She and her husband had been everything to one another in the early days; it was she who had fired him with the desire to fight for the Faith. She had always known that he lacked her religious instincts, that he was first of all a soldier who must have excitement and adventure; but once he had adopted his cause, he did remain loyal to it. He did not, as his brother had, deny his Faith as well as his obligations to his wife. Poor Jeanne, what she must have suffered! What bitter humiliation had Antoine showered upon her!

There were continual prayers at the Castle of Conde. Eleonore's children were with her, and she prayed that the lives they led would be straight and honourable. She tried to shut out of her mind the thought of Louis with the beautiful wanton, Isabelle de Limeuil.

Why had he not remained faithful to her? How could he have been so weak, knowing all the time that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother's? What charm had this woman to tempt him in such circ.u.mstances? It was not as though he were a fool, as poor Antoine had been. Perhaps it was that love of excitement in her husband which had made him such an easy victim of the plots of the Queen Mother that puckish determination to court danger.

And the Queen Mother had deliberately wrecked the happy home, not only of the Princess of Conde, but also that of Jeanne of Navarre. Poor Louis! He was so attractive, and women had always found him irresistible. It had always been so more with him even than with Antoine. It was not only his relationship with Isabelle de Limeuil that had set the country talking scandal against the Prince of Conde, for there had been others besides Isabelle. Calvin had written to Louis, protesting; Coligny had begged him to mend his ways. Louis always meant to; he was very sorry for his weakness; but then a goblet of wine, a gay song and a pair of bright eyes, and he was caught again.

She had been sleepless with anxiety; she had been filled with misgivings; and one morning when she came down from her apartments it was obvious from her expression that a great peace had come to her; she knew that very soon she would be leaving this world's troubles for ever.

She sent a messenger to the Prince to tell him that she could not live long, but she instructed the messenger to break the news gently, that he might not suffer any great shock.

'You must tell him,' she said, 'that I have one aspiration. It is that our spirits may continue to be bound together. Tell him also that I conjure him to keep watch over our children in my stead, that they may be brought up in the fear of G.o.d.'

When Conde received the messenger and heard the news of his wife's sickness, he was overcome with grief. Mercurial in temperament, there was nothing for him now but the very depth of his despair. He made all haste to the Castle of Conde, and there he flung himself beside his wife's bed and poured bitter reproaches on himself and his conduct.

'You must live, my love, that I may prove to you that there has never been any in my life but you. You must give me the chance to show how deeply I love you.'

The tears he shed were genuine; but she also knew that what he meant this week he would cease to mean next. Such men were Louis and his brother Antoine, and because they were so, not only must their wives and children suffer, but the great cause of their religion be put into jeopardy.

Eleonore stroked his hair.

'My darling,' she said, 'you have given me great happiness. I would not have you different, for if you had been different, how could you have been my love?'

'I have not loved you as you deserve to be loved. I am a rogue. Tell me so. Tell me you hate me, for I deserve that. I deserve to be unhappy for the rest of my life.'

He was so handsome, with his head flung back and the tears on his cheeks, so earnest in his protestations. But how long would it be before he was swearing eternal fidelity to Isabelle de Limeuil or Madame de Saint-Andre? How long before they, and others too, would hear from those handsome lips that they were the loves of his life?

Charming Conde, so unstable in his emotions, yet so resolute in battle! Why had these Bourbons, so gifted with their charm and beauty, both been so fickle? Were the characters of these men responsible for the failure of the Reformation in France? They could not resist women, even those they knew to be the spies of the Queen Mother.

But what was the use of regretting now? The end was near for Eleonore.

'Oh, my darling!' cried Louis. 'My dearest wife! Blessed will the moment be when G.o.d commands us to meet in eternity!'

'Do not reproach yourself, my love,' said Eleonore. 'Only look after our children and remember that I have loved you. Remember the happiness of our days together. Remember the sober, prim little girl you married and whom you taught to laugh. Promise to look after our children and I shall be well content.'

She had her son brought to her and begged him to honour King Charles, the Queen of Navarre, his father and his Uncle Gaspard. 'Never forget the allegiance to the Faith I have taught you,' she implored him.

