'I only ask it,' said Margot, 'if you wish to come near me. The dirt and sweat of your body is so precious to you, I do not ask you to part with it . . . so long as you do not bring it near me.'

'Madame,' he said, 'the price you ask is too big a one for something which I do not greatly care whether I possess or not.'

And with that he left her and went to Dayelle. Margot was pleased. She retired to her private apartments and sent one of her women with a message to du Luc, who had had the gallantry, the chivalry, to bring the manners and customs of the Louvre to Nerac.

During her stay in the dominions of her son-in-law, Catherine felt a return of her old strength. Her rheumatism worried her, but her spirits were better. She had come in order to discover what Navarre was doing in his realm so far from the court of France; to see what resources he had at his disposal; to set her Escadron loose among his ministers that they might worm out their secrets; she had come ostensibly to make peace between the King of Navarre and the King of France, to call at Nerac a council of Huguenots and Catholics, and to make one more attempt to settle their differences. She fancied she had had some success. Like a chameleon, she changed colour according to her immediate background. Here, in the Huguenot stronghold, her sympathies were for the Huguenots. She even learned to speak in the simple phraseology which these people favoured, suppressing the extravagant, flowery language which was the fashion at the court of France. There were times when this would become too much for her sense of the ridiculous, and she would shut herself in her apartments with her women, where they would amuse themselves by talking what she called 'le langage de Canaan', exaggerating the puritan speech, introducing into it a touch of ribaldry which would set Catherine laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks. But the next day she would greet the Huguenots calmly and, without a twitch of her lips, address them in their simplified form of language as though it came as naturally to her as to them.

Were these people beginning to forget the rumours they had heard of her? Were they beginning to trust her? The massacre of St Bartholomew was like a black shadow behind her. Could they ever forget it?

Margot was now deeply involved with Turenne. Ah, if Margot could be induced to pay more attention to politics than love, what an ally she would have been! Turenne was-next to Navarre-the most important man at the court of Navarre. He was the nephew of Montmorency and Navarre's kinsman and chief counsellor. He was an amorous man and, but for his preoccupation with Margot, Catherine could have set one of her Escadron to seduce him. Never, thought Catherine, did a Queen possess such a perverse daughter.

The months went by, and during them Catherine thought continually of the King of France; there were times when her longing to be with him was intense and her only solace was to express her feelings in her correspondence. To her trusted friend, Madame d'Uzes, whom she had left at the court as her spy, to keep her informed of the King's actions, she wrote: 'Give me news of the King and Queen. I envy you the joy of seeing them. I have never been so long without that happiness since he was born; for when he was in Poland, it was only for eight months, and now already seven and a half have gone and it will be full two months before this boon is granted me.'

The meetings of Huguenots and Catholics continued and some agreement was reached. She had Navarre's assurance that he wished to keep his wife with him; and Margot had said that she would stay in her husband's kingdom. So now Catherine was ready to return to Paris.

Navarre was satisfied by the agreement he had made with the King of France through the Queen Mother. Huguenots and Catholics were now more or less of equal standing in France; nineteen towns had been made over to the Huguenots. Catherine was leaving, and that delighted him, for he neither liked nor trusted his mother-in-law; she was taking Dayelle with her, and Dayelle had been a charming mistress, but he had for some weeks had his eye on a frail and delicate creature-a Mademoiselle de Rebours, who seemed different from any woman he had loved before, as he usually chose them for healthy looks which matched his own. No, he had few regrets when he contemplated the departure of the Queen Mother.

As for Margot she was so deeply absorbed in her love affair with the handsome Turenne that she had forgotten her longing for Paris. And so, unregretted, Catherine began her journey northwards.

But her troubles were not over. There had been an attempted rising against the crown in Saluces, a town of some importance because of its position on the borders of France and Italy. A certain Bellegarde, who was the Governor of the dominion of Saluces, had descended on the capital town and fortified it against the French.

Catherine was travelling through Dauphine when she heard this news, and she summoned Bellegarde to her there; but he ignored the summons; she then ordered the Duke of Savoy to bring the man to her; and after an irritating delay of weeks, during which her desire to see the King made her both uneasy and depressed, the man was brought to her.

With the Cardinal of Bourbon at her side, she received Belle-garde and the Duke of Savoy.

