A page came in. ‘Monsieur d’Orléans is here, Madame.’

‘Tell him he may come to me here.’

She was lying on the couch when he came in. She dismissed her attendants.

He knelt and kissed her left hand, and with her right, she touched his hair. It was thick and dark. She caressed it lightly, and he lifted his head and looked at her, so that she saw he was filled with emotion.

‘I had thought you would be here earlier,’ she said. ‘It seems long since you came.’

‘I rode hot-foot,’ he answered. ‘Never have miles seemed so long.’

‘You look at me oddly, Henry.’

‘You are so beautiful.’

She laughed lightly. ‘I am glad I find favour with you, my dearest friend.’

He kissed her hand again; his lips were hot and he was quivering with his passionate desire for her.

Marriage had indeed changed him. She thought: how is he the little Italian? She was faintly jealous of the child, envying her her youth and her status as his wife.

She said: ‘I think of you often, my dearest. Henry, I think I am a little jealous.’

He lifted his head to stare at her, not understanding; he was always slow of understanding.

‘Jealous,’ she said, ‘of Catherine.’

He flushed and looked quickly away from her. She liked his shyness,. How much more appealing it was than his father’s practiced ways!

She went on: ‘I am an old woman, Henry, compared with you. It makes me sad that I should be so old and you so young.’

He stammered: ‘You― you could never be old. You are perfect. Age? What is age? How I wish I were of an age with you! I would gladly throw away those years which separate us.’

She took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘How adorable you are, my Henry. You see, I think of you as mine. But I must not.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why― should you not?’

‘You must not come to Anet as you have been doing, my dearest. You see― we are friends; that is all. Always I shall think of you as my dearest friend. But now you are no longer a boy. You have a wife―’

‘But what has she to do with our friendship?’

‘Everything, Henry. You have a wife― and you visit me. How can we expect the rest of the world to understand this friendship of ours? They laugh.

They sneer. Mademoiselle d’Heilly― I should say Madame d’Etampes― has slandered us, Henry.’

‘How dare she!’

‘My darling, she dares much. Her position enables her to do so with impunity.’

‘I have always hated her. Oh, how dare she breathe a word against you!

Were she a man, I should challenge her.’

‘My chivalrous darling! A king’s son may not challenge another, you know.

You never do yourself justice. You are ever ready to forget your rank. I had to show you with my love and admiration that you were worthy of the world’s regard. I did. My God, I am glad that the task was mine. Every moment has been a joy to me. But now it is over. You have a wife. You must have children. You are no longer a boy who can visit a woman, if you wish to avoid gossip.’

‘Diane, I care not for that. I care for no one but you. Let them say what they will. I must come to you. I love you― you only. Nothing else in my life is of the slightest importance to me. I was miserable, and you changed my life so that I cannot live it without you. If they say I love you, then they are right.’

She said quietly: ‘It is not wise, is it, this friendship of ours?’

He stood up and turned his back to her. She knew that he was greatly excited, and that he was going to say that which he dared not say while he looked at her.

He stammered: ‘If― they― say that I am― your lover and you are my― mistress― then I am honoured. They could not shame me by such talk. They could only make me long that this were so.’

She did not speak, and suddenly he turned, and running to her, threw himself at her feet, burying his face in her black-and-white satin gown.


* * *

He stayed a week at Anet. He did not hunt. He spent the days with her as well as the nights. He was in a state of ecstasy; he was overwhelmed, shy and masterful in turns.

She thought: It is delightful to be loved like this. He talked a good deal, and it was unusual for him to talk very much, even to her; he sat at her feet, kissing her hands, as he poured out his heart to her. He explained his hatred for his father’s way of life, and how he had always longed for one love― one love alone; he had little dreamed that such a blessing could come to him. He wished he were not a King’s son. Then he might not be married to a wife whom he could not love; he could have married Diane. He would have been completely happy if their union could have had the blessing of the Church.

He wanted no other than Diane; he never would as long as he lived. She must not talk to him of age, for what did age matter to lovers? He wanted her to know that she was enshrined in his heart forever.

