'Sometimes it turns sour,' said Margot.

'You are annoyed, my darling?'

'Oh no, Monsieur. I could only be annoyed when I cared deeply.'

He did not understand. He had too high an opinion of himself. This was Margot, he thought, as he had known her so many times before-piqued, eager to be wooed into that abandonment of passion which was habitual to her.

'My dearest,' he began, but she interrupted.

'Ah, Monsieur de Guise,' she said, 'I have discovered that you are a better murderer than a lover, and you know I would be satisfied with nothing but the best. If I need a murderer, I may ask for your services. But when I need a lover, I shall not come to you.'

She saw at once that he was not only perplexed, but suspicious. She was involved with the Huguenots and therefore might be his enemy.

She laughed. 'Oh, be cautious, Monsieur de Guise. Remember that you are seeking a mistress from the Huguenot camp. Why do you not take your sword and kill me! You suspect me of friendship for Huguenots. That is sufficient reason to kill me, is it not?'

'Have you gone mad?' he demanded.

'No. I have merely ceased to love you. You do not look so handsome in my eyes as you once did. You arouse no desire in me whatsoever.'

'That cannot be true, Margot.'

'It must be difficult for you to believe it. But it is true. You may go now.'

'Dearest,' he said soothingly, 'you are angry because I have stayed from you too long. Had it been possible I should have come long ere this. You must understand that if we had not killed the Huguenots, they would have killed us'

'They would not!' she said vehemently. 'There was no Huguenot plot. You know as well as I do that the so-called Huguenot plot was an invention of my mother's. She wanted an excuse to murder.'

'Why do we concern ourselves with such unpleasant matters? Have you forgotten all that we are to one another?'

She shook her head. 'But it is over now. We must look elsewhere for our pleasures.'

'How can you talk so! All your life you have loved me.' 'Until now.'

'When did this end?'

'Perhaps on St Bartholomew's Eve.'

He put his arms about her and kissed her. She said, with dignity: 'Monsieur de Guise, I beg of you, release me.' And she laughed delightedly to find that she was quite unmoved by him.

He was the haughty one now. He was unaccustomed to being repulsed. It hurt his dignity, the dignity of Guise and Lorraine.

'Very well,' he said, releasing her. But he was hesitating, waiting for her to laugh, to tell him she loved him as much as ever and that her fit of temper was over.

But she stood still, smiling mockingly; and at length he turned angrily away and left her.

In the corridor he almost collided with Charlotte de Sauves, for Charlotte had not expected him to come out so quickly; she had thought that Margot would call him back and that there would be one of those intense and passionate scenes to be reported to the Queen Mother.

He caught her as she gave a little cry and pretended to be almost knocked off her feet.

'Madame, I crave your pardon.'

She smiled up at him, flushed, aware that he must be noticing how beautiful she was. 'The fault was mine, Monsieur de Guise. I . . . I was about to go to Her Majesty . . . and I had no idea that anyone could come out so quickly.'

'I trust I did not hurt you?'

'No, Monsieur. Indeed not.'

He had smiled and passed on. Charlotte stood still, watching him.

She did not go into Margot's apartment at once, but stood outside, thinking deeply. Had Margot really meant what she had said? Was she really finishing her love affair-this most passionate of all love affairs, the most discussed at the court? Suppose this was so. Charlotte smiled. A woman should be allowed to please herself sometimes. She was weary of this game she must play with Navarre, keeping him desirous yet unsatisfied. Perhaps it would be as well to say nothing to the Queen Mother of this little scene. She might receive definite instructions regarding the Duke of Guise if Catherine were told, for there was no doubt that the Queen Mother had an uncanny knack of discovering the inner thoughts and yearnings of her Escadron Volant.

No. Charlotte would say nothing of what she had discovered; and if the handsome Duke was in need of a little comfort-Charlotte had received no direct instructions from her mistress to deny him.

Catherine's satisfaction could not last long: and if she did not regret her increased unpopularity throughout France and that her evil reputation was spreading abroad, she was perturbed to see how far the King was straying from her influence. She had thought that, having destroyed the influence of Coligny, she would be able to restore that relationship which had existed between herself and Charles before he had fallen under the spell of the Admiral; but this was not so. Charles was weaker in physical health; his bouts of madness were more frequent; but it was obvious that, tormented by the memory of those fateful August days and nights, he, like the rest of the world, blamed Catherine for the massacre, and his great desire now was to escape from her domination.

He continually remembered the words of the Admiral: 'Govern alone. Evade the influence of your mother.' And he intended to do that, as far as his poor weak mind would allow him.