She talked sadly to them of the virtues of the King, of all he had done for his subjects; she spoke of the shock it was to her to discover that there were those who did not appreciate his goodness. She wept a little. She brought out her favourite fiction: 'Who am I but a weak woman? What can I say to you? How can I deal with traitors?'

Bellegarde was so overcome by her tears and her eloquence that he wept with her; but when she asked him what he intended to do about the dominion of Saluces, he talked at length of the religious differences between the people of that town and the court of France, and he stressed his opinion that the will of the people must be taken into account. He could not be held responsible for what had happened, he told Catherine; the people had simply chosen him as their mouthpiece because he was their Governor.

'Monsieur,' said Catherine, no longer the weak widow, have come to settle this matter and nothing more. I shall not leave this town-nor shall you-until you have sworn an oath of allegiance to the King. If you will not do so . . .' She shrugged her shoulders and gave him the full force of one of those quiet smiles which had never failed to terrify all those on whom they were bestowed.

The outcome of his interviews with the Queen Mother was that Bellegarde, in the presence of the council, vowed his allegiance to the King. But Catherine was not satisfied with this man's conduct. She kept him surrounded by spies, and nothing he said or did was allowed to go unnoticed.

'I do not trust a man who has betrayed his King,' she said to the Cardinal of Bourbon. 'It is never wise to do so.'

She certainly did not trust Bellegarde. He died quite suddenly one night. There had seemed nothing wrong with him on the previous day and he had eaten a hearty supper and drunk his share of wine.

Catherine was now free to go back to her son.

She shed real tears of joy when once more she held his scented body in her arms.

It did not take Catherine long to realize that while she had been away time had not stood still at the court of France; and she began to wonder whether she could not have been better employed by staying at court than effecting a peace between Huguenots and Catholics and patching up a marriage, the parties of which were two such feckless and immoral people that they had no more hope of achieving happiness together than had the Huguenots and Catholics.

She was greatly disturbed by the activities of one man about whom she feared she had not thought sufficiently during the months she had been absent. It was never wise to forget the existence of the Duke of Guise.

The Catholic League, she discovered, had grown enormously since she had left Paris. It was spreading its roots all over the country, and offshoots were springing up in most towns. It was supported by Spain and Rome. What was the object of this League? Not quite what it professed, she was sure. It was reputed to be endeavouring to bring comfort to the multitude, but Catherine suspected that its real object was to bring power to one man.

She had found that the extravagances of the King were as great as ever. Joyeuse and Epernon were now his chief darlings. Joyeuse was but a simpering fool; but she was not sure of Epernon. Henry had made gifts to his friends of hundreds of his abbeys, and these places were now mainly in the hands of people who should have had no connexion with them at all. The Battus paraded the streets with their fantastic processions; and the King's banquets had become more preposterously extravagant.

Catherine was terrified, too, of what her younger son, Anjou, would do next; and when Queen Elizabeth declared to Simiers, who was now in England trying to persuade the Queen to a French marriage, that she would not marry a man whom she had not seen, Catherine felt it was a Heaven-sent opportunity to rid France of the mischievous youth; and, if Elizabeth would be so benevolent as to keep him, she should have the sincere gratitude of his mother.

Anjou, looking for fresh adventures, was not averse to making the journey, and so, one day in June, he crossed the Channel and landed in England.

Catherine, with the aid of her spies, followed that most farcical of all courtships. She knew that Elizabeth was as shrewd as she was herself, but that the Englishwoman was possesed of many feminine qualities with which Catherine was not burdened. Catherine laughed to contemplate that other Queen, whose vanity she believed was her most powerful characteristic. She knew of the coquetting with Leicester, who, in despair of ever marrying the Queen and becoming King of England, had recently married the Countess of Essex in secret. Simiers and his spies had, on Catherine's orders, brought this about by assuring Leicester that the French match was further advanced than he knew, and that he had no prospect of marrying the Queen, since she had decided on the Duke of Anjou.

As for her son's method of courting the woman who was forty-six while he was only twenty-five, she left that to him; he was, after all, very experienced in the ways of making love.

So Anjou went in disguise to Greenwich Palace, asked permission to see the Queen, and when it was granted-for she was well aware who her visitor was-threw himself at her feet murmuring that his admiration rendered him speechless.

