Madame Serpent (34 page)

‘There is a ring the Duchess always wears,’ said Cosmo. ‘It is said that ring has strange properties.’

‘I know the ring,’ said Catherine. ‘A large ruby. The King gave it to

Madame de Valentinois in the early days of their friendship.’

‘Why is it that whatever else she wears, the Duchess is never without it?’

said Lorenzo. ‘The spell may well be in that ring. It is not natural for a man of the King’s youth to remain faithful to an ageing woman. Only magic could do it.

It may well be that the answer is in that ring.’

‘If we could but lay our hands on the ring―’ began Cosmo.

‘It should not be impossible,’ said Catherine, allowing her attention to be drawn from the poison-cabinet.

‘Gracious Madame, she never lets it off her finger.’

‘But if she is sick it might not be impossible. If I might get one of my

friends to help me― Yes, I begin to believe there is something in this story of a ring.’

The brothers became excited. Lorenzo turned the key in the lock with

shaking fingers; he hung the key on its chain and buttoned up his doublet. Both brothers breathed freely now.

Catherine stared at the closed doors of the cabinet and wondered why she

allowed herself to be lured away from the sure method of poisoning.

The answer was simple. The stake was too high. Diane’s death might not

prove a stepping-stone to the love, but to his hatred.

There was no wisdom in loving as she did.

———————

Diane was feeling very ill. It was the first time in her life that she had been ill, and she was alarmed. She had grown thin, and had no idea what was the cause of her malady.

She was listless and had no great desire for company.

The King, like a devoted husband, insisted on being with her; he was very anxious.

Diane found it a great effort to continue with the strenuous routine she had set herself. She was no longer fit to ride in the morning; she felt herself incapable of entertaining the King and she wished he would curtail his visit.

Looking in her mirror, she scarcely recognized herself. She was sure of the King’s devotion; he was the dearest and honourable of men; but no one, she reasoned in her practiced way, likes to be continually with the sick.

She decided that she would not keep him with her at Anet.

She said to him one day as he sat beside her bed: ‘Henry, it is dull for you here.’

‘My dearest, how could it be dull for me to be with you?’

‘Oh Henry, this is not the life we were wont to lead together.’

‘We shall return to that.’

‘I fear it is not good for you to remain.’

‘I am happier with you than anywhere else. I trust that you will soon recover from this mysterious malady. I long to see you well again.’

She thought:
I am too old to wear illness with grace. He must not see me
wan and listless. Far better for him to leave me. I trust him. I shall recover the
quicker for not being anxious as how I seem to him.

She was determined he should go.

A woman entered with a drink of herbs which his best physician had

prescribed for her.

‘A thousand pardons, Sire,’ said the woman, curtsying as she saw the King.

‘It is time for Madame’s dose. I crave your forgiveness for the interruption.’

‘That is well enough, Marie,’ said Diane. ‘Give it to me and I will take the odious stuff.’

She drank off the liquid and handed the glass back to the woman with a

smile.

‘It is a great inducement to get well,’ she said, ‘that I may be expected to take more of that.’

The woman curtsied and went out.

‘I have not seen her at Anet before,’ said the King. ‘Though she is not

unfamiliar to me.’

‘She is a nurse the Queen kindly sent to me. It was good of her. She has a high opinion of Marie. It is said that she is skilled in the mixing of medicines.

Your physician thinks her a good and capable woman.’

‘I am glad Catherine was sufficiently thoughtful as to send her.’

‘Catherine is thoughtful, and my very good friend,’ said Diane. ‘I trust that she is managing the children well without me. I think that Fleming woman

rather a silly creature. Much too foolish to be entrusted with the care of young Madame from Scotland.’

The King was silent; and Diane did not notice the slightly embarrassed look which had come into his eyes.

‘Indeed,’ went on Diane, ‘little Mary is inclined to be pert, do you not

think?’

