‘There is nothing that I do which he does not seem to think is wrong,’ said Catherine. ‘Yet I have always worked for his good.’

‘He knows that,’ said Louise. ‘It is just that, at this time, there are others to disagree with you . .

‘He takes their advice and rejects mine!’ cried Catherine.

‘Madame, he is so firmly Catholic. He does not wish to show the leniency that you would show to these Huguenots.’

Catherine laughed contemptuously. ‘Will his new friends help him to war, do you think? They are experts at curling his hair, I know, at helping to paint his face; and they know more than I do about the set of a jacket sleeve; but when it comes to war . . . what then? Will they help him to steer a safe course between Monsieur de Guise with his Catholics, and Navarre, Condé and their Huguenots?’

She grew calm immediately; she was astonished that she. could so give way before the little Queen, who knew hardly anything beyond the care of lap-dogs. ‘There, my daughter, you are a good, dear child, and I love you deeply.’

‘I wish I could help you, Madame.’

‘Get the King a son. That would please me more than anything.’

‘Ah, Madame! If only that could be!’

Catherine dismissed her and tried to remove the havoc which that tempestuous outburst of grief had caused, by applying a light touch of powder to her face and fresh carmine to her lips.

What had happened to her, and was she showing her age. losing her faculties? She was getting so fat that she could scarcely move with ease. Every winter brought rheumatism. She looked into her mirror and shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes, however, still had the fire of determination, and she knew that would not be easily quenched. She would never loosen her hold on power, for if she did, what would life hold for her? It was not as though—like that arch-enemy of hers, Jeanne of Navarre—she believed there was anything waiting for her after death. She must face the truth. Her children, on whom she had, since the death of her husband, depended for her power, were a treacherous band. She must accept the fact that power—that most precious of all possessions which the world had to offer such as herself—was not easily achieved, and once achieved, not easily held.

Alençon, whom she had neglected in the past and dismissed as of little importance, was now making a nuisance of himself; he was treacherous, conceited and he longed to wear the crown. If he ever became King of France he would not be easy to control. There was Margot, equally treacherous, working with Alençon against her brother the King as well as her mother. She was now spying for her husband. Catherine dared not let the King know this, for if he knew he would demand the death of Margot. Catherine would agree with the King that her daughter was a menace to her mother’s peace of mind and the provider of many anxious moments, but as there were only three children now to bring her power she could not agree to the elimination of any of them. And now Henry—the beloved one, her ‘All’—had broken his allegiance to his mother and given it to a group of silly, simpering creatures.

She had married one of those creatures—Villequier, who had been with Henry in Poland—to a member of her Escadron Volant. She was surprised at the success of that venture. The woman had been ordered to keep her eyes on her husband and try to lure him from the King and those pleasures which had hitherto delighted him. Villequier was enchanted by his beauti- ful wife, and seemed to have become a normal husband. If only this treatment could be applied to more of that effeminate band!

She must not despair. There were always ways of setting matters right. She must fight this feeling of lassitude which was he inevitable accompaniment of old age.

Looking back, it seemed to her that there had been little else but wars for as long as she could remember—the dreary wars of religion, violent outbreaks, continual bloodshed, linked together by uneasy periods of peace.

But had the scene changed? Something was brewing in the streets of the capital. Had there ever been greater misery than there was among the poor at this moment? Had there ever been so many enemies of the throne? What was in the minds of Guise and his Catholics? What of that sly shrewd creature down in Béarn? Oh, what a pity that he was no longer under her eye! What fresh plots, too, were brewing in the fevered and ambitiously arrogant mind of Alençon?

The King came to her as she sat brooding. His face was white with rage and his lips trembled. She was filled with tenderness, for he had at least on this occasion brought his troubles to his mother.

‘Mother,’ he cried, ‘I have planned such a procession! We were to go to Notre Dame to pray for a child. I had designed our dreses. They were to be of purple, with touches of green about them. They were delightful.’

‘Yes, my darling. But why are you so angry?’

