“For, brother,” he said, “she has more than beauty. There is in her… shall we call it promise? What could be more charming than promise? She is like a houri from a Mohammedan paradise, beckoning the newcomer to undreamed of delight, inviting him to explore with her that which she herself has not yet discovered.”

François looked at his brother uneasily. “Charles, for God’s sake, do not forget that she is your niece.”

Charles smiled. Blood relationships were of no account in his world of licentiousness. His long slim fingers a-glitter with jewels which put those adorning his brother’s person in the shade, stroked his cardinal’s robes. Did he enjoy being a man of the church so much because, in his relationships with charming people, that fact added an extra relish? François was a blunt soldier for all that he was a Guise and destined, Charles was sure, to be one of the great men of his day. Rough soldier—he took the satisfaction of his carnal appetites as a soldier takes them. Charles was selective, continually striving for the new sensation.

“My dear brother,” he said, “do you take me for a fool? I shall know how to deal with our niece. She is a little barbarian at the moment, from a land of barbarians. We shall teach her until she is cultured and even more charming than she already is. But the material is excellent, François, excellent.” The Cardinal waved his beautiful hands describing the shape of a woman. “Beautiful… malleable material, dear François.”

“There must be no scandal touching her, Charles. I beg of you to remember that.”

“François! My dear soldier brother! You are a great man. You are the greatest man in France. Yes, I will say that, for there is none here to repeat my words to his boorish Majesty. But you have lived the life of a soldier, and the life of the soldier, you will admit, is one that lacks refinement. I am in love with Mary Stuart. She is an enchanting creature. Dear brother, do not think that I mean to seduce her. A little girl of six? Piquant… yes. But if I want little girls of six, they are mine. It is her mind that I shall possess. We shall possess it between us. We shall caress it… we shall impregnate it with our ideas. What pleasure! I have long since known that the pleasure of the body—after the first rough experimenting—cannot be fully enjoyed without the cooperation of the mind.”

Francois’s brow cleared. Charles was no fool. No fool indeed! If he himself was Frances greatest soldier, Charles would be the country’s cleverest diplomat.

“I feel,” said François, “that you should watch over her education carefully, and that the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières should not be given too free a hand. The governess, Fleming, is no danger, I suppose?”

“The governess Fleming is just a woman.”

“If you wish to seduce a royal lady of Scotland, why not…,” began François.

The cynical mouth turned up at the corners. “Ten years ago your suggestion would have interested me. The Fleming will be a worthy lover. Very eager she will be. She is made for pleasure. Plump and pretty, ripe, but of an age, I fear, for folly, and the folly of the middle-aged is so much more distressing and disconcerting than that of youth. But there are hundreds such as the Fleming. They are to be found in every village in France. Nay, I’ll leave the Fleming for some callow boy. She’ll bring him much delight.”

“You could, through the woman, keep a firm hand on Mary Stuart.”

“The time is not yet come. Mary, at the moment, is the playmate of the Dauphin, and as such shares the governor and governess of young François. That is enough for the moment. Let her strengthen that attachment. That is the most important thing. The Dauphin must be completely enslaved; he must follow her in all things. He is willing to do so now, but she must forge those chains strongly so that they can never be broken. He is his father all over again. Would Diane have caught our Henri so slavishly if she had not caught him young? ‘How charming!’ they say. Madame Diane says it. His Majesty says it. ‘Was there ever anything more delightful than for two children who are destined for marriage to be already such tender playmates?’ These Parisians! They are not like us of Lorraine. They talk love and think love. It is their whole existence; it is an excuse for everything. It is typically Valois. But we must be more clever; we must see farther. We know that this love between our niece and the King’s son is more than charming; it is very good for the House of Guise. Let us therefore help to forge those chains, chains so strong that they cannot be broken, for depend upon it, sooner or later the Montmorencys—or mayhap our somnolent Bourbons—will awake from their slumbers. They will see that it is not a pretty little girl who has made the King-to-be her slave; it is the noble House of Guise.”

“You are right, Charles. What do you suggest?”

