The Queen Mother had talked to Louise this afternoon when they were in the forest. She had told her what was expected of her. Nothing less than that she should, at the earliest possible moment, become the mistress of Antoine de Bourbon, the King of Navarre.
Louise smiled. Antoine was a charming man. She was not at all surprised by the commission. Every woman in the Escadron knew that she belonged to the Queen Mother, body and soul, much as every woman in the Petite Bande of King Francis the First had belonged to him. Sooner or later must come the summons to go here or there, to make oneself irresistible to this minister or that, to learn his secrets and pass them on to the Queen Mother. There was danger as well as excitement in the Escadron; each member knew that even though she longed to escape, once she was initiated there was no way out. It was, Isabelle had said, like selling one’s soul to the Devil. When she had said that her eyes had shone and Louise understood perfectly what she meant. Life under such a mistress – of whom they were permitted a more intimate glimpse than others enjoyed – had its excitements, its pleasures, its intellectual side, its morbid enchantment. All knew that to attempt to escape from the thraldom of the Queen Mother, to pass on her secrets, could end in one way only. They had seen it happen. There had been one girl who had wished to leave the Escadron, who had decided to reform and had begged leave to go into a nunnery. ‘By all means,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘If you wish to leave our company, you must go.’ And go she did, though she never reached the safety of a nunnery. She had fallen into a decline, her skin had shrivelled, her eyes had sunk into her head and her teeth had broken like glass.
Louise shuddered, yet with a thrill of excitement. She had no wish to go into a nunnery; the life of the Escadron delighted her.
She was sensual in the extreme. She enjoyed the caress of satin against her skin and anointing her body with the scents which Catherine graciously allowed her own parfumeurs to supply to the ladies of the Squadron. There was, Louise knew, some special aphrodisiac quality in those perfumes. She was quick-witted, as all the women were required to be; she delighted in the erotic literature which was so fashionable at the court; she herself composed verses and sang charmingly. Catherine’s Escadron was very similar to Francis’s Petite Bande; Catherine desired her women to be clever as well as beautiful, just as Francis had.
Smiling at the ornate ceiling of the apartment, at the naked cupids depicted there with their adorably fat bodies, she thought of Antoine. She had often noticed him with pleasure, and she imagined that he had not been altogether oblivious of her; his gaze had at times rested on her with something like regret, and she guessed that in the background of his mind were memories of his stern wife, Jeanne of Navarre.
Jeanne of Navarre! That woman with the cold, stern face, the new leader of the Huguenots! They were really rather stupid, these stern women who thought themselves so wise. They were so energetic, concerning themselves with prêches and edicts; cleverer women achieved their desires by far simpler methods.
Isabelle came to her bed and lay down beside her.
She whispered so that none of the others might hear: ‘The Queen Mother spoke to you this afternoon?’
Louise nodded.
‘To me also,’ said Isabelle.
‘And who is your quarry?’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘I’ll swear he is not so exalted as mine.’
‘Do not be too sure of that. Mine is a Prince.’
‘Mine is a King.’
‘A King!’
‘Antoine … King of Navarre.’
Isabelle began to laugh.
‘It is true,’ she said, ‘that you have a King and I have only a Prince, but my man is the more important.’
‘How could that be? Next to the Queen Mother, my Antoine is the most important personage of the court.’
‘Only on the surface, my dear. I assure you he is not so important as his brother.’
‘So yours is Condé?’
‘You are envious.’
Louise laughed, and sang quietly so that only Isabelle could hear:Le petit homme tant joliQui toujours chante, toujours ritEt toujours baise sa mignonne –Dieu garde de mal le petit homme.
‘Ah, my friend,’ said Isabelle, ‘I see that you are jealous.’
‘Who would not be? But you will never get him.’
‘Will I not!’
‘He is devoted to his wife.’
‘So is Antoine.’
‘Do you think I have anything to fear from that prim Huguenot?’
‘But you seem to think that other prim Huguenot, the sainted Eléonore, will keep me from my pretty little man.’
‘There is a difference. You know it, my dear. Antoine is the easier.’
‘Perhaps, my darling,’ said Isabelle, ‘that is why the Queen Mother gave him to you. She reserved the more difficult task, you see, for me.’
‘Oh, it is not so difficult. It will just need a little more time, perhaps.’
‘How fortunate we are! Two such charming men. And of what rank! Good times lie ahead of us.’
‘I’m all impatience,’ said Louise, springing off the bed. ‘I’ll wager you I’ll get my man before you do.’
‘Oh, I think that you may do that, since mine is the more difficult task. Good luck with Antoine.’
‘The best of good fortune with Louis. I wonder who will make the better lover.’
Isabelle snapped her fingers. ‘There will be little to choose. They have both had much experience.’
‘You must remember that they have been in the hands of the saint and the leader for many years. Powers wane and happy tricks are forgotten.’
‘We shall have to remind them of better days, my darling.’
They laughed so much that the others looked their way. No questions were asked. All the ladies knew that these two had been singled out for some special task by the Queen Mother that day, and at such times questions were never asked.
It was warm in the salle du bal. Antoine sat back feigning to watch the dancers, but he was too much aware of the woman at his side to notice them.
It seemed to him that rarely had he seen such a beautiful woman; she was seductive too; the low-necked gown showed her bare breasts, the nipples delicately reddened to match her lips. The perfume which came from her inflamed his senses; but more enchanting than her sensuous beauty was the homage, the adoration in her eyes.
She was saying: ‘My lord King, this is the greatest night of my life. To sit near you, to listen to your talk, that gives me great joy. Often have I watched you from a distance, not daring to approach one of such high rank; and when this night you asked me to partner you in the dance, I thought I should die of delight.’
‘My dear lady, you must not continue to worship from afar. You must perform that duty at closer quarters.’
She drew nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I am bold,’ she said. ‘There is something within me that makes me bold, something which I cannot control. I beg of you, my lord, do not ask me to come closer, for if I did my feelings might get the better of what is fitting in the presence of one so exalted.’
‘It is right, I am sure, that you should come closer,’ said Antoine. ‘I have no objection to being worshipped at very close quarters by one so fair as you are, my dear Mademoiselle de la Limaudière.’
She smiled wonderingly. ‘See how my hands tremble at the touch of Your Majesty.’
‘Why so, Mademoiselle Louise?’