‘The council has refused to grant me the money to pay for it. How dare they! Is it for them to prevent our getting a child? It is small wonder that we have no heir. How does God feel when He sees the meanness of my council? It is an insult to Him!’

‘But how could the money be,found, my son! The dresses would cost a great deal. Then there are all the trappings which must not be forgotten on such an occasion.’

‘The people would enjoy the spectacle. They must therefore expect to pay for it.’

She drew him to the window. ‘Come with me, my son. Look out on Paris. You do not have to look far. You see that bundle . . . lying against the wall there? I’d wager you the cost of your ceremony to a franc, that that is a man or woman dying of starvation.’

He stamped his foot. ‘Those ate the few. There are rich merchants in Paris. The Huguenots are such good businessmen, are they not? Why should they amass wealth to work against me?’

She looked at him sorrowfully. ‘Oh, my son, do not listen to evil counsels. As you value your crown, take heed. You must not expose your desires to the world. Look at Monsieur de Guise and take a lesson from him. What is he doing? He goes about Paris. He expresses sympathy for the people’s sufferings. He distributes large sums in alms. The poor cry: “The good God keep the great Duke!” more often than they mutter their paternosters. To them he is already one of the saints.’

‘So you would have me imitate Saint Henry of Guise, Madame?’

Catherine burst into laughter. ‘Saint Henry of Guise! There is little of the saint in that man. It is merely that he wears an imaginary halo with such charm, such assurance for the people of Paris, that he makes them believe that he works for the Catholic League and for them, when he is only concerned with the good of Monsieur de Guise. That is cleverness, my son.’

‘Madame, since you admire Monsieur de Guise and despise your son, perhaps it would be better if you threw in your lot with him.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘You mistake me, my darling,’ she said patiently. would kill him tomorrow if by so doing I could help you.’

‘It would not seem so,’ said the King sullenly. ‘And if you are prepared to do so much for me, why not persuade them to let me have the money for my procession.’

‘Because it would be unwise. You cannot parade through these streets in your fine clothes before people in rags. Do you not understand that?’

‘I understand that you are on their side against me.’

He burst into tears; and she had already seen, by the traces on his face, that he had wept before the council.

What can I do? she asked herself. The King of France cries like a child for money to spend on his toys, while the people in the streets are starving and murmuring against him, while Paris scowls in sullen silence whenever either of us appears.

Is this how great cities behave when a kingdom is on the brink of revolution?

Five

CATHERINE CONTINUED, in the months that followed, to be troubled by her children.

Alençon, after escaping from Paris, had conducted a campaign in Flanders from which he had emerged triumphant; but Catherine knew that her son was too conceited, too self-seeking, to serve any cause well, although at this time the Huguenots might be deceived into believing that in the King’s brother they had found a man they could follow. It had been necessary to make peace with Alençon and this Catherine had arranged. The Paixde Monsieur was signed that May and was so called in honour of Alençon, Monsieur, the King’s brother. But what, Catherine must ask herself, did these spasmodic interludes of peace mean to France—merely lulls in the fighting, so that greater armies might be gathered together. The King hated his brother to receive honours, and even while he pretended to help Alençon—for Alençon was in turn fighting for the King and against him—he was secretly hampering him in every way he could. It was always so with these brothers—Charles had hated Henry in just the same way; their jealousy of each other was far greater than their love for France. Alençon had now been created Duke of Anjou, the King having bestowed on him that title as he himself no longer needed it now that he had the higher one of King of France.

If, thought Catherine, they would only work together, how strong we should be!

But these children of hers were half Medici; they could not go straight.

Margot had begged the King to let her join her husband, for, she said, that was a wife’s place. They had, she pointed out, married her to Henry of Navarre against her will; and now. against her will, they kept her from him. It was a favourite fiction of Margot’s that her husband pined for her company; though Catherine guessed that, since he had expressed a desire for it, this must be because he felt it would be as well to keep such a natural trouble-maker under his eye.