Anne prayed daily for his health. The Reformed party watched uneasily while the Catholic party waited hopefully.

Catherine felt stimulated by the de Chabot affair, which she herself had cunningly brought about. She felt that if she wished it, eventually she could make puppets of all these people about her while she herself was the puppet-master.

She longed for power. She would use all her cunning to achieve it. If the love of her husband and the affection of her children were denied to her, why should she not work for power?

She had learned to work in the shadows.

She watched the King growing weaker with each passing day. She was tender to him, solicitous, showing great eagerness to serve. And she smiled, remembering that in her wisdom, she had made friends with Diane and, because of that deeply humiliating effort, she now had children, so that she need not, as poor Anne d’Etampes, fear the death of Francis. Those children, who had come to her out of her wisdom and her cunning, had given her the security for which she had once to plead with the King.

Up and down the country went the court at the bidding of its restless King.

A week at Blois; another at Amboise; to Loches; to Saint-Germain, and back to Les Tournelles and Fontainebleau. And then― on again.


* * *

It was February and the court had travelled down to and come to rest at the Château of La Roche-Guyon. Here they would be forced to stay awhile, for the snow was falling incessantly and the sky was still heavy with it. Great fires were built up in the huge fireplaces; Anne, with Catherine and members of the Petite Bande, put their heads together in order to devise some means of diverting the King from his gloom.

They planned masques and plays; there was dicing and cards; balls, when the company planned extravagant fantastic fancy dresses. But the King would not be amused; he hated to be forced to stay in one place when he wished to go on, and the King’s mood, as always, was reflected in his courtiers. They stood about in melancholy groups, asking themselves and each other what they could possibly do to relieve the tedium. They were like fretful children, Catherine thought, with too many toys. As for herself, what did she care if the snow kept them prisoners here. Henry was here and Diane was here. It made no difference to her whether they were at Les Tournelles or Loches, Fontainebleau or La Roche-Guyon. She still had her hours of agony to endure when the Dauphin was, as she knew full well, making love to Diane; she still had her moments of hope when ceremony demanded that he sit beside her or dance with her; there was still the bittersweet hour when he dutifully came to her apartments. And to set beside jealousy, there was always hope; and neither of these altered by place or time.

The snow was piling up high in the courtyards; it lay along the castle walls.

Never had the old château seemed so gloomy, and the King was growing more and more irritable, bursting into sudden temper over matters which would once have called forth nothing but a grunt of amusement.

It was midday and they had just eaten heavily; the old were drowsy; the young were fidgety. Why, asked one young nobleman of the Count d’Enghien, could not the King go to his chamber and sleep, or perhaps take a beautiful girl to keep him company― two beautiful girls? He had but to tender the invitation.

The Count replied sadly that the King was not the man he had been.

‘Come here, Catherine, my dear,’ said Francis, ‘and sit beside think of some game we might play to relieve this tedium? Of all my châteaux, I think that after this I shall hate La Roche-Guyon most.’

Catherine looked at Anne, who. was sitting on the other side of the King’s chair. Anne lifted her shoulders; she was listless. The King looked very ill today.

‘There is nothing, Sire, but to watch the snow and be glad that we are in this warm château and not out there in the cold,’ said Catherine.

‘The child would bid me count my blessings!’ said the King. ‘Why, in the days of my youth we had some good fights in the snow.’

‘Sire, let there be a fight now!’ cried Catherine.

‘Alas! I am old to join in it.’

‘It is pleasanter to look on at a fight than to take part in it,’ said Anne, ‘come, you slothful people. The King commands you to fight― to take up arms against each other―’

‘Armfuls of snow!’ cried Catherine. ‘A mock battle! It will be amusing.’

Francis with Catherine, Anne, Diane, and other ladies and some of the older men, ranged themselves about the while the young men rushed out to the courtyards.

Catherine, watching the fight, smiled to herself. Even in a game, it seemed, there must be two parties. D’Enghien was the leader of the Reformed party; d’Enghien for the King and Anne. For the Catholic party and Diane― and Henry of course, and with him the dashing and imperious Francis de Guise. It was the latter who concentrated his shower of snow on the Count. Henry, as Dauphin, must necessarily keep aloof. The two young men, de Guise and d’Enghien, were heroes of the fight. Diane was watching them closely; and Catherine watched Diane.

