Catherine and the King had decided that it would be folly to let Margot go back to her husband, but they allowed her to accompany the Princess de la Roche-sur-Yonne to Spa, whither that lady was going, to take the waters. Margot had been ill, suffering from erysipelas of the arm, so it was thought that the waters would do her good; and as all she desired was a change, a little excitement, the prospect of the journey through Flanders to Spa pleased her as much as a journey to Béarn would have done.

Margot was now back at court, but, according to her, she had had many an exciting adventure during her travels. She had renewed her tender friendship with Bussy d’Amboise, whose gallantry had proved a great delight to her; she was never tired of telling how he, the greatest swordsman in France, was continually becoming involved in duels and, when he had disarmed his adversaries would, like a hero in a fairy tale, tell them that their lives would be spared if they would seek the most beautiful Princess and lady in the world, cast themselves at her feet and thank her—for Bussy had granted them the gift of life only for her sake. It was evident that Margot had been delighted to renew her friendship with the dashing Bussy.

There had been other adventures; these included an exciting meeting with Don John of Austria, the hero of Lepanto and the illegitimate son of Emperor Charles of Spain, and Philip’s half-brother. He had been charming to Margot and she had believed she had made a conquest, for Margot, who had so little difficulty in finding lovers, was apt to imagine that every man who looked her way and smiled on her was on the point of falling in love with her. She had been, enchanted with Don John until her spies informed her that he was a spy of her brother, the King of France, and therefore could be no friend to herself and her other brother, the new Duke of Anjou; she learned too that while she dallied in Flanders, the deceitful Don John was making plans to take her prisoner.

This was a blow to her esteem, but she quickly forgot that in the excitement of making her way to France; and if Don John was not appreciative, there were plenty of others very ready to be.

Now another peace had been concluded—the Peace of Bergerac; and Anjou and Margot were back at court. Margot was once more demanding to be allowed to join her husband, and the King was again refusing her request. The old quarrels had broken out in the family; Catherine and the King were in one camp, Margot and Anjou in another. Catherine was the only one of these four who had the good sense to hide her feelings.

The King’s mignons seemed, for the King’s pleasure, to take a delight in insulting Anjou; and the climax came when the wedding of one of the court noblemen was being celebrated.

Anjou had honoured the bride by dancing with her, and he was feeling very gratified to note how delighted she was by the honour of being partnered by such an exalted person as himself. She talked with the proper amount of reticence and reverence for his state, and Anjou was happy, feeling himself to be of great importance, the hero of battles, the squire of ladies, the brother of the King, the man who might well one day sit upon the throne of France. But his pleasure was abruptly interrupted as he and his partner passed a group of the King’s darlings.

Epernon said in a voice which was audible, not only to the little Duke of Anjou and his partner, but to many who happened to be in their vicinity: ‘Poor bride! She is charming to look at, you know. It is merely because she dances with that ape that she appears to be ungainly.’

Anjou’s pock-marked face went a deep shade of purple.

To cap the insult, Caylus called to Epernon: ‘You would not think, would you, that he would wear that colour. With his ugly skin he should favour dove grey. Insignificant, I know, but suitable.’

‘It is a pity he cannot put on a few inches,’ drawled Joyeuse. ‘He is like a child . . . playing at being a man.’

Anjou stopped in the dance, his hand on his sword; immediately he was aware of the menacing face of the King, who was ready to arrest anyone who attacked his favourites, and, realizing that if he offended in any way he might be put in prison, there seemed nothing for him to do but to walk, with as much dignity as possible in such circumstances, out of the ballroom.

As he went, he heard the King say: ‘Dance, my friends. Nothing of importance has happened. No one of importance has left.’

Anjou paced up and down his apartments, shaking with passion. He would not endure this. He would leave the court; he would show that brother of his that he was not so secure on the throne as he thought himself to be.

Next morning he arose early and sent a note to the King, asking permission to leave Paris for a few day’s hunting.

