Madame Serpent (24 page)

Catherine looked at Henry appealingly. She was telling him:
You see, I have
means of finding out everything that if you would but link yourself with me, my
darling, you would discover how I would serve you.

‘How like him that would be!’ said Henry contemptuously. ‘I verily believe he is the kind of man to live on a stepmother.’

He blew out the candles and came to the bed.

She was trembling, as she always trembled; and she tried not to think of

what she had seen through the hole which, at Saint-Germain, connected her apartments with those of Diane.

―――――――

A stir of excitement ran through the court; the King spoke of it to his new favourite, d’Enghien, with irritation. Madame
d’Etampes
and her lover, de Chabot, were both furious and afraid. Catherine, whilst appearing to be

unconcerned, looked on with delight. Now she was in her favourite role.

Unseen, she had stirred up trouble, and now she could watch the effect, while none realized that she had had a hand in it.

The matter concerned de Chabot and the Dauphin himself. It had happened

in this way: surrounded by courtiers and ladies of both the Reformed and the Catholic parties, Henry found de Chabot at his side. De Chabot’s dress was as magnificent as that of the Dauphin, and Henry had been filled with a violence of feeling such as he rarely experienced. Here was this popinjay, deceiving the King with the woman Henry hated more than any other, since she was the

declared enemy of Diane.

Henry, remembering a conversation he had had Catherine, said impulsively:

‘How comes it, de Chabot, that you are able to make such a show of

extravagance? I know the revenues which you enjoy are not great.’

De Chabot, embarrassed by this question, which was unexpected, said: ‘Sir, my stepmother keeps me in everything I require. She is a most generous lady.’

Henry shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

As soon as Diane heard of this matter, she realized how ill-chosen had been de Chabot’s words; she saw at once a chance to spread a scandal concerning the latest and favourite lover of Anne
d’Etampes
.

Diane started the whispering through the Catholic party.

‘My dear, de Chabot has admitted to the Dauphin that he is the dear friend of his stepmother.’

‘She keeps him! Well, he is a handsome one, that! And that old man, his

father, must be very feeble.’

When de Chabot heard how his words had been misconstrued, he hurried

home to his father’s château, where he managed to convince the old man that there was no truth in this mischievous scandal. And, returning to court, he was determined, cost what it might, to avenge the insult.

Now was the turn of the Catholic party to feel discomfited. Diane had not expected de Chabot to be so insistent. The young fool had declared would not be satisfied until he had faced his slanderer in the lists. He cared not that what he was saying was tantamount to challenging the heir to the throne.

Catherine laughed to herself when she was alone. Henry was in an

embarrassing position. And who had led him there? Diane! Was it not true that she had spread the scandal so that de Chabot must demand satisfaction? People were saying that Diane’s hatred for Anne
d’Etampes
had put the Dauphin in a very unpleasant situation. They did not know that it was meek Catherine who had sowed the seed.

It was intolerable. This foolish de Chabot, reasoned Diane, was thirsting for a fight. It was illegal to challenge the heir to the throne. The fool should have known that. He could not be allowed to go about demanding satisfaction, for although he did not mention Henry’s name, all knew to whom he referred.

Competently, Diane looked about her for a scapegoat, and her thoughts

rested on a certain Francis de Vivonne, a good-looking young man with a great reputation for military valour. He was reckoned to be the best swordsman in France and its finest wrestler. At one time he had been a favourite of the King’s; but he was essentially an ambitious man, and he preferred to bask in the warmth of the rising sun while seeking to avoid the scorching rays of that which was about to set. He was just the man who would eagerly seize a chance of gaining the favour of a man who must shortly be King.

Diane sent for the man and told him her wishes; and that very night, when the company had eaten and the banqueting hall of Les Tournelles was filled with men and women of the court, de Vivonne swaggered up to de Chabot and caught him by the arm.

‘Monsieur de Chabot,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘It has come to my ears that you are eager to defend your honour against one who has spoken against it.’

