'Madame, he is so firmly Catholic. He does not wish to show the leniency that you would show to these Huguenots.'

Catherine laughed contemptuously. 'Will his new friends help him to war, do you think? They are experts at curling his hair, I know, at helping to paint his face; and they know more than I do about the set of a jacket sleeve; but when it comes to war . . . what then? Will they help him to steer a safe course between Monsieur de Guise with his Catholics, and Navarre, Conde and their Huguenots?'

She grew calm immediately; she was astonished that she. could so give way before the little Queen, who knew hardly anything beyond the care of lap-dogs. 'There, my daughter, you are a good, dear child, and I love you deeply.'

'I wish I could help you, Madame.'

'Get the King a son. That would please me more than anything.'

'Ah, Madame! If only that could be!'

Catherine dismissed her and tried to remove the havoc which that tempestuous outburst of grief had caused, by applying a light touch of powder to her face and fresh carmine to her lips.

What had happened to her, and was she showing her age. losing her faculties? She was getting so fat that she could scarcely move with ease. Every winter brought rheumatism. She looked into her mirror and shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes, however, still had the fire of determination, and she knew that would not be easily quenched. She would never loosen her hold on power, for if she did, what would life hold for her? It was not as though-like that arch-enemy of hers, Jeanne of Navarre-she believed there was anything waiting for her after death. She must face the truth. Her children, on whom she had, since the death of her husband, depended for her power, were a treacherous band. She must accept the fact that power-that most precious of all possessions which the world had to offer such as herself-was not easily achieved, and once achieved, not easily held.

Alencon, whom she had neglected in the past and dismissed as of little importance, was now making a nuisance of himself; he was treacherous, conceited and he longed to wear the crown. If he ever became King of France he would not be easy to control. There was Margot, equally treacherous, working with Alencon against her brother the King as well as her mother. She was now spying for her husband. Catherine dared not let the King know this, for if he knew he would demand the death of Margot. Catherine would agree with the King that her daughter was a menace to her mother's peace of mind and the provider of many anxious moments, but as there were only three children now to bring her power she could not agree to the elimination of any of them. And now Henry-the beloved one, her 'All'-had broken his allegiance to his mother and given it to a group of silly, simpering creatures.

She had married one of those creatures-Villequier, who had been with Henry in Poland-to a member of her Escadron Volant. She was surprised at the success of that venture. The woman had been ordered to keep her eyes on her husband and try to lure him from the King and those pleasures which had hitherto delighted him. Villequier was enchanted by his beauti- ful wife, and seemed to have become a normal husband. If only this treatment could be applied to more of that effeminate band!

She must not despair. There were always ways of setting matters right. She must fight this feeling of lassitude which was he inevitable accompaniment of old age.

Looking back, it seemed to her that there had been little else but wars for as long as she could remember-the dreary wars of religion, violent outbreaks, continual bloodshed, linked together by uneasy periods of peace.

But had the scene changed? Something was brewing in the streets of the capital. Had there ever been greater misery than there was among the poor at this moment? Had there ever been so many enemies of the throne? What was in the minds of Guise and his Catholics? What of that sly shrewd creature down in Bearn? Oh, what a pity that he was no longer under her eye! What fresh plots, too, were brewing in the fevered and ambitiously arrogant mind of Alencon?

The King came to her as she sat brooding. His face was white with rage and his lips trembled. She was filled with tenderness, for he had at least on this occasion brought his troubles to his mother.

'Mother,' he cried, 'I have planned such a procession! We were to go to Notre Dame to pray for a child. I had designed our dreses. They were to be of purple, with touches of green about them. They were delightful.'

'Yes, my darling. But why are you so angry?'

'The council has refused to grant me the money to pay for it. How dare they! Is it for them to prevent our getting a child? It is small wonder that we have no heir. How does God feel when He sees the meanness of my council? It is an insult to Him!'

'But how could the money be,found, my son! The dresses would cost a great deal. Then there are all the trappings which must not be forgotten on such an occasion.'

'The people would enjoy the spectacle. They must therefore expect to pay for it.'

She drew him to the window. 'Come with me, my son. Look out on Paris. You do not have to look far. You see that bundle . . . lying against the wall there? I'd wager you the cost of your ceremony to a franc, that that is a man or woman dying of starvation.'

He stamped his foot. 'Those ate the few. There are rich merchants in Paris. The Huguenots are such good businessmen, are they not? Why should they amass wealth to work against me?'

She looked at him sorrowfully. 'Oh, my son, do not listen to evil counsels. As you value your crown, take heed. You must not expose your desires to the world. Look at Monsieur de Guise and take a lesson from him. What is he doing? He goes about Paris. He expresses sympathy for the people's sufferings. He distributes large sums in alms. The poor cry: "The good God keep the great Duke!" more often than they mutter their paternosters. To them he is already one of the saints.'

'So you would have me imitate Saint Henry of Guise, Madame?'

