It was that stern Catholic, Anne de Montmorency, who was responsible for the friendly overture to Charles V. He had, on the illness of the King, taken over the reins of government, and when he had done this, he acted promptly. He had broken off friendly relations with the English and the German Princes, the Turks and the Duke of Cleves. He had persuaded Francis that alliance with Spain might mean the acquisition of Milan― which the death of Clement had snatched from the King just when he had thought the marriage of the Medici girl and Henry had brought it to him― and Francis could always be dazzled by the very name of Milan. And when Charles V had to journey from Spain to Flanders to subdue his rebellious subjects in the latter country, what better gesture of friendship to offer him safe passage through France, which would mean such saving of Charles’s time and pocket!
The invitation given was accepted― with a lack of ease on both sides; and so, Henry had ridden off rather sullenly much as he admired and respected his friend Montmorency could not relish the idea of welcoming as a guest of France, the man who had once held him a prisoner.
Courtiers huddled round the great fireplaces at Loches cussing the coming of the King of Spain and the possible departure of the King of France. There was a gloom about the palace. Loches, set on the top of a lofty rock, with a dark history of misery and pain that seemed to cling to it, with its underground dungeons, its torture-rooms, its noisome pits and its oubliettes, was hardly the pleasantest of French châteaux. There was scarcely a member of the court who did not long to return to Fontainebleau. The fact of the King’s being sick meant that lavish entertainments ceased, and that young ladies who taken on airs with royal favour, now seemed to shrink as they moped in corners. The court of France lost half its vitality when its King lay sick.
Catherine sat on a stool stretching her hands to the blaze while she listened to the conversation of those about her.
Young Guy de Chabot, the son of the Seigneur de Jarnac was a gay and dashing fellow, reckless in the extreme, a young man who gave himself up to the pleasures of love-making as fervently as men like Montmorency gave themselves to soldiering. He was talking now to a handsome captain of the Guards, Christian de Nançay, another such as himself. Idly Catherine listened to their conversation.
‘The King,’ said de Chabot, ‘should choose his women with greater care.
Depend upon it, La Feronnière has brought this sickness on him.
‘My friend,’ whispered de Nançay, ‘there you speak truth. The woman is herself suffering at this very time.’
‘Our King has his enemies,’ went on de Chabot. ‘One understands that the husbands and fathers of those whom he seduces cannot find it in their hearts to love him as easily as do the wives and daughters. Odd, is it not, and can at times be inconvenient. I have heard that the husband of La Feronnière the woman should pass this little trouble on to our Lord King.
De Nançay snapped his fingers. ‘My God! The King has suffered from the disease for many years. This is merely a reoccurrence of an old malady, depend upon it.’
They knew Catherine heard them, but what did they care? The quiet little mouse was of no consequence.
Anne d’Etampes strolled up to the two young men. They were once alert; rumour had named them both as her lovers. They bowed, they kissed her hands; they were, thought Catherine, rather ridiculous in their efforts to outdo each other. Anne had that quick smile, which held so much promise, for both of them.
They were two of the most handsome men at court, and Anne was very fond of handsome men.
Catherine watched them, joking, laughing, gaily flirting. Anne was beautiful, and only the closest observer, such as Catherine, saw how very worried she was.
Diane came to the fireplace and with her was Francis de Guise and Merot the poet. Princess Marguerite, the King’s daughter, joined them; and as they settled themselves about the fire, Catherine found herself drawn into the group.
The tension had heightened. It always did when these two women on whom the court looked as rival queens found themselves together.
Diane, very lovely in black and white, wearing on her finger the great ruby which Henry had given her, showed that she saw herself as the rising queen.
Anne, in blue that matched her eyes and her lovely fair hair to perfection, was more beautiful, more gay than Diane. The setting sun, thought Catherine, watching avidly that she might not miss a gesture, is often more magnificent than when it rides the sky.
‘What gallant courtiers you must find Monsieur da Nançay and Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane slyly. ‘They are always at your side.’
‘Indeed they are,’ retorted Anne. ‘I fear there are some who envy me the smiles that come my way.’
‘Then that is wrong of them!’ cried Diane. ‘I always say Madame la Duchesse d’Etampes has earned well her favours.’
‘Madame la Grande Sénéchale is kind indeed. I myself said the same of her.’
The little circle was uneasy. In a moment they would called upon to take sides, always a dangerous matter, Chabot nervously turned the subject to the coming of Charles V. He declared himself eager for a sight of the ogre.
‘A strange thing,’ said Princess Marguerite, ‘that he should be coming as my father’s guest― the man who imprisoned my father and my brothers. It is beyond my understanding.’
‘But it all happened long ago!’ said de Guise. ‘It is one of those things best forgotten.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne; ‘it happened long ago. Sénéchale, you will remember more clearly than any of us. You were a wife and mother at the time; I was but a child.’
Diane said: ‘You must have been very talented, Madame d’Etampes. I believe, at the time of the King’s imprisonment, Madame de Chateaubriand was jealous of you on the King account.’
‘An uneasy matter for Frenchmen,’ said de Guise quickly, ‘to have the Spaniards on their soil, even though they come I friends.’
‘A far more uneasy matter for Spaniards!’ put in the poet Marot.
‘I wish they would hurry and reach us. How dull are the days of waiting!’
Anne laughed as she spoke, but she did not feel like laughter. The Sénéchale, with her boldness, always disturbed her, always made her feel that her days of power were fast approaching an end.
‘I had thought Madame d’Etampes could not find the days― nor the nights dull,’ said Diane quietly.
‘It is true I was born with gaiety in my heart,’ said Anne. ‘But I should like to see the party here. I long to clap eyes on the mighty Charles.’ She noticed Catherine sitting there. ‘Our little Dauphine would wish to see her young husband, is that not so, Dauphine?’
Catherine shrugged her shoulders.
‘Shame!’ cried Anne. ‘Did there speak the dutiful wife?’
Catherine did not know what had come to her. She had been thinking of Henry while they had been talking and, seeing Diane there, hating her so fiercely, realizing that even in a battle of words with Anne she could shine, she had felt her hatred submerging her control.
She forced herself to laugh now.
‘Dutiful?’ she said bitterly. ‘Should I be dutiful? Ask Madame la Sénéchale with whom he spends his days and nights.’