She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy did not give her a glance.

When the ceremony was over, Caterina forgot her bridegroom, for the most dazzling, brilliant personage she had ever seen in the whole of her life came forward and took her hand. She lifted her eyes and looked into the twinkling ones that smiled down at her. They were kind eyes, though they looked tired and had dark bags beneath them; they were debauched eyes, but not depraved; they were amused, but not sardonic; they seemed to say, ‘This seems an ordeal, does it not? But it will pass, and you will find that it contained much to laugh at. That is life.’

‘I will lead the bride back to my own residence,’ he declared, ‘where a banquet is awaiting her.’

This kind and charming man was none other, she knew, than Francis himself, the King of France. She flushed as she murmured her thanks. She could not but be charmed; she could not help the flutter of excitement that his presence brought to her. Such grace, such kindness, such brilliance must inevitably dim even the image of Ippolito.

She had seen him before. He had kissed her when he had welcomed her to France; he had called her daughter, and had given her rich gifts. She had known that richer gifts had gone from Italy to France― and there was the promise of many more― but never had gifts seemed so precious as those given with the charm of the King. He had not forgotten, either, to whisper a compliment on her appearance, which had not been necessary to the ceremonial etiquette, but had been given out of kindness, to make her feel happy and at home. She realized now, as he took her hand, that if her wretchedness had lifted a little, if a life that must be lived without Ippolito had in the last few days seemed a little less grey, it was due to this man.

Now, for the wedding ceremony, he looked more dazzling than he had at their first meeting. He wore white satin, and his mantle, studded with pearls and precious stones, was of cloth of gold. She herself was magnificent with her corsage of ermine and her white satin gown, studded with pearls and diamonds, but she felt insignificant beside him.

How the people cheered him! How they loved him! Who would not? He was a King who looked like a King.

‘Well, little daughter,’ he murmured to her, ‘the ceremony is over. Now you shall be our daughter in very truth.’

‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘you have made me feel that I already am. I shall always remember that the biggest welcome I had in France was from her King.’

He looked at her with a smile, and thought that it was a shame that she should be married to his tongue-tied son, since she would know how to make the remarks which would be expected of her.

‘My sweet Catherine,’ he said, ‘you are now a Frenchwoman. You are no longer Italian Caterina, but French Catherine. This is a christening ceremony as well as a wedding. How do you like the change?’

‘It sounds very pleasant― as you say it.’

‘I see you are well schooled in diplomacy. A necessary art, I do assure you, for ladies and gentlemen of the court.’

‘A necessary art for all, Sire.’

‘Ah, you are a wise little girl. Tell me― in confidence if you like. What you think of your husband?’

‘I like his looks.’

‘And what of his quiet ways?’

‘I have scarcely had time to know them.’

‘Well, well, little Catherine. Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.’

‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘but mine, Sire, was made in Rome.’

He laughed. ‘And in France, my dear. We studied your picture and I said:

What a charming child! And I thought then I would love my new daughter.’

‘And now that you have seen her in the flesh, Sire?’

‘And now, I no longer say, I think, but I know.’

‘You are quick to love, Sire.’

He looked at her sharply. She looked demure. He wondered what tales had reached her of the amorous King of France ‘Love,’ he said lyrically, ‘is the most beautiful of all the gifts the gods have given us. I have been falling in love since I was your age, my child. And the result is that I do it easily and naturally. It is second nature to me.’

It was making her almost happy to be on such merry terms with this enchanting man. She found herself laughing as she had never thought to laugh again.

‘Oh yes,’ went on the King, sincerely now, ‘we are going to be friends, my little Catherine. Now tell me. You have seen little of our country yet, but what do you like best about it?’

She answered him immediately with a candid glance. ‘Its King, Sire.’

He was delighted, for after all was it not delightful to be in the company of a charming little diplomat of― what was it?― fourteen? He was pleasantly surprised with his daughter-in-law. She was more French than Italian already, he was willing to swear.

The King would have his little Catherine sit next to him at the banquet. Oh yes, he knew her place was beside her new husband, but Foy de gentilhomme, the boy should have her beside him for a lifetime. Would he grudge his father her company at her first French banquet? When the King talked, all stopped to hang on his words. They noticed his tenderness towards the little girl; she was his dearest little daughter Catherine― Caterina no longer, he declared. She was his Catherine, his little French Catherine; he had had her gracious permission to make the change.

‘The little Catherine has made a conquest of the King!’ Same said it; some thought it. Well, of course, it was not difficult for a young woman to please the King, but there had been some speculation about this one, for the King seemed to despise the boy they had brought her to marry.

At the first of the three great tables, with the King, her new husband, the Princes her brothers-in-law and the Cardinals, sat Catherine― she was even thinking of herself as Catherine now. Caterina was the girl who had thought life would be drab and dreary forevermore because she had lost her lover; Catherine was not sure of that. She still loved her cousin; she still believed that she would love no other as long as she lived; but this charming King had made her realize that she could laugh again, that she could be happy, if only for a moment or two.

She was glad that the Pope was not at this table; he held the place of honour next to the Queen at the second. It was exhilarating, she found, to be among these people who, until now, had been names in the lessons she had to learn concerning them. That Queen was the lady the King had been forced to marry after his humiliating defeat and imprisonment. No wonder he hardly looked at her. She had a sweet and kindly face, but she looked prim compared with some of the ladies. Catherine studied them now. They were at the third table, and among them the dashing and fascinating Mademoiselle d’Heilly, the King’s mistress, who remained his favourite whilst others went. Catherine could understand why. She was lovely, with her bright, fair, curly hair and her intelligent face; she was speaking now, and all those about her were laughing gaily.

There was one other whom Catherine noticed at the ladies’ table. This was a tall and beautiful woman as dark as Mademoiselle d’Heilly was fair, and almost as lovely. She was noticeable because, in that array of sparkling colours and flashing jewels, she wore the black and white of mourning. How striking she looked! She was conspicuous among them all; she caught the eye by her very austerity.

Catherine decided that she would take an early opportunity of learning the identity of the tall dark lady who wore black-and-white mourning.

But of all the people around her there was one whom she must regard with the most interest and apprehension. Her husband! Her heart fluttered as she appraised him. She was astonished at her feelings. She had expected to view him with distaste and horror; but how could she feel those emotions for a shy boy only a month or so older than herself? She could see in him a likeness to his father, and she felt that she already loved the King. The boy naturally seemed insignificant when compared with his father, but that likeness was more than reassuring; it was― and she did not understand this― strangely exciting.

I wish he would smile at me, she thought. I wish he would give some sign that he is a little interested. Once he looked up and caught her eye upon him. He was trying to take a peep at her when he thought himself unobserved. She smiled shyly, but he looked down on his plate and blushed..

She felt wounded and therefore angry with him. Why had she thought him like his father, that man whose manners were the most courtly, the most charming she had ever known!

But suddenly, she saw his expression change. He was very handsome now; and she was angry that he could smile for someone and not for her. Who was it?

Why, it was none other than the lady in black and white! ――――――― During the merry-making the King had taken the Pope into a small antechamber for a little private talk.

The King was saying: ‘They are young yet, Holiness. Here in France we let them be together― as friends, you understand? The idea being, your Holiness will see, that they should understand each other before the marriage is consummated.’

The Holy Father shook his head. ‘Nay, Sire. They are both of marriageable age. I see no reason for delaying the consummation of the marriage.’

The King lifted his shoulders with elegance. ‘Our little Catherine barely fourteen and my son a few months older! Marriage, yes, Holiness. But give them time to fall in love. In France we hold love of great importance.’