“That she remains at present as she is. The chattering Fleming will be useful. She—herself the slave of love—will be delighted to see her mistress installed in the heart of our Prince. She will chatter romance; she will foster romance; and she will do no harm. Leave things as they are, and in a few years’ time I shall take over Mary’s education. I shall teach her to be the most charming, the most accomplished lady in France. None shall be as beautiful as she, none shall excel her at the dance, at the lute; she will write exquisite verses, and all France—but most of all the Dauphin—will be in love with her. Her mind shall be given to the art of pleasing others; and it shall be as wax in the hands of the uncles who will love and cherish her, for their one desire will be to keep her on the throne.”

François smiled at his elegant brother.

“By God!” he cried suddenly. “You and I will conquer France and share the crown.”

“In the most decorous manner,” murmured Charles. “Through our little charmer from the land of savages.”


THE DAYS flew past for Mary. At lessons she excelled; she played the lute with a skill rare in one so young; she was a good horsewoman. In the royal processions she was always picked out for her charm and beauty. The King often talked to her. Diane was delighted with her. When she rode out with the Dauphin she would watch over him and seize his bridle if he was in any difficulty. He would be uneasy if she was not always at his side.

All the great châteaux which had been but names to her she now saw in reality. She thought less and less of her native land. Her mother wrote frequently and was clearly delighted with her daughters success. She had had letters from the King, she said, which had made her very happy indeed.

Mary’s four namesakes were now with her, but they had to take second place. The Dauphin demanded so much of her time. She explained this carefully to them for she was anxious that they should know that she loved them as dearly as ever.

They listened to gossip, and there was plenty of that at the French Court. Now the talk was all about the Queens coronation which was about to take place. The King had already celebrated his coronation shortly after the death of his father, and now it was Catherine’s turn.

The celebrations were lavish. Mary had never seen anything quite so wonderful. Even the dreamlike pageants which had accompanied her uncle’s wedding seemed commonplace when compared with those of the Queen’s coronation. Even the Queen looked magnificent on that day. As for the King he was a dazzling sight, resplendent in cloth of silver; his scabbard flashed with enormous jewels, and his silver lace and white satin hat were decorated with pearls. The sheriffs of Paris held over him a blue velvet canopy embroidered with the golden lilies of France as he rode his beautiful white horse.

Mary would never forget the display of so much beauty. She was, she told Janet Fleming, only sorry that it was not her beloved Diane, instead of Queen Catherine, who was being crowned.

“Well, let her enjoy her coronation,” said Lady Fleming. “That’s all she’ll get.”

“All! A coronation all! Dear old Fleming, what more could she want?”

“She wants much more,” said Lady Fleming. “Whom do you think the King has presented with the crown jewels?”

“Diane, of course.”

Lady Fleming nodded and began to laugh. “And she wears them too. She insists. The King is pleased that she should. What a country! The old Maréchal Tavannes complains that at the Court of France more honor is done to the King’s mistress than to his generals. Who is the real Queen of this country, tell me that!”

“Diane, of course. And I am glad that it should be so, for I hate Queen Catherine.”

“She is not worth the hating. She is as meek as a sheep. Look at this. It is one of the new coins struck at the coronation and should bear the heads of the King and Queen. But see! It is Diane riding on the crupper of the Kings horse. It means that although he has been forced to marry Queen Catherine and make her the mother of his children, there is only one Queen for him—Diane.”

“And more worthy to be!” cried Mary. “Queen Catherine is not royal. She has no breeding. She is vulgar. I wish she would go back to her Italian merchants so that the King could marry Diane.”

They looked up sharply. The door had opened so quietly that no one had heard a sound. They were relieved to see that it was not Catherine who stood there; it was Madame de Paroy.

“Yes, Madame de Paroy?” said Mary, immediately assuming the dignity of her rank. “What is it you want?”

“To ask your Majesty if you would wait on Queen Catherine.”

“I will do so,” said Mary. “And, Madame de Paroy, when you come to my apartments will you be so good as to be announced?”