He thought of her in various moods, in various situations. How delightful she had been in the first months of their love― enchanting him with her perfect body and her agile mind; she had brought new delights to a man who thought he had tasted all. And now old age had attacked him, and the coming of that old monster had been hastened by this pernicious malady from which he could not escape. He thought of her― retaining her youthful energy with de Chabot, with de Nançay. And he doubted not that if he made inquiries other names would be mentioned. But he did not wish to know. She was a part of his life and it was a part he could not do without. It was more kingly to shut his eyes to what in all honour he could not face, to feign ignorance of matters which he did not wish to know.
This, thought Frances, is the tragedy of old age. It is a king’s tragedy as well as a beggar’s. Who would have believed, twenty years ago, that I, Francis, the King of France, with the power of France behind me could allow a woman to deceive me while I pretend to deceive myself! Henry, the King across the water― what would he have done in like case?
Would he have been so deceived? Never! Frances remembered another Anne with whom, in the days of his youth, he had flirted and whom he had sought to seduce; he remembered her later at Calais― black-eyed and beautiful, proud with the promise of queen-ship. That Anne had lost her head, because the King of England believed― or pretended to believe― that she had deceived him.
Then there had been little Catherine Howard on whom the King had doted, and yet she too had been unable to keep her head. Now, had the King of France been another as the King of England, his Anne might have feared to take lovers as she did. But alas!― or should he rejoice because of it? Francis the First of France was not Henry the Eighth of England. There were two things they had in common nowadays― old age and sickness. It was said that old Henry’s present wife was more of a nurse than a wife. Well, he, Francis, was full of faults, but hypocrisy was not among them. With him the power of seeing himself too clearly had amounted to almost a fault; it had certainly brought its discomforts.
He bid Anne come to him and arrange his perfumed cushions.
She said: ‘Is that better? Are you comfortable now, my beloved?’
‘How many years have I loved you?’ he said. ‘It started before I was a prisoner in Spain.’
Her face softened and he wondered if she also was remembering the glowing passion of their days together.
‘You wrote to me verses in your Spanish prison,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget them.’
‘Methinks the professional verse-maker could do better. Marot, for instance.’
‘Marot writes verses for all and sundry. It is the verses that are written by the lover to his mistress that have the greatest value.’
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and went on: ‘My dear, this dual must not take place.’
‘Why not?’ He supposed he would give way, but he was going to frighten her first. ‘It will give the people pleasure,’ he went on. ‘Do I not always say they have to be amused?’
He smiled at her. ‘I am hard put to it to think up new amusements for my people. And here is a ready-made entertainment. A public combat. What could be better?’
‘It would be murder.’
‘And how my people enjoy to see blood spilt! Think of it, my darling! There will be those who gamble on de Chabot and those who wager on de Vivonne. A gamble! A duel! I’ll wager Monsieur de Vivonne will be the victor. It is true, my love, that he is the finest swordsman in France. I was better― once. But alas! I have grown old and others take my place― yes, take my place.’
She narrowed her eyes, whilst his smouldered. She knew he was thinking of de Chabot’s making love to her, as de Nançay had been when he discovered them. He would be amused to have her lover murdered by the best swordsman in France, for de Vivonne would avenge the King’s honour as well as that of the Dauphin.
She repeated: ‘It would be murder.’
‘Oh come, my love, your opinion of de Chabot is unworthy of him. He is not such a poor, craven fellow that he is going to fling aside his sword and beg for mercy as soon as de Vivonne holds his at his throat.’
‘He is no craven, certainly!’ She spoke with vehemence.
‘Then doubtless, he will give a good account of himself,’ said the King.
‘He will, but still it will be murder.’
‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The young fool would have brought this on himself. What matters it if he is his mother’s lover? Who should care?’
‘His stepmother.’ she said.
‘Mother― stepmother― I do not care. But the fellow should not have made such a fool of himself. He should not have gone about lusting for revenge.’
‘It was natural.’
‘How gracious of you to champion the young fool, my dear. So charming of you to take so much trouble to save his life.’
She said: ‘It is of the house of Valois that I think.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’
‘Sire, you know this is not de Vivonne’s quarrel. It is the Dauphin’s.’
‘What of that?’
‘It demeans your royal house that another should take Dauphin’s quarrel.’
‘Yet this young man declares his honour must be avenged.’
‘He is young and hot-blooded.’
The King looked at her slyly. ‘I warrant he is; and very reason it would seem he finds favour with some.’
‘Francis, you must stop this duel. This kind of combat cannot take place without your consent. I implore you not to give it.’
There were tears in her blue eyes; he could see the beating of her heart disturbing her elaborate bodice. Poor Anne! Indeed, she loved the handsome fellow. She was asking for his life as she had once asked for Madame de Chateaubriand’s jewels.
She threw herself down beside him, and, taking his jeweled hand, kissed it; she laid her face against his coat.
Odd, thought the King. The King’s mistress pleading with the King that he might spare the life of her lover. The sort of situation Marguerite might have put into one of her tales.
He drew his hand across the softness of her throat as it were a sword to sever the lovely head from the proud shoulders.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked; and he replied: ‘Thinking of my old friend, the King of England.’
She laughed suddenly with that quick understanding which had always delighted him. He knew all. De Chabot was her lover, and she was pleading for his life because she could not bear to be without him.
He joined in her laughter.
‘Dear Francis!’ she said. ‘I would that we could start our life again. I would that this was the first evening we met. Do you remember?’
He remembered. There was no woman he had loved as he had loved Anne d’Heilly. He was getting old and he had not long to live; and Anne saw, staring her in the face, a future at which she dared not look too closely.
She clung to him.
‘Francis― let us be happy.’
So much she given him; so much would she continue to give to him; and all she asked in return was complaisance and the life of her lover. So how could he, the most chivalrous of men, refuse to give her what she asked?
All during the last months of that year there was uneasiness throughout the court. The old order was dying. People were wondering what changes would be made when the new king came to the throne.