The King still did not speak, and Diane smiled up at him. ‘Do you not think she is inclined to pertness?’

‘Who was that, my dear?’

‘Mary Stuart.’

‘Ah! Very high-spirited and lovely enough to be thoroughly spoiled, I fear.’

‘Henry, my love.’

‘Yes, my dearest?’

‘You should not stay here. You should be at court. You forget, for my sake, I know, that you are King of this country.

‘I could not find it in my heart to leave you.’

“But you must. It worries me that you should neglect your duties for me.

You have given me everything I could desire. Henry, I beg of you, go back to court. I cannot get well while you are here because I am anxious. I cannot forget that I keep you from your duties. Go to court. Write to me every day. I shall get well all the quicker in my desire to be with you again.’

He shook his head. Passionately he declared he could not leave her. Nothing, he assured her, could mean to him what she did. Gladly would he neglect

everyone, everything, for her sake.

But as usual, eventually she got her way. And after he had gone she grew

very ill indeed, but she would not have him told.

Marie, the Queen’s nurse, continued most assiduously to care for her.

———————

Before the King returned to court, little Louis died. It was saddening, but not heartbreaking, for he had been ailing since his birth, and the tragedy was not unexpected. His life had flickered like a candle in a draught, and it had seemed inevitable to all that the flame should be early extinguished.

Gloom hung over the court. The death of the little Prince, together with the sickness of his mistress, filled the King with melancholy. Catherine was filled with secret exultation. Louis’ death had been expected, and the love she had for her children was a pale thing compared with this passion for her husband.

Louis was dead; but Henry was back; and in her possession was the magic

ruby ring. She had it carefully locked away; it would never do for the King to see it; and yet, when he was with her, she must wear it. She had forced herself to a pathetic belief in the ring, and this belief had been nourished by the Ruggieri brothers.

In her heart she knew they thought: Let us keep her mind on the ring in

order that it may not stray to our poison closet.

A week after Louis’ death, Henry came to her. He was very gentle and

courteous. Doubtless he thought: Poor Catherine! She has lost a child, and what has she but her children?

He sat on the chair which was kept for his use. She thought how handsome

he was in his coat of black velvet with the diamonds which decorated it, flashing in the dim light from the candles. The graying hair and beard, while robbing him of youth, gave him dignity. His long white jewelled hands rested lightly on the rich fabric of the arms of the chair, while his head lay against the silver brocade that was embroidered with the golden
fleur-de-lys
. Looking round that room with its rich hangings, its costly bed, whose curtains were embroidered in red and purple, with its furnishings worth a fortune, Catherine thought again how happy she would be if Henry would but love her.

‘You are filled with melancholy, Henry,’ she said; and she went to him,

standing behind him, timidly laid a hand on his shoulder. She longed for him to take the hand, but he did not. She thought of the ring, lying ready in a drawer.

The drawer was now unlocked; all she had to do was open it and slip the ring on her finger.

‘My thoughts are with our son,’ said Henry; he did not add ‘And at Anet.’

But she knew that they were, and the knowledge filled her with bitterness.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It is sad indeed to lose a child, and that child a son.’

Her fingers pressed hard on his shoulder; she was now restraining that mad impulse, which his near presence always inspired in her, to throw her arms about his neck and speak to him of her wild love for him, of her burning desire.

‘Poor little Louis,’ murmured Henry. ‘His coming into the world seemed so pointless, since so soon he has been taken from it.’

She must wear the ring. Now was the time, He would not notice that she

wore it, for he hardly ever noticed what she wore. Yet if he became enamoured of her as her as he had been of Diane― She felt dizzy with joy at the thought, taking her hands, kissing each finger. But what would it matter then if he noticed the ring? The magic ornament would by that time have worked its spell.

‘I have wept for him until I have no more tears left.’ she said; and she sped to the drawer, and, taking out the ring, slipped it on her finger.

Her heart hammering, her eyes gleaming, she went back to the King’s chair.