‘Bravo, Count!’ cried the King when his favourite scored a neat hit.

‘And bravo, de Guise!’ Diane was bold enough to shout when that handsome fellow threw his snowballs with accuracy.

Even there, in the group surrounding the King, there was evidence of the two parties. Only one person kept silent― the wise one; she who was content to be thought meek and humble and in reality was more cunning than any.

Catholic against Protestant, thought Catherine. The d’Etampes party against Diane’s party. De Vivonne against de Chabot. The fools, thought Catherine, to take sides in somebody else’s quarrel. The wise worked for themselves.

The King noticed the silence of his daughter-in.law and drawing her to him, whispered: ‘Why, Catherine, who you favour― my charming Count or that handsome rogue de Guise?’

‘I favour the winner, Sire,’ said Catherine, ‘for he will be the better man.’

Francis held her wrist and looked into her eyes. ‘Methinks there is great wisdom behind these charming dark eyes. I say, let them fight this out with snowballs― fit weapons for such a quarrel.’

The fight went on. It was too amusing to be stopped. Even the King forgot his melancholy.

Catherine laughed aloud to see dashing de Guise sprawling in the snow; and when Diane turned cold eyes upon her, she laughed equally loudly to see to young d’Enghien go headfirst into a snowdrift. Catherine’s eyes met those of Henry’s mistress, and Diane smiled.

You suppose Diane, thought Catherine, that I am of no account. I am too humble to take part in your petty quarrels. To a simpleton such as I am, this is but a snow-fight― nothing more. Diane said: ‘Good fun, this snow-fight, is it not, Madame?’

‘Most excellent fun,’ replied Catherine.

And she thought: nothing is forgiven. Every pin-prick, every small humiliation is noted; and one day you will be asked to pay for them all, Sénéchale. The battle had taken on a new turn. One man found a stone and threw it; another discovered a goblet which had been left in the courtyard and aimed it at the head of a man in the opposing party. The first blood was then shed. It brought laughter and applause from the onlookers.

Now, some of the fighters had come inside the castle and were throwing cushions at one another. The King and the watchers were so overcome with laughter that they encouraged the fight to grow wilder and wilder.

A stool came crashing through a window; it was followed by others.

‘Come!’ said Francis. ‘Attack, men!’

Catherine noticed Francis de Guise disappear from the fight. She only knew that something significant was about to happen. If she could but slip away, send a command to one of her women to follow Monsieur de Guise!

All manner of articles were flying out of the windows now. A china bowl splintered on the head of one young man, who staggered, looked startled and then fell unconscious on the ‘Carry in the wounded!’ cried Francis.

Even as he spoke, pots and pans were flying out of the windows, followed by chairs and small tables.

The King roared with laughter.

‘What a merry turn to a snow battle!’ cried Anne.

And the comedy was suddenly turned to tragedy. Catherine need no longer wonder as to the disappearance of Monsieur de Guise.

Suddenly, crashing down from an upper window came a heavy chest.

The Count was standing immediately beneath the window from which it fell.

There was a warning shout of horror which the King joined, but it was too late.

D’Enghien, startled, looked up, but he could not escape in time. The chest fell on top of him; and his blood gushed startlingly red over the whiteness of the snow.


* * *

That sad year sped by quickly for the King of France. There seemed little left to live for.

‘I have but to love, and misfortune overtakes my loved ones!’ he said.

‘When I love my son Francis, he died suddenly and mysteriously. My beloved Charles was a victim of the plague. And this handsome boy, who in some small measure took their place in my heart, has been cruelly done to death in a sham battle.’

He sought to forget his grief in gaiety. There was a long meandering from castle to castle. The tempo must be speeded up; there must be richer food at his tables; stronger wine-flow; the women surrounding him must be more beautiful; the morals of his court the more depraved. His dress was more extravagantly jewelled. The sparkle of diamonds must make up for the lack-lustre of his eyes, the red of rubies for the pallor which had touched his face. Wit and wine, women and love, music and poetry― they must be his to enjoy. His must still be the most luxurious and the most intellectual court in Europe.