‘Tell him he may wait,’ she said. ‘I am busy for a while.’

She leaped from the bed, dried her eyes, and dusted her face with powder.

She looked at her reflection anxiously. It was impossible to eliminate all signs of her passionate weeping. How stupid it was to give way to the feelings! One should never, in any circumstances, be so weak. Sorrow and anger were emotions to be locked away in the heart.

Ten minutes had passed before she had the Count brought to her. He bowed low over her hand; then he lifted his sad eyes to her face.

‘ Duchessina,’ he said, ‘I see that this evil news has already reached you.’

She was silent, annoyed that he should have noticed the traces of grief on her face, and, having noticed them, been tactless enough to refer to them. But what evil tidings did he speak of?

As she continued silent, the young man went on: ‘I thought it my duty, Duchessina, to carry the news to you. I know your strong feelings for your noble cousin.’

Her feelings were under control. Was it only where her husband was involved that they got the better of training and her natural craft?

She had no idea to what the Count referred but she said with the utmost calm: ‘You had better tell it to me, Count, as you heard it.’

‘Oh, Duchessina, you know the condition of our beloved city, how its sufferings are almost unendurable under the tyrant. Many have been driven into exile, and these, with others, met together in secret. They decided to send a petition to Emperor Charles begging him to free Florence from Alessandro.

Duchessina, they selected your noble cousin, Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici as their ambassador.’

‘And Alessandro’s secret spies discovered this. I know. I know.’

‘He got as far as Itri. He would have embarked there for Tunis.’

‘And they killed him.’ Catherine covered her swollen eyes with her hands.

‘My poor noble cousin. My dearest Ippolito.’

‘It was in his wine, Duchessina. His death was terrible, but quick. He did not suffer long.’

For a few seconds she was silent; then she said: ‘Would there were some to avenge him.’

‘His servants were mad with grief, Duchessina. Italy mourns the great Cardinal. Florence is desolate.’

‘Oh, our poor country, Sebastiano! Our poor suffering country! I know how you feel. You and I would die for our country.’

‘And count it an honour to do so,’ said the young man earnestly.

She held out her hand and he took it. She was excited by a sudden thought which had come to her, conscious of that strange force which warned her of great events. Standing before her was a man whose eyes glowed fanatically when he spoke of his country.

‘Yes, Sebastiano,’ she said, ‘for the sake of your country you would gladly die a thousand deaths. There are men like that. Not many― but I think that you are one of them. If you were, your name would be remembered throughout Italy forever, my dear Count, with reverence.’ Her eyes glowed and the Count, looking at her, wondered how he could ever had accepted the general opinion that she was insignificant.

‘There have been times,’ she went on, ‘when I have been privileged to see into the future. I fancy I see something now. One day, Sebastiano, you will be called upon to do great deeds for our country.’

She spoke with such conviction, her eyes glowing almost unnaturally, that it seemed to the young man as if some power spoke through her. He stammered:

‘My lady Duchess, if that should be, I should die happy.’

Catherine withdrew her hand, sighing.

‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘you and I must live our lives as wisely as we can. But we will never forget the land of our birth.’

‘Never!’ he declared fervently.

She walked away from him, speaking quietly, as though to herself. ‘I am married to the son of a King― but the second son. The Dauphin is not strong, and I have wondered― as the Holy Father wondered― whether God has destined me, through my children to bring glory to Italy. My children!’

Her voice broke suddenly. ‘I have no children. I had hoped―’ she felt her control snapping. She burst out: ‘My husband is enamoured of a sorceress. They say she is a wrinkled old woman but appears as a young and beautiful lady. Life is strange and the ways of Fate are incomprehensible. You comfort me― there is nothing you would not do to serve me and Italy. If ever I were Queen of France, I would not forget― though I know you seek no honours.’

‘I seek only the honour of serving our country, Duchessina.’