‘There will be your duty to your wife,’ she reminded him.

‘That is impossible now. It would be more distasteful even than before. I could never banish your image from my mind for one moment. I have not done so since I have known you.’

‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you are so wonderful.’

‘ I? ’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘But I am so unworthy.’

‘No, no. You are young and delightful and you mean everything you say.

You enchant me. I could not bear to lose you now. Henry, never let anyone part us.’

‘Never!’ he swore.

They exchanged rings. ‘I shall wear yours always,’ he told her.

They kissed solemnly.

‘These are our marriage vows,’ he told her.


* * *

His father sent word for him to return to Paris at once. He laughed. ‘I refuse to go.’

‘Henry, you must be wise. You dare not enflame his anger.’

‘I have no wish to go to Paris. There is only one place where to I wish to be.

Here― with you― at Anet. This is our home, Diane― yours and mine.’

‘Do not let this wonderful love of ours bring harm on either of us,’ she begged. ‘Remember the ruthless power of your father. He is quick to anger. He knows that you are with me. If you will not protect yourself from his anger, you must protect me.’

She knew that would be enough to send him riding back to Paris.

The court was at Fontainebleau, Francis’s favourite spot in the whole of France; he had not completed it to his satisfaction, and at this time was absorbed by the artistic work of Il Rosso on his, Francis’s, own gallery. Fontainebleau had a hundred delights to offer― a mixture of wild country and cultivated gardens, with the little Seine close by, pushing its way through the vineyards.

Francis was weary. He was trying to whip up his old enthusiasm for the new war he was proposing to carry into Italy. He could never stop thinking of Italy, and longed to add it to his possessions. It was a bitter blow that Clement should have died when he did, before he was able to pay Catherine’s dowry.

And then there must be petty matters at home to worry him. He was not well, and his sickness was manifested by an ugly abscess which made him feel weak and ill until it burst and healed. It was not the first time this troublous thing had worried him, and his physicians said that it was a good sign that it did appear, for if it did not, his condition would be serious. Francis, like Henry of England and Charles of Spain, was suffering from the results of excesses.

Anne, who heartily disliked Diane, had pointed out to him that Catherine had, as yet, no children. How, demanded Anne, could the poor child hope for them, when her husband spent time with the old woman of Anet? The King should talk to his son and point out where his duty lay.

While Francis could smile at his mistress’s jealousy of a woman who was almost as beautiful as herself, though some ten years older, he conceded that there was some truth in what she said.

Nearly two years of marriage and no child born to the young pair! It was far from satisfactory with the Dauphin still unmarried. The Dauphin himself presented yet another problem. A wife for young Francis was needed quickly.

The King was tired and his abscess was throbbing; and Italy was as far out of his reach as ever, in spite of his second son’s undignified marriage.

When Henry stood before him, Francis saw the difference in his son at once.

The conquering lover! So Diane had scorned the father and taken the son. Was the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy quite sane?

The King dismissed his attendants with a wave of the hand. ‘So,’ he said, ‘without permission you absent yourself from court. You were always a boor.

You came home smelling of a Spanish prison. Foy de gentilhomme! You shall not play your peasants’ tricks in my court.’

Henry was silent, though there was hatred in those dark eyes of his.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded the King.

‘You know. Did you not send for me at Anet?’

‘At Anet! Carousing with your aged mistress!’

Hot colour burned in the Prince’s face. His hand went to his sword.

Francis laughed. ‘ Pasques Dieu! She has put some fire into you, then! She has taught you that a sword is to be used and not merely to impede the gait.’

This reference to his awkwardness stung Henry to speech. ‘The example you have set us does not― er― does not―’

Francis cut in: ‘Come along! Come along!’ He mimicked Henry’s voice. ‘― is not one which my brothers and I, in the interests of virtue, should follow! That is what you are stammering about, is it not? But do not, my son, have the effrontery to place yourself with the Dauphin and the Duc d’Angoulême. These are men. They take their pleasure, but they are not ruled by one woman, so making themselves the laughing-stock of the court.’