He had not moved, but sat quietly, still staring blankly into space.

The magic will take a little time to work, she thought.

‘Henry, we must not grieve.’ She stood behind his chair; she felt as if her excitement would choke her. She laid her hand on his graying hair and stroked it; the great ruby light caught the light from the candle and winked back at her.

The King coughed in an embarrassed way and rose. He walked to the

window and stood there uncertainly, his figure silhouetted against the hangings, infinitely desirable to her in all its virile manhood.

He had not changed at all. He did not wish her to touch him. Demonstrative affection on her part embarrassed him now as it ever did.

The magic was slow in working.

She twisted the ring on her finger.

‘Francis is not as strong as I could wish,’ she said. ‘We must get ourselves more sons.’

He nodded, grimly, she thought, as if he was wondering when there might

be an end to this unpleasant duty.

Nothing was changed. He sat and fiddled with the jars upon the table; she could see his face reflected in the mirror, gloomy, embarrassed.

She got into the magnificent bed, and waited, twisting the ring round and round on her finger, biting her lips to keep back her tears.

———————

One October day, a few weeks after the death of little Louis, Anne de

Montmorency begged an audience of the Queen.

Catherine wondered what the harsh old man could want of her. She had

never really liked him; she did not even admire him. He was too easy to

understand, too straightforward to win― in her estimation, he was not even a good soldier. He had come to dishonour in the reign of the previous King; and if he were not careful the same thing might happen to him again. He was flouting Diane openly, which was absurd.

He should have done what wise people did― work against her in the dark.

Sooner or later there was going to be a battle between the King’s mistress and the Constable. Silly old man! thought Catherine. It was sadly obvious who would win such a battle. If he wished to hold his place he should do as his betters did, and appear to be Diane’s ally.

Still, she was interested to hear what he had to say. She was depressed and unhappy. The ruby ring had proved to have no magical properties whatsoever.

She had worn it for a week and the King’s feeling for her had not changed one little bit. Her hopes had been raised and proved futile; and she had at first been furious with the Ruggieri brothers, who, she was sure, deliberately misled her.

They were right, of course; there was nothing she could do just yet. The

destruction of Diane must wait awhile; she must continue to use less sure methods than poison― just for a while. She had wanted to fling the ring into the river, but even then her caution got the better of her. She sent it back to Anet so that Marie might find some way of returning it to Diane’s finger.

There was one bright spot in the whole sorry affair. Diane’s health was not improving, and she still forbade the King to visit her at Anet.

The suggested interview with Montmorency therefore promised to relieve

the tedium, and she eagerly attendant to bring him to her.

The Constable bowed low over the Queen’s hand. He had come, he said, to

pay his respects to the new baby. As she took him to the nursery where Charles was sleeping peacefully, and watched him prod the baby’s satiny cheek with finger until he awoke and whimpered, she knew that Montmorency had not

asked for an interview merely to do that.

She said: ‘He is young yet, Constable, to realize the honor you do him.

Come and see the other children. They will be delighted to see you.’

Francis and Elizabeth made the Constable pretty curtsies and young Mary

offered him an exhibition of her pert dignity.

After he had exchanged a few pleasantries with the children, the Constable said that the afternoon was mild, and he would deem it a great honour if the Queen would take a turn in the gardens, where they could chat undisturbed.

The last words excited Catherine, for she knew at once that Montmorency

had something to say to her which he did not wish anyone to overhear; so, stimulated always by thought of intrigue, and guessing that this might have something to do with the absent Diane, Catherine readily consented to

accompany him.

As they walked round the most private of the closed-in gardens,

Montmorency said: ‘Your Majesty will agree with me that it is peaceful here since some have been forced to leave it.’

Catherine, feeling her way cautiously, inquired: ‘Whose absence has made

the palace of Saint-Germain more peaceful to you, Constable?’

The Constable prided himself on being a blunt man. He was not one to