‘Cannot you see that I hate you now? Do you not understand that you have insulted me … humiliated me … betrayed me!’
‘You loved me,’ he said, ‘even as I loved you.’
‘Oh no, Monsieur,’ she answered bitterly; ‘far more than that, I would never have been led away. I would have faced death rather.’
‘Margot, you would have suffered more if I had died. You would not then have had even this pleasure you now enjoy in tormenting me. They planned my death – your mother, your brothers. My family were convinced that the only thing I could do was to marry Catherine if I would save myself. Darling, this is not the end for us. You are here. I am here. It is not what we planned, but we can still see each other, renew all that joy we have in each other.’
‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘How dare you? Do you forget that I am a Princess of France?’
‘I forget everything but that I love you, that I can never know a moment’s happiness without you.’
‘Then know this also: I hate you. I loathe you and despise you. Never try to speak to me. Never try making your vile suggestions to me again. I have been a fool, but do you not think that I will find others to love me? Do not think that you can desert me, betray me … and then, when you want me again, that I shall come back like a … like a dog!’
She turned and ran back to the palace.
That evening she danced more gaily than she ever had before. She laughed and coquetted. Her eyes conveyed many a promise, and she was utterly bewitching; but when she retired to her apartments, and her women had undressed her, she threw herself on to her bed and wept so long and so passionately that they were afraid.
At last she fell silent and lay still; and in the morning when her women came to waken her, they found her skin flushed and clammy and her eyes glassy; she was in a high fever.
Catherine and the King thought that the affair of Margot and Henry of Guise had been settled to their satisfaction; the Cardinal of Lorraine and his family thought they had retreated in time from a highly dangerous situation; Henry of Guise had come out of the affair with acute melancholy which would not subside until the Princess Margot was once more his mistress. But the Princess herself lay ill – not caring if she were to die. She tossed and turned in a fever, suffering from that indifference to life which is called a broken heart.
Catherine lay very ill at Metz. She knew that no one expected her to live. She could smile seeing the hope in their faces. There was hardly anyone who would be likely to grieve for her.
As she lay in her bed, she was aware vaguely of the people about her; she was not sure where she was. At times she thought that she was in the Palace of Saint-Germain, and that in the room below, Henry, her husband, was making love to Diane. At others she thought she was riding in the forest near Fontainebleau or Amboise, and that, beside her, rode the King – King Francis, her father-in-law – and the ladies of his Petite Bande.
Then she would have moments of full consciousness. She would remember that her beloved son Henry was bravely fighting the Huguenot army, that King Charles was becoming more and more mad and must soon give place to his brother, who was growing more and more worthy of kingship. Then she would think that Margot must be married soon. The marriage with Sebastian had fallen through, as Philip of Spain now wanted him for one of his female relatives; but Margot should be married, for Margot was a wicked, wanton girl. She had taken another lover and scandalous stories were whispered about her; some said that she still had her eyes on Henry of Guise, and that only her stubborn pride prevented her from taking up her relationship with him where it had ceased on his marriage to Catherine of Clèves. They said that Margot took this new lover in order to flaunt him in the presence of young Henry of Guise, and that there was a smouldering passion between these two which must blaze up sooner or later. Catherine’s first duty was to find a husband for Margot – and who was there but the boy to whom her father had pledged her when they were little more than babies? Henry of Navarre! It would mean summoning him to court. By all accounts, he was as profligate as Margot, so they would make a good pair. Let them marry and satisfy each other – if satisfaction were possible to either of them.
Margot would be the Queen of Navarre. Well, that had been a good enough title for the sister of Francis the First, and it should be good enough for the present Marguerite de Valois, for wicked little Margot. Catherine decided that if she ever got up from this sick-bed she would start negotiations immediately. Once she had the young Prince of Navarre at court it should not be difficult to change him into a Catholic, in spite of his mother’s teaching. She was looking forward to another conflict with Madame Jeanne.
Now her thoughts had turned to another Henry, her beloved son, her ‘All’. She knew that there was fighting round about Jarnac and that Coligny and Condé together stood in opposition to her darling. Two men – Condé and her son – were now in danger, and for both of these men she had felt tenderness. She had enjoyed those conversations with gallant Condé, the gay philanderer; she had cherished those moments when his kiss had lingered on her hand. But it was nonsense to think of such things. Who wanted love when there was power to be won?
She might have prayed for her son’s victory, but she did not really believe in prayer. There was no God for her; there was only Catherine, the Queen Mother, the power behind the throne. There were no miracles except those performed by clever people like herself.
How hot it was in this room! Her sight seemed to be fading. There were shadowy figures about her bed. Ah, there was the King, her little mad Charles; and with him her daughter, wanton Margot, as yet unwed, yet more versed in the ways of love than many a matron of years’ standing. There were others in the room, but she felt that they were too remote to be recognised.
What was happening at Jarnac? The dawn was breaking and the battle would soon begin. There was a cold sweat all over her, and she was afraid.
She wanted to call for Cosmo or Lorenzo Ruggieri. But she was no longer in the sick-room at Metz. She was somewhere out of doors, for she could feel the wind blowing on her face. Then suddenly she heard the voice of her son Henry; it was raised in prayer; then she heard him addressing his men, and she realised that she must be on the battlefield at Jarnac.
‘Condé … Condé … Condé …’ She heard the name coming to her clearly over the cold air.
‘Condé must be killed before nightfall …’
Catherine’s lips moved. Not Condé … not the gallant little Prince. She did not want him for a lover, but he was so agreeable, so charming.
Now she heard Condé’s voice. He too was talking to his men; she caught the note of fanaticism which she had noticed so many times in so many people. ‘Louis de Bourbon goes to fight for Christ and his country.’
She must have said something aloud, for the sound of her voice had broken the spell and she was back in the sick-room.
‘Mother,’ said Charles. ‘Mother, do you wish for a prelate?’
A prelate? So she was near death. Death! What was death? A beginning again … a new fight for power in a fresh sphere?
Then the room faded and she was back on the field of battle. She saw Condé clearly in the light of morning, his handsome head thrown back, a smile on his lips; and then suddenly he was down; she saw him lying on the ground, the blood at his lips, the death rattle in his throat.
‘Look!’ cried Catherine. ‘See how they flee! Condé is dead. He lies in the hedge there. He can never recover. His wound is too deep. Condé … ah, Condé … he is no more. But Henry … my darling … Henry is victorious once more. The battle is yours. Condé is dead. Coligny has fled. All honour to you, my love, my darling.’