The boy was weeping, and she asked her husband to take him away and to leave her for a while. When they had gone she lay back smiling, her lips shaping the words of a prayer: 'Oh, G.o.d, my winter is past and my spring is come ...'

When Conde knew that she was indeed dead there was no stemming his grief. It seemed to him that his infidelities came back to mock him; he remembered so much that shamed him.

'Oh, what a scoundrel am I!' he groaned.

His little daughter came to him and tried to comfort him. He lifted her in his arms and said to her: 'Try, my darling, to be like her. If you are as she was, I shall love you more and more. Girls are said to take after their fathers, but you must try to be like your mother. In her you would find nothing that could not serve as a cherished ideal.'

He stayed in the Palais de Conde mourning for some weeks; he kept his children about him and talked continually of their mother; he longed to have his life over again, he said; he longed to turn back the clock.

But Conde's moods changed rapidly, and this one of remorse had lasted longer than usual. There was work to be done, he declared. He could no longer stay with his family.

Isabelle was waiting for him, more alluring, more beautiful than ever. He told her of his new resolutions to lead a better life. Isabelle listened and commiserated. She knew that it would not be difficult to obliterate those new resolutions of the most charming sinner in France.

Back at court after the trip to Bayonne, Catherine had found that the feud between the Colignys and the Guises was growing dangerous. Young Henry of Guise, whom she had thought of as nothing more than a boy, seemed, with his new position and responsibilities, to have become a man. Youth though he was, he was head of his house, and he could not forget nor forgive his father's death. Catherine saw that such enmity as seemed always to be the case was more than the quarrel of one man with another, more than the quarrel even of one family with another; it was once more the quarrel between one religious faction and another, just as the quarrels of Diane de Poitiers and Madame d'etampes had been in the reign of the first Francis; and in these quarrels were the sparks which set the fire of civil war raging throughout France.

Catherine went to see Gaspard de Coligny in his home at Chatillon, where he was enjoying a life of temporary seclusion with his family. How different Gaspard seemed with his wife and his family and the domestic calm all about him! She realised that these joys in which he was now indulging with such obvious content were what he wanted from life, but he was a man with a cause, a faith; and if he were called upon to fight for it, he must leave everything to do so. Here, then, was another of these fanatics.

Catherine sought an early opportunity of disclosing to Coligny the meaning of her visit. She joined him in his gardens where he was at work. He enjoyed his gardens and he had produced at Chatillon one of the loveliest Catherine had ever seen.

'Monsieur de Coligny,' said Catherine when she found herself alone with the Admiral, 'what trouble you caused us when you had dealings with an a.s.sa.s.sin named Poltrot de Meray!'

Coligny's face stiffened. Did he, Catherine wondered, arrange to have that shot fired which sent Francis of Guise reeling from his horse to lie senseless on the ground? He was obviously no common murderer, but might he not kill for the Faith? Oh yes, Catherine decided, as long as he could make his excuses with his G.o.d, he would kill. 'I did it, Lord, for you ...' As long as he could say that with what he would consider a clear conscience, he would do anything, she was sure.

'I believed,' said Coligny, 'that the matter had been settled.'

'Not to my satisfaction, I fear. That is what I wish to speak to you about. De Meray was your man, was he not?'

'He was my man.'

'Your spy, Monsieur?'

'He worked for me.'

Catherine smiled, and Coligny went on: 'Madame, what fresh trouble is this? Have I not answered every question satisfactorily?'

'Oh, just a little private interest, that is all.' Catherine wished he would discuss the murder with her. It would be interesting to compare notes on such a subject with such a man. 'You heard this man plotting to kill the Duke and you did nothing about it?'

'I agree to that.'

Catherine nodded. Doubtless he had hinted to de Meray that he wished Guise were dead, but did not care to have the guilt on his own soul. Perhaps he had offered to pay money to this man if he would bear the burden in the eyes of their G.o.d. The methods of these people made her want to laugh out loud. De Meray, talking of his plot to kill the Duke and talking of it in Coligny's hearing, had meant: 'Do you approve, master?' And Coligny's silence had meant approval. Perhaps, thought Catherine, as she had thought on other occasions, I and these people are not so very different.

