Madame Serpent Read online

  ‘A woman, in very fact!’ said Anne.

  ‘A clever woman,’ said Marguerite. ‘Not a young and flighty creature of his own age. A woman― wise, beautiful, and above all, sympathetic.’

  ‘Yourself!’ said Francis.

  Marguerite shook her head. ‘Gladly would I perform this miracle―’

  ‘Miracle it would have to be!’ put in Francis grimly. ‘Transform that oaf, ingrained with Spanish solemnity, into a gay courtier of France! Yes― a

  miracle!’

  ‘I could not do it,’ said Marguerite. ‘He would not allow it for I have

  witnessed his humiliations. I have been present, Francis, when you have

  upbraided him. I have seen the sullen red blood in his face and the angry glitter in his eyes; I have seen that tight little mouth of his trying to say words which would equal your own in brilliance. He does not realize, poor boy, that wit comes from the brain before the lips. No! He would never respond to my

  treatment. I can but make the plan; some other must carry it out.’

  ‘Then Anne here―’

  ‘My well-loved lord, your demands upon me are so great that I could serve none other; and my zeal in serving you is so intense that I should have nothing but languid indifference for the affairs of others.’

  They laughed, and Marguerite said quickly: ‘Leave it to me. I will find the woman.’

  Francis put an arm about each of them. ‘My darlings,’ he said, and kissed first Marguerite, then Anne, ‘what should I do without you? That son of mine is like a hair in my shirt― a continual irritation― passing and recurring. The Virgin bless you both. Now let us dance. Let us be gay. Musicians! Give us some of your best.’

  The King led Anne in the dance, and was delighted that his mistress and his sister had at length succeeded in lightening his mood; the courtiers and ladies fell in behind him and Anne. But in a corner, trying to hide among the tapestry hangings, the young Prince Henry slouched, wondering how soon he might be able to slip away to the peace of his apartments― loathing it all, the laughter, the gaiety, the courtiers and the women; but hating his father most of all.

  ――――――――

  The King dismissed his attendants, for he wished to be quite alone with

  Diane, the handsome widow of the Sénéschal of Normandy. As they went out, they would be smiling among themselves. Ha! So it is la Grande Sénéschale now, is it? What a King! What a man! But what will the charming Anne

  d’Heilly have to say to this? What a game it is, this love! And how delightfully, how inexhaustibly our sovereign lord can play it!

  The King bade the widow rise. His narrowed eyes took in each detail of her appearance with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He was proud of women like Diane de Poitiers. By the Virgin, we know how to breed women in France, he thought.

  She was afraid of him, but she did not show it. She was flushed and her eyes were brilliant. Understandable! She would be excited by a summons from the King. He told himself that she had scarcely changed since that other encounter of theirs. When was it? It must be nearly ten years ago! Her skin was still as beautiful as a young girl’s. It was difficult to believe that she was quite thirty-three. Her features were regular, her black hair abundant, her dark eyes lustrous, her figure perfect! She delighted him, and not less so because of that coldness, that lack of response to his admiration and immense charm.

  She was clever too. It amused him to keep her guessing the reason for this summons, or, rather, to let her draw conclusions which must be making her heart flutter uncomfortably under that perfect but so prim bosom.

  The King of France looked like a satyr as he regarded the woman standing

  before him.

  He had seen her with the Queen and had thought : Ah, there is the woman.

  She could make a man of my Henry. She will teach him all the arts and graces which she has at her own pretty fingertips. She will teach him all that it is good for him to know, and nothing that is bad for him. She will teach him to love her own virtues, and to hate his father’s vices; and then I will put my head close to that charming one, and together we will find a mistress for him, a young, delightful girl, unless of course― and this may well be, for I could suspect my Henry of any mediocrity― he wishes to remain faithful to his Italian bride.

  ‘There is a favour I would ask of you,’ he said, his warm eyes caressing her.

