D’Enghien had entered the tent and was standing beside the King. He was weeping silently.
‘The priest bid us leave the town,’ said the young man as though he talked to himself. ‘He was right― when he said we danced with death―’
Francis turned on him. ‘Something must be done!’ cried the King. ‘Where are our doctors― our physicians?’
But as d’Enghien lifted his wretched eyes to those of the King, they both knew that nothing could be done.
To be old when you had been so gloriously young, to love of life when you have worshipped it with every breath in your body― that, thought Francis, was a sad plight for to come to.
God had deserted him. He was unlucky in battle; the sons he had loved had been taken from him, and the one who irritated him at every turn was left. His mistress was unfaithful and he no longer had the energy, nor desire, to seek others.
A day at the chase tired him. What was left to a sick old man who had once been a vigorous youth?
Sorrowing he had returned to Paris after the death of Charles; but though a bereaved father, he was still a King. He must remember that Charles could no longer bring glory to France through a rich marriage, and that once more Milan been dangled under his nose only to be snatched away when he was preparing to grasp it. So France and Spain must go to war again.
Peace was made with the English, fortresses strengths new allies sought, as Francis prepared to renew his claims on Milan.
But, missing his son bitterly, he could only be halfhearted about war.
He had the young Count of Enghien with him constantly that they might talk of Charles. The Count had known the boy better than any other had, for they had been the closest friends. Francis made the young man go over and over those last hours of Charles’s life. Francis saw the taverns where they had caroused with men and women eager to snatch a few hours of riotous life before death took them; he saw the death-cart rattling over the cobbles, and the priest walking before it, muttering prayers for the dead and the dying; but most vivid in his mind was the imagined picture of that macabre scene in the dead girl’s bedroom, with young Charles, so vital, so beautiful then― shouting as he plunged his sword into her bed, until the polluted feathers flew about him like a snow-storm.
‘You and I loved him better than did any others,’ said Francis to the young Count. ‘There is none to whom I would rather speak of him than to you.’
So, d’Enghien came into the King’s personal service, and stayed with him; and after a few months, Francis felt that the young man filled, in some measure, the terrible gap which the death of Charles had made in his life. He reflected bitterly that it was strange he should find comfort in this young man while his own son Henry had nothing to offer him.
Elizabeth was nearly a year old, and it was time she had a successor. Henry, at Diane’s command, was coming to Catherine regularly now; and each night, she perfumed herself, put flowers in her hair, wore her most seductive garments, and prepared herself to greet her husband.
As for Henry, familiarity bred tolerance. He no longer saw her as the repulsive young girl who had come to him at the time of his brother’s death. He did not like Catherine, but he had learned not to dislike her; and Catherine felt that from dislike to indifference was quite a big step forward. Give her time― for time was on her side, not Diane’s― and she would one day win him. She need have no fear that she would be banished now and her life could be spent at his side. She must go on pretending for a while that she did not care that her husband in name was Diane’s in truth; and that the children whom she had borne were Diane’s to love and cherish and plan for. She must try not to brood because it was Diane who was always at their cradles when they were sick and that it was Diane who gave instructions; Diane to whom to whom young Francis turned when he was in trouble or wished to ask a question. She must not feel bitter when little Elizabeth clucked with pleasure to be taken on to that sweetly smelling black-and-white lap. Instead, she must wait, seeking every advantage that might result in Diane’s downfall and her own closer intimacy with Henry.
She would rise― or stoop― to anything that would bring about such changes; she would neglect nothing, however seemingly insignificant.
Henry would soon be with her. He spent an hour with Diane before he came to her. That was the jam to sweeten his pill, thought Catherine bitterly. He was longing her to tell him that she was expecting another child, for then these duty visits of his could cease, and he could go to Anet― his real home― and there stay with his beloved mistress and not have to give a thought to his wife.
Even if it were so, thought Catherine, I would hold back the news until I could no longer conceal it. What could she say tonight to keep him with her a little longer than he usually stayed, to show him that she was cleverer than Diane, more capable of ruling a man or country?
She thought of the court. The biggest scandal at the moment was Madame d’Etampes’ love affair with Guy de Chabot, one of the most fascinating of young men. He was married to one of the sisters of Anne d’Etampes, but the King’s favourite was not inclined to let this small matter stand in the way of her pleasure.
How, wondered Catherine, did Anne draw men to her? In spite of flagrant infidelity, the King continued to cherish her; and yet, Catherine, who was true and loyal, who would give everything she possessed to win her husband’s regard, was ignored and slighted!
Henry came in. She lay back on her cushions and looked at him yearningly.
How he had changed since she had first seen him in Marseilles, a shy, sullen boy! Now he was a man― heir to the throne, a man of dignity, slow still, but one to inspire respect. His black hair had a few silver threads in it, although he was only twenty-seven.
Tonight, she decided, she would speak to him of Anne d’Etampes and her lover; passionately, she wished him to know that although outwardly, she was Anne’s friend, she wished to serve none but him. In his presence humility always possessed her. She wanted to tell him that, if he commanded it, she would serve Diane. She felt the old indiscretion coming to the fore. If she did not curb her tongue she would be telling him soon how she set Madalenna to spy on the people of the court. She would tell him that she would put all her spies at his disposal― for Madalenna was not the only one.
She checked herself in time.
‘Is it not scandalous how Madame d’Etampes conducts herself!’ she said.
‘The whole court is talking of this latest love affair.’
Henry lifted his shoulders as though to say he was past being disgusted with the most disgusting woman in France.
‘This de Chabot!’ went on Catherine. ‘Is it not marvellous how he can live in style rich enough for Anne d’Etampes? The King has given that lady very expensive tastes, I fear.’
Henry was never one for scandalous gossip, even about his enemies. He did not answer. He took off his coat and flung it across the chair. for he dispensed with the help of attendants when visiting his wife. Everything connected with this painful duty, he did it in a shame-faced way. He visited Catherine’s apartments as though they were a bawdy house; in Diane’s he was natural and at home.
Catherine noted this and violent-anger surged up within her, but she was learning suppress it as soon as it came, reminding herself that one day all insults should be paid for.
Henry might not like gossip, but she could see that he, too, was wondering how de Chabot found the money to live in grand style. He would repeat to Diane, what Catherine had said, and this was circulated to the discomfiture of Anne. And might it not be that Anne, in that tricky way of hers, would turn the tables on Diane? That was what Catherine hoped, and every pin-prick inflicted on Diane was worth a little trouble.