'But just for a little while we must be separated.'

He nodded.

'Darling son, never attend ma.s.s. No matter what they do ... always refuse. If you did not refuse, you could not be my son.'

'I know,' he said.

'Then you will be true and strong, my dearest boy?'

'Yes, Mother, I will be true and strong. I am a Huguenot. I will never forget it, no matter what they do to me. I will never forget you and that one day I shall be with you.'

It was so sad to leave him. Again and again they kissed each other. Antoine watched them with some emotion. He had no wish to hurt either of them. He did not forget for a moment his relationship to them both. This was all Jeanne's fault. Why could she not become a good Catholic and set everything to rights?

He rang for the boy's tutor, and Henry, now weeping bitterly, was led away.

Antoine then spoke to Jeanne: 'Do not waste more time here, I beg of you. They are about to arrest you. Fly, I implore you. I beg of you. Your safest way is to make for Bearn via Vendome. You can rest awhile at my chateau at Vendome ... but do not stay too long. It is your only hope of safety.'

Jeanne stared at him in amazement. 'But you are on their side. Should you not detain me ... arrest me?'

'Go!' cried Antoine. 'Go before you drive me to it ... as you have driven me to so much. Your sharp tongue is intolerable. Do not let it drive me to this.'

She said: 'Poor Antoine! That is your great failing. You are never able to make up your mind whose side you are on.'

She took a last look at him, so elegant, so glittering in his fashionable garments. What bitterness was hers that she should still love him ... even now that he had betrayed her!

She hurried away from Saint-Germain, and at the Paris hotel in which she stayed the night while preparations for her flight went on, the Huguenots gathered under her window, so that those who had been sent to arrest her dared do nothing, with the result that she was able to leave the capital.

But it was not intended that she should reach safety. The Guises, noting the hesitancy of Antoine, suggested that he should be the one to give orders to the citizens of Vendome to arrest Jeanne when she arrived in their town, for it had not taken them long to draw from him the fact that Jeanne had arranged to call at his chateau in that town before making the rigorous journey south.

After many days of hardship, tired out with the journey, Jeanne came to Vendome. In the great chateau which had belonged to her husband's ancestors, she rested and made plans for continuing the journey as soon as possible.

Her little daughter Catherine was a great comfort to her. The child was only four years of age, but old for her years, able to understand that her mother was unhappy and to try to comfort her. Jeanne felt that if only she could have had young Henry with her, she would not have cared very much about anything else. How could she go on loving a husband who had so betrayed her? This was not just a momentary infidelity with La Belle Rouet, not just a pa.s.sing love affair. That she supposed she could, in time, have forgiven. But that he could make himself a party to this plan to destroy her, to take her kingdom, and worse still subject her to the possibility of an agonising death, seemed to her so wantonly cruel that she would always remember this against him.

It was while she was resting in her bed with her daughter beside her that one of her attendants asked for a word with her. He was admitted to her presence a hardy Gascon, a faithful Huguenot, ready to defend her with his sword against any number of the enemy.

He showed great agitation and without formality addressed her. 'Madame, forgive the intrusion, but we are in acute danger. We have walked into a trap. The King of Navarre has given orders to the citizens that we are not to leave the town, but are to be held captive until forces arrive to take us back to Paris.'

Jeanne closed her eyes. Here was the final betrayal. The trap had been set by the man she had loved, and she had walked blindly into it perhaps because at that last interview at Saint-Germain she had believed there was still some good in him, that he really meant to help her escape from his friends.

But the truth was that he had lacked the courage to detain her then; he had hesitated once more and as soon as she was out of his sight, he had given himself wholeheartedly to the plan to destroy her.

'What are your orders, Madame?' asked the Gascon.

She shook her head. 'We can do nothing but wait.'

'The streets are full of guards, Madame. But we could mayhap fight our way through.'

'We are not prepared to fight guards. All my followers would be cut to pieces in ten minutes.'

'But, Madame, shall we be taken without a blow?'

'They will take me,' she said. 'The rest of you will doubtless go free. Take my daughter back to Bearn if that be possible.'

'Mother, I wish to go with you,' said little Catherine. 'I wish to face the Inquisition if you do.'

Jeanne embraced her daughter. Sweet Catherine! What did she know of the torture chambers, of the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Inquisition on those whom they considered to be heretics? What did she know of the chevalet and the autos-dafe, of agony and death, the cries of men and women in torment, the odour of burning flesh?

'That,' said Jeanne firmly, 'you shall never do, my love.' She turned to the Gascon. 'Stand on guard. Forget not my instructions, and remember ... my daughter.'

