That was comforting, but she was sad, for she could not help feeling that Antoine, by his light regard for the kingdom which she loved, had betrayed her in some way.
Later there came a summons from Paris to attend the wedding which was being arranged between the Dauphin and Mary Queen of Scots; and it was during this visit that Jeanne had yet another glimpse of the impetuous folly of the man she had married.
When they reached Paris and before they had paid their respects to the King, they were approached by an old friend of Antoine’s whose servant had been imprisoned. This friend asked Antoine to help him in effecting the release of this servant, and Antoine, flattered to be asked and eager to show his authority, promised to do what was requested of him. As his brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, was Governor of Paris at this time, Antoine had very little difficulty in pleasing his friend.
When King Henry heard what had happened, he was furious at what he considered to be officious interference; and when Jeanne and Antoine came to pay their respects, he greeted them coldly.
He turned to Antoine and said: ‘How, Monseigneur! Have I not told you before that there is and shall be only one King of France?’
Antoine bowed low. ‘Sire, before your Gracious Majesty my sun is in eclipse, and in this kingdom I am but your subject and your servant.’
‘Why then do you presume to open my prisons without my authority?’
Antoine burst into floods of explanations, while the King’s face darkened with fury. But at that moment, most unceremoniously, but as it turned out most propitiously, there ran into the chamber a small boy – little Henry of Navarre, the son of Jeanne and Antoine. He stared about him, his eyes bright, his cheeks rosy; and then without hesitation he ran straight to the King and embraced his knees. He did not know whose knees he was embracing; he only knew that this man had made an instant appeal to him.
King Henry could never resist children, just as they could never resist him. He hesitated for a moment – but only for a moment – and then he looked down into the bright little upturned face which was raised to his in genuine admiration and complete confidence.
‘Who are you?’ asked the King.
‘Henry of Navarre,’ answered the boy promptly. ‘Who are you?
‘Henry of France.’ The King lifted the boy in his arms and smiled, while the arms of Henry of Navarre were clasped about the neck of Henry of France.
‘Why,’ said the King, ‘I think you would like to be my son.’
‘That I would!’ replied the boy. ‘But I have a father, and that is he.’
The King was amused. He kissed the rosy cheek. He said: ‘Methinks then that there will be no alternative but to make you my son-in-law.’
‘That will be good,’ said little Henry.
And after such a scene with the boy the King found it difficult to be angry with the father. The matter was dismissed. ‘But,’ said the King warningly to Antoine, ‘you will do well to remember in future the rank you hold in France.’
Watching this scene, Jeanne’s pride in her son was spoiled by her apprehension on her husband’s account. It was a strange revelation to know that she must go on loving a man even when her respect for him had so sadly diminished.
How alien little Henry looked among the children of the royal household! He certainly looked more healthy than they, with his glowing cheeks and cottage manners. He himself was quite unconscious of any inferiority; and when Margot, who was a year older than he was, laughed at him, she soon found herself sprawling on the floor.
‘He is but a child,’ Jeanne explained, for Margot made the most of her injuries and carried the tale to her governess. ‘And he has, as yet, learned little of court manners.’
Catherine heard of the incident and laughed somewhat coarsely. ‘An old Béarnais custom perhaps, to knock down the ladies?’ she asked; and Jeanne found herself gripped by that fury which Catherine seemed to be able to arouse in her more than any other could and which was out of all proportion to the incident.
But Henry learned quickly; he was soon imitating the manners of Catherine’s sons and daughters and those of the little Guise Princes, who spent much time with the children of the royal household.
Jeanne felt that she could never be sure of these people who inhabited the court of France; they were not straightforward; they bowed and smiled and paid charming compliments while they hated. The royal children filled her with apprehension.
Poor Francis, the bridegroom-to-be, was so sickly and so passionately in love. He was continually telling young Mary how much he loved her, taking her into corners that he might whisper to her of his devotion. His love was his life, and he taxed his strength by trying to excel in all manly pastimes; he would ride until he was exhausted just to show the little Queen of Scots that he was every bit a man. His mother watched him, but showed no concern for his failing health; it seemed to Jeanne that Catherine regarded it with complacency. Surely a strange maternal attitude!
Then there was Mary herself, all charm and coquetry, the loveliest girl Jeanne had ever seen; though, thought Jeanne a little primly, she would have been more attractive if less aware of her own fascinating ways. Calmly this girl accepted the homage offered her; she seemed to think of little but her own charm and beauty. She even tried to fascinate Jeanne’s little Henry, and he – the bold little fellow – was quite willing to be fascinated. Would he, wondered Jeanne, be another such as his grandfather and his great-uncle, King Francis the First?
Then look at Charles. Little Charles was only eight years old, yet there was something about him which was quite alarming. Was it that wildness in his eyes, those sudden fits of laughter and depression? It was disturbing to see the longing glances he cast at Mary Queen of Scots, his envy of his brother. At times, however, he was a pleasant enough little boy, but Jeanne did not like the gleam in his eyes. There was a look almost of madness in them.
Henry, Catherine’s favourite son, was a year younger than Charles. He was yet another strange little boy. He was clever – there was no doubt of that. Beside him, Jeanne’s Henry seemed more coarse and crude than ever; but Jeanne would not have wished to possess such a son. He minced; he preened himself like a girl; he decked himself out in fine clothes, wept when he could not have an ornament he fancied, talked continually of the cut of his coat; he ran to his mother for her comfort if anything disturbed him; he begged her to give him ornaments to deck his conceited little person. And Catherine’s attitude to him was extraordinary. She was quite a different person when she was with this son. She petted him and fussed him; although he had been christened Edouard Alexandre, she had always called him Henry after his father, whom there was no doubt she loved. Jeanne would never understand Catherine. This child, alone of all her children, did not fear her; and yet she had seen even the brazen Margot cringe before her mother; she had seen fear in that little girl’s face merely at a lift of her mother’s eyebrow.