Catherine burst into laughter. 'Saint Henry of Guise! There is little of the saint in that man. It is merely that he wears an imaginary halo with such charm, such assurance for the people of Paris, that he makes them believe that he works for the Catholic League and for them, when he is only concerned with the good of Monsieur de Guise. That is cleverness, my son.'

'Madame, since you admire Monsieur de Guise and despise your son, perhaps it would be better if you threw in your lot with him.'

She looked at him sadly. 'You mistake me, my darling,' she said patiently. would kill him tomorrow if by so doing I could help you.'

'It would not seem so,' said the King sullenly. 'And if you are prepared to do so much for me, why not persuade them to let me have the money for my procession.'

'Because it would be unwise. You cannot parade through these streets in your fine clothes before people in rags. Do you not understand that?'

'I understand that you are on their side against me.'

He burst into tears; and she had already seen, by the traces on his face, that he had wept before the council.

What can I do? she asked herself. The King of France cries like a child for money to spend on his toys, while the people in the streets are starving and murmuring against him, while Paris scowls in sullen silence whenever either of us appears.

Is this how great cities behave when a kingdom is on the brink of revolution?

CATHERINE CONTINUED, in the months that followed, to be troubled by her children.

Alencon, after escaping from Paris, had conducted a campaign in Flanders from which he had emerged triumphant; but Catherine knew that her son was too conceited, too self-seeking, to serve any cause well, although at this time the Huguenots might be deceived into believing that in the King's brother they had found a man they could follow. It had been necessary to make peace with Alencon and this Catherine had arranged. The Paixde Monsieur was signed that May and was so called in honour of Alencon, Monsieur, the King's brother. But what, Catherine must ask herself, did these spasmodic interludes of peace mean to France-merely lulls in the fighting, so that greater armies might be gathered together. The King hated his brother to receive honours, and even while he pretended to help Alencon-for Alencon was in turn fighting for the King and against him-he was secretly hampering him in every way he could. It was always so with these brothers-Charles had hated Henry in just the same way; their jealousy of each other was far greater than their love for France. Alencon had now been created Duke of Anjou, the King having bestowed on him that title as he himself no longer needed it now that he had the higher one of King of France.

If, thought Catherine, they would only work together, how strong we should be!

But these children of hers were half Medici; they could not go straight.

Margot had begged the King to let her join her husband, for, she said, that was a wife's place. They had, she pointed out, married her to Henry of Navarre against her will; and now. against her will, they kept her from him. It was a favourite fiction of Margot's that her husband pined for her company; though Catherine guessed that, since he had expressed a desire for it, this must be because he felt it would be as well to keep such a natural trouble-maker under his eye.

Catherine and the King had decided that it would be folly to let Margot go back to her husband, but they allowed her to accompany the Princess de la Roche-sur-Yonne to Spa, whither that lady was going, to take the waters. Margot had been ill, suffering from erysipelas of the arm, so it was thought that the waters would do her good; and as all she desired was a change, a little excitement, the prospect of the journey through Flanders to Spa pleased her as much as a journey to Bearn would have done.

Margot was now back at court, but, according to her, she had had many an exciting adventure during her travels. She had renewed her tender friendship with Bussy d'Amboise, whose gallantry had proved a great delight to her; she was never tired of telling how he, the greatest swordsman in France, was continually becoming involved in duels and, when he had disarmed his adversaries would, like a hero in a fairy tale, tell them that their lives would be spared if they would seek the most beautiful Princess and lady in the world, cast themselves at her feet and thank her-for Bussy had granted them the gift of life only for her sake. It was evident that Margot had been delighted to renew her friendship with the dashing Bussy.

There had been other adventures; these included an exciting meeting with Don John of Austria, the hero of Lepanto and the illegitimate son of Emperor Charles of Spain, and Philip's half-brother. He had been charming to Margot and she had believed she had made a conquest, for Margot, who had so little difficulty in finding lovers, was apt to imagine that every man who looked her way and smiled on her was on the point of falling in love with her. She had been, enchanted with Don John until her spies informed her that he was a spy of her brother, the King of France, and therefore could be no friend to herself and her other brother, the new Duke of Anjou; she learned too that while she dallied in Flanders, the deceitful Don John was making plans to take her prisoner.

This was a blow to her esteem, but she quickly forgot that in the excitement of making her way to France; and if Don John was not appreciative, there were plenty of others very ready to be.

Now another peace had been concluded-the Peace of Bergerac; and Anjou and Margot were back at court. Margot was once more demanding to be allowed to join her husband, and the King was again refusing her request. The old quarrels had broken out in the family; Catherine and the King were in one camp, Margot and Anjou in another. Catherine was the only one of these four who had the good sense to hide her feelings.

The King's mignons seemed, for the King's pleasure, to take a delight in insulting Anjou; and the climax came when the wedding of one of the court noblemen was being celebrated.

Anjou had honoured the bride by dancing with her, and he was feeling very gratified to note how delighted she was by the honour of being partnered by such an exalted person as himself. She talked with the proper amount of reticence and reverence for his state, and Anjou was happy, feeling himself to be of great importance, the hero of battles, the squire of ladies, the brother of the King, the man who might well one day sit upon the throne of France. But his pleasure was abruptly interrupted as he and his partner passed a group of the King's darlings.