Catherine knew this and it disturbed her greatly. If, as many people said, it was true that her real motive in murdering Coligny had been to leave herself in sole command over her son, she had completely failed to achieve that desired result; for Charles was further from her control than he had ever been.

Spain, now that it had ceased to exult over the massacre, hinted that since so many Huguenot leaders were now dead-and Philip understood that the marriage had been necessary to bring the unsuspecting victims into the trap-there was no reason why that marriage should not be dissolved.

Catherine had at first felt indignant. 'My daughter, a bride of a few months . . . just beginning to love her husband . . . and now it is suggested that the marriage should be dissolved!'

The Spanish ambassador smiled cynically. 'The gentleman of Navarre is not such a good parti now, Madame, despised as he is by both Catholics and Huguenots. Not a very grand marriage for a daughter of a royal house!'

Catherine pondered that and, after a while, it seemed to her that there was much in what he said. Even in the event of civil war-which seemed remote now that the ranks of the Huguenots were so depleted-it was hardly likely that the people of France would wish to see a man who could change sides so easily-and a noted bon vivant and philanderer at that-on the throne.

She knew to whom the people of France would look if by some dire misfortune-and Catherine herself would fight to the death to avoid that misfortune-the sons of the House of Valois were robbed of their prior claim to the throne. He was that young man who, in Paris at least, could do no wrong. He had been the leader, one might say, in the massacre, but no one in Paris blamed him. It was said that he but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. What a good thing after all was the popularity of the mob! It excused your faults and extolled your virtues.

Yes, Paris would delight to see its hero on the throne, even though his right to it was a little obscure.

She pondered deeply. One must adjust one's policy to events; and circumstances altered cases. Now it seemed that it might not have been so very unwise to have allowed Margot to marry Henry of Guise when those two had so desired; although it had appeared quite wrong at the time. But in view of the turn of events, and of Navarre's recent record, a marriage between Margot and Guise had now become more desirable than that between Margot and Henry of Navarre. The Pope naturally would raise no difficulty, and Philip of Spain would be pleased. Guise was known to Spain and Rome as one of the most loyal Catholics in France. Why not a double divorce? Guise divorced from his wife; Margot from her husband; and those two, who were so passionately in love, might marry after all! Catherine smiled ironically. This seemed to be one of those occasions when the chief parties concerned could all be happy and sensible at the same time.

She discussed the matter with the Spanish ambassador. He was favourably impressed. So Catherine next sent for her daughter, and there took place one of those secret interviews with which the children of Catherine were very familiar.

'My daughter, you know that I have always had your well-being at heart . . . your position . . . you future . . . You did not know, did you, that I also concerned myself with your happiness?'

Margot was inclined to be truculent. She too had changed. As a married woman and a Queen she seemed to have moved from her mother's influence, even as her brother the King had done. 'No, Madame,' she said, insolence carefully veiled. 'I did not know that.'

Catherine would have liked to slap the saucy young face. 'Well, you shall know it now. This marriage, which was so necessary, has been a tragic affair. But you do understand, do you not, my daughter, that it was a necessity at the time it took place.'

'Yes, Madame,' said Margot. 'The unsuspecting Huguenots had to be drawn into the trap, and for that reason the marriage and its ceremonies were very necessary.

Catherine was determined to show no anger. 'My dear daughter, you repeat the scandals of the court, and you should be clever enough to know that scandals are but half-truths; and surely you are wise enough not to believe all you hear. Now I have good news for you. That man, to whom it was necessary to marry you, is unworthy of you. He is provincial, coarse . . . Really, his manners shock me.' Catherine gave her sudden laugh. 'And you, who are forced to live with him in intimacy, must be doubly shocked, I'm sure.'

'One adjusts oneself,' said Margot.

'And what an adjustment must be necessary, my poor dear child! You are elegant. You have charm and beauty. You are of Paris. It is intolerable that you should have to endure the caresses of the boor of Beam. There is one who is worthy of you. A man who, many in France would tell you, is the most revered . . . next your King and your brothers, of course. You guess to whom I refer?'

'To Monsieur de Guise. But . . .'

'My dear, you need feel no shame. Your mother knows of your relationship with that gentleman, and quite understands it. In fact she has always understood it. He is a Prince and you are a Princess. What more natural than that you should love?'

Margot was watching her mother closely; she could not guess the meaning of this interview. That her mother was preparing her for some dark scheme she was sure; but what?

It is your happiness that I now seek, my child,' said Catherine. You have served your country by marrying for reasons of state. You will understand that I speak truth when I say I seek nothing but your happiness, when I tell you that I am now going to arrange that you shall marry for love.'

