Catherine therefore sent for her magicians, René and the notorious brothers, Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri; and with them she concocted lotions to preserve the skin. They decided that if the skin of a person suffering from smallpox were spread liberally with the white of eggs, disfigurement could be avoided. Accordingly she sent instructions to the French ladies of the young Queen’s retinue, at the same time demanding a constant flow of news concerning her daughter’s progress.
She had always been worried about Elisabeth’s health. There were certain irregularities which she had kept secret and had insisted on Elisabeth’s keeping secret, for she feared they indicated that her daughter—as she believed was the case with some of her other children—had inherited through her grandfather, François Premier, the ill effects of that disease of which he had died and which was called by the French La Malaie Anglaise.
As soon as she knew that her daughter would recover, Catherine wrote to her: “Remember, my child, what I told you before you left. You know quite well how important it is that none should know what malady you may have. If your husband knew of it, he would never come near you …”
Although she felt so much better, the little Queen was very uneasy when she received that letter. Her attendants could not understand her grief. They held up mirrors before her that she might see her pretty face with the skin as clear as it had been before her illness.
“You must thank your mother for this,” they said. “She sent so many lotions, but it was the egg remedy which saved your complexion.”
But thoughts of her mother, they noticed, could do little to soothe the Queen.
She was naturally glad to be well again and to see that her skin was smooth and beautiful; but she could not forget how Philip, at great risk to himself, had visited her daily; and, she reasoned with herself, if it was true that she was affected by a very terrible hereditary disease, it seemed even more wicked not to tell him now than it had before.
When he came to her, sat by her couch, held her hand, and brought her presents of rich jewels and fruit, she wanted to tell him; but she dared not, because she still felt the influence of her mother in the room.
She dared not disobey her mother.
Now she was well again and there were celebrations to mark her recovery.
Philip seemed almost young, kissing and caressing her when they were alone together. Nor did she object to those caresses; she felt it was rather wonderful that he, the most powerful King in the world, so stern and cold to others, should be almost gay when he was alone with her, taking an interest, it seemed, in the dresses and jewels she wore.
There were so many dresses—all richly embroidered and cut in the French style; she wore a new one every day, for once she had worn them she liked to give them away, especially to the Spanish ladies, who were delighted to possess a French dress, particularly one which had belonged to the Queen.
But the suspicion that she might be diseased haunted her.
One day she said: “Philip, I do so much hope that I shall have a child, but sometimes I fear …”
“Dear little Isabella, why should you fear? You shall have every care in the world when the time comes.”
But he was afraid as he said those words. He was a young man again in the bedroom of Maria Manoela; he was sitting by the bed of a young wife who was too near death to be conscious of his presence. He would be haunted all his life by a young bride whom he had loved briefly, and so tragically lost. It was alarming to think of this lovely young girl, facing the danger which had robbed him of Maria Manoela.
She saw the fear in his face and she said quickly: “Why are you afraid?”
He was silent, wondering how he could explain to her what she was beginning to mean to him. He could not say to her: “I had thought I was done with emotional entanglements. There were so many good reasons why we should marry and be content with our marriage; they are enough. I am dedicated to my destiny, and my greatest wish is that you should have a son; and if you fail in this and die in the attempt, why then, I must quickly get myself a new wife. Sons for Spain; an heir to take the place of Carlos. That is the very reason for our union.”
Yet he was beginning to suffer as once before he had suffered. He was beginning to dread the time when she would bear their child.
She could not understand his thoughts.
“I … I did not mean,” she said quickly, “that I was afraid of the pain of bearing a child. It was that … there might not be a child. Queens do not bear children as easily as commoners, it seems.”
“Is that all you fear, Isabella?” he asked.
Briefly she hesitated. Then she said: “I am afraid … that I …” But she could not go on, because it seemed that her mother was there, forbidding her.
“I would not have you afraid of anything,” he said gently.
“But it is my duty to have children, and if …”
“It is our duty,” he said with a return of his solemn manner. “Let us hope that before long we shall have a child.” He paused and said quickly: “You will not suffer in the ordeal more than I shall.”
Then she made one of her pretty gestures. She threw her arms about him.
“You are so good to me …” she said. “You are so kind.”
Her mother sent pictures from France. There was a beautiful one of Margot. The little girl, with her slanting, merry eyes and her gay little mouth with that expression of sauciness, was enchanting. There was also one of Catherine, her mother.
She read the accompanying letter:
“These pictures are for you, my dearest daughter. Show them to the Prince, particularly the one of little Marguerite. Is it not charming? Little Margot grows irresistible. Everyone loves her. Do not forget what you have to do for your sister. If your husband were to die, you would be the most unfortunate woman in the world, for what would your position be? There would be a new Queen of Spain, the wife of Don Carlos. If that wife were your sister Margot, why then your position would be assured. So you must bring about this match …”
She must. Of course she must. And what fun it would be if Mar-got were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Mar-got—who had already announced her intention of marrying her dear friend Henry of Guise—in this court, married to Carlos. Henry of Guise was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. And Carlos? Well, she was fond of him because he was so gentle with her, and if he was in one of his passions, she alone could bring him out of it; but what would Margot think of him?
She went along to the apartments of Carlos, taking the pictures with her. She came and went as she liked now. She had dispensed with much of the ceremony which it behooved the Queen of Spain to use. No one seemed to mind. This was the enchanting Isabella, the favored one. Everyone loved her, including the King; and they could see no harm in anything she did. She was just a charming child for all that she was the Queen of Spain.
“Carlos,” she cried. “I am here.”
He was with his companions, Alexander and Juan. They all stood up to greet her, and she joined them at the table. They sat around it like four children, only there was a look of passionate yearning in the eyes of Carlos which was unchildlike.