King had been ailing before she came—and she longed for freedom.

At this moment Charles was free. But how long would he remain so? The right time… the right place…it was necessary for the lovers to be there when the moment came.

It happened on New Year's Day. They had retired to their room. It was midnight.

He lay in his bed completely exhausted. The last words he said were that he wished to be laid beside his Queen, Anne of Brittany.

Mary wept a little and her tears were genuine.

“He was a good man,” she said, “but it had to be.”

Then a certain radiance came into her face. I knew that she was thinking: I am free. I married once for state reasons. Now my reason will be my own.

There was deep mourning throughout the capital. The clocheteurs des tré-passés, according to the custom, went through the streets ringing their “death bells.” Dolefully they spoke of the passing of the Father of His People. They remembered that not since St. Louis had there been a king to care for his people as had this king. His frugality and thrift, which had been called meanness and avarice during his lifetime, became virtues. Reforms which had been introduced, abuses which had been abolished were remembered. But putting aside the vacillating affections of the people, when the facts were looked squarely in the face, there must have been evidence throughout the country that Louis had been one of the best kings they had ever had. He had worked hard to keep the country out of war and if he had not always succeeded that was not due to a lack of trying; people had prospered under his rule; they should have been grateful to Louis XII—and although it had taken his death to make them realize his virtues, they did at this time. So there was genuine mourning throughout the land.

Mary went to the Hôtel de Clugny for the traditional six weeks and she took me with her.

The Hôtel de Clugny had been the home of the Clugniac monks— hence the name. It was situated in the rue des Mathurins. During the mourning period she was expected to remain most of the time in la chambre de la reine, an apartment made gloomy for the occasion with the daylight shut out and wax candles giving the only light.

Mary herself was dressed completely in white.

She was troubled a little by her conscience. That was inevitable. The King was dead and she had wished him dead. Now she recalled his virtues. He had been so indulgent. He had wanted so much to please her.

“He was always gentle with me,” she said. “It is sad that it had to be thus.”

But she was soon remembering her freedom.

“Six weeks,” she said. “It seems a lifetime. And I am expected not to go from this gloomy chamber until that time is passed. Tell me, little one, who, do you think, will be most anxious to see me?”

I was glad to see the mischief returning to her eyes.

She began to laugh. “They won't be able to wait. They are all agog. How long will it be before they can be sure? You are too young to know these things, my little wiseacre. But you may depend upon it that Madame Louise and Madame Marguerite are beset with anxiety as to the future of their darling. And what of the darling himself? The crown hovers over his head. Is it going to sail right past him? I could die of laughing.”

I was so pleased to see the change in her. I smiled with her.

As the days passed, she grew happier. Her conscience had ceased to worry her.

“He was old,” she said. “He was halfway to the tomb before I came.”

Although she was shut away it was permissible for some to visit her; and of course one who would have special privilege was the Dauphin. He lost no time in coming.

She looked very beautiful in her white mourning clothes as she went to receive him, and when she returned from that interview she was her old sparkling self.

“His great concern was that I might be carrying the King's child,” she said. “Poor man, his thoughts could not go beyond that. Oh, he is so clever, so courteous, his choice of words is exquisite. He could not ask the question outright as my brother or most Englishmen would have done. That would have been crude and vulgar. Is it not amazing that these French—the most licentious people in the world, I believe, flitting from one lady's boudoir to another with impudent bravado and discussing us at length afterward—should be so delicate in this outward treatment of us? Oh, I am having fun with François, little Boleyn. I let him think… yes, perhaps. “How is your health?” he asks with concern. I say to him … listen to this for it is clever…I say, “I am as well as can be expected in the circumstances.” You should have seen his face. Even François with all his beautiful manners could not hide his alarm. What did it mean? Was I referring to my widowhood…or my coming motherhood? I shall amuse myself while I am in this doleful place. Six weeks… and then I am free.”

And amuse herself she did.

Louise and Marguerite came to see her. They could not hide their anxiety. After all, this was the most important time of their lives. Ever since Caesar had been born his mother had had her eyes on the crown, and even though in the early days it had seemed a remote possibility, I believe she thought that even God must realize that He must work a few miracles for the sake of this incomparable boy. They went away in a fever of apprehension.

And when Mary summoned me, she was so amused that she found the mourning chamber tolerable.

She shared the secret with me. She was afraid to impart it to anyone else. I was flattered to be the one she trusted; but I think it was because of my youth. Moreover she would take me by the shoulders and tell me that if I betrayed her she would have me sent to spend the rest of my days in a dungeon in the Tower.

I would never have betrayed her.

She had taken to wearing extra petticoats. “How does that look?” she would ask. “It must not be too much. I could be three months with child. But perhaps we had better make it two. That would be more likely. How does one look at two months? Not much to show, I fear. Let us make it three. After all, it is a possibility, and my husband was in better health when I arrived than he was later. Oh, we are going to deceive them.”

When the Duchesse d'Alençon called to see her, she sent a message saying she was a little ill. She added: “It is to be expected.” Leaving her in that uncertainty as to whether she referred to her husband's death or her pregnancy.

She used to tell me what they said to her.

“We are anxious about your health,” said the Duchess of Savoy. “Marguerite would like to come here to be with you. Oh, I know you must be alone, but Marguerite could come and stay at Clugny… just in case you felt the need to see her.”

“Dear Duchess,” she replied. “You are too kind. I am as well…as I can expect to be. A little sickness now and then and I confess to feeling the need to rest more than I did.”

Mary went on: “She was in a panic. I thought at any moment she was going to shake me. Oh dear, the Trinity is suffering, I can tell you. And what is so amusing is that, if I am with child, whose it is—the King's or François's? It is clear that he wanted to be my lover and his devoted mother and sister do not believe that anyone could resist him. Oh, it is an amusing situation. I wish you were older… then you could understand how amusing.”