‘You are good, Count; you are noble. We will both remember our country― always. We are strangers in a strange land, but never forget Italy. Stay and talk with me awhile. How good it is to speak our native tongue! You may sit, my lord Count. Speak to me of Italy― in Italian. Talk of our beloved Arno and the groves of olives― and the blessed sunshine―’

But it was she who went on speaking; and as she talked, it was not Ippolito― once so well-loved― whom she saw in her mind’s eye; it was Henry, his eyes shining for Diane, shame-faced and apologetic for his wife.

She told the young Count of her life at the Murate and how she had heard the story of the Virgin’s mantle.

‘Miracles are made on Earth by those who are great enough to make them,’

she said. ‘There are some who are selected by the Holy Virgin to work miracles.

I often think of my position, and the power that would be in my hands to work good for my country, if my brother the Dauphin passed from this life. He is delicate in health; it might be that God has not meant him to rule this land. And then, were I Queen, I must have children― sons― to work for the good of France― and Italy.’

‘Yes, Duchessina,’ said the Count quietly.

‘But I keep you from your duty, Count. When you wish for conversation, go along to the house of the brothers Ruggieri. They will have much to show you that is truly marvellous. When I tell them you are my friend― that you and I understand each other― there is nothing they will not give you.’

After he had left her, she found the pain of unrequited love was easier to bear. Perhaps, she thought, it will not always be thus.


* * *

Heavily cloaked and closely hooded, accompanied by the youngest of her women, Catherine left Les Tournelles and hurried through the streets of Paris.

She was going to see the astrologer brothers who lived on the left bank of the Seine close to the Pont Notre-Dame. The house could be approached from the street or the river, for at the back, its stone steps led down to the water, where two boats were kept moored to carry away any who might wish to leave by a different route from the one by which they had come. Catherine was delighted with the prudence which the brothers had shown by selecting such a house.

Most of the court ladies visited astrologers whose business included the sale of charms and perfumes; but these French ladies visited French magicians. The Italians were not only unpopular in France; they were suspected of all sorts of evil practices. Stories of the reign of terror under Alessandro in Florence circulated; it was known that Ippolito had been murdered, it was suspected that Clement had died through poison.

The Italians, thought the French, were skilled in all the arts of poisoning.

Therefore, reasoned Catherine, at such a time she would not wish to be seen making a hurried visit to the house of the Italian sorcerers.

She had impressed on Madalenna, her young Italian attendant, that she wished none to know of their journey this evening to the house of the brothers.

She smiled faintly at the small figure beside her. Madalenna was to be trusted.

They reached the shop, descended the three stone steps, pushed open the door and went into a room in which were shelves where stood great jars and bottles. From the ceiling hung herbs of many kinds; and on the bench lay the skeleton of a small animal among the charms and charts.

The two brothers came into the shop, which was lighted only by a candle that guttered and showed some sign of flickering out altogether. When they saw who their visitor was they bowed obsequiously, thrusting their hands into the wide sleeves of their magician’s robes, and waiting, with bent heads to hear the commands of their Duchess.

‘You have my new perfume for me, Cosmo?’ she asked, turning to one of the brothers.

‘It is ready, Duchessina. I will have it sent to you tomorrow.’

‘That is good.’

Lorenzo waited with his brother for her commands; they knew she had not come thus― when she might have sent for them― merely to ask about a new perfume.

Madalenna hovered uncertainly in the background. Catherine, turning to her, said loudly: ‘Madalenna, there is no need to stand hack. Lorenzo, Cosmo, bring forth the new perfume. I would hear Madalenna’s opinion of it.’

The brother looked at each other. They knew their Duchess; they remembered a meek little girl who had asked for an image of Alessandro that she might, through it, bring about the death of that monster. She had something on her mind now.

They brought the perfume. Lorenzo took Madalenna’s hand while Cosmo thrust into a bottle a thin glass rod. He wiped the now perfume-smeared rod on Madalenna’s hand, bid her wait for a few moments, and both brothers stood back as though spellbound, waiting for the moment when the perfume would be ready for Madalenna to smell it.

And all the time their eyes were furtive. What had brought the Duchess here at such an hour?