She wrote ingratiatingly with the object of trying to a.s.sure that grimmest of men, her most Catholic son-in-law, that she was a good Catholic and that the interests of Spain were in truth those of France.
"I wish G.o.d would take the Queen of Navarre," she wrote, "so that her husband might marry without delay."
The King and Queen of Navarre were the talk of the court. There were open quarrels between them, and Jeanne did not now hesitate to hide her feelings. The King had tried to force the Queen to go to ma.s.s. He was by turns cold and quarrelsome, indifferent and abusive.
Louise de la Limaudiere, who knew that if the King of Navarre were divorced he would remarry, and saw herself in the exalted position of his wife, gave herself airs.
She was every bit as important, she considered, as the Queen of Navarre. She herself might one day be Queen of Navarre or Sardinia. The Queen Mother had promised her this reward for having an unmarried woman of rank borne the King"s b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
She grew haughty, and even impertinent, in the presence of the Queen of Navarre herself.
"Why, Madame," she ventured when there were others present, "do you not follow the fashions of the court? A gown such as this would make you look less angular. And that colour does not become you. It makes you look drab, Madame, like a serving-girl rather than a Queen."
Jeanne turned away; she would not lower her dignity by bandying words with such a woman. But Louise followed her, while all present looked on.
"Believe me, Madame, I know what the King, who is at present your husband, likes in a woman. He has told me often that I possess those attributes."
"I am not interested in what my husband looks for in a woman," said Jeanne, "because, Mademoiselle, I am not interested in my husband, and certainly not in you."
"Oh, but, Madame, Antoine is such a wonderful lover. I am sure you do not bring out the best in him."
"He must have seemed so to you," retorted Jeanne, "since you besmirched still further for his sake your already foul reputation. Now you may leave me. I have more important matters with which to concern myself."
"Madame, I have the King"s son."
"You have his b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I believe. Mademoiselle, b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are as common in this land as the harlots who produce them, so that one more or less makes little difference, I do a.s.sure you."
Jeanne swept away, but she was furiously angry.
Antoine was waiting for her in her apartment.
He said coldly: "It is my wish that you should accompany me to ma.s.s."
"Your wishes, my lord, are no concern of mine," retorted Jeanne.
She was disturbed to see her son Henry sitting on the window-seat; the boy laid aside his book to watch this scene between his parents.
Antoine ignored the presence of the boy. He took Jeanne by the wrist. "You are coming to ma.s.s with me. You forget that I am your master."
She wrenched herself free and laughed at him. "You ... my master! Save such talk for Mademoiselle de la Limaudiere. Pray remember who I am."
"You are my wife."
"It is indeed gracious of you to remember that. I meant, remember that you speak to the Queen of Navarre."
"Enough of this folly. You will come with me to ma.s.s ... at once."
"I will not. I will never be present at the ma.s.s or any papist ceremony."
Little Henry got slowly down from the window-seat and approached them. He said haughtily: "Sir, I beg you, leave my mother alone."
Antoine turned on his son, and something in the boy"s dignity angered him because it made him feel small and despicable.
"How dare you?" he cried.
"I dare," said Henry, looking, Jeanne thought, like his grandfather, that other Henry of Navarre, "because I will not have my mother roughly handled."
Antoine seized the boy and flung him to the other side of the room. Henry saved himself by clutching at the hangings. He recovered himself with dignity. Then he shouted: "Nothing will induce me to go to ma.s.s either!"
Antoine strode over to him and took him by the ear. "You, my lord, will go whither you are commanded."
"Whither my mother commands," flashed Henry.
"No, sir. Whither your father commands."
"I will not go to ma.s.s," reiterated Henry. "I am a Huguenot like my mother."
Antoine gave the boy a violent slap across the face. Jeanne watched proudly, exulting at the way in which the boy stood there, legs apart, glowering at his father. "A true Bearnais!" his grandfather would have said.
Antoine was by no means a violent man, and he was disliking this scene even as his son exulted in it; he therefore wished to end it as speedily as possible. He was fond of the boy; he was proud of him, for all that he was an unkempt little creature without a trace of elegance; his wits were admirably sharp and there was no doubt of his courage.
Antoine called for an attendant, and when a man appeared he cried: "Send my son"s tutor to me." And when the tutor came he ordered that young Henry should be severely whipped for his impertinence.
Henry left the room chanting: "I will not go to ma.s.s. I will not go to ma.s.s." His black eyes were alight with excitement, fervour and love for his mother.
The door shut behind the boy and his tutor.
