Madame Serpent Read online

  ‘The little Catherine has made a conquest of the King!’ Same said it; some thought it. Well, of course, it was not difficult for a young woman to please the King, but there had been some speculation about this one, for the King seemed to despise the boy they had brought her to marry.

  At the first of the three great tables, with the King, her new husband, the Princes her brothers-in-law and the Cardinals, sat Catherine― she was even thinking of herself as Catherine now. Caterina was the girl who had thought life would be drab and dreary forevermore because she had lost her lover; Catherine was not sure of that. She still loved her cousin; she still believed that she would love no other as long as she lived; but this charming King had made her realize that she could laugh again, that she could be happy, if only for a moment or two.

  She was glad that the Pope was not at this table; he held the place of honour next to the Queen at the second. It was exhilarating, she found, to be among these people who, until now, had been names in the lessons she had to learn concerning them. That Queen was the lady the King had been forced to marry after his humiliating defeat and imprisonment. No wonder he hardly looked at her. She had a sweet and kindly face, but she looked prim compared with some of the ladies. Catherine studied them now. They were at the third table, and among them the dashing and fascinating Mademoiselle d’Heilly, the King’s

  mistress, who remained his favourite whilst others went. Catherine could

  understand why. She was lovely, with her bright, fair, curly hair and her intelligent face; she was speaking now, and all those about her were laughing gaily.

  There was one other whom Catherine noticed at the ladies’ table. This was a tall and beautiful woman as dark as Mademoiselle d’Heilly was fair, and almost as lovely. She was noticeable because, in that array of sparkling colours and flashing jewels, she wore the black and white of mourning. How striking she looked! She was conspicuous among them all; she caught the eye by her very austerity.

  Catherine decided that she would take an early opportunity of learning the identity of the tall dark lady who wore black-and-white mourning.

  But of all the people around her there was one whom she must regard with

  the most interest and apprehension. Her husband! Her heart fluttered as she appraised him. She was astonished at her feelings. She had expected to view him with distaste and horror; but how could she feel those emotions for a shy boy only a month or so older than herself? She could see in him a likeness to his father, and she felt that she already loved the King. The boy naturally seemed insignificant when compared with his father, but that likeness was more than reassuring; it was― and she did not understand this― strangely exciting.

  I wish he would smile at me, she thought. I wish he would give some sign that he is a little interested.

  Once he looked up and caught her eye upon him. He was trying to take a

  peep at her when he thought himself unobserved. She smiled shyly, but he

  looked down on his plate and blushed..

  She felt wounded and therefore angry with him. Why had she thought him

  like his father, that man whose manners were the most courtly, the most

  charming she had ever known!

  But suddenly, she saw his expression change. He was very handsome now;

  and she was angry that he could smile for someone and not for her. Who was it?

  Why, it was none other than the lady in black and white!

  ―――――――

  During the merry-making the King had taken the Pope into a small

  antechamber for a little private talk.

  The King was saying: ‘They are young yet, Holiness. Here in France we let them be together― as friends, you understand? The idea being, your Holiness will see, that they should understand each other before the marriage is

  consummated.’

  The Holy Father shook his head. ‘Nay, Sire. They are both of marriageable age. I see no reason for delaying the consummation of the marriage.’

  The King lifted his shoulders with elegance. ‘Our little Catherine barely fourteen and my son a few months older! Marriage, yes, Holiness. But give them time to fall in love. In France we hold love of great importance.’

  Francis smiled his most charming smile, while he thought: why not say what is in your mind, crafty one? You want our children to provide successors without delay. You want to make sure there are Medici hands stretching greedily for the crown of France.

  ‘Young people,’ declared the Pontiff, ‘need to marry young if they are to lead godly lives. Let them get their childbearing started early. It keeps the Devil behind them. I say the marriage should be consummated at once.’

  Francis smiled whimsically, trying to imagine them together. Poor little

  Catherine! Worthy of a more gallant husband! The young oaf had scarcely

  looked at her all day; instead, he had stared at the Poitiers woman with calf-love in his eyes. Who would have believed she would have that effect upon him! A woman old enough to be his mother!

  ‘Then let it be,’ said Francis. ‘Poor child, she will, I fear, find him an inadequate lover.’

  The Pope was alarmed. ‘Sire, what mean you?’

  Francis, realizing how his light remark had been misconstrued, could not

  resist the desire to tease. ‘Alas! Holiness, I have my fears regarding the boy― in that respect.’

  Little beads of sweat stood out on the pontifical brow. ‘You cannot mean―

  you surely do not mean―’

  ‘Alas! alas! I do, I fear, Holiness.’

  ‘I did not understand. You mean― an inability to procreate children?’

  Francis burst out laughing. ‘Oh, that?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘For that we must wait and see. I mean, Holiness, that I fear he will give a poor account of himself as a lover. So young! So inexperienced! He has never had a mistress.’

