Part 15 (1/2)

Even the children were aware of the tension.

Catherine's darling Henry was attracted by the Huguenot Faith. It was new, and novelty always appealed to the intellectual set to which Henry belonged. Henry was quick to sense his mother's moods and to follow them; and she listened smilingly while he talked of de Beze and his wonderful sermons.

There were quarrels in the children's apartments, particularly between Margot and Henry. Henry would make his sister stand in a corner while he preached to her, repeating all that he could remember of de Beze's sermon. But Margot would not be intimidated.

'I am a Catholic,' she a.s.serted stoutly. 'I belong to the true faith. I and my husband-to-be will always support the true faith.'

'Your husband-to-be is a Huguenot,' retorted Henry.

That made Margot laugh scornfully, for she was as determined never to marry Henry of Navarre as she was to remain a Catholic.

'My future husband is a Catholic.'

'It may be,' teased Henry, 'that you do not know who your future husband is to be, Mademoiselle Margot.'

'Indeed, I do know. We have arranged it between us.'

'What is his name? Tell me that, for I think there is some mistake here.'

'You should know. It is the same as yours.'

'Henry. That is correct. He spent his early days in a peasant's cottage and he drank a peasant woman's milk. That makes a peasant of him.'

Margot tossed her head, throwing back her long black hair. 'You think that I would marry that oaf!'

'I think you will, for it has been arranged that you shall.'

'His hands are unclean. His hair is unkempt. I would not marry a peasant, brother.'

'As that peasant happens to be the future King of Navarre, you will, my dear sister.'

'It is another Henry whom I shall marry.'

Henry laughed aloud. 'Henry of Guise? I tell you, you will have to look higher than that.'

'No one is higher than Henry of Guise. He is the highest man on Earth. His father is the greatest man in France.'

'Treason!' cried Henry.

Margot laughed. 'Everybody is afraid of Le Balafre.'

'Henry of Guise is your lover, Margot, and you should both be whipped. He should be banished, and you should be married at once to the peasant with the dirty hands and undressed hair.'

Margot smiled scornfully. 'I would never marry Henry of Navarre. I hate him. He knows I do, and he hates me. How I wish that he had not come to court with his mother for this Council!'

'You must become a Huguenot, for you are to marry a Huguenot.'

'I will never become a Huguenot; nor will I marry one.'

Henry s.n.a.t.c.hed her prayer-book and threw it into the fire.

'I wonder,' said Margot, her eyes blazing as fiercely as the flames, 'that you are not struck dead for that.'

'Do you? I wonder you are not struck dead for clinging to the old faith. If you do not change, I will have you whipped. I will ask our mother to have it done.'

'She would not dare to whip me, or have me whipped, for such a reason.'

'Do you think she would not dare to do anything she thought fit?'

Margot was silent, and Henry went on: 'I will have you killed, for if your beliefs are wrong you deserve to die.'

'Very well,' cried Margot. 'Have me whipped. Have me killed. I would suffer the worst that could happen to me rather than d.a.m.n my soul.'

And so the quarrels went on in the children's apartments, in the monastery of Poissy, and throughout the tortured realm of France.

Jeanne, the deceived wife, the Queen possessed of a husband who was plotting against her, who was planning to give her kingdom away, had arrived in Paris with her two children, Henry and little Catherine.

When she had first heard the terrible rumours concerning Antoine, she could not believe them. She knew that he was weak, but for all his faults he had loved her. Theirs was to have been the perfect, lasting union. How could he have written those letters a.s.suring her of his faithfulness if all the time he was indulging in a love affair with this Mademoiselle de la Limaudiere, La Belle Rouet as they called her? Jeanne would not believe it. He had written only a short time ago to tell her that other women ceased to attract him. Surely he could not be so deceitful.

She was filled with horror at the idea that he could intrigue with Spain. This she would consider even more false than his conjugal infidelities, for with the woman he deceived only her, but with Spain he deceived not only her, but her children, since he was ready to throw away their heritage for his own aggrandis.e.m.e.nt.

She was bewildered, not knowing to whom to turn for advice and for the truth.

The Queen Mother had offered her apartments in the Louvre that she might be near her dear friend, and that she might often see those little ones whom she thought of as her own, for, said Catherine, she looked upon the bride-to-be of her son and the bridegroom-to-be of her daughter as her own children. But Jeanne had never trusted Catherine, and she preferred to take up her residence in the Palais de Conde.

Here fresh revelations awaited her. Eleonore, who had come to court for the Council of Poissy, received her sister-in-law.

They embraced, and as she looked into Eleonore's face Jeanne realised that she also had her troubles. The forthright Jeanne plunged straight into the subject which was uppermost in her mind.

'Eleonore, you can tell me if this is true: I have heard terrible stories. They say that Antoine is in love with a woman of the court.'

'Oh, my dearest sister, alas, it is true.'

Jeanne's eyes blazed. 'I shall never forgive him for this. I hate philanderers! Is there not enough for us to do ... our work ... our cause ...? And yet he deceives me. He brings our cause into disrepute at the same time. Oh, Eleonore ...'

Jeanne covered her face with her hands; she was afraid she was going to weep. She hated to show weakness, but she was so wretchedly unhappy.

Eleonore put an arm about her.

'Dearest Jeanne, I understand your troubles. It is better that you should hear all this from one who loves you and suffers with you. Antoine, you know, has become the lover of that court woman. Jeanne, my dearest, you must prepare yourself for a great shock. Antoine's son was born a few weeks ago.'

Jeanne broke away from Eleonore's embrace.

'I hate him!' she cried. 'I did not know it had gone as far as this. He shall suffer for it. Oh G.o.d, to think this could happen to us! We were so happy, Eleonore. I knew that he liked gaiety ... fun ... pleasure ... flattery, but I did not think this could ever happen to us. Oh, Eleonore, I am so miserable, so wretched.'

'I sympathise, my dear,' soothed Eleonore. 'I too am unhappy at this time. You see, Jeanne, I suffer your humiliation not only yours, but that of my own.'

Jeanne stared at her sister-in-law. 'You mean that Louis also ...?'

'Louis too,' said the Princess of Conde. 'Mademoiselle de Limeuil is his mistress.'