"A pretty scene," said Jeanne, "and you, my lord, played the pretty part in it that I would expect of you. My son put you to shame, and I can see that you had enough grace to feel it. What a pity Mademoiselle de la Limaudiere could not have been here as witness! I doubt whether her b.a.s.t.a.r.d will have the spirit of that boy."
"Be silent!" commanded Antoine.
"I will speak when I wish to."
"You are a fool, Jeanne."
"And you are a knave."
"If you do not become a Catholic immediately, I will divorce you."
"How can you do that, my lord?"
"The Pope has promised it. He would not have me tied to a heretic."
"Divorce me and forgo my crown? That would not suit you, Monsieur."
"The crown would be mine if I were to divorce you."
"How could that be? My father left it to me."
"Part of Navarre was lost to Spain, and the whole of Navarre might be restored to me. Spain does not like heretics, even though they be queens. Spain would like to see me with a wife of my own faith."
"Mademoiselle de la Limaudiere?" she asked, but she had begun to tremble, thinking of that bold high-spirited boy who might grow up to find that, through his father"s knavery, he had no kingdom.
"Don"t be a fool," said Antoine.
"It is you who are the fool. Do you not see that these people plot against you as well as against me? They plan your degradation as well as mine. Sardinia! That barren island. And they made you believe it was a paradise." Her voice trembled. "Antoine," she said, "I think of our children. What will become of them? Your repudiation of me, I can see, will destroy me, but it will also be the ruin of our children."
And then she did what he had rarely seen her do; she broke down and wept; and once the tears had started she could not stop them. Her tears moved him. He remembered all that she had been to him. Poor Jeanne! That this should have happened to them seemed incredible. It had come about so gradually that he had not noticed its creeping upon them. He thought of all the happiness they had shared, the days when she had been in camp with him, his return to her after the wars. He wavered, as he always wavered. He was not sure, even at this late hour, whether he should give up Jeanne or La Belle Rouet, not sure whether he would go on with his conversion or turn back to the Reformed Faith. He was beset by doubts, as he always was. He could never be sure which was the right road for him.
"Jeanne," he said, "you had best make this step unnecessary by obeying me and making your peace with Rome and Spain. As for myself, I am undecided which religion is the true one. It is simply this, Jeanne that while my uncertainty lasts, I am minded to follow the faith of my fathers."
She laughed with great bitterness. "Well," she cried, "if your doubts on either side are equal, I beg of you to choose the religion which is likely to do you least prejudice."
She had laughed at him; once more she had mocked. Antoine hardened and swung away from her. It had always been thus. She had never made things easy for him; she would not meet him halfway.
He remembered once more that she stood in his way to greatness.
Catherine was terrified. She felt that her first real adventure into foreign policy might cost her her life. She was exposed now, whereas previously she had worked in the dark. She was surrounded by powerful enemies; spies from Rome and Spain. The Guises were against her; the Catholics suspected her of being in league with the Huguenots, and the Huguenots did not trust her. She had tried to follow the teachings of Machiavelli, but she had not succeeded. The serpent was in the open, uncoiled for all to see, and, realising the poison she carried in her fangs, both sides were ready to crush that cold, inhuman head.
The King of Navarre had joined the Catholic Triumvirate which had been set up to deal with the Huguenot menace; and he had walked through Paris at the head of the Catholic procession and attended ma.s.s in public at the Church of St. Genevieve. This meant that he was now openly pledged to the Catholic religion.
Catherine knew that Jeanne was in imminent danger. But what of herself? There were religious riots all over the country. Huguenots were despoiling Catholic churches, breaking up images, setting fire to altars, killing Catholics wherever they could. Catholics retaliated fiercely, surprising congregations and butchering them as they kneeled at prayer, setting fire to Huguenot meeting-places. A mother bringing a child from a christening which had been carried out in the Reformed manner was set upon and her child killed before her eyes. The Council of Poissy, which was to have bred toleration, seemed to have made matters worse. There was dissension everywhere, and the hatred between the Catholics and Protestants was rising to a frenzy all over the country. In Paris always staunchly Catholic the Huguenots were persecuted at every turn; but there were towns, such as La Roch.e.l.le, where the Protestants were in the majority, and here atrocities were committed against men, women and children in the name of the Reformed Faith.
Catherine listened to the council of the Triumvirate through a tube which hung behind the arras in the council chamber at the Louvre and led into her own apartments.
In clear tones, Francis of Guise said: "The Queen Mother"s interference in matters of state becomes intolerable. It is my suggestion that we get rid of her."
Listening with horror, Catherine strained to hear everything. She thought of those four men who made up the Triumvirate, now incorrectly named, since Antoine had joined it and made it a council of four. There were the Guise brothers the Duke and the Cardinal the Marechal de Saint-Andre and Antoine.
