The Duchesse was far from displeased. She had noticed the little boys response. She glanced at Madame d’Humières. What a pity that the King is not here to see this! that glance implied. He would be quite enchanted.
Madame d’Humières nodded in agreement. It was always wise to agree with the Guises, providing such agreement would not be frowned on by the King’s mistress.
Mary had turned to the three-and-a-half-year-old Elisabeth, a frail and pretty little girl; and what a pleasure it was for the Duchesse to see a princess of France kneel to her granddaughter! Madame Elisabeth knew what was expected of her. Had not the King said: “Mary Stuart shall be as one of my own children, but because she is a queen she shall take precedence over my daughter”?
Mary looked into the face of the little girl and, because the child was so small and because she had embraced her brother, the little Queen could not resist embracing the Princess also.
Her grandmother advanced toward the group, at which the two royal children seemed to move closer to Mary as though expecting she would protect them from her important relative.
But the Duchesse merely smiled at them and turned to the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières.
“So charming, is it not?” she said. “The King will be delighted. They love each other on sight. Let us leave them together. Then they will be more natural, and when the King slips in unceremoniously he will be delighted with our way of bringing them together.”
When Mary was alone with the two children, she took a hand of each and led them to the window seat.
“I have just come here,” she said. “First I came on a big ship. Then I rode in a litter. Then I came on another ship. I have come from far… far away.”
The Dauphin held her hand in his and clung to it when she would have released it. Elisabeth regarded her gravely. Neither of the French children had ever seen anyone quite like her. Her flashing eyes, her vivacious manners, her strange dress and her queer way of talking overwhelmed and fascinated them. Elisabeth’s gravity broke into a quiet smile and the Dauphin lifted his shoulders until they almost touched his big head; and all the time he insisted that his hand should remain in that of the newcomer.
He was already telling himself that he was never going to let her go. He was going to keep her with him forever.
MARY HAD LIVED at Carrières for two weeks. She was the Queen of the nurseries. Elisabeth accepted her leadership in everything they did; François asked nothing but to be her devoted slave.
She was a little imperious at times, for after all she was older than they were; she was so much cleverer. She read to them; she would sit on the window seat, her arm about François while Elisabeth tried to follow the words in the book. She told them stories and of games she had played with her four Marys with whom she hoped soon to be reunited; she told of the island of Inchmahome in the lake of Menteith whither she had gone one dark night, wrapped in a cloak, fleeing from the wicked English. She told of the long journey across the seas, of the high waters and the roaring winds and of how the English ships had sighted hers on the horizon, for of course they were on the prowl looking for her.
These adventures made her an exciting person; her age made her such a wise one; and her vitality, so sadly lacking in the French children, made her an entertaining companion; but perhaps it was her beauty which strengthened her power.
Thus it was when one day there came into the nurseries unannounced a tall man with a beard which was turning to silver; he was dressed in black velvet and there were jewels on his clothes. With him came a lady—the loveliest Mary had ever seen.
The children immediately ran forward and threw themselves at the man. This was one of the occasions to which they looked forward. If there had been others present it would have been necessary to bow and kiss hands, but this was one of those pleasurably anticipated occasions when the two came alone.
“Papa! Papa!” cried François.
The big man picked him up and the lady kissed Francois’s cheek.
Elisabeth was holding fast to his doublet and there was love and confidence in the way her little fingers curled about the black velvet.
“This will not do! This will not do!” cried the man. “My children, what of our guest?”
Then he lowered François to the floor. François immediately caught the lady’s hand and they all advanced to the Queen of Scots who had fallen to her knees, for she knew that the big man with the silvering beard was Henri, King of France.
“Come,” he said in a deep rumbling voice which Mary thought was the kindest she had ever heard, “let us look at you. So you are Mary Stuart from across the seas?”
“At Your Majesty’s service,” said Mary.
He laid his hand on her head and turned to the lady beside him. “I think we shall be pleased with our new daughter,” he said.
Mary flushed charmingly and turned to kneel to the lady. She took the slim white hand and kissed the great diamond on her finger.
“Yes, indeed,” said the lady, “our new daughter enchants me.”
“I am happy,” said Mary, in her charming French, “to know that I have not displeased Your Majesties.”
They laughed and the Dauphin said: “Mary has come across the sea. She came on a boat and then on another boat and she reads to us.”
The King stooped then and picked up the boy, swinging him above his head. “You must borrow Marys rosy looks, my son,” he said.
Elisabeth was quietly waiting to be picked up and kissed, and when it was her turn she put her arms about her fathers neck and kissed him; then she buried her face in his beard.
The beautiful lady, whom Mary assumed to be the Queen, said: “Come and kiss me, Mary.”
Mary did so.
“Why, what a fine girl you are!” The soft white fingers patted Mary’s cheeks. “The King and I are glad you have come to join our children.” She smiled fondly at the King who returned the smile with equal fondness over the smooth head of Elisabeth. In a sudden rush of affection for them both, Mary kissed their hands afresh.
“I am so happy,” she said, “to be your new daughter.”
The King sat in the big state chair which was kept in the apartment for those occasions when he visited his children. He took Mary and the Dauphin on his knees. The lady sat on a stool, holding Elisabeth.
The King told them that there was to be a grand wedding at the Court. It was Mary’s uncle who was to be married.
“Now, my children, Mary’s uncle, the Due d’Aumale, must have a grand wedding, must he not? He would be displeased if the Dauphin did not honor him by dancing at his wedding.”
The Dauphin’s eyes opened wide with horror. “Papa… no!” he cried. “I do not want to dance at the wedding.”
“You do not want to dance at a fine wedding! You do, Mary, do you not?”
“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I love to dance.” She put out her hand and took that of the Dauphin. “I will teach you to dance with me, François. Shall I?”
The grown-ups exchanged glances and the King said in rapid French which Mary could not entirely understand: “This is the most beautiful, the most charming child I ever saw.”
THE CHILDREN were alone. Mary was explaining to the Dauphin that there was nothing to be frightened of in the dance. It was easy to dance. It was delightful to dance.
“And the King wishes it,” said Mary. “And as he is the best king in the world, you must please him.”
The Dauphin agreed that this was so.
While they practiced the dance, Elisabeth sat on a cushion watching them. The door silently opened, but Mary did not hear it, so intent was she on the dance. She noticed first the change in Elisabeth who had risen to her feet. The smile had left Elisabeth’s face. She seemed suddenly to have become afraid. Now the Dauphin had seen what Elisabeth saw. He too stood very still, like a top-heavy statue.