'Madame, as I am already married, I do not understand.'

'My dear child, my obedient daughter! You married most reluctantly, did you not? Ha! I remember how you refused to make the responses at the ceremony. That was a very brave thing to do. And he was so close, was he not, the man you loved? Well, now I have decided that you shall live in torment no longer. You shall have Henry of Guise for your husband.'

Margot was stunned by this revelation. 'Madame . . . I . . . do not see how that can be. I . I am married to the King of Navarre. Henry of Guise is married to Procien's widow . . .'

'Then you shall be "unmarried" and . . . marry each other!'

Catherine waited for the joyful tears, the expressions of gratitude; instead Margot's face had become cold and hard.

'Madame,' she said, 'I am married to the King of Navarre, and that marriage took place against my will; but now it would be against my will to . . . as you say . . . "unmarry" him.'

'Oh come, Margot, your rank as Queen of Navarre is not such a good one. How will you like going with him to that miserable little kingdom when the time comes? There are some Duchesses who are in positions superior to some Queens . . . and the Duchess of Guise would be one of them.'

'That may be so,' said Margot, 'but Henry of Guise does not please me, and I would not marry a second time against my wishes.'

'This is sheer perversity!' cried Catherine angrily. 'You to talk like this! You who have made a spectacle of yourself over that man!'

'You are right, Madame,' said Margot coolly. 'But one grows out of one passion and into another. I have grown out of love with Monsieur de Guise, and nothing would induce me to marry him; and since you have told me that nothing but your desire for my happiness prompts you to make this suggestion, there is no more to be said. For, quite simply, I am not in love with Monsieur de Guise. Have I your leave to retire now?'

'It would be advisable for you to do so,' said Catherine grimly, 'before you tempt me to do you some mischief.'

When Margot left her she sat in furious silence. She found it impossible to believe that Guise and Margot were no longer lovers. They had been so ever since she could remember. Was a woman ever before cursed with such a family? The King had turned against her; Alencon she had never liked nor trusted; Margot was too clever, too shrewd-a little spy, not averse to working against her family; only Henry could be trusted.

She instructed one of her spies to watch Margot and Guise very closely. It was true that they had ceased to be lovers. In the course of these investigations Catherine made a discovery which resulted in her sending for Charlotte de Sauves. She was very angry with that young woman.

'Madame,' she accused, 'you seem to be very friendly with the Duke of Guise.'

Charlotte was startled, but Catherine was quick to sense a certain smugness. 'I did not know that Your Majesty would frown on such a friendship.'

Catherine stroked one of the charms on her bracelet. So this was the explanation. Guise was indulging in a love affair with Charlotte, and Margot was piqued and jealous.

She said sharply: 'There must be no love-making with the Duke, Charlotte. If there were, it would displease me greatly. I can speak frankly to you. The Queen of Navarre is greatly enamoured of the Duke.'

'Your Majesty . . . that is no longer so. I understand that the Queen of Navarre has declared that she no longer feels friendship towards the Duke.'

'Because you have been playing tricks, I suppose.

'Oh no, Madame; she gave him his conge before he looked my way. Monsieur de Guise is of the opinion that she has become enamoured of the King of Navarre.'

'Margot and Guise must make up their quarrels,' said Catherine. 'As for you, Madame, you will keep away from the Duke. There must be no love-making.'

'Madame,' said Charlotte slyly, 'I fear your command comes too late.'

'You sly slut!' cried Catherine. 'I thought I had given you instructions regarding Navarre.'

'But only to attract him, Madame. That was all; and there was no word in Your Majesty's instructions regarding Monsieur de Guise.'

'Well, you have my instructions now.'

Charlotte looked at Catherine from under those thick eyelashes of hers. 'Madame,' she said, 'it will be necessary for you to instruct Monsieur de Guise, for I fear that, no matter how I tried to avoid him, I could not succeed. It would therefore be necessary to give him Your Majesty's personal instructions. Otherwise I fear there could be no stopping what has already begun. Monsieur de Guise would take orders from none . . . except, of course, Your Majesty.'

Catherine was silent, thinking angrily of the arrogant Duke. How could she say to such a man: 'Your affaire with Madame de Sauves must stop immediately!' She could imagine the haughty lift of the eyebrows, the courteous remark which would imply that his affaire was no concern of hers.

She laughed suddenly. 'Go away,' she said. 'I see that this matter must take its own course. But, in future, Madame, you will ask my permission before you enter into such a liaison.'

'Madame, never fear that I shall offend again.'

