She had actually seen him, riding through the streets urging people to kill, and, she told herself impetuously, she could never love him again. He had changed, as she had; he was no longer the charming boy, but a man whose ambition meant far more to him than love ever could. He had known that she, as the wife of a Huguenot, must have been in danger, but he had neglected her. All that she had once so ardently loved in him—his beauty, his charm, his virility, and even his ambition, for she had believed then that a man must be ambitious to prove his manhood—now increased her indifference towards him.

He came to her after the massacre was over.

She said: ‘You keep your appointment, Monsieur, but are you not a little late?’

He did not know that she had decided to finish with him. ‘But, Margot, you understand how I have been occupied.’

‘Too occupied in shedding blood to think of love!’ she said. ‘It had to be.’

She studied him closely. He had grown older. She thought: he will age quickly. Then she smiled, thinking of Monsieur de ‘Aran, the man who had burst so dramatically into her bedchamber; he was still weak, but, thanks to her, he would recover. He was very handsome, tender and grateful. One did not always want such self-satisfied, such arrogant and self-sufficient lovers as the man who stood before her now. There were some on whom too many gifts were showered; and such people knew little of gratitude for services rendered—and gratitude could be a delightful thing.

He came to her and put his arms about her. She did not repulse him yet; she laughed up at him.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘there is time for love?’

‘My darling,’ he answered, ‘it has been long, but love keeps; and can be all the more sweet for the waiting.’

‘Sometimes it turns sour,’ said Margot.

‘You are annoyed, my darling?’

‘Oh no, Monsieur. I could only be annoyed when I cared deeply.’

He did not understand. He had too high an opinion of himself. This was Margot, he thought, as he had known her so many times before—piqued, eager to be wooed into that abandonment of passion which was habitual to her.

‘My dearest,’ he began, but she interrupted.

‘Ah, Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘I have discovered that you are a better murderer than a lover, and you know I would be satisfied with nothing but the best. If I need a murderer, I may ask for your services. But when I need a lover, I shall not come to you.’

She saw at once that he was not only perplexed, but suspicious. She was involved with the Huguenots and therefore might be his enemy.

She laughed. ‘Oh, be cautious, Monsieur de Guise. Remember that you are seeking a mistress from the Huguenot camp. Why do you not take your sword and kill me! You suspect me of friendship for Huguenots. That is sufficient reason to kill me, is it not?’

‘Have you gone mad?’ he demanded.

‘No. I have merely ceased to love you. You do not look so handsome in my eyes as you once did. You arouse no desire in me whatsoever.’

‘That cannot be true, Margot.’

‘It must be difficult for you to believe it. But it is true. You may go now.’

‘Dearest,’ he said soothingly, ‘you are angry because I have stayed from you too long. Had it been possible I should have come long ere this. You must understand that if we had not killed the Huguenots, they would have killed us’

‘They would not!’ she said vehemently. ‘There was no Huguenot plot. You know as well as I do that the so-called Huguenot plot was an invention of my mother’s. She wanted an excuse to murder.’

‘Why do we concern ourselves with such unpleasant matters? Have you forgotten all that we are to one another?’

She shook her head. ‘But it is over now. We must look elsewhere for our pleasures.’

‘How can you talk so! All your life you have loved me.’ ‘Until now.’

‘When did this end?’

‘Perhaps on St Bartholomew’s Eve.’

He put his arms about her and kissed her. She said, with dignity: ‘Monsieur de Guise, I beg of you, release me.’ And she laughed delightedly to find that she was quite unmoved by him.

He was the haughty one now. He was unaccustomed to being repulsed. It hurt his dignity, the dignity of Guise and Lorraine.

‘Very well,’ he said, releasing her. But he was hesitating, waiting for her to laugh, to tell him she loved him as much as ever and that her fit of temper was over.

But she stood still, smiling mockingly; and at length he turned angrily away and left her.

In the corridor he almost collided with Charlotte de Sauves, for Charlotte had not expected him to come out so quickly; she had thought that Margot would call him back and that there would be one of those intense and passionate scenes to be reported to the Queen Mother.

He caught her as she gave a little cry and pretended to be almost knocked off her feet.

‘Madame, I crave your pardon.’