He bowed in obedience, but his eyes were fierce. He wanted to fight for his Queen.

All through the long hours of the night, Jeanne lay awake, waiting for the sound of marching feet, the shouts of the troops who would come to storm the chateau and take her prisoner. They would be her husband's men, she did not doubt; the Guises and de Chantonnay would wish it to be her husband's guards who put the chains upon her and carried her on the first stage of her journey to the stake.

Her daughter had fallen asleep beside her. Jeanne kissed her tenderly. She was so young to be left; she was only four years old. So it was only four years then since she and Antoine had been so happy together over the birth of their child.

And, during that long night, she suddenly became aware of strange noises in the town. She went to her window; the sky was beginning to be red, not with the streaks of dawn but with the reflection of fire. She could smell the smoke; and as she stood there, apprehensively peering out into the gloom, she heard the shouts of men.

She dressed in great haste and, before she had completed this, her Gascon was at her door.

'Madame,' he cried, 'the town is being looted. A band of mercenaries has come into it. The news has just been brought to the chateau by one who wishes you well. The townsfolk are busy protecting their lives and their property. Now is the time for us to slip away unnoticed ... for no one will care now whether we go or stay. But there is not a moment to lose ...'

Jeanne was exultant. All her old energy came back to her.

'Our prayers are answered,' she cried. 'Come, we must leave here as fast as we can. We must thank G.o.d ... but later. Now, there is no time to think of thanksgiving. First we must be sure that we make the most of this heaven-sent opportunity. We must slip quietly out of Vendome before the dawn ...'

She turned to her daughter. 'Catherine, wake up, my darling. We are going now.'

'To the Inquisition?' asked Catherine sleepily. 'No, my love, to freedom.'

Riding south from Vendome, Jeanne's party were saying that what they had just witnessed was a miracle. G.o.d had sent the band of looting mercenaries to Vendome that the Queen might make her escape. Jeanne smiled tranquilly. She guessed that the Prince of Conde had been warned of her danger, for those mercenaries were Huguenot mercenaries, and their orders had evidently been: 'Occupy Vendome. Create a diversion all through the night, and keep it up until the Queen of Navarre is too far for pursuit.'

Bravo Conde! He was as wayward as his brother, but he was true to the cause which he believed to be right. She must thank G.o.d for her brother-in-law while she wept bitter tears for her husband.

Farther south they went, at the end of each day tired out with hours of riding, each night sleeping deeply from exhaustion; and then on again towards that border which they must cross before they reached safety.

When they reached the town of Caumont it was to discover that the Catholic army under Montluc was only a few miles in their rear. The long and tedious journey, made in such trying circ.u.mstances, resting at castles where Jeanne believed she had friends and how could she trust any, now that he whom she had thought she might trust above all others had failed her? all this had taxed her strength and she was suffering acutely, not only from physical but from mental exhaustion.

But she must push on without delay, and this she did, reaching her frontiers with only an hour or so to spare; but there she had the joy of finding her loyal subjects a.s.sembled in full force to receive and protect her.

The flight was over, and Jeanne had won. Yet, thinking of all she had left behind the husband to whom she was trying in vain to be indifferent, the son whom she adored it was an empty, bitter triumph.

CHAPTER III.

Catherine was filled with rage and terror. Francis of Guise, with the King of Navarre and the Marechal de Saint-Andre, had come to Fontainebleau and compelled her and the King to return to Paris, whence they had then been removed to Melun; and, although they were treated according to their rank, it was made clear that they would not be allowed to leave Melun unescorted.

Catherine was exposed in all her dissembling. The student of Machiavelli was unmasked. Letters which she had sent to Conde had been captured and read by the last people who should have seen them, for in these letters Catherine had explained how intolerable was her position and that of little King Charles under the Triumvirate, and begged Conde to rescue her. She had promised him support and, taking her at her word, Conde had plunged the country into civil war a civil war which, the Duke of Guise continually pointed out to Catherine, had been set in motion by her own duplicity.

He declared that she was no true Catholic. On the one hand she had conspired with them so that Antoine de Bourbon might be turned from the Reformed Faith; on the other hand she was at the same time plotting with Conde, and it was she who had encouraged the Huguenots to such an extent that they had resorted to war.

The Huguenots on their part declared that she had cheated them, that she was a deceitful and cunning woman; and that all the time she was speaking sweet words to them she was plotting against them with the Catholic King of Spain.

