Madame Serpent Read online

  She saw at once her mistake. She who was sly in intrigue, was clumsy in

  love; intrigue was natural to her, but love, coming suddenly, she did not understand its ways.

  He disengaged himself. ‘I would I knew who had killed him,’ he said; and

  his eyes glowed as they looked straight into hers. She flinched and he saw her flinch.

  He turned from her quickly as though he wished to put great a distance

  between them as possible, as though when was near her he could not rid his mind of a terrible suspicion.

  ‘Henry― Henry― where are you going?’ She knew where he was going,

  and the knowledge enflamed her, robbing her again of that control which she had learned was her strongest weapon.

  He said coldly: ‘I do not think it necessary that I should keep you informed of my movements.’

  ‘You are going to her again― again. You desert your wife on such a day―

  to go and make sport with your mistress.’ She saw the hot colour creep up under his skin; she saw his mouth set in the prim line she knew so well.

  ‘You forget yourself,’ he said. ‘I have told you that Madame la Grande Sénéchale is not my mistress. She is my greatest friend whose calm good sense gives me great relief from the tantrums of others which I must endure from time to time.’

  He was gone. She stared after him. He lied! She was his mistress. How like him to lie on such a matter, because he would think it was the noble and

  chivalrous thing to do! But he was noble and chivalrous in very truth.

  So on this day, when she found herself the Dauphine of France, being in

  love, could forget her new exalted rank and must concern herself solely with the relationship of Henry and Diane.

  I will find out if he speaks truth! she vowed. If I have to hide in her apartments, I will find out.

  ―――――――

  Diane, leaving the pavilion, accompanied by her women, was considering

  her new importance.

  When they reached her apartments, she made her women kneel and offer

  prayers for the soul of the Count. She knelt with them, and when the prayers were over, she bade them disrobe her; she said the spectacle had made her feel a little ill, and she wished to be left to rest awhile.

  She watched these women of hers closely. Annette, Marie, and Thérèse had

  always shown her the utmost respect, but did she now notice in their eyes something more? Perhaps they were realizing the change that had come into her life, for indeed they would be stupid if they were not.

  ‘Bring me a cushion here, Thérèse. Thank you.’ She was always courteous

  to them and she knew that they would have loved her if they had not been a little afraid of her. They believed her to be a sorceress. ‘Just put that rug lightly over me, Annette. I do not wished to be disturbed.’

  They hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ Diane studied her long white fingers, sparkling with jewels. On the first finger of the right hand, she wore a ruby, a present of Henry’s.

  ‘If it should be Monsieur d’Orléans, Madame?’

  Diane raised her eyebrows and Annette blushed hotly. ‘Forgive me,’

  muttered Annette, I meant Monsieur le Dauphin.’

  ‘If it should be the Dauphin,’ said Diane, ‘you may come and let me know.

  Then I will tell you whether or not I will see him. For anyone else, remember, I am not to be disturbed.’

  They left her, and she smiled to think how they would be whispering about her, awed because she made no difference in her treatment of her lover now that he was the heir to throne.

  Little had she thought when, at the King’s command, she had held out the

  hand of friendship to his son that she would one day, become the most powerful woman in France. The King was far from well; and when he was gone, Henry, her Henry, would triumphantly mount the throne; and it would be for her to see who was at his elbow then, for her to say who should have a strong hand in the management of affairs.

  Madame d’Etampes, that insolent harlot, should be banned from the court; she should pay for all the insults she had dared to throw at Diane de Poitiers. All that pleasure was to come. Diane, closing her eyes, saw herself beside the young King receiving the homage of his subjects in place of the pale-faced

  insignificant Italian girl. What a mercy the child was meek. Some wives might have made themselves very unpleasant.

  At whose command had Montecuccoli poisoned young Francis? Was it true

  that he had received instructions from the Imperial generals? It was possible.

  People thought that Henry’s Italian wife had a hand in the matter; but they were ready blame any Italian and they did not know the self-effacing child. They had heard stories of poisoning and violence in Italy, so they were ready to look upon all Italians as murderers.

  The expected knock intruded on her thoughts.

  ‘Madame, Monsieur le Dauphin is here.’

  ‘Bring him to me in five minutes,’ she instructed.

  Her women marvelled together. She did not hesitate to keep the Dauphin

  waiting― the Dauphin who was almost the King!

  Diane took a mirror and looked at herself. She was wonderful. She was not surprised that they thought her a sorceress. No sign of fatigue; her skin as fresh as ever; her dark eyes clear.

  She threw back her long hair and put down the mirror, as, the five minutes up, the door opened and Henry came in.

  He came to the bed and knelt.

  ‘My dear!’ she said.

  He kissed her hands in the eager way he had never lost. He was, though, no longer the quiet boy; he was an impatient lover. But he did forget that, though he had been raised to a dizzy eminence, she was still his goddess.

  He rose and sat beside her on the bed. She took his face in her hands and kissed it.

  ‘You may be the Dauphin of France,’ she said, ‘but never forget you are my Henry.’

  ‘The Dauphin of France,’ he said, ‘what is that? But when you say I am

  yours, I am the happiest man in France.’