There was a hushed silence in the hall. De Chabot flushed, then grew pale.

The King leaned forward in his chair; his brows drawn together in a frown.

Anne
d’Etampes
had turned pale. Henry had flushed scarlet; and Catherine, feigning surprise, wished that she could burst into her gusty laughter.

De Chabot spoke at length. ‘It is true that lies have been bruited about

concerning me. I shall not rest until I have had satisfaction of the man who has spoken against me.’

Henry’s face went an even deeper shade of scarlet, but Catherine noticed

miserably that his eyes went to Diane as they used to do when he was young and uncertain how to act. Oh, what would she not have given for him to have turned to her like that!

De Vivonne, now assured that he had the attention of all, broke the silence.

‘I am that man, de Chabot. It was that you cynically boasted of the impropriety which you thought it proper later to deny.’

De Chabot’s sword was out of its sheath. ‘You lie!’

Immediately de Vivonne’s sword crossed his.

‘I speak truth. Come, you have declared yourself eager to avenge your

honour. Here is your chance―’

The King rose in his chair.

‘Stop! Come here, both of you. How dare you cross swords thus

unceremoniously in our presence!’

They put away their swords and came to stand before the King.

‘I will hear no more of this matter!’ said Francis. ‘I am weary of it. If you value your freedom, go your ways in peace.’

The two men bowed. They mingled with the crowd.

Francis saw that Anne had momentarily lost her poise. She was terrified.

She was in love and her lover had been challenged by the most skillful dueller in the country. It was said that certain death was the fate of any who fought with de Vivonne.

Catherine, watching her, understood her feelings, for was she not also in love? She saw Anne’s glance at Diane, saw the hatred flash in them. Diane was smiling serenely. She scored a victory.
But one day, Diane,
thought Catherine,
there will be no victory for you, no triumph; only bitter humiliation and defeat.

‘Enough of this foolery!’ cried Francis. ‘Have the musicians in and we will dance!’

―――――――

Anne paced down the King’s private chamber while Francis lay back

watching her. Her fair curly hair was in disorder and the flowers which adorned it had slipped down to her ear. Her agitation made her all the more delightful in his eyes. She was no longer young; but Anne would never lose her beauty, never lose her charm. He liked to see her thus, worried, frightened; it made her seem vulnerable and very human. De Chabot’s youth might please her; but she was realizing that Francis’s power was the more important, since only through it could she enjoy the former’s youth.

He thought of her in various moods, in various situations. How delightful she had been in the first months of their love― enchanting him with her perfect body and her agile mind; she had brought new delights to a man who thought he had tasted all. And now old age had attacked him, and the coming of that old monster had been hastened by this pernicious malady from which he could not escape. He thought of her― retaining her youthful energy with de Chabot, with de Nançay. And he doubted not that if he made inquiries other names would be mentioned. But he did not wish to know. She was a part of his life and it was a part he could not do without. It was more kingly to shut his eyes to what in all honour he could not face, to feign ignorance of matters which he did not wish to know.

This, thought Frances, is the tragedy of old age. It is a king’s tragedy as well as a beggar’s.
Who would have believed, twenty years ago, that I, Francis, the
King of France, with the power of France behind me could allow a woman to
deceive me while I pretend to deceive myself!

Henry, the King across the water― what would he have done in like case?

Would he have been so deceived? Never! Frances remembered another Anne

with whom, in the days of his youth, he had flirted and whom he had sought to seduce; he remembered her later at Calais― black-eyed and beautiful, proud with the promise of queen-ship. That Anne had lost her head, because the King of England believed― or pretended to believe― that she had deceived him.

