How different was this entry! She was happy now. Her son Henry would never treat her as her husband Henry had done. This was the happiest relationship of her life.

News was brought to Catherine, while the royal party rested at Lyons, that the Princess of Condé had died; Catherine was surprised to find how genuinely grieved she was at the thought of the sorrow this would cause Henry. She kept the news from him for as long as she could.

His way of showing his grief was typical of the King; he used it to increase the jealousy of his favourites. His heart was broken, he declared. Oh, what a cruel fate was this! He had been living only in the hope of reunion with his love. And after all those months of exile, he had lost her!

He shut himself in his rooms; he wore deep mourning—black velvet ornamented with diamonds; and diamonds, he said were not his favourite stones. He needed colour to set off his skin and eyes. ‘You see how I loved her, when I will wear nothing but these sombre garments because of her. Oh, my heart is truly broken.’

Catherine remonstrated. ‘My darling, you must not stay here. You have been away from Paris too long. There is your coronation to be considered. The sooner you are crowned King the better. I insist.’

He was playful. ‘You insist, dear mother. Ah, but I am the master now, am I not?’

And two months were frittered away before she could induce him to proceed, and then he would go no farther than Avignon.


* * *

Catherine quickly realized that those happy plans of sharing the throne with her beloved son had little hope of fulfilment. He consulted her less than he used to. She had always known that he was wildly extravagant, but never had he been so extravagant as he was now. He had always enjoyed doing what was unexpected; but previously his tricks had held a grain of humour in them; they seemed now to be all stupidity. She blamed his young men; she would have to break that influence as quickly as she could.

He had formed an attachment to a young woman whom that sly old man, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had called to his notice. The Cardinal was trying to win the confidence of the King, Catherine assumed, so that he might dominate him as he had once dominated poor sickly little Francis. Louise de Vaudemont was a fair-haired young woman who belonged to the Lorraine family.

Henry took a half-hearted interest in the girl at first, for he was, he declared, still broken-hearted by the loss of the Princess of Condé; but after a while it occurred to him that he should have a mistress, and Louise de Vaudemont was as suitable as any. She was already the mistress of Francis of Luxembourg; thus she would not make too many demands on the King; she was therefore very worthy to step into the shoes of Madame de Condé. The Princess had had a husband; Louise had a lover; that was very convenient when love-making wearied a man.

He was not eager to leave Avignon. He wished to postpone his arrival in Paris, for he did not like his capital; he never rode through its streets without being aware of the antagonism of the people. They did not appreciate his beauty, nor that of his gentlemen. He had acquired Louise because he felt that it would please the people of Paris to know that he was sufficiently natural to love a woman. But he did not wish to think of Paris; be became petulant when anyone mentioned the city. ‘Avignon is a charming town,’ he would say. ‘Let us stay here awhile. We shall have plenty of time for Paris.’

He joined the new brotherhood of the Battus. ‘I wish my people to know,’ he said, ‘that I am a serious man, a deeply religious man.’ The Battus was a sect whose members dressed themselves in sacks, and, wearing masks, paraded the streets thrashing each other as they went; their feet and shoulders were bare and they carried lighted tapers and crucifixes as though they were doing a penance. Henry was enthusiastic about the Battus. All his young men must join. It gave one such a sense of spirituality, said the King; and it was heavenly to feel the lash on one’s shoulders. He had death’s heads worked in jewels all over his clothes; he had them worked in silk, even on his shoestrings.

Navarre joined the order. He enjoyed thrashing the King and his favourites, but managed to avoid being beaten himself. ‘Chacun à son goût!’ said the incorrigible Navarre.

The Cardinal of Lorraine also joined the order, for he wished above all things to enjoy the favour and confidence of the King.

Catherine watched their antics in dismay.

It is nothing, she assured herself. He has waited so long. Now his triumph has gone to his head. He will tire of this folly soon, and then he and I will rule together.


* * *

Catherine was sitting at dinner when, suddenly and without warning, the knowledge came to her that the Cardinal of Lorraine was dead.

She paused in the act of carrying a goblet to her lips and said calmly: ‘Now we may have some peace, for the Cardinal of Lorraine is dead, and folks say that he was the one who prevented it.’

One of her women said: ‘Madame, I saw the Cardinal but two days ago. It was in a procession of the Battus. He was walking barefoot and his shoulders were uncovered. He was well enough then.’