  She laughed softly. ‘Ah! So I have taught you to make gallant speeches

  then?’

  He turned his face to hers, and with a gesture which reminded her of the boy he had been such a short while ago, he buried his face against the soft white satin of her gown.

  There was a short silence before he said: ‘Diane, who instructed that young man to kill my brother? I would I knew.’

  Looking down at his dark head, she thought, Does he know? Does he

  suspect anyone?

  ‘Henry,’ she said in a whisper, ‘you cannot think of any who might have

  done this thing?’

  And when he lifted his face to hers he said simply: ‘There are some to

  whose advantage it has been. Myself, for instance.’

  No! she thought. It was nothing. He knows no more than I do. If he did, he’d tell me; there are no secrets between us.

  ‘Promise me, my love,’ she said, ‘that you will never drink rashly. Let everything― everything― be tasted before it touches your lips.’

  He said quietly, ‘I have a feeling that I am safe, Diane.’ Then he turned to her eagerly as though he wished to banish unpleasantness in the happiness she could give him. ‘Let us forget this. Francis is dead. Nothing can bring him back.

  I pray God that if it is ordained that I should wear the crown, I shall do it with honour; and if I am unworthy, I can only hope that it will be taken from me.’

  She caught him to her suddenly. She knew he had had no part in the murder of his brother. She knew that in her lover, she was lucky, for being a practical woman she could not help thinking, as she lay in his arms, of the glorious future that awaited the uncrowned Queen of France.

  ―――――――

  By the spring of the following year, the speculation over the Dauphin’s

  death had, in a large meas
ure, ceased. One of the accused Imperial generals had been killed in battle before he could hear the charge against him; as for the others declared it was ridiculous. There was for a time much discussion as to what should be done about bringing the accusers to justice, but eventually the matter was dropped. The Imperialists of Spain laughed the accusation to scorn; and the French could not but feel half-hearted about it. And as no discussion would bring young Francis back to life, the King preferred to forget.

  Catherine knew that there were still many to whisper about the Italian woman, as they called her throughout France; there were still plenty to believe that she was involved in the plot that had destroyed Francis and put her husband within easy reach of the throne.

  She used her young woman Madalenna to spy for her. Poor, silly little

  Madalenna! She was afraid of her mistress, seeing in her something which

  others, who did not live so close to her, failed to observe. It fascinated the child, but it fascination of a snake for its prey. Many tasks had been allotted to her and these often led her into strange places. She been obliged to hide in the

  apartments of the Grande Sénéchale herself when the Dauphin visited her, and had had to report to her mistress everything she had seen and heard. The girl had been terrified of being discovered; she could not have imagined what would have happened to her if the Dauphin or the Grande Sénéchale had become aware of her presence in the cupboard in which she had shut herself. But, terrified as she was of these tasks which were set her, she was more terrified of her mistress, and for that reason they were performed with careful craft.

  Madalenna was not sure what it was about her mistress that so frightened

  her. It might have been because of what lay beneath her smiles and fine

  manners, her humility with those about her; yes beneath that correct and smiling façade there was, for one thing, a passionate love for the Dauphin, and for another, a delight in discovering what was not meant for her eyes and ears; there was craft instead of guile; there was fierce pride instead of humility. And because Madalenna knew that there was much else besides, she was afraid. She remembered how her mistress’s eyes had glistened after that sojourn of

  Madalenna’s in the Sénéchale’s cupboard; her eyes glittering, her lips tightly pressed together, the Dauphine had insisted on hearing each indelicate detail, as though begging for what must have been torture, to go on and on. It was

  uncanny, thought Madalenna; and often when her thoughts turned to her

  mistress, she would cross herself.

  She was glad now that the Dauphin was away from court.

  ―――――――

  Henry was at Piedmont. The French had invaded Artois and had enjoyed a

  successful campaign; but restlessness quickly overtook the King, and no sooner did he find himself among his soldiers than he longed for the comfort and luxury of the court, the intellectual conversation and the voluptuous charm of his mistress. So he had called off the war, disbanded his army with the exception of a garrison which he left in the town of Piedmont under Montmorency and

  Dauphin Henry, and returned to Paris where the court was en fête to welcome him.

  Summer came and Fontainebleau was beautiful in summer. Francis, as

  restless as ever, found some peace in this palace among his statue and paintings.

  He would spend much time, between bouts of feasting and love-making,

  marvelling at his Italian pictures― Leonardo’s Gioconda, Michelangelo’s Leda, and Titian’s Magdalen among them. Then he would tire of his masterpieces temporarily, and there would be a spate of comedies and mosques, balls and feastings; or he would ride out in the forest and spend days with his Petite Bande.

  Catherine was no more at peace than was the King, though none would have

  guessed it. When he rode out to the chase, she was often beside him. He liked to show her his masterpieces and discuss them with her, since many of them were her countrymen. It was one of his pleasures to hear her speak of Florence; and they would often chat in Italian.

  But the love of her husband meant so much to Catherine that she would have gladly bartered the friendship of the King for it. She dreamed of Henry, longed for him, and although she was delighted that, being in Piedmont, he was not seeing Diane, she longed for his return.

