Three important events took place in that first year. The first of these was her election to the Little Band. An excellent horsewoman, she knew she could qualify in that respect, and she decided to tell Francis of her desire.
Most humbly, she begged for an audience in private, and when she stood before him she became overcome with fear and wanted to run away. Francis watched her with amusement.
‘You must forgive, Sire,’ she blurted out. ‘I am afraid I came to you thoughtlessly. Please give me leave to retire.’
‘Indeed, you shall have no such leave until I hear what is on your mind.’
‘I dare not.’
‘I know. It is that husband of yours. Foy de gentilhomme! It is no use coming to me, little Catherine. It is true that I sired him. Yes my dear, I am responsible for that dark deed! But do not ask me make a man of him, for it would grieve me to deny you anything, and in asking that you would ask the impossible.’
‘Sire,’ she said, ‘it was not of Henry I wished to speak, but of myself.’
‘Ah! A happier subject, my little one!’
‘I am a good horsewoman, I believe, Sire. You yourself complimented me.
It was this that gave me temerity―’
‘Well, well?’
‘On occasions, with a light remark, I have had the great honour of seeing a smile appear on your face. I― I think I have pleased you―’
She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.
She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.
‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with La Petite Bande, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’
She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.
Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.
Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.
One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’
He lifted her and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘it was good of you to open your heart to me thus.
Why, you shall have a special place in my Petite Bande. It shall be your task to ride beside me, to amuse me with your talk and tell me your secrets. How like you that?’
She kissed his hands, and she laughed with him because she was so happy.
This was a piquant situation such as he loved. So original, so amusing― to have his little daughter, for whom he was indulging in a platonic love affair, among his courtesans!
So Catherine rode in the Petite Bande. But this did nothing to endear her to her husband. Her friendship with his father seemed to make him more suspicious of her than ever.
But Catherine seemed to grow up quickly among the King’s ladies. She heard chatter of the private parties that were enjoyed in the King’s apartments; she heard of things which she had never known existed; and her thoughts, as she listened, would go unaccountably to Henry; and she could not stop imagining Henry and herself at these parties.
The second upheaval of that eventful year caused a deep alarm in Catherine’s heart. Suddenly and mysteriously, Pope Clement died. For the man she cared nothing. How could she care? She looked upon him as the destroyer of her happiness. But for his ambitions, she would have been Ippolito’s wife; and together, she and her cousin would have ruled the city of Florence. But she was diplomat enough to know that Clement was her only powerful relative, and that the King of France had agreed that she should marry his son because of the benefits such a marriage would bring to France. But, alas! The dowry was not yet paid in its entirety; and what about those tempting jewels― Naples, Milan, Genoa? A new Pope would snap his fingers at the ambitions of the Medici.
People whispered about her. It angered her that they did not think it necessary to keep their voices low when she was near. ‘Here is a fine matter!’ it was said. ‘Our King has been fooled. Where is the fine dowry, where the Italian provinces which alone made possible this marriage between a Medici girl and a Valois Prince? Here is our King’s son saddled with a marriage which can only demean himself and France.’
Catherine’s thoughts were muddled. Was she truly alarmed? She hardly knew. It was fortunate that she could show a calm front. What would happen to her now? Would the marriage be dissolved? Would she be sent back to Italy?
‘If you are,’ said a voice within her, ‘and if your marriage is dissolved, you will be free. You can return to Rome. And Ippolito will be there.’
Oh joy! To be with Ippolito once more, to be free to love. She would not have to live with a husband whom she did not love. No more of that furtive intimacy that he made so clear was solely for the begetting of children. ‘How happy,’ she murmured, ‘should I be to say goodbye to you, Henry!’
But, alas! Ippolito was a Cardinal. He could not take a wife. Nonsense!
Ippolito could break away from the Church if he wished.
She waited, uncertain of her desires, while fresh news came from Rome.
There was rejoicing throughout the Eternal City― throughout all Italy― at the death of one who had made himself despised and hated. Each night, it was said, the grave of Clement was raided by the mob, who desecrated his body, and in their hatred of him did all manner of vile things which they had longed to do to him while he lived. Only the intervention of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici had prevented an enraged populace from dragging Clement’s body on a hook through the City.
Oh, Ippolito, dearest Ippolito, thought Catherine. How like you to protect, in death, the man who, in life, made you unhappy, who wrecked our lives, when he kicked aside our love for his ambition! And thinking thus, she grew angry with Ippolito. He was not strong enough, she thought. He allowed us to be parted. The third incident of importance did not seem such at the time it took place.
She had no great liking for the Dauphin, but she had always sought to please him, and he had grown to like her mildly. One day he sought to honour her, and being in need of a new cupbearer he thought to please her by selecting a young Italian whom she had brought with her in her suite. Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli was a handsome and very patriotic young man whose earnestness had pleased Catherine, so that she was glad now to hear that he had been selected for favour.