So Louise went through to Antoine’s bedchamber. She stood by the bed.
‘My King,’ she whispered.
‘Louise!’
‘I could not stay away,’ she said.
This is no fault of mine, the King of Navarre told himself.
The next day Antoine was remorseful. He had been unfaithful. He was in love. Louise de la Limaudière was the most enchanting creature he had ever known. But he must do without her. He must eschew such love.
He wrote a long letter to Jeanne.‘MY DEAREST WIFE, – I sigh because you are not here with me. I think of you all the time. Never forget that I am your loyal and affectionate husband. Other ladies have no power to move me. To me they seem ugly. I am bored when I do not see you … oh, much more than you can ever know. You must have pity on me … for my nights are sleepless and I have grown a little thinner. I shall not revive until I see you …’
He wrote on fervently and passionately, assuring himself that he did not wish to be an unfaithful husband.
Louise had possession of him now, and the entire court knew it. He disregarded the sly glances and whispers, for he could not do without her. She was so passionate, so loving, and she adored him so blindly; she saw his virtues where his wife saw his faults.
She said to him one day: ‘Your brother is a little shocked by our love, my darling.’
‘Ah, Louis has a nobler character than I.’
‘That I will not believe.’
‘Ah, yes. Though in some ways he is another such as myself, though he too needs a woman to love him, see how sternly he sets his face against such solace!’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. He sees himself as a leader. He never forgets that he is the Prince of Condé – a man to whom many look as their leader.’
‘I doubt that he is as virtuous as you seem to think. I will show you something. Let us give a merry party … a small party. Let us give it in your apartments, and let there be none but you and I, a friend of mine and your brother. Shall I tell you a secret? My friend loves the Prince. She is pining for love of him. She feels towards him as I feel towards you. Would you not give him a chance to be happy?’
‘No!’ cried Antoine. ‘He would be tempted, for he is a man who once found beauty irresistible. Who is the lady?’
‘You have seen her, my lord. Oh, I beg of you, do not look too closely at her or I shall suffer a torment of jealousy. She rides with the Queen Mother and the rest of the ladies. Her name is Isabelle de Limeuil.’
‘A lovely girl.’ He kissed Louise. ‘Nay, fear not. There is none for me but you, my sweet Louise.’
‘You love your brother, do you not?’
‘He is a great man, and I honour him. He has my respect as well as my love.’
‘Then … give him a little fun. There could be no harm in asking him to the party.’
So they planned the party. It would be amusing, thought Antoine, to see how Louis reacted to the proffered charms of Isabelle de Limeuil; and if he too became involved in a love affair he would not be able to look down his handsome nose at his brother Antoine.
It was a successful party; there was plenty of laughter and good wine.
Isabelle had never, thought Louise, looked quite so attractive. Condé seemed to think so too. He was a passionate man and he had been celibate too long; the separation from his saintly Eléonore had made him a ready victim to temptation. He guessed that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother, for he knew her to be a member of the Escadron Volant, and he was fully aware of the purposes to which the Queen Mother put these ladies. But the beauty of Isabelle was intoxicating; and the next day he was in no position to reprove his brother.
The whole court was now laughing at the affairs of the Bourbon brothers. Catherine’s feelings were a little mixed. She was triumphant at Antoine’s moral downfall, delighted for more reasons than one. This was the first step in her scheme. What was Madame Jeanne going to say when the news reached her? Would she remember how smug she had been that night when her husband had carried her off in a Spanish galleon that he might make love to her, his wife? Was she going to be quite so haughty now? It would be amusing to observe the reactions of Jeanne. That, however, was a minor issue. The main point was the effect on the Huguenots of what Louise had achieved.
And the other pair? Catherine frowned. Condé in love … and with that harlot! What an enchanting lover he must be! She could not help it if she remembered those conversations which had taken place in a dungeon under the château of Amboise. What a fool she was! She was fat; she was getting old; let her compare her grossness with the slender beauty of Isabelle de Limeuil, Isabelle’s youth with her age. Isabelle would be wise too in the ways of love. For a moment Catherine thought of those other lovers – Henry and Diane – spied on through a hole in the floor. She would not, for anything, go back to those days of anguish and humiliation. Love? It was not for her. And what did this love amount to? What did it bring but jealous torment, a temporary satisfaction. No, it was not love she wanted; it was power. There was no time to waste, watching Isabelle and Condé through a hole in the floor; she would not bother to listen to their conversation through a tube leading from her apartment to theirs. No! She was done with that folly. She had no time for it.
She sent for Louise, and when the woman knelt before her, she bade her rise and make sure that they were not overheard.
‘Now, Mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘you have done well and I am pleased with you.’
‘Thank you, Madame. It is my pleasure to serve Your Majesty.’
‘You now have the confidence of the King of Navarre, I believe?’
‘I believe so, Madame.’
‘How is he with you? His desire, I trust, has not weakened through too much satisfaction?’
Louise was prepared. It was a trait of the Queen Mother that she liked to hear details of the exploits of her Squadron. She took a vicarious pleasure in their experiences through their reports. One must submit to her wishes, enter into her coarseness. Sometimes it was easier than at others; but Louise was half in love with Antoine and did not enjoy discussing the more physical details of their love-making. However, the Queen Mother must be obeyed in all things.
After a while, Catherine said: ‘I think that you have his confidence, and now is the time to widen your mission. The King of Navarre is a Protestant, and as such he puts himself in danger. I wish him to become a Catholic. That is your next task.’
‘But … Madame … a Catholic! Change his religion! That will be a very difficult task, Madame.’
‘But not one beyond you, I am sure, Mademoiselle.’
The girl looked frightened. How strange these people were! thought Catherine. Even this harlot was appalled at the thought of discussing religious doctrines between bouts of love-making.
Catherine laughed. ‘It will give you something to talk about when you are not in the act of love-making. Holy Mother, woman, would you wear out the poor little man!’
Louise did not smile. ‘His religion, Madame, it seems apart … a sacred thing. I had not thought. He … he is of the Reformed Faith.’
‘And you, I trust, Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, are a good Catholic?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Well then, as a good Catholic, does it not become you to try to turn his footsteps in the right direction?’
‘I … I had not thought that my duties would lie that way.’
‘And now you hear they do.’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘You do not seem to relish this task.’
‘It is so unexpected, Madame. I had not thought about religion. I … I will do my best.’