How good it was to be away from everybody who alarmed him! His mother was at Les Tournelles with the Court, and that seemed far away. There was another whom he was beginning to fear as much as his mother, another who seemed to be constantly watching him in a manner that was sinister and subtle. This was Mary’s uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine.

Those sunny days were marred slightly because Mary was not feeling well. She had pains and a cough. In her childhood she had been a healthy girl but later certain weaknesses had begun to show themselves. She had a good appetite—perhaps too good, for she was sometimes ill after eating; and she was subject to fainting fits.

Then came a visitor to the honeymoon château. When the Dauphin saw who it was he froze with a horror for which he could really find no reason; but Mary ran forward eagerly to greet her uncle.

The Cardinal embraced both children.

“It is a secret visit,” he said. “I could not resist it. I wished to see how my dear children were enjoying their honeymoon. And when I heard that my dearest Mary was unwell, I found the desire to make the journey irresistible.” The Cardinal looked at her anxiously. Her skin was of waxy pallor like the petal of the magnolia blossom; it was attractive, thought the Cardinal, but not a sign of robust health. As he had said to his brother, the Duke, when he had heard of Mary’s illness, it was a terrifying thought that the power of their house depended on the lives of two frail children.

He told his brother that he had had a secret conference with the Dauphin’s doctors and had forced them to admit that the likelihood of the boy’s reaching the age of twenty was very remote.

Mary’s illness and the reports from the doctors were the reasons for the Cardinals intrusion on their honeymoon.

He knew the Dauphin and he knew Mary. The Dauphin was a frightened boy; he was so weak and sickly that he would have no normal impulses. As for Mary, one day she would be a passionate woman. The Cardinal was fully aware of that. He thought it was the secret of that immense attraction which was felt by almost every man who came into contact with her. Her expression was gentle; hers was a tender beauty; yet her dormant sensuality was ready to be roused, and it was this readiness which made all men who set eyes on her, long—subconsciously perhaps—to be that one who should kindle the fire. Her reserve, upheld by her great dignity, was like a fine gauze covering the intensely passionate nature. If the gauze could be removed the true Mary would be exposed—eager, voluptuous, abandoned. Passion would sweep away her dignity. The woman in her would make her forget she was a queen. This connoisseur of human frailty, this man who had experienced every sensation, understood Mary completely.

It was his task to keep the gauze intact. Only he had lifted the corner to peep beneath, and then dropped it quickly. He was too old and wise to let his emotions stand in the way of his ambition. Mary must be handled with the greatest care. She must never know herself as a woman, if there was any risk that such knowledge might come between her and her duty to the house of Guise. He had fancied that Henri de Montmorency might, in due course, have stripped Mary of her queenly dignity, of her innocence and her ignorance, and found the woman beneath. That was why he had—as he so well knew how to do—made the Montmorency repulsive to her.

That had not been difficult. He had formed Mary’s mind; he had watched over her. His relationship with her had been his great delight. It gave him more satisfaction than any of those obviously erotic entertainments which he devised from time to time. Mary must remain his guileless niece. Yet it was necessary for her to taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge, for it was imperative to the house of Guise that the Dauphin and Mary should have an heir. Yet he himself, when he had been determined that she should not fall to the house of Montmorency, that great enemy of the house of Guise, had shown her how bitter that fruit could be. He had made her turn shuddering away; that was why the task which now lay before him was such a delicate one.

He listened in an avuncular manner to Mary’s account of the pleasures of the château. He heard about Francois’s prowess with his new horse. Then he patted Mary’s cheek and said that it grieved him to see her not as well as when they had last been together. He wished her to rest and insisted on her lying down.

“Not now you have come!” she protested.

“Because I have come! I will not have this hearty husband of yours tiring you.”

François could not help feeling rather pleased to be referred to as the vigorous one. Mary saw his quick smile which was replaced immediately by his look of concern for Mary.

Mary said: “We did ride rather far yesterday. It was a little too far… for me.”