'I did not come, however, to talk of past events, Monsieur,' said Catherine. 'The little Guise is a fiery personality. In him I fear we have another Duke Francis. Young still, but perhaps the more reckless for that. He is declaring open feud between his house and yours, for although we know that you had no hand whatsoever in the murder of the Duke of Guise your very n.o.ble confession that you heard the plot discussed exonerates you completely yet this fiery young fellow will not have it so. Now, you know, Admiral, that these feuds are distasteful to me. I would have peace in this kingdom.'

'What would you have me do, Madame?'

'I cannot have my Admiral suspected of murder. I propose to hold a banquet at Amboise no, let it be at Blois and there I wish to proclaim your innocence in this matter. The guests of honour will be yourself and the Guises. I want you to show your friendship to each other, to extend your hand and give the kiss of peace. I want all to know that there is friendship between you, and that the House of Guise no longer doubts your innocence in the unfortunate death of its kinsman.'

'Madame, this is impossible. We have so recently been fighting a bitter war they in one camp, I in another.'

'That is why it must be done, dear Admiral. I cannot have that rash boy going about speaking of these matters, inflaming his followers. We have peace an uneasy one, it is true and we must make it a lasting one. This must be done for the sake of that rash boy, if not for yours.'

'You think that by taking my hand and kissing my cheek he would become my friend, Madame?'

'I wish to proclaim to all that there is no enmity between you. You must do this. I insist. I command.'

Coligny bowed.

'You will be there at Blois to do as I wish?' said Catherine.

'It is your command, Madame.'

High above the village stood the imposing Castle of Blois. Its embrasured windows looked down on the wide stream of the Loire, bounded by the hills and vineyards of Touraine. There was uneasiness in the village; all knew that inside the chateau the Queen Mother had organised a banquet to promote friendship between the Colignys and the Guises. This was disquieting, for if trouble were to break out in the castle, it would extend to the surrounding villages. Huguenots trembled and thought of the ma.s.sacre at Va.s.sy, when Duke Francis of Guise had slaughtered Huguenots while they knelt at worship. Catholics told themselves to be ready to rally to the little Duke.

They had seen Duke Henry riding near the castle, handsome and remarkably like his father, so that Huguenots trembled to behold him, while Catholics exulted. The Admiral they had also seen stern of face, handsome, though in a different manner from the arrogant and dashing Henry of Guise. A great and a good man, it was said; and yet if he had had a hand in the murder of that young boy's father, it could be well understood that there was danger of strife within the castle walls to-day.

Catherine was pleased with the arrangements she had made. Once the two men had kissed in friendship, the young Duke must cease vowing vengeance on the Admiral. The fact that Coligny had come to Blois should show him that the Admiral wished to be friends. And, on his part, when the Admiral took the boy in his arms, he must think of him, not as the son of his old enemy, but as a young boy who had lost his father.

There was one other who occupied Catherine's thoughts on that day the Prince of Conde, who was now a widower. It was said that the Prince of Conde grieved deeply for his Princess, but he was living as gaily as ever. Catherine felt uncomfortable when she remembered how once she had not been so wise as she was to-day; she had thought a little too often and too tenderly of that man. How easy it would have been to have committed follies on his account! There should be no more folly. At least King Henry had been faithful to one mistress, and Catherine had known who was her enemy.

She felt strengthened in her wisdom. She learned, it was true, often through bitter lessons, but when a lesson was mastered, it should be mastered for life. No more tender feelings, then. Men were made not to love, but to serve her.

These men gathered together here at Blois were here to serve her. It suited her that they should be friends ... outwardly at least. She wanted no more civil strife, for every time it occurred she and her family were in danger. She should not feel the least regret that Conde was a philanderer bringing disrepute on his party, for Conde's weakness added to her strength. That was how men should be used not to give a brief erotic pleasure. If she had at one time fancied she would enjoy a lover, she no longer did. She was grateful to her tally of years, for it had brought her wisdom; it had stilled her longing for what was, at best, transient; it had made her grasp with both hands and hold firmly to what should henceforth be the love of her life power.