Then there had been little Catherine Howard on whom the King had doted, and yet she too had been unable to keep her head. Now, had the King of France been another as the King of England,
his
Anne might have feared to take lovers as she did. But alas!― or should he rejoice because of it? Francis the First of France was not Henry the Eighth of England. There were two things they had in

common nowadays― old age and sickness. It was said that old Henry’s present wife was more of a nurse than a wife. Well, he, Francis, was full of faults, but hypocrisy was not among them. With him the power of seeing himself too

clearly had amounted to almost a fault; it had certainly brought its discomforts.

He bid Anne come to him and arrange his perfumed cushions.

She said: ‘Is that better? Are you comfortable now, my beloved?’

‘How many years have I loved you?’ he said. ‘It started before I was a

prisoner in Spain.’

Her face softened and he wondered if she also was remembering the

glowing passion of their days together.

‘You wrote to me verses in your Spanish prison,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget them.’

‘Methinks the professional verse-maker could do better. Marot, for

instance.’

‘Marot writes verses for all and sundry. It is the verses that are written by the lover to his mistress that have the greatest value.’

She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and went on: ‘My dear, this

dual must not take place.’

‘Why not?’ He supposed he would give way, but he was going to frighten

her first. ‘It will give the people pleasure,’ he went on. ‘Do I not always say they have to be amused?’

He smiled at her. ‘I am hard put to it to think up new amusements for my

people. And here is a ready-made entertainment. A public combat. What could be better?’

‘It would be murder.’

‘And how my people enjoy to see blood spilt! Think of it, my darling! There will be those who gamble on de Chabot and those who wager on de Vivonne. A gamble! A duel! I’ll wager Monsieur de Vivonne will be the victor. It is true, my love, that he is the finest swordsman in France. I was better― once. But alas! I have grown old and others take my place― yes, take my place.’

She narrowed her eyes, whilst his smouldered. She knew he was thinking of de Chabot’s making love to her, as de Nançay had been when he discovered

them. He would be amused to have her lover murdered by the best swordsman in France, for de Vivonne would avenge the King’s honour as well as that of the Dauphin.

She repeated: ‘It would be murder.’

‘Oh come, my love, your opinion of de Chabot is unworthy of him. He is not such a poor, craven fellow that he is going to fling aside his sword and beg for mercy as soon as de Vivonne holds his at his throat.’

‘He is no craven, certainly!’ She spoke with vehemence.

‘Then doubtless, he will give a good account of himself,’ said the King.

‘He will, but still it will be murder.’

‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The young fool would have brought this on himself. What matters it if he
is
his mother’s lover? Who should care?’

‘His stepmother.’ she said.

‘Mother― stepmother― I do not care. But the fellow should not have made

such a fool of himself. He should not have gone about lusting for revenge.’

‘It was natural.’

‘How gracious of you to champion the young fool, my dear. So charming of

you to take so much trouble to save his life.’

She said: ‘It is of the house of Valois that I think.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’

‘Sire, you know this is not de Vivonne’s quarrel. It is the Dauphin’s.’

‘What of that?’

‘It demeans your royal house that another should take Dauphin’s quarrel.’

‘Yet this young man declares his honour must be avenged.’

‘He is young and hot-blooded.’

The King looked at her slyly. ‘I warrant he is; and very reason it would seem he finds favour with some.’

‘Francis, you must stop this duel. This kind of combat cannot take place

without your consent. I implore you not to give it.’

There were tears in her blue eyes; he could see the beating of her heart

disturbing her elaborate bodice. Poor Anne! Indeed, she loved the handsome fellow. She was asking for his life as she had once asked for Madame de

Chateaubriand’s jewels.

She threw herself down beside him, and, taking his jeweled hand, kissed it; she laid her face against his coat.

Odd, thought the King. The King’s mistress pleading with the King that he might spare the life of her lover. The sort of situation Marguerite might have put into one of her tales.

He drew his hand across the softness of her throat as it were a sword to sever the lovely head from the proud shoulders.

‘Why do you do that?’ she asked; and he replied: ‘Thinking of my old

friend, the King of England.’

She laughed suddenly with that quick understanding which had always