“He is so much in love with me,” she said, smiling at her face in the mirror with complacent pride. “I seem such a child to him. He has had two wives before me… and never a really beautiful one before, poor man. Sometimes I am rather sorry for him. He is touching in his devotion. But when I compare him with my Charles… but then all would suffer in comparison with him. Louis is a good king. The people appreciate him. He is a moderately moral man … as moral as the French go. They have had some wild monarchs. Of course he is not like St. Louis. Saints turn up very rarely. But he is not licentious like Charles VII, or coarse like Louis XI or very, very immoral like Charles VIII. You see, it is easy to follow such. So my Louis has the respect of his people. They don't love him, he is not handsome or romantic enough. It is strange, little Boleyn, that kings are not always loved for their virtues. But they are respected for them. My father was respected but not liked. But how they love my brother! Why? Because he is big and handsome and merry. My father did much that was good for England but they love my brother… who has not made any great reforms yet.”

“He has not been long on the throne… only five years.”

“Is it then? How knowledgeable you are, little one.”

“I had a very good governess.”

“And those big eyes saw all… and often what was not intended for them, I'll warrant. And those little ears were always on the alert. That's so. And I talk too much to you, Mademoiselle Boleyn. Now I am going to shut my mouth like a trap and tell you nothing.”

I was downcast. I had been foolish to display my knowledge and remind her that I could remember what I had heard.

But of course she did not stop her confidences, and what she said one moment she had forgotten the next.

She told me about Louis's previous wives. “He had to marry Jeanne. She was the daughter of Louis XI. She was very ugly and had a hump on her back. But she was very good, saintly in fact. I suppose it is easy to be good if one is ugly.” She sighed. “I shall never be a saint. Why do you smile? I'll tell you this: you will not be one either.” Then she laughed and hugged me for a moment. She was very familiar when we were alone. She went on: “You amuse me with those big, wondering eyes. You are not in the least pretty, you know. But you have something more. You are going to find life very amusing, I am sure. You will not be like saintly Jeanne, I promise you. Poor girl, she could have no children. What store these kings set by children! Sons, sons, sons—that is what they want. It is an insult to our sex, is it not? Louis hopes I will have a son. François, his mother and his sister live in daily terror that I shall have one—for if I did, what would become of bold François's hopes of the crown, eh, tell me that? Sons… sons…Well, poor little hump-backed Jeanne could not have any and Louis—my husband now—begged the Pope to annul their marriage.” She paused and laughed.

I waited eagerly and then I said: “And did he, Madame?”

“But of course he did. You see, this Pope was the notorious Alexander VI—Roderigo Borgia. He had a son. Ah, you say, but Popes do not marry. No, little one, you are right. But it is not necessary to marry to have sons… and this Pope had a son called Cesare Borgia. He loved him dearly and sought great favors for him. Now Louis was in a position to be of great use to this young man, and in return for favors to Cesare, the annulment was granted.”

“What happened to Jeanne, Madame?”

“What do you think? She accepted her dismissal with quiet resignation. Would you have done so? I would not. But we do not belong to that band of worthy females. Louis was free and he married another saintly one—Anne of Brittany—the widow of the previous King. But she was not quite perfect. She was lame, but pretty, they say, very witty and clever. Both she and Louis had great respect for each other; and although she could not give him sons—fortunately for François—she did produce two daughters—Mesdames Claude and Renée whom you have seen at Court.”

She paused and I almost held my breath. I was always afraid that she would remember that she was talking too much, and stop. For the first time in my life I was glad that I was of little account.

“They were married for fifteen years,” she went on dreamily. “Fifteen years… think of that! She was a very good ruler, though some say she had more care for Brittany than for France. But she was greatly respected and Louis was very sorry when she died.”

“He is sorry no longer since he could not have married Your Grace if she had not died.”

“Oh, he is not sorry now. He is living as he never did before.”

Then she laughed and studied her face carefully in the mirror.