In vain did Catherine try to justify herself in the eyes of the Duke and the Cardinal, Antoine and the Spanish Amba.s.sador. Those letters to Conde were not what they would seem, she a.s.sured them; they had been written in code. Oh, she admitted that they appeared to contain promises of help, but they were meant to convey something quite different. She became a little coy in her explanations. She had to admit that she cherished a fondness for the gallant little Prince of Conde.

The cold eyes of the Duke were murderous; the thin lips of the Cardinal curled; the Spanish Amba.s.sador did not mince his words and was quite abusive, which alarmed her greatly, for this showed that he no longer considered her of any great importance.

Rumour was now circulating about her and Conde. People said that she was madly in love with him, and that she longed to marry him and make him the King of France at the expense of her children.

Catherine wondered at herself. She had been very reckless in her behaviour to this man, and that was unusual in her. But now that she saw herself and her children in great danger, she had no wish but to see Conde destroyed, with the Guises, Antoine and the rest. What a weak fool she had been to have felt the attractions of the gallant Prince in the first place! What was the excitement of love compared with that which came through wrestling for power?

She waited in terror for some dreadful fate to overtake her. The man who frightened her more than any other was the Duke of Guise. He could not be allowed to live. When Francis had been on the throne he had been the most important man in France, and he was rapidly regaining that position. But how difficult it would be to accomplish his death! It must be done, but not by poison. People would point to her at once if the Duke died of poison; they would whisper about the Italian woman and her poison closet. He must die, though. He was her bitterest enemy, and he now realised that he was not dealing with a weak woman, but a cunning one, whose sly twists and turns were unpredictable.

Meanwhile, the civil war was raging and Conde was triumphant. Orleans, Blois, Tours, Lyons, Valence, Rouen, and many other towns were in his possession. The Kingdom was split in two. The Catholics, in increasing alarm, sent appeals to the King of Spain.

What security was there for Catherine and her children? Neither Huguenot nor Catholic trusted her. She was hated now throughout the country as she had been at the time of the death of Dauphin Francis. She had been unfortunate, she a.s.sured herself. She did not realise that she had been cunning rather than clever, that she had misjudged those about her because she judged them by herself.

All over the country the Huguenots were gaining power. They marched on, singing their favourite song, which poked fun at Antoine de Bourbon, who had so recently been one of their leaders: 'Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette ...'

They despised Antoine, the turn-coat; they distrusted the Queen Mother. But while they mocked the one, they hated the other.

Outside the city of Rouen, Antoine of Navarre lay sick. He had been severely wounded in the battle for the city. For several weeks the Huguenots had held Rouen against the Catholic army which Antoine led. Even now while he lay on his bed in camp, he could hear the sound of singing inside the city's walls: 'Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette ...'

They despised him; even though they knew he was outside their walls with a mighty army, they made fun of him. Antoine de Bourbon, L'echangeur, the little quail who changed his coat to suit himself.

Antoine felt low in spirit. The pain from his wounds was intense; he lay tossing and turning. His surgeons were with him, one on either side of the bed, and he realised with a sudden flash of humour that it was characteristic of L'echangeur that one of these was a Jesuit, the other a Huguenot.

Was this death? he wondered. Memories of the past would keep recurring. At times he wandered a little. Sometimes he thought the warm winds of Bearn blew upon him and that Jeanne was there, as she had been in the first days of their marriage, discussing with him some domestic detail.

There was a woman in the camp with him, a woman who had followed him and who was nursing him devotedly. She was at his side now, holding wine to his lips. He could smell the perfume she used; he was aware of her soft, yielding body under her rich brocade dress La Belle Rouet. He took her hand and kissed it. She had really loved him after all; it was not because he was a King that she had borne his child. Why had Jeanne not come to see him when he was wounded? It was her duty to have come.

The sweat stood out on his face the sweat of anger against Jeanne; tears filled his eyes because he had failed, had been unable to live up to the high ideal she had set before him.

The last time he had seen his wife was when at Saint-Germain she had come to see their boy. He had been on the point then though she did not know it of throwing away all that was promised him by the Spanish King, of giving up his place in the Triumvirate. Yes, he a.s.sured himself weakly, he had all but fled with Jeanne to Bearn. But then he had changed his mind which was what must be expected of L'echangeur; he had given orders that she should be detained in Vendome.

She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had gone back to Bearn and had set about bolstering up the Reformed Faith there. She had sent help to Conde's troops. Ah, his brother! What did his brother think of him now? Dearest Louis they had been close. But religion, as so often happened, had broken the bonds of brotherhood, and they were fighting against each other now.