"Exclude her from the Regency!" she heard Antoine cry.
Saint-Andre said: "Why not rid ourselves of her by drowning her in the Seine? It could easily be accomplished without discovery, for I fancy there is no person in France who would take the trouble to investigate the lady"s disappearance."
Catherine listened to no more. She did not realise that what had been said about throwing her into the Seine had been said jocularly. Had she been in the place of these men, she would have chosen an early opportunity of disposing of an enemy; she imagined that they were prepared to do the same.
She lost no more time, but went to the King"s apartment and told him that they must leave for Fontainebleau at once; and this they did, galloping off in secret that night.
Meanwhile, the Council had stopped talking about the Queen Mother, to discuss what they considered a more serious matter, that of Jeanne of Navarre.
"There is only one course open to us," said Francis of Guise. "She must be arrested as a state prisoner at the earliest possible moment."
Listening to this, Antoine turned pale. Jeanne ... a state prisoner, confined to one of the dungeons! Proud Jeanne! And what then? Turned over to Spain, to the dreaded Inquisition. Torture ... the terrible torture of the Spanish Inquisition. He could imagine Jeanne as she faced the Inquisitors. She would never give way. She would suffer the rack, the water torture, any vileness they could think of. They could tear her flesh with red-hot pincers and pour molten lead into her wounds, but she would never give way.
The Cardinal of Lorraine had laid his hand on Antoine"s shoulder. "It sometimes happens," said the smooth voice of the Cardinal, "that it becomes necessary, for the sake of true religion, to act in a manner which is repulsive to us."
Antoine bowed his head. He tried to shut out the picture of a martyred Jeanne. He tried to see himself received triumphantly into Heaven. There would be a good place for him, an honoured place, for he had embraced the true faith, and all would be forgiven once a straying sheep had returned to the fold.
"Then we are all agreed that a warrant must be issued for the arrest of Jeanne of Navarre," said the Duke of Guise.
Antoine did not speak, and his silence was taken as agreement.
"On a charge of heresy," added the Cardinal. He then embraced Antoine. "This, Monseigneur, is an act worthy of you," he declared. "May G.o.d give you a good and long life."
"So be it!" said the Duke.
The session was at an end.
Antoine left the council chamber, trying to rea.s.sure himself; that was not easy, for he felt like Judas.
It was not long before Jeanne heard that a warrant was being issued for her arrest, for she had many friends at court. Overcome by this fresh evidence of the perfidy of the man she loved for she knew that such an order would come through the Triumvirate, of which Antoine was now a member Jeanne was glad that there was need for immediate action which would prevent her brooding.
"Fly at once," she was warned, "for there is not an hour to be lost. You will not be safe until you are in your own dominions. And if you are caught apart from all the horrors which would await you what a blow this would be to the Huguenot cause!"
She realised the truth of this and, taking her little four-year-old daughter, set out at once with her attendants.
Since that occasion when her son Henry had defended her against his father, the boy had been taken from her and kept in his father"s apartments at Saint-Germain; and as she could not go without Henry, she must journey first to Saint-Germain to see him and, if possible, to take him away with her.
As she rode there her thoughts were bitter. Not content with taking her son from her, Antoine had been callous enough to put him in the care of Vincent Lauro, the Jesuit. Her enemies were determined to rob her of her son as well as her husband.
Her friends had warned her that it was folly to think of calling at Saint-Germain, for she would not be allowed to take the boy; she could depend upon it that he was well guarded, and she would merely imperil her own safety. But Jeanne would not listen. She must see Henry. She must even if she could not take him with her have a few words with him, to remind him of his obligations to her and to his faith.
She forced her way to him past his new tutors and the attendants, who were really guards. The little boy ran to her and embraced her warmly.
"Oh, my mother, have you come to take me home to Bearn?"
Antoine, who had immediately been warned of her coming, burst into the apartment; he stood, his arms folded, while he surveyed his wife with cold dislike, his son with sternness.
"You must stay here with me," said Antoine, answering the boy"s question. "I am your father and you are under my control."
"But I wish to go with my mother!" cried the bold little boy.
"Try to be sensible," said Antoine. "I do not wish to have you punished more than you have been already."
"Mother, must I stay?"
She nodded, for she knew that guards were in the palace and she could not risk any injury to her son. He was bold and he would, she knew, try to fight them; but he would obey his mother.
"I fear so." She held him against her breast. "Henry, my dearest son."
"Oh, Mother ... dearest Mother."
She whispered to him: "Never forget my counsels, darling. Be true to me always and true to the faith."
He whispered back: "Mother, I will. I swear it."
"Soon all will be well and we shall be together."
"Yes, Mother."