Why did she love him? He was slow-witted and by no means amusing. It was incomprehensible that he should be in her thoughts all day and haunt her dreams by night. He was certainly courteous and kind, so anxious that she should not know their intercourse was distasteful to him that he could not help showing quite clearly that it was. By all the laws of human nature she ought to have hated him.
What could she, who was young and untutored in the ways of love, do to win him from the experienced woman who had taken had no friends whose advice she could ask. What if, as she rode out with the Petite Bande, she told her troubles to the King? How sympathetic he would be! How gracious! How angry his son for his lack of courtesy! And then, doubtless, he would, with embellishments, tell the story to Madame d’Etampes; and the two of them would be very witty at her expense.
There was no one to look after Catherine’s welfare but Catherine herself.
She must never forget that. That was why she must hide these bitter tears, and no one must ever know how passionately, how possessively she loved the shy young boy who was her husband.
Alarmed, she sat up an her bed, for she could hear footsteps approaching the room. There was a timid knock on the door.
She said in a cold and steady voice: ‘Did I not say I was not disturbed?’
‘Yes, Madame la Duchesse, but there is a young man here― Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli― who begs to be allowed to see you. He is very distressed.’
‘Tell him he may wait,’ she said. ‘I am busy for a while.’
She leaped from the bed, dried her eyes, and dusted her face with powder.
She looked at her reflection anxiously. It was impossible to eliminate all signs of her passionate weeping. How stupid it was to give way to the feelings! One should never, in any circumstances, be so weak. Sorrow and anger were emotions to be locked away in the heart.
Ten minutes had passed before she had the Count brought to her. He bowed low over her hand; then he lifted his sad eyes to her face.
‘ Duchessina,’ he said, ‘I see that this evil news has already reached you.’
She was silent, annoyed that he should have noticed the traces of grief on her face, and, having noticed them, been tactless enough to refer to them. But what evil tidings did he speak of?
As she continued silent, the young man went on: ‘I thought it my duty, Duchessina, to carry the news to you. I know your strong feelings for your noble cousin.’
Her feelings were under control. Was it only where her husband was involved that they got the better of training and her natural craft?
She had no idea to what the Count referred but she said with the utmost calm: ‘You had better tell it to me, Count, as you heard it.’
‘Oh, Duchessina, you know the condition of our beloved city, how its sufferings are almost unendurable under the tyrant. Many have been driven into exile, and these, with others, met together in secret. They decided to send a petition to Emperor Charles begging him to free Florence from Alessandro.
Duchessina, they selected your noble cousin, Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici as their ambassador.’
‘And Alessandro’s secret spies discovered this. I know. I know.’
‘He got as far as Itri. He would have embarked there for Tunis.’
‘And they killed him.’ Catherine covered her swollen eyes with her hands.
‘My poor noble cousin. My dearest Ippolito.’
‘It was in his wine, Duchessina. His death was terrible, but quick. He did not suffer long.’
For a few seconds she was silent; then she said: ‘Would there were some to avenge him.’
‘His servants were mad with grief, Duchessina. Italy mourns the great Cardinal. Florence is desolate.’
‘Oh, our poor country, Sebastiano! Our poor suffering country! I know how you feel. You and I would die for our country.’
‘And count it an honour to do so,’ said the young man earnestly.
She held out her hand and he took it. She was excited by a sudden thought which had come to her, conscious of that strange force which warned her of great events. Standing before her was a man whose eyes glowed fanatically when he spoke of his country.
‘Yes, Sebastiano,’ she said, ‘for the sake of your country you would gladly die a thousand deaths. There are men like that. Not many― but I think that you are one of them. If you were, your name would be remembered throughout Italy forever, my dear Count, with reverence.’ Her eyes glowed and the Count, looking at her, wondered how he could ever had accepted the general opinion that she was insignificant.
‘There have been times,’ she went on, ‘when I have been privileged to see into the future. I fancy I see something now. One day, Sebastiano, you will be called upon to do great deeds for our country.’
She spoke with such conviction, her eyes glowing almost unnaturally, that it seemed to the young man as if some power spoke through her. He stammered:
‘My lady Duchess, if that should be, I should die happy.’
Catherine withdrew her hand, sighing.
‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘you and I must live our lives as wisely as we can. But we will never forget the land of our birth.’
‘Never!’ he declared fervently.
She walked away from him, speaking quietly, as though to herself. ‘I am married to the son of a King― but the second son. The Dauphin is not strong, and I have wondered― as the Holy Father wondered― whether God has destined me, through my children to bring glory to Italy. My children!’
Her voice broke suddenly. ‘I have no children. I had hoped―’ she felt her control snapping. She burst out: ‘My husband is enamoured of a sorceress. They say she is a wrinkled old woman but appears as a young and beautiful lady. Life is strange and the ways of Fate are incomprehensible. You comfort me― there is nothing you would not do to serve me and Italy. If ever I were Queen of France, I would not forget― though I know you seek no honours.’
‘I seek only the honour of serving our country, Duchessina.’
‘You are good, Count; you are noble. We will both remember our country― always. We are strangers in a strange land, but never forget Italy. Stay and talk with me awhile. How good it is to speak our native tongue! You may sit, my lord Count. Speak to me of Italy― in Italian. Talk of our beloved Arno and the groves of olives― and the blessed sunshine―’
But it was she who went on speaking; and as she talked, it was not Ippolito― once so well-loved― whom she saw in her mind’s eye; it was Henry, his eyes shining for Diane, shame-faced and apologetic for his wife.
She told the young Count of her life at the Murate and how she had heard the story of the Virgin’s mantle.
‘Miracles are made on Earth by those who are great enough to make them,’
she said. ‘There are some who are selected by the Holy Virgin to work miracles.
I often think of my position, and the power that would be in my hands to work good for my country, if my brother the Dauphin passed from this life. He is delicate in health; it might be that God has not meant him to rule this land. And then, were I Queen, I must have children― sons― to work for the good of France― and Italy.’
‘Yes, Duchessina,’ said the Count quietly.
‘But I keep you from your duty, Count. When you wish for conversation, go along to the house of the brothers Ruggieri. They will have much to show you that is truly marvellous. When I tell them you are my friend― that you and I understand each other― there is nothing they will not give you.’