Elizabeth found this method of approach romantic and enchanting, although it set her countrymen jeering at French habits and customs. She confided to her ladies-and this was brought back to Catherine-that he was far less ugly than she had been led to believe. His nose was big, admitted the Queen of England, but all the Valois had big noses, and she had not expected his to differ very much from those belonging to other members of his family; if his skin was pitted by the smallpox, she was prepared for that; he was small, it was true, but that merely made her feel tender towards him. She liked his fancy manners; he was bold, but she liked his boldness; and he could dance more daintily than any English courtier.

Catherine knew that the red-headed Queen was making secret fun of her suitor, just as her subjects did. In the streets young gallants and even apprentices would affect mincing manners as they walked, deliberately provoking the onlookers to laughter; these young men had taken to exaggerated fashions, copied, they said, from 'Mounseer'-as they called Anjou-and his pretty entourage. Catherine knew that once Anjou realized that he was being made fun of, he would be furious; but apparently the dry-humoured English had managed to keep this from him.

The Queen petted him as she might have petted a monkey; she made him appear with her in public; she called him her 'little frog'.

She knew, of course, that her actions were being watched. She was coquettish and vain enough to wish to be courted by the quaint 'Mounseer', but at the same time she had an eye for the advantages and the disadvantages of such a match. A Protestant Queen of forty-six to marry a Catholic Prince of twenty-five! It was not the most satisfactory match she could have made, but as long as her ministers dissuaded her, she was ready to view it with favour, simply because she wished to keep the young man gallantly dancing attendance on her as long as possible.

Catherine had seen a copy of the letter the great Sir Philip Sydney had written to the Queen concerning this marriage. It was daring, and as she read it, Catherine wished she could have asked Sir Philip to dine with her. He would not long have survived that meal.

Most beloved, feared, most sweet and gracious Sovereign. How the hearts of your people will be galled-if not alienated-when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a Papist, in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of that Jezebel of our age-that his brother made oblation of his own sister's marriage, the easier to make massacre of our brethren in religion. As long as he is Monsieur in might and a Papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you; and if he grow to be a King, his defences will be like Ajax' sword, which rather weighed down than defended those that bare it.'

This letter the Queen of England received, and Catherine understood that she seemed to consider it with the utmost seriousness. But a man of Lincoln's Inn, a certain Stubbs, who had dared to make a written protest, who had insulted the young suitor by calling him 'unmanlike and unprincelike', was very severely punished by having his right hand cut off; and this fate also befell the man who had published what Stubbs had written.

Catherine studied the printed matter which had cost these men their hands. 'This man is a son of Henry the Second,' it ran, 'whose family, ever since he married Catherine of Italy, is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been one after the other as a Domitian after a Nero. Here is therefore an imp of the crown of France to marry with the crowned nymph of England.'

It was typical of the Queen of England that she should have these men punished while she seriously considered the words of Sir Philip Sydney. Perhaps her real reason for pretending to be so enchanted by the prospect of the match was because she wondered what the reactions of France, Spain and Rome would be if she refused it.

So she kept her young suitor at her side, first behaving like an affianced bride, then drawing back in an assumption of maidenly modesty which was ridiculous in a woman of her age whose reputation, in spite of her unmarried state, was not without tarnish; she had made for her a jewelled ornament in the shape of a frog on which she bestowed much tenderness; she lowered her sandy lashes over her too-shrewd eyes, now eager, now reluctant, while she waited for the moment when it would be opportune to send her suitor back where he belonged.

At length, sighing deeply and assuring the Duke of Anjou that a Queen's heart was not her own to give away, she told him that since the Protestants of England and the Catholic Guisards of France did not wish for the marriage-and as her aim was to keep peace between quarrelsome people-reluctantly, oh, most reluctantly, she must let her dear little frog go. She made him a loan of money for his campaign in Flanders. bade him a fond farewell, and sent him across the Channel in the company of Leicester.

Those two Queens, Catherine and Elizabeth-the two most forceful personalities of their age-knew then that the French-English marriage would never take place. Catherine was angry. The English woman had fooled her. But the two Queens continued to exchange friendly letters, with distrust and hatred for each other in their hearts.

Trouble came, and it blew with the winds from Bearn. For what else could one hope, Catherine asked herself, from that storm-centre-Queen Margot?