In the great hall at Blois were a.s.sembled men and women of the highest rank. The light came through the coloured gla.s.s of the embrasured windows, shining on the jewels and rich garments of her guests. Catherine had decided that she herself would proclaim the innocence of Coligny before them all, and command that kiss of friendship between the Admiral and Henry of Guise.

There was Anna d'Este, the widowed d.u.c.h.ess of Guise, keeping close to the side of her son. Surely Anna need not have appeared in such deep mourning! Catherine laughed to herself. Poor Anna! Meek as a lamb. She would be glad enough, if allowed by her ferocious son and her brother-in-law, to accept reconciliation. Anna hated bloodshed. Catherine remembered how she had protested at the Amboise ma.s.sacre. She could not bear to see men tortured; she could not bear to see them butchered. Hardly the sort of woman to have mated with Le Balafre; yet it was said that he had been fond of her for her gentleness, and that theirs had been a comparatively happy marriage. Besides, her rank doubtless compensated the ambitious Duke for her mildness. Yes, Catherine felt sure that it was Anna's son and her brothers-in-law who had insisted on that ostentatious mourning.

There was Duke Henry beside her, already proclaiming to the world, with his arrogant demeanour, that he was head of the great House of Lorraine and Guise the most feared, the most important in the country. Margot was eyeing him in an unseemly manner for which she should be punished later. When Margot met her mother's eyes she smiled innocently, but Catherine's expression grew a shade colder as she surveyed her daughter, and she knew that she had caused icy shivers to run through that body which, a moment before, had thrilled at the handsome arrogance of Henry of Guise.

There too was the Cardinal of Lorraine, the marks of his dissipation already marring the almost incomparable beauty of his features. It was said that there was nothing sufficiently licentious to please the Cardinal now; his erotic senses must be t.i.tillated as regularly as his palate. His mistresses were numerous. In his Cardinal's robes, adorned with magnificent jewels, he attracted every eye, the debauched man of the Church, the Catholic lecher. He bowed to Catherine, and his gaze as he met hers was haughty.

'Welcome, my lord Cardinal,' said Catherine. 'It does me good to see your pious face.'

'May I be so bold as to say that it does me good to see your Majesty's honest one? Madame, you are a light in our court. Your shining virtues are an example to everyone; and above all, your Majesty's deep sincerity puts us all to shame.'

'You flatter me, Cardinal.'

'Nothing, dear Madame, was farther from my mind.'

'Then I will not flatter you, dear Cardinal. I will only say that the whole of France should take as an example the piety and virtue of such a man of G.o.d.'

She turned to greet another. She was thinking: One of these days that lecher shall take a goblet of wine, shall eat of roast peac.o.c.k, or perhaps finger some beautiful jewel and then, no more of Monsieur le Cardinal!

But what was the use of thinking thus? She must continually guard against her impulse to destroy these notable people. Francis of Guise was dead let that suffice for the moment for who knew what the result of his death would be?

If a member of the Flying Squadron became impertinent, if a minor statesman became intransigent, then the procedure was simple; but with these prominent men and women it was always necessary to work in secret, to approach the object by devious roads, along which it was imperative to leave no traces. She would have to postpone dealing with the Cardinal.

Coligny was approaching. Ah, there was a man who was as easy to read as a book. Now he was looking stern, and his cold features said quite clearly: It is no wish of mine to be here. I have no desire for the friendship of the Catholic Guises. I was commanded to come. I gave my word that I would come; so come I did.

'Well met, Admiral,' said Catherine. 'It pleases me to see you here.'

'I but obeyed your command, Madame.'

Catherine tried to infuse into her expression that deep sincerity which had been the object of the Cardinal's jibe. But Coligny, that straightforward, honest man, was not the wily Cardinal. If the Queen Mother appeared sincere to him, Coligny would not doubt that she was so.