  She had risen. She held her head high, and protest was written in every

  protest was written in every line of her beautiful head and shoulders.

  He would not have been himself if he could have resisted teasing her.

  ‘I beg of you be seated. We would not have you stand on ceremony. Come

  here― beside me.’

  ‘Sire, you are very gracious to me.’

  ‘And willing to be more so, dear lady, could I but get your kind consent. I often think on that long ago encounter of ours. Can it be ten years ago, Diane?

  Why, you are the same young girl. They say it is a magic you have. They say you have discovered eternal youth, and by the faith of a nobleman, I would say, as I look at you, that they are right.’

  ‘I have no magic, Sire,’ she said. ‘And if you have sent for me that I may tell you of magic, I can only say that I am desolate because they have not spoken truly. There is no magic, Sire. If I had it, it should be yours.’

  ‘Ah! But you have magic in your beauty, fair Diane. And it is that magic

  which I would ask you to give.’

  ‘Sire, there are many beautiful women at your court who sigh for your

  attentions―’

  ‘The charms of Venus will not do. It is chaste Diane whom I seek.’

  No, he thought; she has hardly changed at all. She had not been a widow ten years ago. A twenty-three-year-old beauty married to one of the richest and ugliest men in France. Shame! To give a lovely young girl of fifteen to a middle-aged widower! But Jean de Poitiers, with three daughters to marry, had thought the Grand Sénéschal of Normandy a good match for young Diane. She had been docile and borne the old fellow― two girls, was it? He thought so. He had been interested in her at the time. He had been interested then in every beautiful woman in his kingdom― duchess, grande sénéschale, or wine-keeper’s daughter, it mattered not! He was ready to welcome all to his bed―

  and hardly one of them able to refuse him! But Diane was one who had refused.

  As he watched the calm face and sensed her hidden alarm at what she

  believed to be his renewed attack upon her virtue, he saw her again, a frightened woman kneeling before him, begging him to spare her father’s life. The old fool had been in the Constable of Bourbon’s conspiracy, and was at the time in a dungeon at Loches awaiting execution. And Diane had come to plead for his life with a monarch who was ever susceptible to the pleas of beautiful women. She had wept, but had kept her wits sharp; and he guessed that she had understood that bit of badinage which had passed between them. Inconsequently was his wont, the King had fallen in love with the pleader. He had said that as she would become his very good friend, he must grant her request, for there was nothing he enjoyed be bestowing favours on his very good friends.

  And afterwards, when the old man’s life was spared, and he had looked for appreciation of his generosity, those eyes had been opened wide in horror, those damask cheeks flushed scarlet; worse still, she had wept. She feared she had been foolish; she had not understood the King, she declared. Was he suggesting that he had spared the father’s life in exchange for the daughter’s honour?

  Those bitter tears! That respectful distaste! She was very clever, of course; and next to beauty in a woman he admired cleverness. What could he do? She had won. She had fooled him. He bade her depart. ‘Your beauty enchanted me, Diane,’ he had said, ‘but your wit has outstripped me. Go back to your husband.

  I hope he appreciates your worth.’

  He bore no malice; there was little malice in his nature; he saw her now a
nd then, for she was one of his Queen’s women; she was so demure in the black-and-white mourning she wore for her departed husband.

  But how could he resist the joy of teasing her! He would her to expect the worst― or the best. The rape of chaste Diane by the satyr King of France! And then he would let her down suddenly, so that she would be angry even though she would pretend to be relieved.

  ‘I have thought of you since that day you went to tell your father that his life was saved. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, Sire. I remember.’

  ‘How gaily you went! Did you tell your noble father you bought his life

  with― counterfeit coin?’

  She said clearly: ‘My father would not have understood had I told him. He was half crazed after his imprisonment in that dank dungeon of Loches. Four stone walls and only a small window, through which his food was passed, to give him light. And then― on the scaffold― to be told that his life saved, but must be lived in a dungeon. I had thought you had said, “A pardon”. I did not understand it was to be imprisonment.’