She smiled up at him, flushed, aware that he must be noticing how beautiful she was. ‘The fault was mine, Monsieur de Guise. I . . . I was about to go to Her Majesty . . . and I had no idea that anyone could come out so quickly.’

‘I trust I did not hurt you?’

‘No, Monsieur. Indeed not.’

He had smiled and passed on. Charlotte stood still, watching him.

She did not go into Margot’s apartment at once, but stood outside, thinking deeply. Had Margot really meant what she had said? Was she really finishing her love affair—this most passionate of all love affairs, the most discussed at the court? Suppose this was so. Charlotte smiled. A woman should be allowed to please herself sometimes. She was weary of this game she must play with Navarre, keeping him desirous yet unsatisfied. Perhaps it would be as well to say nothing to the Queen Mother of this little scene. She might receive definite instructions regarding the Duke of Guise if Catherine were told, for there was no doubt that the Queen Mother had an uncanny knack of discovering the inner thoughts and yearnings of her Escadron Volant.

No. Charlotte would say nothing of what she had discovered; and if the handsome Duke was in need of a little comfort—Charlotte had received no direct instructions from her mistress to deny him.


* * *

Catherine’s satisfaction could not last long: and if she did not regret her increased unpopularity throughout France and that her evil reputation was spreading abroad, she was perturbed to see how far the King was straying from her influence. She had thought that, having destroyed the influence of Coligny, she would be able to restore that relationship which had existed between herself and Charles before he had fallen under the spell of the Admiral; but this was not so. Charles was weaker in physical health; his bouts of madness were more frequent; but it was obvious that, tormented by the memory of those fateful August days and nights, he, like the rest of the world, blamed Catherine for the massacre, and his great desire now was to escape from her domination.

He continually remembered the words of the Admiral: ‘Govern alone. Evade the influence of your mother.’ And he intended to do that, as far as his poor weak mind would allow him.

Catherine knew this and it disturbed her greatly. If, as many people said, it was true that her real motive in murdering Coligny had been to leave herself in sole command over her son, she had completely failed to achieve that desired result; for Charles was further from her control than he had ever been.

Spain, now that it had ceased to exult over the massacre, hinted that since so many Huguenot leaders were now dead—and Philip understood that the marriage had been necessary to bring the unsuspecting victims into the trap—there was no reason why that marriage should not be dissolved.

Catherine had at first felt indignant. ‘My daughter, a bride of a few months . . . just beginning to love her husband . . . and now it is suggested that the marriage should be dissolved!’

The Spanish ambassador smiled cynically. ‘The gentleman of Navarre is not such a good parti now, Madame, despised as he is by both Catholics and Huguenots. Not a very grand marriage for a daughter of a royal house!’

Catherine pondered that and, after a while, it seemed to her that there was much in what he said. Even in the event of civil war—which seemed remote now that the ranks of the Huguenots were so depleted—it was hardly likely that the people of France would wish to see a man who could change sides so easily—and a noted bon vivant and philanderer at that—on the throne.

She knew to whom the people of France would look if by some dire misfortune—and Catherine herself would fight to the death to avoid that misfortune—the sons of the House of Valois were robbed of their prior claim to the throne. He was that young man who, in Paris at least, could do no wrong. He had been the leader, one might say, in the massacre, but no one in Paris blamed him. It was said that he but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. What a good thing after all was the popularity of the mob! It excused your faults and extolled your virtues.

Yes, Paris would delight to see its hero on the throne, even though his right to it was a little obscure.

She pondered deeply. One must adjust one’s policy to events; and circumstances altered cases. Now it seemed that it might not have been so very unwise to have allowed Margot to marry Henry of Guise when those two had so desired; although it had appeared quite wrong at the time. But in view of the turn of events, and of Navarre’s recent record, a marriage between Margot and Guise had now become more desirable than that between Margot and Henry of Navarre. The Pope naturally would raise no difficulty, and Philip of Spain would be pleased. Guise was known to Spain and Rome as one of the most loyal Catholics in France. Why not a double divorce? Guise divorced from his wife; Margot from her husband; and those two, who were so passionately in love, might marry after all! Catherine smiled ironically. This seemed to be one of those occasions when the chief parties concerned could all be happy and sensible at the same time.