Madame Serpent (10 page)

‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘you have made me feel that I already am. I shall

always remember that the biggest welcome I had in France was from her King.’

He looked at her with a smile, and thought that it was a shame that she

should be married to his tongue-tied son, since she would know how to make the remarks which would be expected of her.

‘My sweet Catherine,’ he said, ‘you are now a Frenchwoman. You are no

longer Italian Caterina, but French Catherine. This is a christening ceremony as well as a wedding. How do you like the change?’

‘It sounds very pleasant― as you say it.’

‘I see you are well schooled in diplomacy. A necessary art, I do assure you, for ladies and gentlemen of the court.’

‘A necessary art for all, Sire.’

‘Ah, you are a wise little girl. Tell me― in confidence if you like. What you think of your husband?’

‘I like his looks.’

‘And what of his quiet ways?’

‘I have scarcely had time to know them.’

‘Well, well, little Catherine. Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.’

‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘but mine, Sire, was made in Rome.’

He laughed. ‘And in France, my dear. We studied your picture and I said:

What a charming child!
And I thought then I would love my new daughter.’

‘And now that you have seen her in the flesh, Sire?’

‘And now, I no longer say,
I think
, but
I know
.’

‘You are quick to love, Sire.’

He looked at her sharply. She looked demure. He wondered what tales had

reached her of the amorous King of France

‘Love,’ he said lyrically, ‘is the most beautiful of all the gifts the gods have given us. I have been falling in love since I was your age, my child. And the result is that I do it easily and naturally. It is second nature to me.’

It was making her almost happy to be on such merry terms with this

enchanting man. She found herself laughing as she had never thought to laugh again.

‘Oh yes,’ went on the King, sincerely now, ‘we are going to be friends, my little Catherine. Now tell me. You have seen little of our country yet, but what do you like best about it?’

She answered him immediately with a candid glance. ‘Its King, Sire.’

He was delighted, for after all was it not delightful to be in the company of a charming little diplomat of― what was it?― fourteen? He was pleasantly

surprised with his daughter-in-law. She was more French than Italian already, he was willing to swear.

The King would have his little Catherine sit next to him at the banquet. Oh yes, he knew her place was beside her new husband, but
Foy de gentilhomme
, the boy should have her beside him for a lifetime. Would he grudge his father her company at her first French banquet? When the King talked, all stopped to hang on his words. They noticed his tenderness towards the little girl; she was his dearest little daughter Catherine― Caterina no longer, he declared. She was his Catherine, his little French Catherine; he had had her gracious permission to make the change.

‘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.