Margot was in fact reconciled to life in her new kingdom. This was partly due to that most satisfactory of lovers, the Count of Turenne. As he was the chief minister of the kingdom, and the King's first counsellor, there were political schemes in plenty in which Margot might share. She had had many a skirmish with Navarre's mistress, Mademoiselle de Rebours, a most unattractive creature, according to Margot. The thin, sickly woman was not of the kind to retain the position of King's mistress for long, and since she had made it her pleasure to proclaim herself an enemy of the Queen, Margot did not intend that she should. During brief lulls in her love-making with Turenne, they discussed together the deposition of this frail girl who had the King's ear at the moment.

Turenne brought to Margot's notice a young girl who was not yet fifteen-a delightful, simple creature-Francoise, the daughter of Pierre de Montmorency, the Marquis of Thury and Baron de Fosseux. She lived with her father at Nerac, and Turenne had noticed her during her childhood. He felt that such a girl would be irresistible to the King-young, fresh, charming and healthy. She would provide such a change from Mademoiselle de Rebours, and surely the King must be growing tired of that one's vapours!

'When we go to Nerac,' said Margot, 'we must bring the little Fosseuse to his notice.'

Opportunity favoured them. When the court left Pau for Nerac, Mademoiselle de Rebours was too ill to accompany it. Navarre left her with tears and protestations of fidelity, but at Nerac the little Fosseuse was waiting for him, and, face to face with such charm and youthful innocence, it was not difficult for Henry of Navarre to forget those vows of fidelity which he had made so many times before and to so many different women. Within a few days he declared himself the slave of his new playmate.

Margot and Turenne sighed with relief. Fosseuse was a sweet child who knew that she owed her advancement to the Queen and the Queen's lover. She was wise enough to suspect that if she wished to keep her high place it would be as well to keep also in the good graces of those two; and this she did to the complete satisfaction of all concerned.

At this time, Margot wrote in her memoirs: 'Our court is so fine and pleasant that we do not envy that of France. My husband is attended by as fine a troupe of lords and gentlemen, folks as seemly and gallant as I ever met at court; and there is nothing to regret in them expect that they are Huguenots. But of that diversity of religion one hears no one speak. The King and his sister go on one side to the preaching, and my retinue to Mass in a chapel which is in the park; after which we all meet and walk together in the very fine gardens with their long paths, edged with laurels and cypresses, or in the park which I have caused to be laid out, along paths stretching for three thousand paces beside the river; and the rest of the day we spend in all sorts of seemly pastimes, the ball usually taking place in the afternoon and evening.'

Some of the Huguenots were not so content. Their Queen, they murmured, had brought vices to their court. She had grafted on to the pure tree the fruit of Babylon.

Margot shrugged, elegant shoulders. She was happy; she was on moderately good terms with her husband; she had found a means of having her own way with him through La Fosseuse; her mild sister-in-law, Catherine, gave her little trouble; Mademoiselle de Rebours had completely lost her power; and Monsieur de Turenne continued to please.

This paradise was invaded by couriers from Paris. Her brother's hatred had followed Margot to Nerac.

Neither side was very pleased with the peace which the Queen Mother had taken such pains to bring about. The king of France suspected his, sister of being an evil influence at the court of Nerac; he was now wishing that he had never allowed her to join her husband, and was seeking means of having her brought back. His couriers, therefore, brought letters to Navarre telling him that evil stories were circulating in France concerning the Queen of Navarre; in these were related the scandalous behaviour of that lady, who was, it was said, now deep in amorous intrigue with the Count of Turenne; it was hinted that these two not only made immoral love, but dangerous plots.

When Navarre read these documents, he laughed. He was less satisfied than the King of France with the peace which had been made. He was ready, therefore, to allow hostilities to break out once more in the hope that a new peace might be made.

He called Margot and Turenne to him and, assuming an air of mock-horror, he showed them the slander which the King of France had written of them.

The two lovers were prepared to defend themselves, but they soon realized that there was no need to do that. Navarre, showing quite clearly that he believed all the French King had said, asked mockingly: 'How can a man allow such things to be said of his virtuous wife? This is an insult which can only be answered with the sword.'

Turenne agreed with the King that the terms of peace were not satisfactory; and Margot agreed with her lover. In a very short time there was again war between Huguenots and Catholics-a war which the people of France, who had few illusions as to its real cause, ironically named LaGuerre des Amoureux.