  ‘There was much we did not understand― you of me, I of you, my chaste

  Diane.’

  ‘And there he remained, Sire, a prematurely old man.’

  ‘Traitors may not live like loyal men,’ said Francis coolly, ‘even though they possess beautiful daughters. And alack, if the daughters are virtuous as well as beautiful, that can indeed be a sorry thing for traitors.’

  She was silent, but he knew that she was very much afraid. ‘And your father now?’ he asked.

  ‘You will graciously remember that he was released a little while ago, Sire.’

  ‘I rejoice. I would have lessened your anxiety had you let me. I may be the ruler of France, but I am the slave of beauty.’

  ‘Sire, your goodness is known throughout France.’

  ‘Now we understand each other. I need your services.’

  She drew back, but he was already tired of the banter. He went on quickly:

  ‘It is the Duke of Orléans of whom I wish to speak to you.’

  ‘The little Duke!’

  ‘Oh, not so little, not so little! He is soon to be a husband. What think you of the boy?’

  ‘Why, Sire, I know not. I have seen him but once or twice.’

  ‘Speak freely. Say he is an oaf and a boor, and more like a Spanish peasant than a King’s son. I shall not gainsay you.’

  ‘He is a handsome boy, I think.’

  The King laughed. ‘Can it be, Sénéschale, that those bright eyes of yours do not see as surely as they enchant? I tell you there is no need to choose your words so delicately.’

  She smiled. ‘Well then, Sire, when I think of the little Duke, it is of a shy boy, awkward in his manners.’

  ‘An oaf, in other words.’

  ‘Well, he is young yet.’

  ‘The eternal cry of women! He is young― yet. And because he is young―

  yet, the women must feel tender toward him. He is fast putting on the years of manhood, and none of a man’s manners with them.’

  ‘I have heard he has often led the chase.’

  ‘So have the dogs! Now, I have been considering how best to nurture this

  son of mine, and I have chosen you as his nurse.’

  ‘Sire!’

  The King’s smile was mocking. ‘Nothing is asked that of that could offend chaste Diane. It is simply this: my sister and Mademoiselle d’Heilly feel that the boy is to be pitied rather than blamed. They think the gentle hand of a woman could much to help him shed his ugly Spanish mail and don the armour of a Frenchman. I have chosen that your hand assist the change. Neither my sister nor Mademoiselle d’Heilly know yet of my choice. You are clever enough to guess why. You, Sénéschale, are my choice.’ He lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘Mademoiselle d’Heilly may be a little jealous understand? The voluptuous rose can sigh now and then for the grace of the lily; Venus may envy Diana. She know my eyes will light up at the sound of your name, and I adore a lady’s virtue, while now and then I am given cause to lament it. Then― my sister. You are a devout Catholic and my pearl of pearls flirts with the new faith.

  But I, your King choose you. I choose you for your virtue, for your honest your dignity and wit; and because you are a Frenchwoman whom France can be

  proud. Therefore, I choose you to tutor my son. I would have you teach him the graces of the court. Beg him to emulate his father’s virtues― if in your clear-sighted eyes he has any virtues― and above all, teach him not to imitate his father’s vices.’

  Diane was smiling now. ‘I think I understand, Sire. I will be his friend. Poor boy! He needs friends. I will make a gentleman of him. I am honoured that my gracious King think me worthy of this task. I never had a son. I longed for one.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the King. ‘We long for sons, little dreaming that when they come they may resemble Henry of Orléans. I trust you to do your work well.’

  The interview was over. She bowed and left a faintly regretful King who

  continued to think of her after she had gone.

  ―――――――

  Young Henry lay in one of the enclosed gardens watching clouds chase one

  another across the summer sky. He felt safe here. If he heard anyone coming he would get up quickly and run away. He wanted to be alone; he always wanted to be alone.

