Ah, she thought, my clever son, my handsome little Italian, why were you not my first-born?
She took him into her arms and kissed him. She told herself, as she had so many times before, that she would use all her power to advance this beloved son. She was as necessary to him as he was to her.
But he wanted now to escape from her, to go to his own apartment and write poetry; he wanted to look at his reflection in his new Venetian mirror and admire the fine garments and the earrings he was wearing.
She let him go, for he was petulant if detained; and when he had gone she felt a distaste for her other children, who were not like Henry.
She did not wish to keep Hercule with her, so she sent him into the gardens to tell his sister Marguerite to come to her at once. Hercule looked startled, for when Margot was not called by her pet name which Charles had given her, it usually meant that she was in disgrace.
‘And,’ went on Catherine, ‘you need not return with her. You may stay in the gardens.’
Hercule went out, and Margot lost no time in obeying her mother’s summons.
The little girl stood before Catherine; she seemed quite different from the gay little coquette of the gardens. She curtsied, and her great dark eyes betrayed her fear; Margot was always afraid when summoned to her mother’s presence.
She came forward to kiss her mother’s hand, but Catherine withheld the hand in displeasure.
‘I have been watching you,’ she said coldly, ‘and I have found your behaviour disgraceful. You roll on the grass like the lowest serving-girl, while you attempt, in your foolish way, to coquette first with Monsieur de Joinville and then with Monsieur Beaupréau.’ Catherine gave a sudden laugh which terrified Margot. Margot did not know why her mother frightened her. She did know that this was going to mean a beating, probably from her governess; but there had been many beatings, and Margot had a method of moving out of range of the rod; it was a technique of her own invention which she had taught the others. It was not the beating which frightened her; it was her mother. She was terrified of this woman’s displeasure. She had said that it was like displeasing God or the Devil. ‘I believe,’ Margot had said, ‘that she knows in her thoughts what we do; I believe that she sees us when she is miles away from us, and that she knows our thoughts. That is what frightens me.’
‘You are not only foolish,’ went on Margot’s mother, ‘you are wanton and wicked. I would not answer for your innocence. What a pleasant thing is this! Your father so recently dead, and you see fit to sport in the gardens with these two gentlemen.’
Margot began to cry at the mention of her father; she remembered suddenly so clearly the big, kindly man with the silvery hair and the understanding smile; she remembered him as a man she thought of first as father, then as King. She could not think how she could have forgotten him when she was trying to make Henry jealous of silly young Beaupréau. Perhaps it was because when she was with Henry of Guise she forgot everything but that boy.
‘You, a Princess of France … so to forget yourself! Go and tell one of the women to find your governess and send her to me.’
While she waited for the governess to arrive, Margot tried to tell herself that this was nothing; it would merely mean a beating; but Margot could not stop herself trembling.
‘Take the Princess away,’ said Catherine to the governess. ‘Give her a good beating and see that she remains in her room for the rest of the day.’
And Margot, trembling still, went from her mother’s presence; but as soon as she was in the corridor with her governess, all her old spirit came back to her; her tears stopped suddenly and she looked slyly up at the poor woman to whom the beating of Margot was a greater ordeal than to Margot.
And in the apartment, with the rod in her hand, the governess tried in vain to catch the small, darting figure; there were not many strokes that found their target on the lively little body. Margot’s red tongue popped out now and then in derision, and when the governess was completely exhausted, Margot danced about the apartment, studying her budding beauty, wishing Henry of Guise was there to admire her.
Having despatched Margot, Catherine sent an attendant down to the garden to have Charles brought to her.
He came in trepidation, as Margot had done. He was nine and seemed moderately healthy; it was only after his hysterical fits came upon him and his eyes became bloodshot and there was foam on his lips that he seemed feeble.
‘Come here, my son,’ said Catherine.
‘You sent for me, Madame.’
‘I have been watching you in the gardens, Charles.’
Into his eyes there came that same haunted look which she had seen in Margot’s. He, like his sister, was terrified of the thought of his mother’s watching eyes.
‘What were you saying to Mary, Charles?’
‘I was asking if I might read some verses to her.’
‘Some verses … written by you to Mary?’
He flushed. ‘Yes, Madame.’
Catherine went on: ‘What do you think of your sister Mary? Come, tell me. And tell me the truth, Charles. You cannot hide the truth from me, my son.’
‘I think,’ said Charles, ‘that there never was a more beautiful Princess in the whole of the world.’
‘Go on. Go on.’
‘And I think my brother Francis is fortunate above all others because Mary is his wife.’
Catherine took his wrist and held it firmly. ‘That is treason,’ she said quietly. ‘Francis is your King.’
‘Treason!’ he cried, trying to start back. ‘Oh no. It is not treason.’
‘You cherish unholy thoughts about his wife.’ She kept her voice low as though that of which she spoke was too shocking to be spoken aloud.
‘Not unholy,’ cried Charles. ‘I merely wish that I might have been my father’s eldest son, and that I might stand in Francis’s place – not for the throne, but that Mary might be my wife.’
‘These are wicked, wanton thoughts, my son. These are treasonable thoughts.’
He wanted to contradict her, but her eyes were fixed on him and he found that he was speechless.
‘Do you know, my son, what happens to traitors? I will take you down to the dungeons one day and there I will show you what is done to traitors. They are tortured. You cannot understand torture, but perhaps, as you harbour traitorous thoughts against your brother, it would be a kindness to show you these things.’
Charles cried out in terror: ‘No; please do not. I could not … I could not look. I cannot bear to see such things.’
‘But it is as well that you should know, child, for even Princes may suffer torture if they are traitors to their kings.’
His lips were moving, and she saw the flecks of foam gathering upon them; his eyes were wide and staring, and she saw the pink veins beginning to show in the whites of them.
‘I will tell you what happens to traitors,’ she went on. ‘It should be part of your education. In the dark dungeons of the Conciergerie – you know the Conciergerie, my son – prisoners are kept. They scream in terror. They would faint, but they are not allowed to faint. They are brought round by means of herbs and vinegar. Some have their eyes put out; some lose their tongues or have their ears lopped off. Some suffer the water torture, others the Boot. Those who betray kings suffer more terribly than any others. Their flesh may be torn with red-hot pincers, and molten lead, pitch, wax, brimstone … such things are poured into the wounds …’
Charles began to scream: ‘No … no! I won’t go there. I won’t be tortured. I won’t … Maman … you will not let them take me … ?’