In Paris, Catherine watched events with increasing gloom, for during that war Navarre proved himself to be a fighter who would have to be reckoned with in the future. One by one towns fell before him; it soon became apparent that he could win this Lovers' War. It was doubly gratifying, in view of this, to note that he had not left his follies behind him. He was so enamoured of that silly child, the little Fosseuse-barely in her mid-teens-that on the brink of victory he would leave the field because the desire to be with her was urgent and immediate, and of greater importance to him than victory over the armies of the King of France. Again and again he lost his chances, merely by throwing them away. For one thing, he declared Nerac neutral; and to this the Catholic party had agreed, providing Navarre should not return to it while the war was in progress; but Fosseuse was at the Chateau of Nerac, and when Navarre desired his mistress, nothing else was of any importance at all. On one occasion when it was discovered that Navarre had broken his word and was actually in the castle, cannon shots were fired into it. Margot was furious at her husband's folly, but Navarre only laughed. This was fair play, he insisted, and he was ready to take the consequences. He was with his beloved Fosseuse: he was ready to risk his castle for that satisfaction. Only the great skill of his soldiers under his leadership saved the castle on that occasion.

From this it was easy to see that Navarre, although a brave man and a commander of genius, was yet completely the thrall of his own sensuality. Catherine fervently hoped that he would continue to be so bound; the weaknesses of others added greatly to her own strength, and it was gratifying to contemplate that, but for this foible of the King of Navarre, the war might have had disastrous effects on the King of France. As it was, hostilities dragged on for nearly a year and might have gone on longer had not Anjou suggested that through his friendship for his brother-in-law of Navarre he might be able to make the peace. Anjou was still obsessed by his dream of a French Empire, which he planned to bring about through a war in Flanders. It seemed to him absurd that Frenchmen should fight Frenchmen when they might fight foreigners to the glory of France. He set out for Nerac, where he was received with much affection by Margot and friendship by Navarre.

The Paix de Fleix was duly signed, but no one had much faith in these peace treaties now. There had been too many of them. They were flimsy, creaking bridges that linked one war with another.

Having arrived at Nerac, Anjou did not seem in any hurry to leave it. He declared himself to be enchanted with the place, but it soon became apparent that it was not the place which enchanted him so much as one of the ladies living there. Anjou seemed as determined to pursue trouble as Margot was; the lady he chose to honour with his devotion was none other than La Fosseuse, the King's mistress.

This naturally proved very enlivening for the court. There was a return of that rivalry, that horseplay which the brothers-in-law had enjoyed in connexion with Madame de Sauves some years before. They both indulged in practical jokes on each other, and as before, these grew so wild that they bordered on the dangerous.

It was Margot who put a stop to this. She called her brother to her one day and talked to him with great earnestness. 'Dearest brother,' she said, 'I know you love me.'

Anjou kissed her tenderly. He was very susceptible to flattery and admiration, and Margot had seen to it that he received these in great measure from her.

'I would,' she continued, 'that your love for me was of such magnitude that it transcended that which you bear for all others.'

'Dearest and most beautiful sister, why should you wish for what is already yours? There is no one whom I adore and admire as I do my own beautiful sister.'

'La Fosseuse?' she asked.

He laughed. 'Dear Margot, that is indeed love . . . but a passing love. But for you, my love is eternal.'

She embraced him, lavishing caresses upon him. 'That delights me. Now I know that you will listen to my advice. You are wasting your time here, dearest brother. You are a great general. In your hands lies the glory of France. You should seek an Empire, not a woman.'

Margot enjoyed playing on his susceptibilities; she made him see himself as the empire-builder, the future King of France, the greatest King that France had ever had. And so well did she do this that, not long after that conversation, he was taking a regretful leave of Fosseuse; duty called him, he explained; he was a man with a mission.

He left Nerac and eventually arrived in Flanders, where he collected an army and entered Cambrai; but as usual he had planned without caution, and Philip of Spain had not been idle. In a few months Anjou found himself in a precarious position, faced by the might of Spain and without money to continue the campaign. Defeated, he went to England, begged Elizabeth for a loan which she granted, and returned to make war in Flanders.

But his departure from Nerac meant only temporary peace for those of that court.

La Fosseuse had become enceinte. This irritated Margot for two reasons; first that the King's mistress could produce a child while his wife could not; secondly, the meek little girl changed with pregnancy and did not remain meek; she was no longer content to take orders from the Queen. Moreover, Mademoiselle de Rebours, disgruntled at having lost the King's favour and blaming Margot for this, seized upon every opportunity for spreading scandal about both the Queen and La Fosseuse.

