Louis was dead; but Henry was back; and in her possession was the magic ruby ring. She had it carefully locked away; it would never do for the King to see it; and yet, when he was with her, she must wear it. She had forced herself to a pathetic belief in the ring, and this belief had been nourished by the Ruggieri brothers.
In her heart she knew they thought: Let us keep her mind on the ring in order that it may not stray to our poison closet.
A week after Louis’ death, Henry came to her. He was very gentle and courteous. Doubtless he thought: Poor Catherine! She has lost a child, and what has she but her children?
He sat on the chair which was kept for his use. She thought how handsome he was in his coat of black velvet with the diamonds which decorated it, flashing in the dim light from the candles. The graying hair and beard, while robbing him of youth, gave him dignity. His long white jewelled hands rested lightly on the rich fabric of the arms of the chair, while his head lay against the silver brocade that was embroidered with the golden fleur-de-lys. Looking round that room with its rich hangings, its costly bed, whose curtains were embroidered in red and purple, with its furnishings worth a fortune, Catherine thought again how happy she would be if Henry would but love her.
‘You are filled with melancholy, Henry,’ she said; and she went to him, standing behind him, timidly laid a hand on his shoulder. She longed for him to take the hand, but he did not. She thought of the ring, lying ready in a drawer.
The drawer was now unlocked; all she had to do was open it and slip the ring on her finger.
‘My thoughts are with our son,’ said Henry; he did not add ‘And at Anet.’
But she knew that they were, and the knowledge filled her with bitterness.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It is sad indeed to lose a child, and that child a son.’
Her fingers pressed hard on his shoulder; she was now restraining that mad impulse, which his near presence always inspired in her, to throw her arms about his neck and speak to him of her wild love for him, of her burning desire.
‘Poor little Louis,’ murmured Henry. ‘His coming into the world seemed so pointless, since so soon he has been taken from it.’
She must wear the ring. Now was the time, He would not notice that she wore it, for he hardly ever noticed what she wore. Yet if he became enamoured of her as her as he had been of Diane― She felt dizzy with joy at the thought, taking her hands, kissing each finger. But what would it matter then if he noticed the ring? The magic ornament would by that time have worked its spell.
‘I have wept for him until I have no more tears left.’ she said; and she sped to the drawer, and, taking out the ring, slipped it on her finger.
Her heart hammering, her eyes gleaming, she went back to the King’s chair.
He had not moved, but sat quietly, still staring blankly into space.
The magic will take a little time to work, she thought.
‘Henry, we must not grieve.’ She stood behind his chair; she felt as if her excitement would choke her. She laid her hand on his graying hair and stroked it; the great ruby light caught the light from the candle and winked back at her.
The King coughed in an embarrassed way and rose. He walked to the window and stood there uncertainly, his figure silhouetted against the hangings, infinitely desirable to her in all its virile manhood.
He had not changed at all. He did not wish her to touch him. Demonstrative affection on her part embarrassed him now as it ever did.
The magic was slow in working.
She twisted the ring on her finger.
‘Francis is not as strong as I could wish,’ she said. ‘We must get ourselves more sons.’
He nodded, grimly, she thought, as if he was wondering when there might be an end to this unpleasant duty.
Nothing was changed. He sat and fiddled with the jars upon the table; she could see his face reflected in the mirror, gloomy, embarrassed.
She got into the magnificent bed, and waited, twisting the ring round and round on her finger, biting her lips to keep back her tears.
One October day, a few weeks after the death of little Louis, Anne de Montmorency begged an audience of the Queen.
Catherine wondered what the harsh old man could want of her. She had never really liked him; she did not even admire him. He was too easy to understand, too straightforward to win― in her estimation, he was not even a good soldier. He had come to dishonour in the reign of the previous King; and if he were not careful the same thing might happen to him again. He was flouting Diane openly, which was absurd.
He should have done what wise people did― work against her in the dark.
Sooner or later there was going to be a battle between the King’s mistress and the Constable. Silly old man! thought Catherine. It was sadly obvious who would win such a battle. If he wished to hold his place he should do as his betters did, and appear to be Diane’s ally.
Still, she was interested to hear what he had to say. She was depressed and unhappy. The ruby ring had proved to have no magical properties whatsoever.
She had worn it for a week and the King’s feeling for her had not changed one little bit. Her hopes had been raised and proved futile; and she had at first been furious with the Ruggieri brothers, who, she was sure, deliberately misled her.
They were right, of course; there was nothing she could do just yet. The destruction of Diane must wait awhile; she must continue to use less sure methods than poison― just for a while. She had wanted to fling the ring into the river, but even then her caution got the better of her. She sent it back to Anet so that Marie might find some way of returning it to Diane’s finger.
There was one bright spot in the whole sorry affair. Diane’s health was not improving, and she still forbade the King to visit her at Anet.
The suggested interview with Montmorency therefore promised to relieve the tedium, and she eagerly attendant to bring him to her.
The Constable bowed low over the Queen’s hand. He had come, he said, to pay his respects to the new baby. As she took him to the nursery where Charles was sleeping peacefully, and watched him prod the baby’s satiny cheek with finger until he awoke and whimpered, she knew that Montmorency had not asked for an interview merely to do that.
She said: ‘He is young yet, Constable, to realize the honor you do him.
Come and see the other children. They will be delighted to see you.’
Francis and Elizabeth made the Constable pretty curtsies and young Mary offered him an exhibition of her pert dignity.
After he had exchanged a few pleasantries with the children, the Constable said that the afternoon was mild, and he would deem it a great honour if the Queen would take a turn in the gardens, where they could chat undisturbed.
The last words excited Catherine, for she knew at once that Montmorency had something to say to her which he did not wish anyone to overhear; so, stimulated always by thought of intrigue, and guessing that this might have something to do with the absent Diane, Catherine readily consented to accompany him.
As they walked round the most private of the closed-in gardens, Montmorency said: ‘Your Majesty will agree with me that it is peaceful here since some have been forced to leave it.’
Catherine, feeling her way cautiously, inquired: ‘Whose absence has made the palace of Saint-Germain more peaceful to you, Constable?’
The Constable prided himself on being a blunt man. He was not one to prevaricate. ‘I speak, Your Majesty, of the Duchess of Valentinois, now confined to her bed in the Château of Anet.’
‘You are pleased that she is absent then, my Lord Constable?’