She could now look round the members of her cercle with pleasure and gratification. The poets Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay argued together; one of the three Coligny brothers was talking animatedly to Henry’s sister Marguerite, for whom a husband had not yet been found, although she was advancing into her thirties; lovely Anne d’Este, the Italian woman whom Francis de Guise had married, was with the other two Colinys. All the most important personages of the court found it expedient to attend the Queen’s cercle.
There was one thing she could not do, and that was exclude Diane. All her triumph turned to bitterness when she looked around and saw her enemy. As she received the homage of those about her, Catherine could not prevent pictures flashing in and out of her mind: little vignettes, scenes from the chamber below hers at Saint-Germain. Engraved on her memory were the tender gestures, the passionate love-making. There were many scores to be settled with Diane.
Never would Catherine forget how, some years ago, when it had been necessary to appoint a Regent, Henry having gone in person to battle, and tradition demanding that the Regent should be the Queen, Henry had, at Diane’s instigation, so hemmed her in with councillors that her power had been completely nullified. Catherine had accepted that state of affairs without protest, not wishing the people to know how, at his mistress’s command, her husband would humiliate his wife. She did not forget it. She would never forget it; it was almost as bitter a memory as those that had come to her by way of the hole in the floor.
Montmorency was beside her now. He had brought a new medicine for little Hercule, as he had heard the child was ailing.
‘Monsieur, you are too good!’ said Catherine. ‘The elephant’s tooth you brought me proved beneficial to Charles.’
‘You dissolved it well, I hope, Madame.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘This is a special herb. I have tested it on my servants.’
The Constable’s eyes were on Diane, who was talking with the Duc de Guise and Mary Stuart, together with the Dauphine. He and Diane were enemies, in secret, though they did distress the King by proclaiming their enmity; but Diane had never forgotten the part the Constable played in the affair of the Scottish governess.
Catherine turned to find Francis de Vendôme at her side. She smiled warmly, for this man had a special claim to her favour.
He was handsome― indeed, he was one of the handsomest men at court― and was of royal blood, having Bourbon connections; he had always made a point of being very courteous to the Queen; but, most important of all, he had been cool to Diane. This had happened when she was looking for husbands for her daughters and had considered Francis de Vendôme being of royal blood, a suitable parti. Francis de Vendôme entitled Vidame of Chartres, had haughtily declined the alliance with the girl whom Diane afterwards succeeded in marrying to one of the Guises. Catherine had liked the young man for that; and in his turn he had made a habit of humbly seeking her out and giving her his respectful admiration. She was pleased to see him at her cercle.
Montemorency moved off, and she gave the Vidame permission to sit beside her.
The young man was amusing; he was always ready with the latest gossip, and she had found more than once that he soothed her wounded vanity. People glanced their way, and she knew they wondered whether this was the beginning of a love affair― although there had never been anything of this nature in the life of the Queen.
‘Your Majesty is looking charming this evening.’ The young man’s handsome head moved closer to that of the Queen, who tried to show that the flattery did not interest her; she could not be blamed if it did, she reminded herself, since she had received so little in a lifetime of humiliations at the court of France.
‘Poor old Montmorency seems troubled tonight,’ she said.
‘It is this affair of his son’s. The old man is ambitious for the boy, and the boy, the saints preserve him, is ambitious for love.’
‘I think the boy has spirit,’ said Catherine.
‘What we would call spirit, Madame, the old Constable calls folly.’
Catherine smiled. The whole court was talking of the Montmorency affair at the moment. The King had offered his daughter, Diane of France, to the Constable’s son, and the Constable’s son had already promised marriage to one of Catherine’s ladies. Montmorency was furious to think that the man had, by his impetuous act, spoiled his chances of linking his family with the King’s. He had had the girl whom his son wished to marry shut up in a convent, and was endeavoring to get the Pope to annul the promise of marriage.
‘Ah well,’ went on the Vidame, ‘it is a great temptation. The old Constable would rejoice to see his son make such a noble marriage. One understands.’
‘One understands the Constable’s feelings and those of his son. The latter is not the first to refuse a match that would bring him advantage.’
They exchanged smiles. Catherine was referring to the Vidame’s declining the hand of Diane’s daughter.
‘Madame,’ whispered the Vidame, ‘there is one here who greatly enjoys the Constable’s discomfiture.’
Again they could smile together, cosily, intimately. It was very pleasant to chat with someone who had proved that he had no wish to serve Diane.
‘How well they hide their enmity from the King!’ said the Vidame.
The Queen was silent, and he wondered if he gone too far. He was ambitious; he had not thought ageing Diane could hold her influence at court as long as this; and even now, he looked at her silver hair― though she was beautiful in spite of it― and he felt, as all did, that she would hold the King’s attention until she died, he was sure that he had done the right thing in winning the good graces of the quiet Queen instead of those of Diane. His was a waiting policy and the Queen was comparatively young. When he had looked into those dark eyes that could seem so mild, he had seen something which others had failed to see; he had discovered that Catherine was not the insignificant person many believed her to be. He remembered the death of Dauphin Francis which had made her Queen. Ah, Madame Serpent, he thought, could you solve that mystery? But sly she might be, subtle too, yet she was also a neglected wife; he was not rich, but his face, his breeding, his charming manners were his fortune, and he had always been a great success with women.
‘How beautiful she looks,’ said Catherine, ‘in her black-and-white. I declare it becomes that silvery hair of hers more it did the raven locks.’
‘Beautiful, yes. What health she enjoys! There must be sorcery in it. But even sorcery cannot hold off the years indefinitely.’
‘Yes; she has aged much since I first set eyes on her.’ He had come close and she moved slightly.
‘A thousand pardons, Madame,’ he said. ‘For one blessed moment, I forgot you were the Queen.’