Catherine looked back on the years of her son’s reign. The clever though effeminate young man he had been in his teens had changed. The better side of his nature had been suppressed, so that now, apart from those moments when he displayed his wit and an unexpected grasp of affairs, he seemed nothing but a decadent fop. His health was poor, his constitution weak; and there was a strain of cynicism in him which seemed to indicate his belief that his life could not be a long one and that he intended to use it exactly as he pleased for that reason. He had disappointed his mother, and she had allowed herself to be hurt. There had been times when she had let her love for an ungrateful son override her love of power. She should have been wiser and remembered a bitter lesson which another beloved Henry had taught her years ago; and she thought now of those years of misery and humiliation, of the wasted torture of watching her husband and his mistress through a hole in the floor; so much unhappiness had been the result of self-inflicted wounds. She was surprised that she had not learned how futile that line of conduct could be, for evidently she had not learned this lesson, since, with this Henry as with the other, she had allowed her emotions to intrude into her plan for living. Emotion should have had no part whatsoever in the life of Catherine de’ Medici.

But that was over now; yet it had taken the threat of disaster to show her the folly of her ways. She loved her son, but it was more important to keep her power than his affection. If necessary, she might have to work against him.

Events had been moving out of her knowledge. Where were her spies? They had doubtless done their best, but the Guises’ spies were better. Hers had helped her to discover one thing, however—that Henry of Guise had dared to communicate with Spain as though he were already the ruler of France.

That old fool, the Cardinal of Bourbon—brother of that greater fool, Antoine de Bourbon, who had made such a laughing-stock of himself at her court years ago—was to take the throne on the death of Henry. Henry was a young man still and the Bourbon was an old one, so what was in the minds of the Guises? What other secret documents had passed between the Duke of Guise and Philip of Sapin? Did Philip really think that Guise intended to stand by and let the Cardinal take the crown? Perhaps Guise wished to rule through the Cardinal. There was a great advantage, as she could have told him, in being the power behind the throne.

The Cardinal was sixty-four. How could he be expected to outlive Henry, unless . . . But she would not let herself believe that it was possible for them to be planning to destroy her son; she must forget that she was a sick and ailing woman, for she had much to do.

The Bourbon, an ardent follower of the Guises, such a good Catholic, had agreed to ignore the prior right of his nephew, Henry of Navarre, and to take the throne himself; he had sworn that when he was King he would forbid heretical worship.

Catherine summoned Guise to her and demanded to know why he had communicated with the King of Spain without the knowledge and consent of his King.

Guise was arrogant—more arrogant than ever, she thought. It was evident that he knew more of what was happening than she did. His manner, but for his aristocratic bearing, would have bordered on the insolent.

‘Madame,’ said Guise, ‘France would never tolerate a Huguenot King, and should the King die without heirs—which God forbid—the Huguenot King of Navarre would feel he had a right to the throne unless the people of France had already chosen their new King.’

She gazed at him in thoughtful silence. The sunlight which came through the embrasured window, shone on his hair, turning it to gold and silver. He was taller than any man at court and that spareness of his gave him a look of added strength; the scar on his cheek but augmented the warlike look. She was not surprised that a man of such presence should have the people of Paris at his feet. The King of Paris! they called him; and one would have been a fool not to realize that, when he talked of the future king of France, he was not thinking so much of an old Cardinal in his sixties as of a handsome Duke in his thirties.

Then she said: ‘You presume to negotiate with a foreign power without consulting the wishes of your King, Monsieur!’

‘The King occupies himself with other matters, Madame. There was the wedding of Joyeuse, which was followed by the wedding of Epernon. I did approach the King, but he was discussing the garments he would wear at the weddings and he told me he was too busy to talk of anything else.’

What insolence! What arrogance! she thought; but she was aware of a slight feeling of pleasure. Had he been her son, how different everything would have been! She made up her mind then; she was going to walk in step with the arrogant Duke . . . for a little way at least. It was, after all, the only wise thing to do. Matters had gone too far from her control for her to be able to ignore him; and if she could not show herself to be his enemy, she must appear to be his friend.

