‘And for me also,’ said saucy Margot, pushing forward out of her turn.

‘If we can find someone who will put up with your wickedness, Mademoiselle Margot!’ said her mother, trying to look severely at the brightest of all the faces before her.

‘It is easy to find husbands for princesses,’ said Margot, with wisdom beyond her five years. ‘So one will be found for me, I doubt not.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Papa’s sister, Aunt Marguerite, has no husband, and she is a princess.’

‘Hush, my children, this is most unseemly talk,’ said the Queen. ‘The wedding has made you forget your manners.’ Then her eyes went to her darling boy. He returned that special secret smile they kept for each other. ‘And how Henry today? Excited, wishing for a wedding of his own?’

He skipped towards her; his movements were graceful, like a girl’s than a boy’s. The others noticed that he was not reprimanded for forgetting the respect owed to the Queen, even though she was his mother.

Catherine stooped and kissed her beloved child, first on cheek, then on the other.

Seven years old and growing in grace and beauty every day! Oh my darling, she thought, I would it were your wedding today and that you were the Dauphin! You would not care more for the flighty fair-haired beauty than for your Maman.

‘I would rather have a new clip for my coat, Maman, than a wedding,’ said Henry seriously. ‘I have seen a beautiful one in gold set with a sapphire.’

‘So you wish for yet another ornament, my proud popinjay?’

She would give an order for the clip. He should have it for his birthday.

He showed her his coat. Was it not magnificent? Did she not like it better than that of Hercule or even Charles? He, himself had ordered the alterations to be made.

She pinched his cheek. ‘So it is a little dressmaker you have become then?’

But she must remember the others waiting expectantly for notice.

She made Charles turn round that she might see the set of his coat. Silly, sullen little boy! He was angry and jealous because Mary was marrying his brother. His eyes were weeping. How stupid of a boy of eleven to think he had lost the love of his life!

Little Hercule, the baby, was four and very pretty though Mademoiselle Margot outshone them all― except Henry, in Catherine’s eyes― with her gay spirits and bright red cheeks and flashing eyes. She must pirouette and curtsy and take little Hercule by the arm and pretend that he was her bridegroom and that they were bowing to the crowds. The children were so comic that Catherine found herself bursting into loud laughter.

‘We forget the time,’ she declared at length. ‘It will not do for us to be late.’

She signed to the attendants. ‘Take them now and see that they are ready when the time comes.’

The royal party had spent the night at the palace of the Bishop of Paris, and a gallery had been erected which ran from the palace to the west door of Notre Dame. This gallery was fitted with tapestries and cloth of silver and gold, wherever possible ornamented with the fleur-de-lys.

It was now time to join the party which was to make its way through the gallery to Notre Dame, and the King’s gentlemen led the way, followed by princes, cardinals, archbishops, and abbots; then came the Papal Legate with the Dauphin and his brothers, the Bourbon princes following; and after that, the most enchanting sight of all― young Mary Stuart, dazzling all eyes in a white gown with a long train, while on her fair curling hair, she wore a golden crown, decorated with pearls and coloured precious stones. The people gasped and could not take their eyes from her as the King himself led her into Notre Dame.

And after the King and the little Queen, came Catherine and her ladies.

Catherine’s alert eyes missed nothing. Francis de Guise, she noted, was much in evidence― diabolically attractive with that hideous scar and his rich garments. He had taken Montmorency’s place as Grand Master of the King’s Household, and Catherine admired his cleverness in playing to the crowd. He had allowed the common people to use the scaffolding which had been erected for the occasion.

‘Le Balafré!’ called the crowd. He knew well how to play to the humble people of Paris, he was their idol, determined to be their King.

Cardinal de Bourbon greeted the royal party as they entered the church.

While he was delivering his oration, gold and silver coins were thrown to the crowds. Even in the church it was possible to hear the shouts of the people, shouts of delight from those who secured the money, shouts of protest and from those who were almost trampled to death in the struggle. All through the ceremony the shouting persisted, mingled with screams of the injured.