If it became known throughout the country that a daughter of the great House of Montmorency was about to bear the King's bastard, there would be-particularly in certain Huguenot quarters-a great deal of shocked dissatisfaction. In view of this, Margot decided to take matters into her own hands, as she said, for the good of all concerned.

She commanded Fosseuse to come to her, and when the girl stood before her, she looked at her with kindness and said: 'my dear Fosseuse, this thing has come about and it is no use blaming anyone for it. We must do our best to keep it quiet. As you know, it would do the King's cause much harm throughout the land if it were known that you were to bear this bastard. The Huguenots are puritans and they do not like what they call immorality among their leaders. For the King's sake and your own, since it is not suitable for a daughter of your house to bear a child while still unmarried, I offer you this solution: I propose to take you with me to our very secluded estate of Mas Agenais, which, perhaps you do not know, lies on the Garonne between Marmande and Tonneins. There you shall have the child in great quietness and no one will be any the wiser. I suggest that when the King and the court leave for a hunting party, we accompany them part of the way; then you and I with our ladies and attendants, will leave the King's party for Mas Agenais.'

La Fosseuse listened to this suggestion and lifted suspicious eyes to the face of the daughter of Catherine de' Medici.

'Madame,' said Fosseuse, 'nothing would induce me to accompany you and your friends to a quiet spot.'

And with that she curtsied, and, leaving the Queen, went straight to her lover. When he saw how distraught she was, he demanded to know what had happened.

'It is the Queen,' said Fosseuse. 'She plans to murder me.'

'How so?' demanded Navarre angrily. It seemed to him, as it did to his mistress, possible that the daughter of Catherine de' Medici would plan to eliminate those she wished out of the way.

'She proposes a hunting party on which we shall all set out; then she and her women will take me to a secluded chateau where I shall stay with them until my child is born. I will not go. I know that she intends to murder me.'

'Ventre-saint-gris!' cried the King. 'I believe she would try it too. Don't fret, my love. You shall not go with her.'

He strode to Margot's apartments. She was reclining on a couch, and she turned and looked at him with haughty dignity, moving her head elegantly to one side in a mute plea that he should not come too near her; since she had asked him to wash his feet, he had taken a great delight in them. He would sit smiling at them-and she believed he had not yet washed them.

'So,' he said, ignoring one or two of her attendants, 'you follow your mother.'

She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.

'See here, Madame,' he cried, 'enough of those haughty looks! What is this about taking Fosseuse off to a lonely spot to murder her?'

'I do not understand why my offer of help should be construed as intent to murder,' said Margot.

'You . . . help her?'

'Why not? Your Huguenots will not be pleased when they hear about the bastard. I remember your father's plight when his mistress bore him a child. We Catholics are more broadminded, you know. A little confession . . . and we are forgiven. But you chose the more rigorously righteous religion. I merely wished to help you and Fosseuse.'

'By murdering her?'

Margot shrugged her shoulders. 'Very well. I withdraw my offer. If you insist on leading an immoral life you cannot hope to do so in secret. You must be exposed to your righteous followers.'

'You dare to talk to me of leading an immoral life!'

'At least there are not these sordid complications in mine.' 'Do not boast of your barrenness.'

'I have no cause to be ashamed of unpleasant consequences. I am sorry I offered to help. I merely thought that, as the reputation of this court is as dear to me as to you, I might help in this matter. That is all.'

'How would you help?' he demanded. 'Did your mother leave you a selection of her morceaux when she was here?'

Margot reached for a book and began to read. Her husband stood staring at her in angry silence for a few seconds; then he strode out.

He was worried. He was anxious that his Huguenot friends should not be too scandalized, and it was a fact that these self-righteous people did not so much object to secret immorality in itself; it was when it was exposed that they held up their hands in horror; but he was still enamoured of his little Fosseuse and he did not want her to be neglected.

The weeks went by; it was now impossible to ignore the condition of the King's mistress. Navarre began to feel that he might have been rash to neglect Margot's offer of help.

He came to her when she lay in bed, and, drawing aside her curtains, assumed a humble air.

'I need your help,' he said. 'I wish you to look after Fosseuse.