The King did not answer the note, but he thought about his brother with fear and hatred for the rest of the day and, when the palace had retired, his anxiety so increased that he went along to his mother’s bedchamber and sitting on her bed, awakened her to tell her that his fears were so great concerning his brother that he felt it was folly to delay acting against him any longer.

‘He is up to mischief; I know it.’

‘That, my darling, is hardly a matter to worry about at this hour. He is always up to mischief.’

‘He wishes to leave Paris, to go hunting, he says. That is a ruse. You remember how Navarre went to hunt, and we have not seen him since—though we are much aware of him. I wish that we had the fellow under our guard still.’

‘I wish that too.’

‘I was wise, was I not, to refuse Monsieur permission to hunt?’

‘Yes, indeed you were.’

‘That, Madame, was the advice of my friends, those who, you think, counsel me ill.’

Catherine sighed. ‘What is it you wish at this hour, my son?’ To go to his chamber, to catch him unaware, and to look for fresh treachery.’

‘I had hoped that relations between you and your brother were improving. But for that ugly scene at the ball last night I feel sure your brother would have been ready to be friends. It was unwise of those young men to taunt him because he is not so handsome as they are.’

‘It was not for his ugliness that my friends taunted him; it was for his treachery. Will you come with me, Madame, or shall I take Epernon?’

‘I will come.’

Catherine wrapped a robe about her and together they went to Anjou’s apartments. The King peremptorily dismissed Anjou’s attendants.

‘What means this?’ demanded the latter, rising startled from his bed.

‘It means that we suspect you of further treachery,’ said the King.

While he was speaking he began opening the coffer near the bed and scattering its contents about the room. Catherine looked from one to the other. Fools! she thought. Strength was in union.

There was nothing of importance in the coffer.

‘Get up!’ commanded the King. ‘We will search the bed.’ Anjou quickly took a paper from under his bolster and screwed it up in his hand.

‘Ah!’ cried the King. ‘This is it. Hand me that paper, Monsieur.’

‘I will not!’ cried his brother.

Anjou tried to reach for his sword, but Catherine cried out in alarm, and before either of them could touch the weapon, she had seized it.

‘If you do not hand me that paper at once,’ said the King, ‘I’ll have you taken to the Bastille. Madame, I beg of you, call the guards.’

Anjou threw the paper on to the floor. The King picked it up and read it while Anjou burst into loud derisive laughter. It was a love letter to Anjou from Charlotte de Sauves.

The King, scarlet with mortification, threw the paper at his brother. Catherine picked it up and read it. She smiled; she had read it before.

But the King was sure there was a plot, even if he had failed to discover it. ‘He shall be kept under lock and key,’ he said fiercely. ‘In his own apartments . . . yes, but under lock and key.’

He strode out, followed by Catherine; he called the guard and told them that the apartments of Monsieur were to be kept locked, for that gentleman was a prisoner.

The first thing Anjou did when his brother and mother had left him was to send one of his guards to his sister to beg her to come to him at once.

Margot came and she and her brother wept in each other’s arms; but there was no sorrow in their tears. They were furiously angry and determined to be avenged on the tyrant.

The feud had started again in all its old fury.

This is not the way, Catherine told the King; but his mignons were delighted with the feud. They hated Margot; they feared Anjou; and they enjoyed a quarrel.

Catherine however decided that there must be a reconciliation, and at length she prevailed on both sides to bring this about. She accordingly staged one of those farces—at a ball, or a banquet—where enemies met, kissed and pretended to be friends, swearing eternal friendship with hatred in their hearts, while the gullible looked on and said ‘All is well’ and the cynics set the smiles of pleasure on their faces and sneered inwardly.


* * *

It was not long before Margot had planned her brother’s escape. The plan was dramatic, since it was Margot’s; and as soon as she had conceived it, she was all impatience to put it into action.

‘We must be very careful this time,’ Margot whispered to two of her women. ‘Such plans have a way of reaching my mother’s ears. If she discovered what we have in mind, it would make everything very difficult; but if she discovered the means

I intend to employ, it would make the plan impossible of achievement’