Catherine was glad when they left the church, for by time the weak had prevailed on the heralds to stop the scattering of money, crying out that unless they did, there would be many deaths to celebrate the wedding of their Dauphin, Back at the Bishop’s Palace a banquet awaited them, and after this the King led the bride in a dance; watching them, Catherine remembered her own wedding and magnificent Francis with the kind, debauched eyes holding her hand telling her that she was Catherine of France now, not Caterina of Italy.

There was a lump in her throat; it was born of pity for poor ignorant little girl from Italy. If only she could have been as wise as the present Catherine, what a lot of misery she would have saved herself!

But here was Francis, the hero of the occasion, bowing before his mother, and begging for the honour of her hand in the dance.

She smiled at him.

‘Come, my dear Dauphin, let us dance.’

All eyes were on the four of them now― the King and Mary; herself and Francis. On such occasions as this she felt that she took her rightful place in the land.

‘You are looking well, my son,’ she said, for indeed he was.

‘It is the happiest day of my life,’ said the bridegroom.

‘You are fortunate, my son. You love your wife. It is a wonderful thing― providing, of course, that there is love on both sides.’

The boy looked at her with pity. He understood. She was thinking of her love for his father, and his father’s for his mistress. Poor Maman! He had never thought of her ‘poor Maman’ before.

But his own life was so wonderful that he could not brood on the sadness of others. Catherine saw how his eyes followed his dazzling young wife round the ballroom.

She laughed.

‘It is with Mary that you should be dancing, my son.’

‘Maman, tell me this: did you ever see anyone more beautiful?’

‘No. I do not think I have. But I will tell you something, Monsieur le Dauphin. Your sister Margot may yet outshine her.’

‘Nay, Maman, that would not be possible.’

She smiled, glad to see him happy, for he was her son. Let him enjoy his happiness, for she was convinced he could not live very long. He could not do so, for he had to make way for Charles and then for Henry. He must not do so!

Just after four o’clock in the afternoon that ball was over, for the party must now make its journey across the Seine to the Palais de Justice for the day’s final festivities. The King and the Princes rode on beautiful prancing horses, the Queen and Mary Stuart in litters, while the Princesses rode in coaches, the ladies-in-waiting on white palfreys; and everywhere were rations of rich cloth splashed lavishly with the golden lilies of France.

Supper was served in the Palais de Justice, and the civic authorities had decorated the place so fantastically, so magnificently, that people said it was comparable with the Elysian Fields. Each course was accompanied by the sweetest music, and, as the banquet progressed, merriment increased, and there a much lively conversation and gay laughter.

Yet another ball followed.

The Vidame de Chartres sought out the Queen. Catherine had caught the general excitement; the wine she had drunk made her flushed and excited; she seemed to see the world in more beautiful colours than ever before, and hope was high in her heart.

Her eyes never left the King, who too seemed excited and happier, so that he looked younger and reminded her of their earlier days together.

While he lives, thought the Queen, I shall continue to need him. Nothing else can seem important to me while his love is given elsewhere. ‘What a lovely Queen the little Scot will make!’ she said.

The Vidame answered. ‘There is a lovely Queen now on the throne.’

His eyes were bright; he had drunk too freely.

Catherine laughed at the flattery, but she was not displeased.

She kept the Vidame at her side. She allowed him to her hold hand overlong in the dance, and she was sure that it was noticed.

Did Henry notice? She fancied so.

He respected her because of her prompt action over Saint-Quentin. Would he learn to desire her because the Vidame de Chartres was showing them all that he thought her an attractive woman?

She danced with the King; she danced with the Dauphin; and her only other partner was the Vidame.

When they returned to the Louvre after the ball, Catherine looking into her mirror, saw that her eyes were brighter, cheeks flushed. Hope had made her look ten years younger, She wondered if the King would come to her. She imagined a little scene in which he upbraided her for her conduct with the Vidame. Happily, in her thoughts, she answered him: ‘Henry, can it mean that you are jealous?’

She scarcely slept that night; even in the early hours of the morning, she was still hoping that he would come.