That was a mean revenge he had taken on Jeanne when little Henry had lain at the point of death at Saint-Germain. Louise had been taking care of the boy at that time. The little fellow had a very bad attack of the smallpox and when Jeanne had heard the news she had been frantic in her anxiety. She had begged Antoine and the Queen Mother to let her have her son with her. But Catherine had refused. She had said: 'It is the only hold we have over the boy's mother.' But Catherine had allowed the child to be sent to the d.u.c.h.ess of Ferrara to be cared for, and that was all the satisfaction Jeanne received. Yet, had he insisted, he could have come to some terms with the Queen Mother; he could have arranged for the boy to be sent to his mother. There had been occasions when he had meant to, but when the Queen Mother had stated her wishes it had been easier to fall in with them.

Tears stung his eyes. He was depressed; he was in pain. His physicians told him that he was not mortally wounded. He would see the entry into Rouen.

'Louise!' he called; and she came to his side at once. 'Let us have gaiety, music, dancing or I shall go mad.'

She was glad to see the change in his mood. She called in the gayest of the men and women who had followed his army his court friends. Louise lay on his bed beside him and put her arms about him. There was music and dancing and the latest court scandals were retold. He felt wretchedly ill, but with such distraction he could deceive himself into thinking that he was as much alive as any.

His physicians reasoned with him: 'Monseigneur, you need rest. The wounds must be allowed to heal.'

'Rest!' he cried. 'I don't want rest. Rest makes me think, and I do not want to think. I want to hear laughter and wit. I want to see my friends dance. I want to hear their songs. Be silent, or I'll have your tongues cut out. Let me live my life as I want to.'

So the distractions continued. He kept La Belle Rouet with him. 'Why not?' he cried. 'My wife does not come to see me. A man must live. A man must love.'

'Nay, Monseigneur,' begged his doctors. 'Your state does not permit you.'

'To the devil with you!' cried Antoine. 'I'll find my own diversions.'

His army took Rouen. He declared his intention to be carried into the city on a litter, and he wanted Louise carried with him. He wanted to see the fun; he wanted to ask the Huguenots if they would sing Caillette now!

He was laid on his litter, but he did not see the inside of the town, for he fell into a deep fainting fit before he reached its walls.

When he recovered he found that he was back in camp.

Lauro bent his head down to him. 'Monseigneur, your Majesty must prepare to meet your G.o.d.'

'Is it so, then?' said Antoine; and he began to tremble as the memory of his weakness came back to him. He wished the tent to be cleared of all but the doctors, the prelate and his mistress.

He opened his eyes and looked in bewilderment from one face to another. 'I ... I ...' He found it difficult to speak. 'I ... I am a Catholic by profession, but, now that my end is near ...'

It seemed to him that Jeanne's steadfast brown eyes were watching him, that she was smiling at him now. It was not my fault, Jeanne, he thought. I loved you. In the beginning, I did. If we had been humble people ... if we could have lived there in Bearn ... farming our land together, planting our mulberries, watching them grow, we should have been happy. I should have been the gay one; you the sober wife. You would have kept me beside you. But you were a Queen and you made me a King. The position was too tempting for me. I became greedy for more power. I did not know what I wanted. One moment I was sure, the next I was unsure.

At length he spoke: 'Now that my end is near, my heart returns to the Protestant Faith.'

'Repent,' he was urged. 'Think of your sins, Monseigneur. Repent that you may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.'

He looked at the man who had spoken, and recognised him. 'Ah, Raphael,' he said slowly. 'You have served me for twenty years, and this is the only time that you have ever warned me of my miserable mistakes.'

Then he began to think of his sins, to enumerate them, and to ask G.o.d for forgiveness.

'Oh, Lord,' he prayed, 'if I recover, I will send forth Lutheran missionaries to preach the gospel throughout France.'

He heard someone whisper: 'It is too late to talk thus.'

Ah yes. He understood. It was too late.

'Jeanne,' he moaned, 'why did you not come? You should have made the journey that you might be with me.'

He did not die at once. His brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, came to him, and Antoine begged him to ask forgiveness for him of that other brother, Louis, the Prince of Conde, whom he had loved so dearly before religion had come between them.

'I will die a Huguenot!' cried Antoine, thinking of Louis and of Jeanne. 'It matters not whether people believe me to be sincere. I am resolved to die in accordance with the Confession of Luther.'

It was decided that he must be moved to more comfortable quarters, and one misty November day he was taken on to a boat and rowed down the Seine towards Saint-Maur. This was not wise, for the rocking of the boat was very painful to him, and when they carried him ash.o.r.e he knew that his last moments had come.

The Guises had sent a monk to pray for him and, too weak to resist, Antoine listened to his prayers; and when they were over he murmured: 'Amen.'