I had heard how he had completed the old Arsenal—that building to which he had been making his way when he was murdered—and he had built the Hôtel de Ville also. I had been taken to see it on one occasion and I had been completely overawed by the magnificent staircase, the molded ceilings, the sculptured doors and the most wonderful fireplace in the throne room.
My father had done all that. People constantly said, when speaking of him: “What a tragedy! Oh what a tragedy for France!”
And sometimes I felt a flash of uneasiness because I realized that criticism of the present rule was implied—and present rule was, of course, my mother, for Louis was too young to be blamed for anything.
I was so proud as we approached the Louvre. We called it the New Louvre because the ancient one had become so unhealthy and decrepit that François Premier, who had loved fine buildings, had decided to rebuild it. It was hardly begun when he died, but the next King, Henri Deux, and his wife Catherine de Médicis also loved fine buildings and they went on with it. I, too, love beautiful things and until the day I left France I was always thrilled by that glorious façade of Jean Bullant and Philibert Delorme every time I went past the New Louvre.
Now the celebrations began in real earnest. We could be so much more lavish in Paris than they could be in provincial towns, and we were going to show these Spaniards how rich and clever we were.
For a while everyone must forget his or her grievances and enjoy the occasion. I had rarely seen my mother so happy. She was so pleased with the marriages. Later she began to imbue me with a firm belief in the true Faith and the determination to preserve it wherever I was. There were two precepts which must be upheld at all cost: the true Faith and the determination to enforce it on all people for their own good; and the other was the importance of royalty, the right to rule which had been bestowed on Kings and Queens by God: The Divine Right of Royalty.
But stern as she was on these two points, she did enjoy feasting, banquets and fêtes; and she was determined to indulge these pastimes no matter what old Sully would say. Not that that mattered. He could grumble away to his heart’s desire in retirement. He had been shown the door as soon as he had lost his master.
No expense was to be spared. Everyone was going to rejoice in the marriage which she—the Queen Mother now that there was a new Queen—had brought about.
For me it was a wonderful time. I forgot lessons, the dull routine, the admonitions of Madame de Montglat—they were all in the past. Here we were celebrating the marriage of our King, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
I danced. I sang. “What an enchanting creature little Madame Henriette is!” I heard that more than once and I was quick to see the pleasure in my mother’s face.
Such happiness! I prayed that it would go on forever.
There was Spanish influence in quite a number of our entertainments—in honor of the Queen, of course. Some of our gentlemen performed the Galanterie Castellane and there were quadrilles and Spanish dances. Gaston and I learned a little Spanish pas de deux which we performed together to the delight of everyone at Court. Some of the company dressed up as gods. I sat round-eyed watching while Jupiter led in Apollo and Diana; and then came Venus, who knelt before our young King and Queen and chanted verses about La Belle Espagnole. Poor Louis hated it all and found it very hard to smile and pretend he was happy. Perhaps he had not wanted to marry and was a little worried about all it entailed…just as Elizabeth had been. The Queen however threw back her long fair tresses and flourishing her pretty hands quite clearly enjoyed it.
At one point my hand was taken by an old woman who made me sit beside her.
I did not know who she was at first but I was intrigued by her and considerably overawed. She had a regal air so I guessed she was of importance but I could not think what she could want with me.
Her old hands clawed mine and she studied me intently. I could not take my eyes from her. Her face was wrinkled; her eyes were deeply shadowed; but she wore so much rouge and white lead that from a distance she might have been quite young. She had a wig of luxuriant black curls, and her clothes struck me as belonging to an earlier age. Her gold-braided houppelande was certainly out of date.
She said: “So you are the little Madame Henriette.”
I agreed that I was.
“And how old are you?”
“Six years.”
“A baby,” she commented.
“Indeed not.”
She laughed and touched my cheek. “Beautiful soft skin,” she said. “Mine was like that…once. When I was your age I was the prettiest girl in the whole of France…and I was the cleverest too. I was old for my years, they said. Are you, little one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you can’t be, can you? Little Margot knew everything. She was born with knowledge.”
“Are you…La Reine Margot?”
“Ah, so little Madame Henriette has heard of me! Yes, you might have been my daughter—think of that. I was your father’s wife before he married Marie de Médicis.”
I was overawed. I had heard of her, of course, but never had I thought I would meet her. She had been notorious in her youth…and after.
She said: “Your father and I hated each other. We fought like two wild cats. Then we divorced and he married your mother. If he had not, you would not be here, would you? What a calamity! Can you imagine a world without Madame Henriette?”
I remarked that it would be rather difficult for me to do that if I were not here.
She laughed.
“He hated me, but he hated his second wife even more, they say. Strange is it not, that a man who loved women more than any other man in France should have had two wives whom he hated.”
“You should not talk about my mother like that.”
She came close to me. “La Reine Margot always says what she means and cares not whom it may offend. So do you think little six-year-old Madame Henriette will stop me?”
“No,” I answered.
“I like you,” she said. “You are very pretty. I will tell you something. You are prettier than the new Queen. I don’t think our lord Louis is very impressed with her, do you?”
“My mother would not wish me…”
“To give an opinion? But, little Henriette, when you grow up you are going to state your opinions whether people like it or not. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Yes, I expect I shall. But I have to get a little older first.”
“You are getting older every minute while you talk to me. Oh, little one, do I look very old to you?”
“Very old.”
“Look at my beautiful skin. Look at my lovely hair. You do not know what to say, do you? Once I had beautiful luxuriant hair. Many men loved me. Oh yes, I have had many lovers…and still do. But not so many now. I don’t remember ever having been innocent as you are, my beautiful child. When I married your father I was not innocent. It was an ill-fated marriage. The streets ran with blood. Have you ever heard of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”
I said I had.
“Catholics and Huguenots—and your father coming very near to death then. They meant to get him. But he survived. He would. Like a country boy, he was…crude…rough…no mate for an elegant Princesse…not cultured as I was. We disliked each other from the start. Catholic and Huguenot…I wonder if they will ever live in harmony.”
“I hope that the Huguenots will give up heresy and come to the true Faith.”
“You are repeating what you have heard, little one. Don’t do that. Think for yourself as I always did. Do I frighten you?”
I hesitated.
“I do,” she went on. “Well, now go, little one. You are a beautiful child and I hope you will have as vivid a life as I have had.”