'Forgive a weak woman's desire for peace in her realm, dear Admiral.'

He bowed. 'I have no desire at any time but to carry out your Majesty's wishes.'

He pa.s.sed on, and Catherine looked about her; she did not see the Duke of Aumale among the a.s.sembly, although she had commanded his presence.

She called to the d.u.c.h.ess of Guise: 'Madame, I do not see your brother Aumale here.'

'No, Madame. He is not here.'

'Why not?'

'Madame, he suffers from a fever.'

Catherine's eyes narrowed. 'A fever of pride!' she said angrily. She beckoned young Henry of Guise to her side. How attractive he was! And how handsome! And what a man he would be one day!

'I am grieved not to see your uncle Aumale,' she said.

'I am sorry that your Majesty should be grieved.'

'A fever?' she said.

'Madame, you sent no express command to him.'

'I said I wished your family to be present.'

'Madame, he thought that, as your Majesty wished our family to be represented, you would only need myself and my uncle, the Cardinal.'

'I wished Aumale to be here,' said Catherine haughtily. 'It is no good excuse to plead a fever.'

'Madame,' said the boy, 'it is not pleasant for members of my family to show friendship to their enemies.'

'Have a care, boy,' she said. 'I'll have you thrashed if you give yourself airs. You are not yet a man, you know. A short while ago you were in the nursery. It would be well for you to remember that.'

Many watching eyes noticed the sudden heightened colour of the young Duke.

'My dear Duke,' continued Catherine more gently, 'it would be well for you to remember your youth and the need for obedience.'

Henry bowed formally and left the Queen Mother.

It would not be a good policy, Catherine realised, to have the Colignys and the Guises sitting near each other at table; she had taken the precaution of ensuring that they were separated by other guests. And when the feast was over, Catherine rose to address the a.s.sembly: 'Lords and ladies, you know that I have asked you here for a purpose this day, and my purpose is to put an end to evil rumour; for rumour is a foolish thing and when it is without truth it is an evil thing indeed. We mourn the untimely death of our dearly beloved Duke Francis of Guise, our greatest soldier, slain by the hand of a cowardly a.s.sa.s.sin. That in itself was a foul deed, and we offer to the bereaved family our sincerest condolence while we mourn with them for one we loved as our own brother. But the rumours which have circulated since his death have been as evil as that b.l.o.o.d.y deed, and there is one man among us here one of our finest men, a man whom we all honour and revere who has been accused of complicity in the murder of the Duke.

'Lords and ladies, these rumours are evil. They are proved to be slanders. The a.s.sa.s.sin has confessed them to be lies; and for that reason I have brought together here my greatly respected Admiral of France and the one who has perhaps suffered more than any of us from this horrible deed. I mean, of course, Duke Francis's son, Duke Henry of Guise, who is now the head of his house and who will, I know, bring it honour and glory as his father did before him. Admiral Gaspard de Coligny and Henry Duke of Guise, come forth.'

They stepped forward slowly towards the Queen Mother: the Admiral pale-faced, his mouth sternly set, the Duke with the rich colour in his face and his head held high.

Catherine stood between them. 'Give me your hand, Admiral,' she said. 'And yours, my lord Duke.'

She placed their two right hands together. Henry's was limp in that of the Admiral; his left hand rested on his sword.

There was silence while the two enemies faced each other and made it quite obvious to all that they had no liking for what the Queen Mother was pleased to consider a reconciliation. But Catherine had little understanding of others. Had she been in Coligny's place, she would have made a great show of embracing Henry of Guise, hoping thereby to a.s.sure the spectators of her wish for friendship. If she had been Henry of Guise, she would have accepted Coligny's embrace while she made her plans to destroy him. Catherine's greatest weakness was her lack of understanding of others.

'I would have you show us that you are friends, and that all enmity is forgotten in the kiss of peace,' she said.

Coligny leaned forward to kiss Henry on the cheek, but the young Duke stood up straight and said, so clearly that all in the room might hear it: 'Madame, I could not kiss a man whose name has been mentioned in connection with the tragic death of my father.'