‘He is dead,’ Catherine persisted. ‘He was a great prelate.’ She smiled slyly. ‘We have suffered a grievous loss.’ She saw Madalenna’s eyes upon her and and she drew the woman closer to her, whispering: ‘Today has died the wickedest of men, the saints be praised!’

At that she dropped her goblet and stared before her. ‘Jesus! she cried. ‘There he is. There is the Cardinal!’

Madalenna’s teeth were chattering. ‘Madame,’ she whispered, ‘we see him not.’

Catherine sat back in her chair. She was calm as she said: ‘It was a vision. I have had such now and then in my life. I doubt not that this day we shall hear of the death of that old man.’

Her women could not forget the incident. They talked together of it in awed whispers. They remembered the occasion on which she had told them of the death of the Prince of Condé at Jarnac and the victory of her son on that field, when, though miles away, she had seemed to see it all pass before her eyes while it was happening.

‘The Queen Mother is not quite human,’ they said. ‘That is what terrifies us all.’

Later that day, when news was brought to Catherine of the Cardinal’s death, she said: ‘You bring no news to me. I saw him as he left this Earth on his way to Paradise.’ And to herself she added: ‘To Hell more likely, if such a place there be.’

That night a heavy storm arose and, as Catherine lay sleepless in her bed, she could not shut out of her mind the memory of that man who had dominated her son, King Francis the Second, and made that boy’s life miserable to him. She remembered so many incidents from the past, the sly, deadly remarks of the man, his lecherous eyes, his shrewd determination to advance his house, the cowardice which had made him wear a suit of mail under his Cardinal’s robes. She remembered how, of all the men in France, he had been her greatest enemy; a wicked man, a man of contrasts, a man of the Church who was ready to pay great rewards to any man or woman who could think of some new method of interesting his erotic tastes, who could cap any quotation from the classics, who excelled at repartee, and the more risqué it was, the more it was to his liking. She thought of how, during the last years, when he must have known that he was approaching death, he had looked at her with a new affection, seeing in her one whom he considered so wicked that beside her he felt innocent. She imagined him, standing before God and saying in that sly clever way of his: ‘Yes, I did that, and I am guilty of that . . . but my Lord God, consider that greater sinner Queen Catherine, and you will see that I am a novice in sin.’ This imaginary scene made her laugh aloud.

But as the storm buffeted the walls of the château, and it was impossible to shut out the sound of the wind and the incessant beating of the rain, a terrible fear gripped her and she thought that the Cardinal stood in her bedchamber. She touched her bracelet and repeated the words of a protective charm which René had taught her; but even when she shut her eyes she could see the long, sly face of the Cardinal with those finely chiselled features which, before depravity had set their mark on them, had been so beautiful; she saw the eyes with the dark bags beneath them; she saw the thin lips moving. And she thought: he wants to take me with him. He wants me to stand before the Judgement Seat beside him. He wants to say, ‘Compare us. Here is the wickedest woman who ever lived. You cannot see her, scarlet with her sins, and think so badly of me!’

It was a ridiculous fantasy; she did not believe in that Judgement. But she could not forget the Cardinal, and it seemed to her that he was there in the shadow of the hangings at the foot of her bed.

At length she could bear the strain no longer and called to her women. They came, surprised.

‘Light candles,’ she said. ‘The Cardinal is here. The lights and your company will drive him back to Hades.’

They stayed with her for the remainder of the night.


* * *

At last the King agreed to leave Avignon for Rheims.

‘You must be crowned King of France as soon as possible,’ said Catherine.

One of the greatest days of her life was approaching, she assured herself: the day her darling was to be crowned King of France. She had not time for whimsical fears and she had ceased to think about the Cardinal of Lorraine, although for a few nights after his death she had kept her women about her bed until dawn. That man who had been called Le tigre de. la France, the leech, the bloodsucker, the enemy of God, was soon forgotten; although immediately after his death, tales had been whispered about his passing. The Huguenots declared that the great storm which had burst over them on the night of his death had been stirred up by witches at their Sabbat, so that they might carry his soul away to eternal torment. They said also that he was greatly perturbed while he was dying, and aware of the evil spirits about his bed who were waiting for his soul to be released. The Catholics had a different story to tell. To them the storm represented God’s anger with a country that did not appreciate a good Catholic such as the Cardinal had always been; God had taken him, since his country did not appreciate him. They said that when he had died he had spoken with the tongues of angels, two of whom had stood at the head of his bed and two at the foot to take charge of his soul.