  The Pope was so relieved that he joined in the King’s laughter. ‘You must forgive me, Sire. You French think continually of love. One forgets that.’

  ‘You Italians, what do you think of― trade?’

  The Pope would have liked to slap the dark and smiling face. ‘Making

  trade,’ he said shortly, ‘can at times be more profitable than making love.’

  ‘In Italy, perhaps,’ said the King. ‘But here in France it has often proved that love is not only more delightful but more profitable than trade. So, who are right― we French, or you Italians?’

  The Holy Father had no intention of getting involved in a battle of words with the French King. He said: ‘Then, Sire, you agree the marriage should be consummated this night?’

  ‘Not a night shall be lost!’ cried Francis ironically. ‘And how long will my poor country be honoured by your noble presence, Father?’

  ‘I shall stay the month.’

  Francis smiled slyly. ‘They are young and healthy, both of them. A month―

  yes, I should say a month.’

  The Pope tried to emulate the soft voice and smiling irony of the French

  King. It was not easy. The King merely despised the Pope, while the Pope hated the King.

  ―――――――

  The boy and girl lay in the costly bed. They were both afraid.

  The wedding day was over; they had been undressed by their attendants and ceremoniously conducted to the marriage bed. And now they were left together.

  Each sensed the other’s fear.

  Catherine thought, Oh, Ippolito, it should have been you. Everything would have been different then― different and wonderful.

  Cautiously she touched her eyes and found them wet.

  The boy was sweating. He felt that of all the ordeals he had been forced to face in his miserable life, this was the worst.

  She could feel his trembling. Could he hear the beating of her heart? She knew and he knew that their duty must be done.

  She waited for him to speak. It seemed that she waited a long time.


  Then: ‘You― you must not blame me. I― I did not want this. But― since

  they have married us―’

  His voice was lost in the darkness.

  She answered quickly: ‘I did not want it either.’

  But now she knew that, great though her fear was, she was less afraid than the boy. That moved her suddenly, and she felt a longing to comfort him.

  Why, though he was older than she was― only by a few months, it was

  true― hers was the greater knowledge of life. She had loved Ippolito and lost him; she had lived and suffered as a woman, whereas he had never been

  anything but a boy.

  It was her place, therefore, to comfort, to lead.

  ‘Henry,’ she said gently, and she moved towards him.

  These two lay still and silent in the state bed until the early hours of the morning, when they fell into deep sleep.

  ―――――――

  When Catherine awoke it was broad daylight. She thought for the moment

  that she was in her bedroom in Florence; but almost immediately she was aware of her young husband beside her, and, remembering her wedding day and the night that followed it, she felt herself flush hotly.

  Her flush deepened, for she saw now what had awakened her. On one side

  of the bed stood Clement, on the other the King of France.

  ‘Charming! So charming!’ murmured the King. ‘As sweet as buds in

  Maytime.’

  The Holy Father said nothing; his dark, crafty face was set in lines of

  concentration.

  ‘My little Catherine is awake!’ said the King, and he stooped to kiss her. He whispered: ‘How fared you, Catherine? What have you to say for the honour of France?’

  Catherine bade good morning to these two illustrious personages. She

  murmured something about it being unseemly that that she should lie while they stood.

  ‘No ceremony, my little one, on such an occasion,’ said the King. And,

  turning to the Pope, he said: ‘I think your Holiness may set his mind rest. Let us pray to the saints that you may return to Rome in a month’s time, rejoicing.’

  Henry had opened his eyes; he immediately grasped the significance of the papal and paternal visits. He flushed hotly, hating his father, hating the Pope, and hating his young wife.

  ―――――――

  A month later, papal duties necessitated the return of Clement to the

  Vatican; but before he left, with his cardinals and bishops, he gave audience to his young relative.

  He told Excellency that he wished to speak in private with the young

  Duchess of Orléans.

  Catherine knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, thinking, I shall not do this again for a long time. And this thought gave her pleasure.

  After the blessing, the Pope asked: ‘My daughter, have you news for me?’

  ‘No, Holy Father.’

  ‘No news!’ The Pope was angry. In spite of hopes and prayers, it had failed to happen, and he must return to the Vatican an anxious man. He blamed the young people. They had not been assiduous in their efforts, or the Holy Virgin would not have failed the Pope himself.

  ‘I fear not, Holiness.’

  ‘Daughter,’ said the Pope. ‘The Dauphin of France does not enjoy the best of health. Have you forgotten what your position would be were he to die?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘The Duke of Orléans would become the Dauphin of France, and you the

  Dauphine. And with the death of the King―’ The Pope’s voice took on a hint of malice as a picture of the handsome sensualist, who delighted in the lusts of the flesh, lying dead, rose before his eyes. ‘With the death of the King,’ he repeated, and added quickly, ‘for death is something to which, my daughter, we all must come, and with the death of that delicate boy, you would be the Queen of

  France. Have you thought what this would mean?’

  ‘I have, Father.’

