Madame Serpent (27 page)

At Saint-Germain, the new King came, after leaving Rambouillet, to make

arrangements for the ceremonies that must precede his father’s burial, Catherine sat in her apartments, thinking of the change this event would bring into her life.

She was pregnant with her third child, but this fact could for some time be hidden from Henry.

She had a son and a daughter; another child was coming; she was the Queen of France. How pleased with her would Clement have been if he could have

lived to see this day!

She was safe on the throne of France. That was a matter for the utmost

rejoicing; yet there was so much needed to make her happiness complete.

She perfumed herself; she dressed with care; and she waited.

But he did not come, and when she knew that she could no longer hope for

him that night, she locked her door and moved the desk and looked down into the chamber below.

Catherine watched them together, saw their embrace, listened to their

whispering tenderness, witnessed their passion.

This day she had been raised to the height of her ambition, and yet she must torture herself by spying on her husband and his mistress. Ambition gratified, power would surely one day be hers. It should be her happy fate to bear kings and queens.

And yet, watching her husband with the woman he loved, the Queen of

France wept bitterly.

QUEEN OF FRANCE! Yet how was her position changed? It was Diane, not

Catherine de’ Medici, who had, in effect, mounted the throne of France.

Everywhere now could be seen the King’s initial intwined, not with that of his wife, as etiquette asked, but with that of his mistress. Two
D
s overlapping (one reversed) with a horizontal stroke binding them to form an
H
,

. They were

worked into the masonry, they were embroidered on banners; and even on his clothes, Henry wore them as an ornament.

Catherine continued to smile and none would have guessed that within her

burned a desire to deface those entwined letters whenever she saw them. She pretended, as did the more kindly people who surrounded her, that the letters were two
C
s and an
H
, not two
D
s. It made it less humiliating that this could be assumed.

So she went about the court graciously, giving no sign of misery in her

heart. She had her own circle now, and she saw that it was conducted with the utmost decorum. All the ladies and gentlemen who surrounded her went in awe of her. She was an enigma. It was not easy to understand how one, continually subjected to humiliation, could preserve such dignity. At times she would seem almost prim; any sign of misconduct in her women would be immediately and drastically dealt with; and yet there were occasions when a coarse jest could bring forth that loud and sudden laughter. The Queen of France was a foreigner; no one could forget that, and no one could love her. She knew this, and she told herself she did not care. There was only one person in the world whose affection she cared about and she had come to believe that patience would bring her that.

But patience― great patience― was necessary.

She could wait. Thank God she now knew how to wait.

Whilst waiting, she looked about for other interests. There was much a

Queen could do which was denied to a Dauphine. Francis had talked to her of the alterations he had made to his châteaux. He had found her appreciative and had taught her much. There was one castle in France which Catherine delighted in more than in any other; as soon as she had seen it, it attracted her. Whenever the court was there, she would play an amusing game of the imagination,

planning the alterations she would make if it were hers. The Château de

Chenonceaux was an enchanting place; it was unique insamuch as it spanned the river and was actually built on the arches of a bridge.

The effect was delightful, for the castle seemed to be above the water like a fairy palace, its keep shaded by protecting trees; water-lilies floated beneath it and stretched up to its dazzling white walls.

Francis had had plans for beautifying still further this most beautiful of his possessions; but Francis was dead; Henry the King was occupied elsewhere; so why should not the Queen amuse herself?

She found great pleasure in her plans.

Meanwhile, she tried to share Henry’s interests, to work patiently and subtly to lure him from Diane. He loved music. and she spared herself nothing in the pursuit of this art. He was particularly interested in chants and hymns, so it was Catherine’s delight to discover old ones and have new ones written. But Diane concerned herself with music, and anything which Diane showed him was, to Henry, always a hundred times beautiful than anything anyone else could

proffer.

Catherine was an excellent horsewoman, and she contrived, between

pregnancies, to be present at every hunting expedition. She won admiration, even from Henry, for her courage and good horsemanship, while Diane often remained in the castle to welcome the King on his return. How bitterly did Catherine note the eagerness with which the King always greeted his mistress on returning from a hunt in which she had not accompanied him.