  He would rather be at Amboise than in Paris. He hated Les Tournelles, that old palace near the Bastille, since for Henry it was overshadowed by the prison and therefore a constant reminder of his dark childhood days. His father would not live in the Louvre; it was too dark and gloomy and old-fashioned; he had grand schemes for altering it. There were always grand schemes for altering buildings. He was building Fontainebleau, and that would be really beautiful; but there was no peace to be had there. His father was always discussing what should be done and who should do it; and showing how clever he was, while everyone worshipped him because he was the King.

  Henry hated the brilliant man who was his father; and the hatred went

  deeper because, if Henry could have chosen to be like anyone on Earth, he would instantly have selected the King of France, his father.

  How he talked! How did he think of all those clever things to say? How did he know as much as he did and still have time to hunt and write and sing and go to bed with women? Henry did not understand it. He only knew that this

  dazzling man was a cheat and a liar, and that the most wretched time that he, Henry, and his brother Francis the Dauphin had ever spent, had been brought about by their father.

  They were to have gone to Spain― oh, only for a little while, they had been told. They were to be hostages because their father had been beaten in battle by the King of Spain and had had to promise to marry the King of Spain’s sister Eleonora, and to do many other things besides. And to make sure that these things were done, the little Princes must take their father’s place as prisoners in Spain. Only for a little while! But as soon as their father was free, he had forgotten his promises, forgotten his sons.

  They had crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, and for four years they had

  remained in that hateful land― prisoners of their father’s enemy.

  Young Henry pulled up a blade of grass and bit it angrily. His eyes clouded with tears. He had hated it. At first it not been so bad, for Eleonora had looked after them; she had loved and told them she was to be their new mother. How kind she had been, determined on making them good Catholics, wanting them to love her as if they were truly her own boys.

  But then the King of Spain had begun to understand the King of France was a liar; and the two little boys were taken from the kindly lady who was to be their stepmother and put in charge of low ruffians who jeered at them because their father was a cheat.

  Henry was deeply humiliated and his brother Francis was sick often; Henry suffered terribly,. wondering if his brother was going to die and he be left all alone in Spain.

  Their clothes, as they gr
ew out of them, had been replaced by shabby, dusty velvet. ‘Look at the little Princes!’ the guards had jeered. ‘Sons of the lying King of France!’ And in Spanish too! Nor would they answer a single question unless the boys asked it in Spanish. Henry never learned quickly, but he did pick up Spanish. He had to. And that was one of the things which made his father despise him so utterly. When he came home, he had forgotten his native French.

  How overjoyed he and Francis had been to know they were going home at

  last. Home― after four years! Henry had been five when he left France; he was nine when he returned. He had thought life was going to be wonderful then. But the big dazzling man in jewel-studded clothes, whom everyone adored, and who made everyone laugh and be happy to be near him looked in dismay at his two sons, said something to them which Henry did not understand at all and Francis not fully; and then he had called them sober Spanish dons. Everyone had

  laughed.

  Henry hated laughter. He himself never laughed; but his tragedy was that he wanted to.

  It was easier for young Francis. After all, he was Dauphin, and people tried to please him because he would one day be the King. Young, morose Henry,

  they left to himself. His father shrugged his shoulders and hardly looked his way. Henry had no friends at all.

  And as he lay on the grass absorbed in his miseries, someone came into the garden. It was a lady dressed in black and white. He scrambled to his feet. He hated her because he had to bow to her, and he could never manage the bow.

  People laughed at the way he did it― not the French way, not the graceful way!

  Clumsy, Spanish, oafish― more like a peasant than a Duke!

  She smiled and he realized that she was beautiful. It was a true smile, he saw at once; it seemed to imply friendship, not superior contempt. But on second thoughts he could not believe that, and he was suspicious.

  ‘I hope you will forgive my intrusion into your privacy,’ she said.