‘Ah well, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are right when you say that the people of France would never tolerate a Huguenot King.’

‘Madame, it delights me that you approve my action.’ He bent and kissed her hand.

‘My son,’ she said, looking at him tenderly. ‘Yes! I call you son. Were you not brought up with my children? My son, these are bad days for France. The King delights in his pleasure, surrounded by frivolous young men. But France has no place for frivolous young men at this hour. You and I must work together . . . for the good of France.’

‘You are right, Madame,’ said Guise.

For the good of France! she thought, as she watched him retire. He is clever enough to know that I shall work for the good of the Queen Mother, while he works for the good of Monsieur de Guise.

‘Holy Mother of God!’ she muttered. ‘Nothing that man does in future must escape my notice.’


* * *

Margot was not happy in Béarn. Life had become very dull. Her husband had taken her back, but he had let her see that he had been in two minds about it.

He was still devoted to La Corisanda, who was by no means the stupid little creature La Fosseuse had been; and he had decided that Margot, though still the Queen of Navarre, should realize that it was the King who ruled.

‘You have changed,’ she told him, ‘since you have taken a step nearer the throne of France.’

‘Nay!’ he answered. ‘I am the same man. I still do not wash my feet.’

‘That is no concern of mine,’ she retorted.

‘I am glad that you have learned some sense,’ was his answer, for I do not intend that it shall be any concern of yours.’

She was furious.

He made it quite clear that there would be no resumption of their intermittent conjugal relationship; he told her carelessly that he had taken her back solely because the concessions her brother had offered, if he would do so, were very necessary to him. She was bored as well as furious; she was restive, looking for new adventures, and none of the men of her husband’s court pleased her.

News had come that the Pope had excommunicated Navarre as a heretic, and that release was offered to any of his subjects from their oath of fidelity; moreover, Navarre was, by edict of Rome, denied the succession to the French crown.

Navarre’s eyes blazed with wrath. He cursed the Pope; he cursed the Duke of Guise; and he cursed the Queen Mother. He was seriously perturbed, as he knew that the Pope’s edict would carry great weight in France. He raged against his uncle, the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had, he declared, betrayed him.

Margot listened, not without sympathy.

‘I am my father’s son!’ he cried. ‘I am heir to the throne of France. My uncle deceives himself if he allows the Pope and the Guises to convince him he is right. Ventre Saint Gris! If I had the old man here I’d lop off his head and throw it over the battlements. It is a conspiracy. The Guises have done this, and your mother is behind them.’

‘I do not believe that my mother agrees with this,’ said Margot.

‘She is continually with Guise in council. That is the news we get from Paris.’

‘Even now you do not know my mother. She may seem to agree with the Guises; she may applaud all that is said by Philip of Spain and the Pope of Rome; but you may depend on it, she has made her own plans, and while there remains one of her children to sit on the throne, she will never willingly stand by and see any other take it.’

‘Ah,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I see you have your eyes on the throne, Madame.’

She returned the smile. They were allies. They must be, for their interests ran together.

Navarre became more energetic than he had ever been before. Not only did he publish his protests throughout France, but he had them posted in Rome and on the very doors of the Vatican.

This forthright action astonished all, and even the Pope secretly expressed admiration for the young man. This boldness of his, said the Pope, made it all the more necessary for him to be most closely watched.

Margot was not content merely to play the part of consort to the young man who seemed to be growing in importance now that the might of Spain, Rome, and France was directed against him. She must have excitement; she could not endure being bored. She took to the pen and wrote long letters to her friends at the French court; her mother wrote to her kindly and affectionately, and Margot replied. It was easy for Margot to forget the past and all that she had suffered at those maternal hands. She began to send accounts of all events of importance at her husband’s court.