  ‘One frail life between you and the throne of France. And should this

  circumstance― shall I say happy or unfortunate circumstance?― come about, I trust you would be ready to do your duty by your family.’

  ‘I would pray that that should be so, Father.’

  ‘Never forget the need for prayer, and remember this may well happen for

  the good of France― and Italy. It may be the will of God that this should be.

  Have you prayed regularly that your Union should be fruitful?’

  ‘Regularly, Father.’

  ‘That is well. Rise, my daughter.’

  She stood up, and the Holy Father rose with her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. The Pope was puzzled, unsure of the King of France. What had he meant by the boy’s being an inadequate lover? Had there been some subtlety behind that remark after all?

  The Holy Father said very quietly: ‘My daughter, a clever woman can

  always get herself children.’

  THE MISTRESS

  AT THE French court it was thought that the little Italian was colourless; she was too quiet, too eager to please. They did know, they could not guess, what emotions were hidden from them. Catherine rejoiced in the hard training which had taught her to smile when she was most unhappy.

  During the first year, she mourned Ippolito. It seemed to her that the

  memory of her handsome cousin would be with her forever. I am the most wretched person in the whole of this country, she assured herself.

  At the same time, she was finding it difficult to recall very clearly what Ippolito looked like; the tones of his voice had become blurred and, odd though it was, when she tried to conjure up images of her cousin they would become merged in that of her young husband.

  She could not hate Henry, although she wanted to. She wanted to feel

  towards him as he did towards her. She embarrassed him, she wanted to tell him that he embarrassed her. ‘Do you think I want to be with you!’ she longed to shout at ‘Why, when we are together, and you think it is you I wish to love., it is not. It is Ippolito! If you think that I desire you, then you are mistaken. It is Ippolito whom I want, whom I have always wanted and always shall.’ There

  was in her a passion, n a desire which frightened him. He was so cold; he wanted to keep aloof. Love between them― but that was the wrong word for

  it― was to him a duty which he undertook as he might a penance. Love! There was no love. Only the need to get children.

  He avoided her as much as possible. Whenever he could, he would escape to the Chateau d’Anet, where his great friend would entertain him. Catherine could not understand that friendship between the beautiful widow and her husband.

  What could two such people have in common? Why was it that he sought the

  company of such a dignified, such a worldly woman, when his wife, his own age, was ready to be his friend even if she could never love him.

  Catherine felt shut in by youth and inexperience. She was lonely often,

  frightened sometimes. She was indeed a stranger in a strange land.

  But for the friendship of the King, she would have been desperately

  unhappy. When he talked to her she would he conscious of an exhilaration; she would be actually glad that she had come to France. He enchanted her; he

  fascinated her. She felt that, in a strange way which was incomprehensible to her, she was in love with the King. It was her delight to think over his

  conversation with her and those about him; to try to read what was in his mind.

  Sometimes she would say to herself: if only Henry were like his father! And then, again, she would be glad that he was not, for although Henry avoided her, he avoided other women as well. It was only that attachment to a woman old enough to be his mother that persisted. Catherine thought she understood. Henry had no mother, and he felt the need of one. Henry was only a boy. She

  wondered― not without excitement― when he would b
ecome a man.

  Life seemed to be made of pleasure. There was always a masque about to

  begin, or a banquet to prepare for, balls, jousts, and journeys. The meeting of Francis and Clement had not been solely the occasion of the marriage of their young people; they had made plans for campaigns against Spain and England.

  The King, loving pleasure so much that it was never easy to tear himself away from it, yet yearned for military successes to wipe out the defeat of Pavia. As for the Pope, he was always ready for a new ally, providing that ally kept his plot secret. And who could be a better ally than the King of France, now tied to him by the bonds of relationship?

  So, while awaiting the fruition of his schemes, Francis, being impatient, must be kept amused. There was Marguerite to soothe him with her sisterly devotion; Anne d’Heilly to respond to the love he gave her; many lovely women to divert him. He kept close to him some twenty or thirty young women, all renowned for their beauty and their wit. Wherever he went, they rode with him, and he would listen to their counsels rather than to those of his masculine advisers. It was not sufficient to be beautiful enough to charm his senses; they must be clever enough to please his lively mind. Theirs was the task of providing erotic and intellectual pleasure for their master. If his appetite was jaded, they must serve up old dishes garnished to taste like knew. No sultan ever had a more solicitous harem. They must be skilled in the arts of lust and politics; they must be strong to endure hours in the saddle without fatigue; perfectly formed that they might sport with grace in a mirror; sharp-witted enough to converse with foreign ambassadors. Entry into this esoteric band was reserved for the very talented, and was considered the highest honour which could befall a lady of the court. Catherine longed to join the Little Band. She could not, of course, be one of those to those whom the King made love, but she fervently wished that on that on those days when they rode off together and would be away for the whole of the day, that she might be with them. Anne, the King’s favorite mistress, was head of the Little Band, and she had shown preference for the little Italian.