“Then you shall rest now, and François shall take me to the stables and show me his horses.”

Mary agreed. She was pleased because on other occasions when her uncle had been present, François had sent out distress signals begging not to be left alone with the imposing Cardinal. It was pleasant to feel that François was less afraid since their marriage, and that he was beginning to be fond of Uncle Charles.

When Mary had left them, the Cardinal smiled at the boy. His smile was warm, and affectionately and successfully masked the contempt he felt for the stripling.

“You… you would wish to see the stables?” said the Dauphin timorously.

“Why, yes… yes,” said the Cardinal. “We will go alone.”

As he admired the horses he made himself so agreeable that François began to think he had been rather foolish to be afraid; but when they had left the stables and were walking on the grounds about the château, the Cardinal said: “I trust you are being a good husband to Mary.”

“I love her,” said the Dauphin. “I would die for her.”

“She will need you to do more than die for her.”

“I … I would do all that she wished.”

“Poor Mary, she is a little sad.”

“Oh, no. She is happy. She says so. She says that this is the happiest time she has ever known. She is happy because of our marriage.”

“She was happy thinking of marrying you. I am not sure that she is happy now.”

“I … I do not understand.”

The Cardinal smiled. “You have given Mary a fine title; you have made her Dauphine of France. But there is more to a marriage than that. What Mary needs is a lover. She needs a child.”

The Dauphin flushed scarlet and did not know where to look. He was near to tears. He knew that he had been right to fear the Cardinal who had brought discord into this Eden.

The Cardinals long mouth sneered. “Tell me,” he said, “I am right, am I not, when I say that Mary has been disappointed in her lover?”

“Mary does not want…”

“Mary does not want! Of course she wants!”

“But she said…”

“Holy Virgin, have you been such a laggard in love as to ask her what she wants in the matter?” The Cardinal laughed aloud. “Your grandfather, great François, would rise in his grave and come to you with a horsewhip if he knew. You have betrayed the honor of France and the Valois.”

“But if we wish … if we do not want…”

“Poor Mary! So I now understand why she is sick. She is pining. Holy Mother of God! Holy saints! Listen to the boy. He is a poor impotent weakling who begs his wife not to make any demands on his manhood. My boy, all France will reject you. Are you a Frenchman then? Are you the heir of France? Now I know why Mary is sad. Now I know why she pines and droops. She was promised marriage, and she has been given… what? I know not. I dare not think. My poor niece! My poor, poor niece!”

“How… how… dare you!” stammered François. “Remember you speak to the Dauphin.”

“Remember it! I would to God I could forget it. I would I did not belong to this land, the heir of which is a lily-livered timorous girl, masquerading as a man.”

“I … I will tell the King.”

“I beg of you, do not. Do not bring down sorrow on his silver hairs. Do not bring shame to his royal crown. Do not let him know that he has fathered an unnatural monster with whom the most beautiful girl in all France has been unfortunate enough to marry.”

“You have come here to torment me then!”

The Cardinal seized the boys arm. His face was a mask of piety as he raised his eyes to the sky. “No, my son. I have come here to see that you do your duty, not only to my niece but to your ancestors.”

The Dauphins face quivered. “I… I…”

The Cardinal released him and laid an arm about his shoulders. “My dear boy,” he said gently, “my beloved Dauphin, I have been harsh. Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. I wish to help you. I know how young you are and that you have not had the good health of some of your companions. You have not roamed the countryside with them and partaken in their manly sports and pastimes. My dearest boy, believe me, I wish to help you. I am your confessor, your priest. It is my place to help you. This marriage must be consummated without delay. It is your duty.” He laughed gently. “Ah, that from which you shrink will give you great joy. Do you remember when you first mounted a horse? You were afraid then. The ground seemed so far away. You were terrified that you would fall. In your heart you hoped that you would never have to ride again. But now you are glad you learned to ride. So it will be in this matter. If you are frightened, if you run away from your duty, you will be ashamed for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said the Dauphin.