Catherine sat back, thinking of Charlotte de Sauves. It was galling to think that that sly little harlot's love affairs could turn the Queen Mother from a line of policy which she had intended to adopt. But such things could happen occasionally. Catherine therefore decided that there was nothing to do for the moment but to shelve the idea of 'unmarrying' her daughter.

Civil war between Catholics and Huguenots had broken out again, and an army under Anjou was sent to besiege the Huguenots' stronghold of La Rochelle.

With the Catholic army were Guise and his uncle, the Duke of Aumale; and Catherine felt comforted to think of those two supporters of her beloved son, for Catherine-even as far as Henry was concerned-had a habit of looking facts in the face, and it was hard, even for her, to believe that Henry, with his effeminacy and his unstable ways, had really the character of a great general. It was true that the credit for Jarnac and Mont-contour had gone to him; but would he have succeeded but for those brilliant soldiers who had shared the campaign? As the Prince of Valois, brother of the King, and the most illustrious general in the army, he had received the credit; but Catherine knew that credit did not always go to those who most deserved it. It pleased her though that he should take the glory and so win the approval of the people. To him should go the honours of the victory which must surely come about at La Rochelle. Guise and Aumale were great men of battle; and Guise could inspire-effortlessly as his father had done-that blind devotion which led men to victory.

It was, therefore, rather amusing to send with the army those two converts to Catholicism, Navarre and Conde. It was a situation tinged with that special brand of irony which amused Catherine; and to think of those two 'converts' fighting against their one-time friends delighted her. Alencon was also sent with the army, for it was time that young man won his spurs, and the adventure should keep him out of mischief for a time.

She had high hopes of the early surrender of La Rochelle, but in this she was disappointed. The recent massacre had strengthened the determination of the people in that town, with the result that the heroic few were able to stand up to superior numbers. The besieging army was more disturbed by the spirit of the people within the walls of La Rochelle than harassed by the missiles of war which flew from the battlements; and it was as though those gallant people were on the offensive instead of, as was obviously the case, in such a precariously defensive position.

Guise and Aumale had the additional problem of keeping the peace in their own camp. In view of the difficult task of subduing La Rochelle, it had been folly to allow Navarre and Conde to accompany them, for neither of these had any heart for the fight. Conde, who had had some reputation as a fighter, seemed lethargic and useless; while Navarre was lazily cheerful, spending too much time with the women who had followed the camp.

As for Alencon, he was actually a menace. Truculent in the extreme, anxious always that he should receive his share of adulation which his close relationship to the King demanded, he was utterly conceited and no help at all.

All day long the sound of singing could be heard from behind the walls of La Rochelle-the singing of hymns. It seemed that religious services were being conducted continually. The superstitious. Catholics were unnerved, and as the siege dragged on, they became more so. The news circulated that great quantities of fish had been caught off the shores of La Rochelle and that the Huguenots took this as a sign that God intended to preserve them.

Guise persuaded Anjou that the best thing to do was to attack the town and take it by force of overwhelming numbers before the besieged had completed their preparations for its defence; this idea that God was on the side of the Huguenots must not be allowed to demoralize the Catholic army.

Anjou agreed, and there followed that historic attack in which a few Huguenots triumphed over the great Catholic army through sheer determination not to surrender and an unwavering belief that they were receiving Divine help. Those who took part in the attack never forgot it. The citizens had hung a hawthorn on the ramparts to remind the Catholics of their contempt for that hawthorn which had flowered in the Cemetery of the Innocents-flowered at the Devil's command, said the Huguenots.

The fight began, but the city's walls stood firm; and the women themselves mounted the towers and poured boiling pitch on the soldiers below. And as soon as there was a lull in the fighting, the citizens of La Rochelle could be heard singing praises to God.

'Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him flee before Him . . .

'Like the smoke vanisheth, so shalt Thou drive them away; and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God . .

To the superstitious men below, this was terrifying; particularly as it seemed to them that the walls of La Rochelle had stood more assault than a city's walls could, without Divine assistance.

And so the battle for La Rochelle was a defeat for the Catholic army, and the walls of the city continued to stand firm against all attack. The Catholics counted their dead and wounded to the sound of triumphant singing within the city's walls.

Alencon swaggered into his brother's tent and, throwing himself unceremoniously on to Anjou's bed, began to taunt him with the loss of the battle.

'Here's a pretty state of affairs!' mocked Alencon. 'A great army defeated by a few men and women behind city walls. I tell you, brother, the mistake was yours. You were too noisy in your preparations. I should have smuggled men into the city somehow. I should have sent spies among them.'