He still came to Catherine at night because, so far, she had been able to keep from him the knowledge that she was once more pregnant.

Now that he was the King, Henry had a respect for his position which almost amounted to reverence, His visits to his mistress’ apartments were conducted with great secrecy― as though the whole court did not know of the relationship between himself and Diane. As King, he was naturally more in the public eye than he had been as Dauphin. He would rise at dawn, and the moment he stirred, his entourage would become alive with activity. The highest noblemen in the land, who had been waiting in the antechamber, would enter to salute him and the man of highest rank would hand him his chemise. His first duty on rising was to pray before his bedroom altar in the presence of the assembled company; but from the moment he arose from his bed, and even while he prayed, the

dulcimer and clavicord, the horn and lute would enchant his ears.

After prayers, business followed; and then he would eat. He was no

trencherman; he had forgotten how to eat, it was said, when he had been a prisoner in Spain; and it was an art he had never been able to master, rather to the disgust of countrymen, for the French cuisine was fast becoming the best in the world. This did not seem in any way to impair his health; he was fit and strong, and after discussing further with his ministers of state, he would devote the afternoon to sport. Usually it was the chase― the most loved of all sports―

but he played a good game in the racquet court and was every bit a sportsman.

He had commanded all to forget, while he played, that he was the King; and it was a sight to watch him while men about him discussed the faults quite openly; and when he had finished the game, he would join in the discussion; none was afraid to win a game from the King, because he bore no malice for this, and was delighted to play with men of greater skill than his own.

In the evenings there would be feasting and dancing. It was not wise, said the King’s advisers, that the court should be less brilliant under Henry than it had been under Francis, one must know that the court of France was still the court of France― rich, luxurious, arrogant if need be. Perhaps though, the dancing was a little more stately, the etiquette a little more severe.

And afterwards Henry would be conducted to his apartments for his state

coucher
. Poor Henry! He must undress in the presence of his courtiers while the chamberlain made sure

that the bed was properly made; and when he was settled, the usher must bring him in the official keys of the palace and put them under his pillows.

Only then was the King left in peace to make his way to his mistress’

apartments. Life was more difficult for Henry than it had been for Francis.

Francis had cared nothing for propriety. He would have ordered his courtiers to put ten women to bed with him if he so desired. But Henry must be sure that he had been left for the night before he could rise and go to his mistress.

How Catherine loved him― for his primness, for his greatness, for his

desire to do good! Life was indeed strange when it forced her to give all the affection she had to this man who was so unlike herself in every way.

On this night of early summer he came to her apartment which adjoined his own. How stern he looked! So determined to do his duty! They had two children now; she laughed to herself slyly because he did not know that before the year was out, they would have a third. Yesterday, she had all but fainted when sitting in her circle, and only her iron control had kept her sitting, smiling in her seat.

She was not one to give way to ailments, and she was able to ignore the

sickening faintness. She must ignore them, for if she did not, the rumours would start. The Queen was
enceinte
once more! And then goodbye to Henry for many months. Goodbye to love― or what did service as love.

Henry was sad because he had recently attended the obsequies of his father, and death would have a saddening effect on one as sensitive as Henry. He had decided to have the bodies his brothers, Francis and Charles, interred in state at St. Denis at the same time as that of his father. It had been an extravaganza―

that State burial; no expense had been spared.

The three coffins, each adorned with a recumbent effigy of its’ occupant, were borne outside the walls of Paris to Notre Dame des Champs. The people of Paris had lined the streets to watch the solemn
cortège
.

Many sons, Catherine was thinking as she watched her husband, would have

rejoiced, would have said: ‘My father is dead, my elder brother is dead; and because of this, I am the King.’

But not Henry.

He spoke of the funeral as he sat by the bed. He always chatted awhile

before he snuffed out the candles. He was regular in his habits; and he wanted these visits of his to seem natural; he did not wish to hurt her feelings by letting her guess that all the time he was with her he was longing to depart.

He never gave any sign, by word or look, that he was longing for an

announcement from her. He was so courteous; it was small wonder that she

loved him. But alas, he was so easy to read and it was impossible for one as astute as she was to be deceived.

