Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.

She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.

THREE WOMEN who watched the horrific spectacle knew that from now on their lives would be different.

Anne d’Etampes left the pavilion feeling apprehensive, ten years she had ruled the King of France and, through him, France. There was no one in the land more important than herself; even men such as Montmorency and the Cardinal of Lorraine, if they wished to enjoy the King’s favour, must first seek that of his beloved Duchess. The most beautiful woman of the court, she was also one of the cleverest. Francis had said of her that among the wise she was the most beautiful, among the beautiful the most wise. She saw her power now, hanging by a thread; and that thread was the life of the King.

The King and the new Dauphin, it would be said, were different as two Frenchmen could be; but in one important point there was a similarity. Francis, all his life, had been guided by women; in truth, he had been ruled by them, but so subtly that he had never realized it. In his youth there had been his mother and later his sister; their rule had been overlapped by that of Madame de Chateaubriand, who, in her turn had been ousted by Anne herself. These four women had one quality in common; they were all clever; Francis would not have tolerated them if they had not been. So much for Francis, And Henry? He was of a different calibre; there had been no loving parent and sister in his childhood; instead, there had been Spanish guards to jeer at him. But the woman had appeared at the right moment, a woman who had those very qualities which delighted the father― beauty and wisdom; and more completely under the sway of a woman than Francis had ever been, was young Henry in the hands of Diane de Poitiers.

There was more in this hatred of Diane and Anne for each other than mere jealousy. They were each too clever to care that the other might be considered more beautiful, except where beauty could be counted as a weapon to gain the power they both desired.

The more intellectual of the two women was Anne. Writers and artists of the court were her close friends, and they, like herself, were in the new faith which was beginning to spread over the continent of Europe. Anne passionately wished to see the Reformed Faith brought into France. She had many with her; all the ladies of the Petite Bande, for instance, and they were most influential in the land; then there was her uncle, the Cardinal of Melun, and Admiral Chabot de Brion.

The admiral was more than a supporter, for, believing in the equality of the sexes, Anne saw no reason why, since Francis was to unfaithful her, she should remain faithful to him.

Diane, the enemy of the Reformed Faith, had sworn to fight against it.

Montmorency, now the closest male friend of the Dauphin allied with his young friend’s mistress. The Cardinal of Lorraine supported Diane, with three of his nephews, young men of great energy and ambition: these were Francis, Charles and Claude, the sons of the Duke of Guise. With such adherents, Diane could feel strong even against the influential woman of the court.

So Anne, thinking of these matters, wondered afresh what mischievous enemy of hers had, by proxy, slipped the poison into the Dauphin’s cup.

But there was nothing to be done but wait and watch, and lose no opportunity of ousting her rival. The Dauphin was young; the woman was old; and the little Italian was not without charm.

Try herself as she might, Anne could not help but see herself as the moon that is beginning to wane.

* * *

As Henry led Catherine back to their apartments, she also was thinking of the change that had come over her life. Her face was impassive; she gave no sign that the scene she had just aroused any emotion in her. Henry looked yellowish-green. He had seen death before; he had seen even such cruel death; but this touched him more deeply than anything he had ever seen before. He wished he had not so much to gain from his brother’s death.

Catherine turned to him as soon as they were alone. ‘How glad I am that it is over!’

He did not speak, but went to the window and looked out.

Surely, thought Catherine, he must be glad. A short while ago a Duke, now a Dauphin― with the crown almost within reach. He must be secretly rejoicing.

She went to him and laid a hand on his arm. She was sure he did not notice her touch, since he did not draw away from it.

She said: ‘Now it is avenged, we must try to forget.’

Then he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘ I cannot forget,’ he said. ‘He was my brother. We were together― in prison. We loved each other. I could never forget him.’

His lips trembled, and, seeing him softened by his memories she sought to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Oh, Henry, I know. He was your dear brother. But you must not grieve, Henry, my love. You have your life before you. Your wife who loves you― and longs to be a wife in very truth.’

She saw at once her mistake. She who was sly in intrigue, was clumsy in love; intrigue was natural to her, but love, coming suddenly, she did not understand its ways.

He disengaged himself. ‘I would I knew who had killed him,’ he said; and his eyes glowed as they looked straight into hers. She flinched and he saw her flinch.

He turned from her quickly as though he wished to put great a distance between them as possible, as though when was near her he could not rid his mind of a terrible suspicion.

‘Henry― Henry― where are you going?’ She knew where he was going, and the knowledge enflamed her, robbing her again of that control which she had learned was her strongest weapon.

He said coldly: ‘I do not think it necessary that I should keep you informed of my movements.’

‘You are going to her again― again. You desert your wife on such a day― to go and make sport with your mistress.’ She saw the hot colour creep up under his skin; she saw his mouth set in the prim line she knew so well.

‘You forget yourself,’ he said. ‘I have told you that Madame la Grande Sénéchale is not my mistress. She is my greatest friend whose calm good sense gives me great relief from the tantrums of others which I must endure from time to time.’

He was gone. She stared after him. He lied! She was his mistress. How like him to lie on such a matter, because he would think it was the noble and chivalrous thing to do! But he was noble and chivalrous in very truth.

So on this day, when she found herself the Dauphine of France, being in love, could forget her new exalted rank and must concern herself solely with the relationship of Henry and Diane.

I will find out if he speaks truth! she vowed. If I have to hide in her apartments, I will find out. ――――――― Diane, leaving the pavilion, accompanied by her women, was considering her new importance.

When they reached her apartments, she made her women kneel and offer prayers for the soul of the Count. She knelt with them, and when the prayers were over, she bade them disrobe her; she said the spectacle had made her feel a little ill, and she wished to be left to rest awhile.

She watched these women of hers closely. Annette, Marie, and Thérèse had always shown her the utmost respect, but did she now notice in their eyes something more? Perhaps they were realizing the change that had come into her life, for indeed they would be stupid if they were not.

‘Bring me a cushion here, Thérèse. Thank you.’ She was always courteous to them and she knew that they would have loved her if they had not been a little afraid of her. They believed her to be a sorceress. ‘Just put that rug lightly over me, Annette. I do not wished to be disturbed.’

They hesitated.

‘Yes?’ Diane studied her long white fingers, sparkling with jewels. On the first finger of the right hand, she wore a ruby, a present of Henry’s.

‘If it should be Monsieur d’Orléans, Madame?’

Diane raised her eyebrows and Annette blushed hotly. ‘Forgive me,’

muttered Annette, I meant Monsieur le Dauphin.’

‘If it should be the Dauphin,’ said Diane, ‘you may come and let me know.

Then I will tell you whether or not I will see him. For anyone else, remember, I am not to be disturbed.’

They left her, and she smiled to think how they would be whispering about her, awed because she made no difference in her treatment of her lover now that he was the heir to throne.

Little had she thought when, at the King’s command, she had held out the hand of friendship to his son that she would one day, become the most powerful woman in France. The King was far from well; and when he was gone, Henry, her Henry, would triumphantly mount the throne; and it would be for her to see who was at his elbow then, for her to say who should have a strong hand in the management of affairs.

Madame d’Etampes, that insolent harlot, should be banned from the court; she should pay for all the insults she had dared to throw at Diane de Poitiers. All that pleasure was to come. Diane, closing her eyes, saw herself beside the young King receiving the homage of his subjects in place of the pale-faced insignificant Italian girl. What a mercy the child was meek. Some wives might have made themselves very unpleasant.