“So much gaiety,” she whispered. “I say to him: “Why does not my lord retire early? I will be at the revels in your stead. I will represent you.” But he says, “No. No, my Queen, I shall be there.” Poor tired old man! And he comes to his bed so wearily at night that there is nothing else for him to do but sleep the sleep of the exhausted.” She smiled. “He is afraid, you see, because…”

She looked at me steadily and I cast down my eyes and tried to look innocent and to hide my eager desire to hear more. “You see…he is afraid of François. I believe that François is in love with me…a little.”

“You are so beautiful that it is not surprising,” I told her.

She shook her head. “François is passionately in love with all things beautiful. Fine buildings, fine music, poetry, pictures, statues and beautiful women. But most of all he is in love with himself. So, my clever little Boleyn, he would not have a great deal of love to spare for one person. He would like to make love to me—and the prospect is all the more enticing because he would be afraid to. What if I were to be with child…by him! What a situation! It is enough to make the gods laugh. He wants me… very much he wants me. He says so with his eyes. I know. But what if he gave me a child? That child would be the King of France because all would think it was the King's. His son would be a king, but it is himself he wants the crown for.”

She stopped suddenly. “What am I saying? You are a witch. You are probing my secret thoughts. Go away. You are dismissed.” Then she caught my arm and held it so tightly that I could have cried out with the pain. “If you ever mention a word of what I say to anyone…I'll have you in the Tower. Yes, I shall send to my brother and say, ‘The child Boleyn is to go to the Tower. She is a traitor.’”

“I will never say a word …”

“Go away. I don't want to see you. I want to go home. I want to see Charles again.”

I crept away. I was heartbroken for I did not know what I had done to displease her.

Time dragged heavily when I was not with her.

Those months were full of revelations for me. I think I grew up then. The Court was rather somber for the King had a reputation for parsimony. He was a good king and did not want to tax his people to pay for his extravagances, which was a habit most kings indulged in; and because of this they called him mean. He hated war, therefore they called him unadventurous. France prospered under him more than it had under his predecessors, but the people did not love him because he was not the glittering figure they liked their kings to be. I often thought how difficult it is to please the people; whatever one was, whatever one did, there would always be the other side of the picture to bring complaints.

Of course I saw him only from a distance, but I did realize how he doted on his beautiful young Queen. He often looked pale and fatigued; his eyes seemed to have grown more prominent, his neck more swollen. In the evenings at the revelries—which I was sometimes allowed to attend—he looked as though he needed nothing so much as sleep. But the Queen would be there dancing—often with François, laughing and coquetting. I thought it was not very kind; but I knew from those monologues at the dressing table how she yearned for her Charles, and that her one idea was to get to him. I could understand that need in her but it did occur to me that she planned these feasts and revels with the great idea of tiring her husband so that he would be too weary for anything but sleep in the big canopied bed decorated with the fleurs-de-lys… and perhaps to hasten his end.

There were three women at Court who interested me. Perhaps it was because of their connection with François, who himself was the most interesting as well as the most attractive man at Court. These three were François's wife, Claude, his sister, Marguerite d'Alençon, and his mother, Louise of Savoy.

Claude was good and kind. She was like her father in that she tired easily; she was delicate in health and walking exhausted her because of her limp.

She took notice of me because I was so young and she thought that it was wrong for a child of my age to be sent away from her country to live with foreigners. I told her that I was very happy to be here and to serve the Queen.

“Ah, the Queen,” she sighed. “What a beautiful and healthy lady she is!”

There was no malice in her, but she must have hated to see the way in which her husband danced attendance on the Queen. I wondered what she felt like being married to such a man. She accepted her husband's infidelities as a matter of course. She had no doubt been brought up by the excellent Anne of Brittany to do her duty whatever it was, and as the daughter of the reigning King it was her duty to marry the heir presumptive to the throne—and this she had done.

They were hardly ever together; he was usually beside some dazzling beauty. He treated her with courtesy. François's exquisite manners would not have allowed him to do anything else, but at the same time it must have been very hard for her.