He avoided her as much as possible. Whenever he could, he would escape to the Chateau d’Anet, where his great friend would entertain him. Catherine could not understand that friendship between the beautiful widow and her husband.

What could two such people have in common? Why was it that he sought the company of such a dignified, such a worldly woman, when his wife, his own age, was ready to be his friend even if she could never love him.

Catherine felt shut in by youth and inexperience. She was lonely often, frightened sometimes. She was indeed a stranger in a strange land.

But for the friendship of the King, she would have been desperately unhappy. When he talked to her she would he conscious of an exhilaration; she would be actually glad that she had come to France. He enchanted her; he fascinated her. She felt that, in a strange way which was incomprehensible to her, she was in love with the King. It was her delight to think over his conversation with her and those about him; to try to read what was in his mind.

Sometimes she would say to herself: if only Henry were like his father! And then, again, she would be glad that he was not, for although Henry avoided her, he avoided other women as well. It was only that attachment to a woman old enough to be his mother that persisted. Catherine thought she understood. Henry had no mother, and he felt the need of one. Henry was only a boy. She wondered― not without excitement― when he would become a man.

Life seemed to be made of pleasure. There was always a masque about to begin, or a banquet to prepare for, balls, jousts, and journeys. The meeting of Francis and Clement had not been solely the occasion of the marriage of their young people; they had made plans for campaigns against Spain and England.

The King, loving pleasure so much that it was never easy to tear himself away from it, yet yearned for military successes to wipe out the defeat of Pavia. As for the Pope, he was always ready for a new ally, providing that ally kept his plot secret. And who could be a better ally than the King of France, now tied to him by the bonds of relationship?

So, while awaiting the fruition of his schemes, Francis, being impatient, must be kept amused. There was Marguerite to soothe him with her sisterly devotion; Anne d’Heilly to respond to the love he gave her; many lovely women to divert him. He kept close to him some twenty or thirty young women, all renowned for their beauty and their wit. Wherever he went, they rode with him, and he would listen to their counsels rather than to those of his masculine advisers. It was not sufficient to be beautiful enough to charm his senses; they must be clever enough to please his lively mind. Theirs was the task of providing erotic and intellectual pleasure for their master. If his appetite was jaded, they must serve up old dishes garnished to taste like knew. No sultan ever had a more solicitous harem. They must be skilled in the arts of lust and politics; they must be strong to endure hours in the saddle without fatigue; perfectly formed that they might sport with grace in a mirror; sharp-witted enough to converse with foreign ambassadors. Entry into this esoteric band was reserved for the very talented, and was considered the highest honour which could befall a lady of the court. Catherine longed to join the Little Band. She could not, of course, be one of those to those whom the King made love, but she fervently wished that on that on those days when they rode off together and would be away for the whole of the day, that she might be with them. Anne, the King’s favorite mistress, was head of the Little Band, and she had shown preference for the little Italian.

If only I could join, Catherine would think. Not only would it show Henry that his father, who despises him, is fond of me, but I should have many happy days in which to forget my melancholy.

She realized that she was becoming increasingly anxious to show Henry that she was not dull and stupid, that she was worthy of some notice. Indeed, she was piqued by this young husband of hers Not that she should have cared. He was of no account. The King had nothing but contempt for him, and Catherine was not surprised, considering the way he would and stammer when spoken to and had hardly a smile for anyone.

Why should she care? She kept telling herself that it was not his regard she sought. Let him escape to Anet whenever he could; she did not care.

In such contempt did the King hold his son that he would not give him a separate establishment even now that he was married. Catherine did not mind that. It meant that they must share household with the other young Princes and Princesses. And a grand household it was― far grander than anything Catherine had ever known before― with its hosts of officials, chamberlain’s equerries, pages, doctors, surgeons, ladies and gentlemen, stewards, and pages. Still, it was expected that Henry should have an establishment of his own.

Catherine was much less lonely living with the other young people than she would have been in a household of their own. She was growing quite fond of them all. Young Francis, a delicate boy, was gentle in his manners and kind to the little stranger; his clothes were very sober in cut and colour, and he preferred drinking water to wine. The two Princesses, Madeleine and Marguerite, were quiet little girls, but eager enough to be friends with her. As for young Charles― his father’s favourite― she secretly disliked him. He was too boisterous and found it immensely funny to play rather unpleasant practical jokes on the members of the household. Catherine had found a dead rat in her bed on one occasion; and on another a pail of icy water had fallen on her head when she entered a room. She bore these tricks with good humour; she did not wish to offend one so beloved of the King, and she gathered that she had not fared badly at the hands of young Charles. She had heard that one of the women of the household― a pious creature― had, on going to her bed at dusk, found a man there, naked and dead. Catherine’s quiet acceptance of the tricks played on her was such as to make the young Duc d’Angoulême feel that she was not a worthy subject for his, and she was very quickly left in peace.

She wondered how quiet, sensitive Henry could be the brother of such a one.

She was, even more than she realized, bringing Henry increasingly into her life, by continual comparisons with others. She made up her mind, time and time again, to tell her husband of the love she had had for her cousin in Italy; but she never did.

Three important events took place in that first year. The first of these was her election to the Little Band. An excellent horsewoman, she knew she could qualify in that respect, and she decided to tell Francis of her desire.

Most humbly, she begged for an audience in private, and when she stood before him she became overcome with fear and wanted to run away. Francis watched her with amusement.

‘You must forgive, Sire,’ she blurted out. ‘I am afraid I came to you thoughtlessly. Please give me leave to retire.’

‘Indeed, you shall have no such leave until I hear what is on your mind.’

‘I dare not.’

‘I know. It is that husband of yours. Foy de gentilhomme! It is no use coming to me, little Catherine. It is true that I sired him. Yes my dear, I am responsible for that dark deed! But do not ask me make a man of him, for it would grieve me to deny you anything, and in asking that you would ask the impossible.’

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘it was not of Henry I wished to speak, but of myself.’

‘Ah! A happier subject, my little one!’

‘I am a good horsewoman, I believe, Sire. You yourself complimented me.

It was this that gave me temerity―’

‘Well, well?’

‘On occasions, with a light remark, I have had the great honour of seeing a smile appear on your face. I― I think I have pleased you―’

She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.

She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.

‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with La Petite Bande, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’

She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.

Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.

Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.

One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’