As the royal party—complete with beds and furnishings, fine clothes and all the trappings of state—rode toward Chenonceaux, the Queen-Mother talked to the Queen of the improvements she intended for the château. She would have a new wing, and there should be two galleries—one on either side, so that when she gave a ball the flambeaux would illuminate the dancers from both sides of the ballroom. She would send to her native Italy for statues, for there were no artists in the world to compare with the Italians, as old King François had known; the walls should be hung with the finest tapestries in the world and decorated with the most beautiful of carved marble.
“You are fortunate,” said Mary, “to find something to do which will help you to forget your grief for the late King.”
Catherine sighed deeply. “Ah yes, indeed. I lost that which was more dear to me than all else. Yet I have much left, for I am a mother, and my children’s welfare gives me much to think of.”
“As does this beautiful château, so recently in the possession of Madame de Valentinois.”
“Yes… yes. We must all have our lighter moments, must we not? I hope that Chenonceaux will offer rich entertainments to my son and Your Majesty.”
“You are so thoughtful, Madame.”
“And,” went on the Queen-Mother, “to your children.”
“We are very grateful indeed.”
“I am concerned for my son. Since his marriage he has become weaker. I fear he grows too quickly.” The Queen-Mother leaned from her horse and touched Mary’s hand. She gave her ribald laugh. “I trust you do not tire him.”
“I… tire him!”
Catherine nodded. “He is such a young husband,” she said.
Mary flushed. There was in this woman, as in the Cardinal, the power to create unpleasant pictures. The relationship which she and François knew to be expected of them, and which the Cardinal had made quite clear to them was their duty to pursue, gave them both cause for embarrassment. For neither of them was there pleasure. They could never banish thoughts of the Cardinal and Queen-Mother on such occasions. It seemed to them both that those two were present—the Cardinal watching them, shaking his head with dissatisfaction at their efforts, the Queen-Mother overcome with mirth at their clumsy methods. Such thoughts were no inducement to passion.
“He is so weak now,” said Catherine, “that I am convinced that even if you did find yourself enceinte, no one would believe the child was the King’s.”
Again that laugh. It was unbearable.
They came to Chenonceaux, and Mary’s anger with Catherine had not left her when her women were dressing her for the banquet that night.
She looked at her reflection in the beautiful mirror of Venetian glass—the first which had ever been brought to France—and she saw how brilliant were her long, beautiful eyes. There was always some meaning behind the words of the Queen-Mother. Mary guessed that, for all her laughter, she was very much afraid that Mary was with child. Mary was beginning to understand why. If she had a child and François died, Catherine’s son, Charles, would not be King; and Catherine was longing for the moment when Charles should mount the throne. François had once said: “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King.” But although François was King he was ruled by Mary’s uncles, and Catherine wished to reign supreme. That was why she had appointed special tutors for her son Charles. It would seem, thought Mary, in sudden horror, that she wants François to die.
She looked round the beautiful room which was her bedchamber. Perhaps here King Henri and Diane had spent their nights, making love in the carved oak bedstead with its hangings of scarlet satin damask. She glanced at the carved cabinets, the state chair, the stools; and she was suddenly glad that she had not Catherine’s gift for seeing into the future. She was afraid of the future.
“Bring me my gown,” she said to Mary Beaton, who, with Seton, helped her into it. It was of blue velvet and satin decorated with pearls.
“A dress indeed for a Queen,” said Flem, her eyes adoring. “Dearest Majesty, you look more beautiful than ever.”
“But Your Majesty also looks angry,” countered Beaton. “Was it the Queen-Mother?”
“She makes me angry,” admitted Mary. “How like her to come to this château! She says that Chaumont is full of ghosts. I wonder the ghost of the dead King does not come and haunt her here.”
“It is very soon after…,” murmured Livy.
“She’s inhuman!” cried Mary.
One of her pages announced that the Cardinal was come to see her. The ladies left her.
As he kissed her hand, the Cardinal’s eyes gleamed. “Most beautiful!” he declared. “Everyone who sees you must fall in love with you!”
Mary smiled. Her image looked back at her from the Venetian mirror. There was an unusual flush in her cheeks and her eyes still sparkled from the anger Catherine had aroused. She enjoyed being beautiful; she reveled in the flattery and compliments which came her way. Tonight she would dance more gaily than she ever had before, and so banish from her mind the unpleasantness engendered by the Queen-Mother. François had been advised to rest in his bed. It was wrong of her to feel relieved because of this; but nevertheless it was comforting to remember she need not be anxious because he might be getting tired. Tonight she could be young and carefree. She was, after all, only seventeen; and she was born to be gay.
“Those who have always been in love with you,” went on the Cardinal, “find themselves deeper and deeper under your spell. But tell me, is there any news?”
She frowned slightly. “News? What news?”
“The news which all those who love you anxiously wait to hear. Is there any sign of a child?”
Now she was reminded of that which she preferred to forget—François, the lover who could not inspire her with any passion, François, who apologized and explained that it was but their duty. She saw the pictures in her mind reflected in the Cardinal’s eyes. She saw the faint sneer on his lips, which was for François.
“There is no sign of a child,” she said coolly.
“Mary, there must be; there must be soon.”
She looked at the sparkling rings on her delicate fingers and said: “How can you speak to me thus? If God does not wish to bless our union, what can I do about it?”
“You were made to be fruitful,” he said passionately. “François, never!”
“Then how could we get a child?”
His eyes had narrowed. He was trying to make her understand thoughts which were too dangerous to be put into words.
“There must be a child,” he repeated fiercely. “If the King dies, what will your position be?”
“The King is not dead, and if he does die, I shall be his sorrowing widow who was always his faithful wife.”
The Cardinal said no more; he turned away and began to pace the room.
“I am a very happy wife,” said Mary softly. “I have a devoted husband whom I love with all my heart.”
“You will hold Court alone tonight?” said the Cardinal, stopping in his walk to look at her. “You will dance. The most handsome men in the Court will compete for the honor of dancing with you. I’ll warrant Henri de Montmorency will be victorious. Such a gallant young man! I fear his marriage is not a very happy one. Yet doubtless he will find many to comfort him, if comfort he needs.”