Francis signed him to leave, and, bowing low and ironically, the jester went out.
‘Now, Catherine, my little one!’ The charming voice, tenderly soft, sent Catherine into floods of genuine tears.
It was rarely that Francis could witness, unmoved, a woman in distress.
‘Catherine, my dear one, what is it?’
She knelt and kissed his feet. He lifted her and looked y concern at her tear-blotched cheeks. He took a perfumed handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
She sobbed: ‘You are so good. I could not live without the joy of serving you.’
Now this was charming, thought the King. This was delightful. She had been able to choose her words well. This was a tender little love scene― platonic love― the most comfortable of loves. The admiration of a daughter for her father, made more exciting because the daughter was not of his blood.
‘Tell me all, little one,’ he said. ‘Have no doubt that I will do all in my power to help you.’
‘Sire, my honoured and beloved lord, I beg of you to forgive me this familiarity. It is the thought of being banished from your shining presence that gives me the courage to speak to you. I love this land; I love it through its great and glorious King. I have been happy here. It is true I have no children and my husband is bewitched by one old enough to be his mother. These are tragedies; but because on occasions I have won a smile of approval from your royal lips, I have been happy; because in some small way, I have given my gracious King some pleasure, my life has seemed to be worthwhile. I do not come to plead for what you would not willingly give, because if it were not your gracious pleasure, it could not be mine.’
‘Speak, my dear,’ He said. ‘Tell me everything that is in your mind.’
‘If it be your will that I should retire to a convent, then, though my heart be broken, this would I do. If it should be your will that I should remain here to serve you, then I shall be woman in France. But, Sire, whatever your command, I shall to my utmost power, carry out your wishes, for though to be banned from your presence will be to me a living death, I am wise enough to know that there is no joy in my life but that which comes to me through serving you.’
Whereupon she again fell to weeping bitterly, for she was very frightened indeed. But she felt herself lifted on to the royal knee and rocked in the royal arms as though she were a child. Hope came back, so bright, that it was more dazzling than the rubies and sapphires on the royal doublet.
Francis was thinking quickly. He had almost made up his mind to the divorce. As he wiped her tears he was thinking: if Henry spends too much time with one who is too old for childbearing and in any case could only give him bastards, let Henry stay childless. Then, on the death of Henry, would Charles, if he still lived, mount the throne.
How pleasant it was to play the chivalrous role when one could feel that it did not after all involve any great folly. He could please the little daughter who showed her affection so charmingly, and at the same time he could please Anne, rarely one had the experience of pleasing two women at the same time.
‘My child,’ said the King, ‘God has willed that you are my daughter-in-law and the Dauphin’s wife; therefore, who am I to have it otherwise? Rest happy, my child. Perchance it might, ere long, please God to accord you and the Dauphin the grace which you desire more than anything in the world.’
Catherine lifted eyes to his face that, while full of tears, seemed radiant with joy. Her mind was working quickly. It was only postponement, she knew; but it would mean at least another year of grace. And who knew what might happen in a year?
She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. She was incoherent― purposely so― because she wished to drop the ceremonious approach and tell the King of her adoration of gracious self.
She begged he would pardon her for her indiscretion. She thanked him again and again; she asked nothing but to stay near him, to see him each day, to listen to his poetry and songs.
Catherine marvelled at herself. How calm she was now! How cleverly she had enacted this scene! Each word she had uttered had been the right word. How sad, how tragic, that she who could so bemuse the clever father, must expose herself so pitifully to the simple son!
At last he dismissed her; they parted with vehement protestations of devotion on her part, gracious admission of affection on his.
Here was defeat for the Catholic party. The King had given the Dauphine a reprieve.
Diane was alarmed. She had noticed Anne’s growing friendship with young Charles of Orléans. The King seemed to dote on that young man more than ever, whilst his distaste for his elder son more marked. Francis had postponed― indefinitely it would seem― this matter of the divorce. Could this mean Anne was trying to persuade her royal lover to juggle with the succession, to set his younger son above his elder? Surely, that had never happened during the whole history of France; but who knew what a King, weakened by disease, priding himself on his chivalry, might not do for a woman with whom he was infatuated?
Diane saw immediately what she must do. She must make every effort to turn the barren marriage into a fruitful one.
She begged an audience with the Dauphine.
Catherine received her in her apartments, and they talked idly of Italy and the artists of that country; but Catherine guessed why she was honoured by this visit from her husband’s mistress, and in spite of her excitement, she felt the humiliation keenly.
Looking at the serene, lovely face before her, mad thoughts whirled in Catherine’s brain. She wondered if she might arrange for men to enter the woman’s chamber whilst she slept, and then mutilate or even murder her.
I hate her, thought Catherine, as she smiled sweetly. She little knows I have set Madalenna to watch them together. She would have me think that they are platonic friends. Little does she know that I have seen through Madalenna’s eyes. Would I could find some way of seeing them together myself. ‘Madame,’ Diane was saying, ‘you are fully aware of my the Dauphin. It is of such long standing. I have been a mother to him.’
An incestuous mother, thought Catherine bitterly.
‘Our friendship began when he was very young, and it will endure to my death, for I am older than he is, and it is almost certain that I shall die before him.’
Would it were tomorrow! How I should rejoice to see you, a dagger through your heart, and your black-and-white gown stained with your blood! And those serene features, serene no longer, but twisted in the agony of death! I will insist that Cosmo or Lorenzo find me a poison that will make a victim die a long and lingering death which will seem to be the a natural malady. ‘I know him so well,’ went on Diane. ‘I know his thoughts even when he does not confide in me― although he does confide in me frequently. Now, my dear friend, it is important that you and the Dauphin have children. I am your friend― your very good friend― and I tell you so.’
‘Madame, you tell me nothing new. The whole court knows that I pray each night for a child.’
‘The Dauphin is rarely with you,’ smiled Diane. ‘His presence would be more effective than your prayers.’
She paused, but Catherine forced herself to silence, her thoughts raced on. And why is he not at my side? Because you are luring him from me. I hate you. If I had a poisoned draught, how gladly would I force it down your throat! How meek she is, thought Diane. Really I wonder that I thought her worth removing. That little outburst was nothing. It was to be expected. It was because she made it before my enemies that it seemed important in my eyes. She is the very wife for Henry. They must have children. Diane was smiling, picturing the birth of Catherine’s children. Diane herself would supervise their education, choose their nurses and their teachers. They should be hers as surely as was their father.