  Madalenna brought the news to Catherine. It was the sort of news, Catherine thought grimly, that she would be the last to hear.

  ‘The Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, is enamoured, they are saying, of a young Italian girl― a merchant’s daughter of Piedmont. She is very young and they say very beautiful, he visits her so often that― that―’

  Catherine gripped the girl’s wrist; there was in her eyes that fierceness which mention of Henry always put there. ‘Come, come, Madalenna, that

  what?’

  ‘They say, that there is to be a child― and that the Dauphin and the lady are very happy about it.’

  Catherine let the girl’s arm drop. She walked to the wind and looked out.

  She did not want Madalenna to see the tears which had come to her eyes.

  Madalenna must think of her strong― cruel if necessary, but always strong. So he had fallen in love! And the court was whispering of it, delighting in this fresh scandal which was wounding further Catherine de’ Medici’s already tortured heart. He had escaped at last from his aged charmer― but not to his wife, who loved him fiercely that when she thought of him she lost all her control. Oh, the humiliation! Was she to be humiliated forever? That it should be a girl of her own race― a young girl, younger than herself! A merchant’s daughter of

  Piedmont, and Catherine his wife, was a Medici of Florence― a Medici and a Queen-to-be; yet he could not love her, and she could not have his child!

  She closed her eyes, forcing back the tears.

  Madalenna stammered: ‘I― I thought you would― wish to know. I hope I

  did no wrong.’

  ‘Have I not told you that all the news you gather must be brought to me?

  Now, Madalenna, tell me everything. What is the court saying concerning my husband and his newest mistress?’

  ‘I― I do not know.’

  ‘You need not be afraid, Madalenna. The only time when you need be afraid of me is when you hold anything back.’

  ‘They are laughing at― the Sénéchale.’

  Catherine burst into loud laughter which she suppressed almost

  immediately. ‘Yes? Yes?’

  ‘Though some say she never was his mistress, and that she but mothered

  him, tutored him― and since she is but his great friend and adviser, this matter will not change their relationship.’

  Catherine put her face close to that of the girl. ‘But we do not say that, eh, Madalenna? Those who say it have no sly little maid to hide in cupboards and spy on those two in their tender moments.’

  Madalenna flushed and drew back. This was another of her mistress’s traits which frightened her― the loud laughter, the sudden coarseness of one who to the world outside her apartment was so demure, one might almost say, prudish.

  ‘I should not have done it, Madame, but for your orders.,’ said Madalenna.

  ‘But you remember, Madalenna, that when you obey orders you work for

  yourself. If you were found― shall we say in a cupboard?― you would

  doubtless have some story to tell.. There will be need, I doubt not, when the Dauphin returns from Piedmont, for you to hide in yet another cupboard.’

  Catherine laughed again. She pinched the girl’s check. ‘Have no fear, my

  child. You will work well. And I shall reward you by keeping you beside me.

  You would not wish to return to Florence, Madalenna. Life is very cruel in Florence. You never saw my kinsman Alessandro. Any, Madalenna, who would

  leave Paris for Florence would not be in their right senses. And who would go back to Italy when they might stay in France? Do not fret. You shall stay. Now tell
me what was said about me.’

  Madalenna looked at the floor. ‘They say it is odd that he can get this

  humble girl with child― and wife.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They say he has a fondness for Italian―’

  ‘For tradesmen, eh? Do they not say their merchant Dauphine has given him a taste for trade?’

  Madalenna nodded.

  ‘But it is not at their Dauphine they mock, is it, Madalenna? It is at Madame Diane, is it not?’

  ‘Madame d’Etampes is delighted. There is to be a great ball in honour of the King,’ she added quickly, hoping to divert Catherine’s attention.

  ‘In honour of the Piedmontese!’ said Catherine, laughing again.

  But when she dismissed Madalenna, she wept a little, sitting upright that she might more easily hold back her tears. The girl’s name was Filippa; she had heard it mentioned without knowing why people discussed her. Filippa, the Piedmontese. She tried to see those prim lips kissing the imagined face which must be very beautiful― dark, soft, Italian beauty; Italian love that was quick and passionate, as fiercely demanding as her own.

  How cruel was life! It seemed more cruel that it should have been an Italian girl, and so young. Where do I fail? she asked herself again and again. Why should he love an unlettered girl of my own race, and despise his noble wife?

  But when she joined the masque and overheard the whisperings, the sly

  jests, the allusions, she was happier, because she believed this to be Diane’s tragedy rather more than her own.

  ―――――――

  Henry was coming back to Paris, and Catherine was filled with eager

  anticipation that alternately soared to hope and down to despair.

  She spent much time at the secluded house that backed the river. Special

  perfumes were made for her; she had become practised in the art of using

  cosmetics. Henry, she was determined, should find a different Catherine on his return.

  He was seducible; the little Piedmontese had proved that.

  She would win from the girl as the girl had won him from Diane.

  She was pretty now; she smelt deliciously of the strange perfume which the Ruggieri brothers had made especially for her; she felt her spirits rise when she heard the trumpets and horns of Henry and his company as they rode through the streets of the capital.