She did not answer but appeared to be concentrating on their steps.
“You know why I am here,” he said.
“Yes. You come to collect your dues—the price asked for the King’s divorce!”
“How French you are! All decorum one moment; all impetuosity the next. I confess I find the combination fascinating.”
“Then, as my frankness does not offend you, I will be even more so. I know your intentions concerning myself.”
“That pleases me. Now we can dispense with a long courtship.”
“My lord Duke, I have had no word from my father that I may look upon you as a suitor.”
“We shall soon have that.”
“In that you are mistaken.”
“You do not know me. I do not flinch at a little opposition.”
“Yet you, my lord, who feel such devotion toward legitimacy—for if you do not, why did you not wait for my cousin Sanchia who is so much more beautiful than I and for whom, if rumor does not lie, you have already some affection—seem to have so little regard for the same devotion in others.”
He flushed angrily. The girl, for all her prudery, had a sharp tongue and he was in no mood for a protracted wooing; he had dallied long enough, and he was becoming a laughing stock—which he found intolerable—both in France and in Italy.
“Legitimacy,” he retorted, “is invaluable to those who lack qualities which make it unimportant.”
“And you, my lord, are richly endowed with such qualities?”
He gripped her hand and she winced. “You will soon discover how richly,” he retorted.
He relaxed his grip on her hand and she murmured: “You scowl, my lord Duke. I pray you do not. It will appear that you are not satisfied with your partner. If that is the case, I beg of you, conduct me to the Queen.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” he answered, “until I have had an opportunity—for which I have been waiting ever since I set foot in this country—of talking to you.”
“Then, my lord, I pray you talk.”
“My first purpose in coming to France is to make you my wife.”
“You forget, my lord, that I am a Princess of Naples and that you should not speak thus to me unless you have first obtained the consent of my father.”
“It is the wish of His Holiness.”
“I did not mean the Holy Father. I mean the King, my father.”
“He knows it is the Pope’s wish that our marriage should take place.”
“Nevertheless, my lord, I have received no instructions that I may listen to you.”
“They will come.”
“My lord will understand that, as an obedient daughter, I must wait for those instructions.”
“You are clearly a lady of strong character. I can see that you are one who would make up her own mind.”
“You are right. I have made up my mind to wait for my father’s instructions. I see that the Queen signs for me to return to her. Will you conduct me to her?”
“No,” said Cesare.
She had, however, disengaged herself and, dropping a curtsey, she turned slowly and walked back to the Queen.
Cesare stood for a few seconds glowering after her; then he realized that amused eyes were watching him. He found a bold-eyed girl and turned his attentions to her, but all the time he was seething with rage which he was finding it difficult to hide for he was still conscious of Carlotta who was being much more charming to the insignificant Breton nobleman than she had been to him.
Louis summoned Cesare to his presence. The shrewd eyes of the French King took in the elaborate doublet, the jewels which glittered on hands and neck. Cesare found it difficult to suppress irritation when he was in the presence of the King of France. That determined lack of expression was more galling than jeers would have been. Cesare believed that the King’s mild appraisement of his finery meant: We understand why you must deck yourself so, my bastard Dukeling. These gewgaws would seem very precious to a bastard, who has just escaped from his Cardinal’s robes.
In France Cesare had had to learn restraint, and that was not easy for one of his temperament.
He knelt before the King, and he fancied that Louis took a sly delight in keeping him on his knees longer than he would another.
At length he was bidden to rise. Then Louis said: “The news is not good, my lord Duke, and deeply I regret that it should be my task to impart it.”
Louis’ expression was commiserative but Cesare could not rid himself of the idea that behind it was a certain pleasure.
“It’s from Naples,” he went on. “Federico stubbornly refuses to consent to your marriage with his daughter.”
“Why so, Sire?” demanded Cesare, and the imperious tones sent the royal eyebrows up a fraction.
There was silence, then Cesare added: “I pray Your Majesty, tell me on what grounds the King of Naples objects to my marriage with his daughter.”
“On the grounds of your birth.”
“My birth! I am the son of the Pope.”
Louis’ mouth lifted slightly at the corners. “It is a sad but nevertheless logical conclusion, my lord, that the sons of Popes must be illegitimate.”
Cesare clenched his right fist and banged it into the palm of his left hand. He found it difficult to refrain from taking this man by the shoulders and shaking him, King though he was.
“This is folly,” he cried out.
The King nodded sadly.
“And,” went on Cesare, “I doubt not, in Your Majesty’s power and determination to fulfill your contract with my father, you will ignore the objections of this petty monarch.”
“My lord Duke, you forget that I have carried out my part of the bargain. I gave you your estate and title and my consent for you to woo the lady. I cannot take a father’s place when she has a father living.”
“We could be married here, Sire, and then what could her father do?”
Louis allowed a profoundly shocked expression to cross his face. “You would ask me to come between a daughter and her father? No, not even for my friends could I do it. Moreover I have received protests from all over Europe. There is one here from my brother of England—King Henry VII. He sends word that he is deeply shocked that there is a possibility that bastardy should be linked with royalty, and that a son of His Holiness should marry with the legitimate daughter of a King.” Louis smiled. “I fancy our brother of England is a little shocked that His Holiness should even possess a son—but that is beside the point.”
“And he a Tudor!” cried Cesare, his rage refusing to be controlled. “Can the Tudors feel so certain of their own legitimacy?”
Again the King’s eyebrows were raised, and his expression was so cold that Cesare was immediately made aware that he might be a hostage in a foreign land.
“I could not discuss my brother’s affairs with you,” said Louis sharply. He waved his hand to indicate that the interview was over.
Cesare angrily left the apartment. His attendants, who had been waiting for him at a respectful distance, followed him. He looked at them sharply. Did they know that he had been humiliated?
He resisted an impulse to take one of the men by the ear, to drag him to his apartments and there order that his tongue be cut out. He was determined that none should carry tales back to Rome of what he had suffered in France. First to be flouted by that foolish girl; then to be treated as a man of no account by the King! And what the King did today his friends would do tomorrow.
But caution restrained him. A moment ago he had had a glimmer of understanding as to what his position was. What if he decided to leave France at once? Would he be allowed to go? Was he going to marry Carlotta when it seemed that the whole of France and Europe was against him? Was he going to return to Rome, a laughing stock?
He had to be careful, never forgetting for an instant that he could not behave in France as he did in Italy.