So he would chat awhile, playing nervously with bottles on her table, then join her, and afterwards chat again and leave her. The interludes were almost always precisely of the same duration. She laughed to herself― painful, bitter laughter.

How many little Valois would people their nurseries before he decided they need get themselves no more? How long before that happy dream was

realized― Diane, old and wrinkled, or better still, dead; and the King visiting his Queen not for duty’s sake, but for that of love?

‘You are sad, Henry,’ she said.

He smiled; his smile was shy, boyish, charmingly congruous in one who was fast turning grey.

‘I cannot forget the burial,’ he said.

‘It was very impressive.’

‘My father― dead. And my two brothers carried off in the prime of their

lives.’

She was not eager to speak of his brothers. Did he, even now, when he

thought of Francis, think also of her? Suspicion was hard to disperse; it could persist through the years.

‘Charles was no friend to you, Henry.’

‘You are right. As I watched the
cortège
and grieved for my brothers, Saint-André and Vieilleville were beside me. They remarked on my grief and Saint-André begged Vieilleville to tell me something that happened many years ago at Angoulême. Then Vieilleville told me. He said,
Sire, when owing to the folly of
La Châtaigneraie and Dampierre, the last Dauphin, Francis and yourself fell
into the Charente
? I did remember this and I told him so. He then told me how the news that my brother and I were drowned was carried to my father, who was overwhelmed with grief; but in his own apartments my brother Charles was so seized with joy that he was overcome by it. And when he heard our lives had been saved he was overtaken by a severe of fever which experienced doctors attributed to sudden transition from great joy to deep sorrow. Truly Charles was no friend to me.’

She raised herself on her elbow. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘if he had lived and had married the niece or the daughter of the Emperor, he would have been a

dangerous enemy to you.’

‘That is so.’

‘Therefore, you should not be sad. King Francis is dead, but he did not die young, and he had his full measure from life! France never had a better king than you will make, Henry. I pray young Francis will be exactly like his father when on that day, which I trust is far, far in the future, he will take his place on the throne.’

‘You are a good and loyal wife, Catherine,’ said the King.

That made her happy.
I shall win him,
she assured herself.
I have but to
remember to go cautiously.

But how it was to be careful when she was with Henry. With everyone else

she was clever and cunning, but in her state of tremulous excitement which her husband aroused, caution deserted her.

She could not resist speaking of Madame
d’Etampes
, who had hastily left the court, but whose fate was still undecided.

Desperately, Catherine wanted Anne to be left in peace. Not that she cared for Anne; she cared for none but― Henry. But if she could plead successfully for Anne, Diane was not allowed to wreak her vengeance on her enemy, what triumph!

You are a good and loyal wife!
Those words were as intoxicating as the most potent French wine.

‘I was thinking of your father, Henry, and that poor misguided woman

whom he loved. He begged of you to spare her. You will respect your father’s wishes?’

Immediately she knew she had been wrong to speak.

‘You are ill advised to plead for such a one,’ he said. ‘I have learned this concerning her: she was as great an enemy to me as ever my brother Charles was. He, with her help, was arranging with young Philip of Spain to attack me when reached the throne. My brother promised to make her Governess of the Netherlands if he married the Infanta. In return for this, she was helping him with money.’

‘I― see.’

‘You see that, being ignorant of what is passing, you should not plead for my enemies.’

‘Henry, had I known that she was guilty of this infamy― had I known that

she had conspired against
you
―’ In her agitation, she rose from the bed and would have come to stand before him; but as she did so, and stretched for her robe, the dizziness overcame her, and valiantly as she tried to hide it, it had not passed undetected by the sharp eyes of King; for after all, he was continually looking for the very symptoms she was trying to hide.

‘Catherine, I fear you are not well.’

‘I am very well, Henry.’

‘Allow me to help you to bed. I will call your women.’

‘Henry― I beg of you― do not disturb yourself. A faintness― nothing

more.’

He was smiling down at her solicitously almost. ‘Catherine― can it be?’

His smile was tender now, and how handsome he looked! He was pleased

with her; and she longed now, pathetically, to keep his pleasure.