Epernon said in a voice which was audible, not only to the little Duke of Anjou and his partner, but to many who happened to be in their vicinity: 'Poor bride! She is charming to look at, you know. It is merely because she dances with that ape that she appears to be ungainly.'

Anjou's pock-marked face went a deep shade of purple.

To cap the insult, Caylus called to Epernon: 'You would not think, would you, that he would wear that colour. With his ugly skin he should favour dove grey. Insignificant, I know, but suitable.'

'It is a pity he cannot put on a few inches,' drawled Joyeuse. 'He is like a child . . . playing at being a man.'

Anjou stopped in the dance, his hand on his sword; immediately he was aware of the menacing face of the King, who was ready to arrest anyone who attacked his favourites, and, realizing that if he offended in any way he might be put in prison, there seemed nothing for him to do but to walk, with as much dignity as possible in such circumstances, out of the ballroom.

As he went, he heard the King say: 'Dance, my friends. Nothing of importance has happened. No one of importance has left.'

Anjou paced up and down his apartments, shaking with passion. He would not endure this. He would leave the court; he would show that brother of his that he was not so secure on the throne as he thought himself to be.

Next morning he arose early and sent a note to the King, asking permission to leave Paris for a few day's hunting.

The King did not answer the note, but he thought about his brother with fear and hatred for the rest of the day and, when the palace had retired, his anxiety so increased that he went along to his mother's bedchamber and sitting on her bed, awakened her to tell her that his fears were so great concerning his brother that he felt it was folly to delay acting against him any longer.

'He is up to mischief; I know it.'

'That, my darling, is hardly a matter to worry about at this hour. He is always up to mischief.'

'He wishes to leave Paris, to go hunting, he says. That is a ruse. You remember how Navarre went to hunt, and we have not seen him since-though we are much aware of him. I wish that we had the fellow under our guard still.'

'I wish that too.'

'I was wise, was I not, to refuse Monsieur permission to hunt?'

'Yes, indeed you were.'

'That, Madame, was the advice of my friends, those who, you think, counsel me ill.'

Catherine sighed. 'What is it you wish at this hour, my son?' To go to his chamber, to catch him unaware, and to look for fresh treachery.'

'I had hoped that relations between you and your brother were improving. But for that ugly scene at the ball last night I feel sure your brother would have been ready to be friends. It was unwise of those young men to taunt him because he is not so handsome as they are.'

'It was not for his ugliness that my friends taunted him; it was for his treachery. Will you come with me, Madame, or shall I take Epernon?'

'I will come.'

Catherine wrapped a robe about her and together they went to Anjou's apartments. The King peremptorily dismissed Anjou's attendants.

'What means this?' demanded the latter, rising startled from his bed.

'It means that we suspect you of further treachery,' said the King.

While he was speaking he began opening the coffer near the bed and scattering its contents about the room. Catherine looked from one to the other. Fools! she thought. Strength was in union.

There was nothing of importance in the coffer.

'Get up!' commanded the King. 'We will search the bed.' Anjou quickly took a paper from under his bolster and screwed it up in his hand.

'Ah!' cried the King. 'This is it. Hand me that paper, Monsieur.'

'I will not!' cried his brother.

Anjou tried to reach for his sword, but Catherine cried out in alarm, and before either of them could touch the weapon, she had seized it.

'If you do not hand me that paper at once,' said the King, 'I'll have you taken to the Bastille. Madame, I beg of you, call the guards.'

Anjou threw the paper on to the floor. The King picked it up and read it while Anjou burst into loud derisive laughter. It was a love letter to Anjou from Charlotte de Sauves.

The King, scarlet with mortification, threw the paper at his brother. Catherine picked it up and read it. She smiled; she had read it before.

But the King was sure there was a plot, even if he had failed to discover it. 'He shall be kept under lock and key,' he said fiercely. 'In his own apartments . . . yes, but under lock and key.'

He strode out, followed by Catherine; he called the guard and told them that the apartments of Monsieur were to be kept locked, for that gentleman was a prisoner.

The first thing Anjou did when his brother and mother had left him was to send one of his guards to his sister to beg her to come to him at once.

Margot came and she and her brother wept in each other's arms; but there was no sorrow in their tears. They were furiously angry and determined to be avenged on the tyrant.

The feud had started again in all its old fury.

This is not the way, Catherine told the King; but his mignons were delighted with the feud. They hated Margot; they feared Anjou; and they enjoyed a quarrel.

Catherine however decided that there must be a reconciliation, and at length she prevailed on both sides to bring this about. She accordingly staged one of those farces-at a ball, or a banquet-where enemies met, kissed and pretended to be friends, swearing eternal friendship with hatred in their hearts, while the gullible looked on and said 'All is well' and the cynics set the smiles of pleasure on their faces and sneered inwardly.

It was not long before Margot had planned her brother's escape. The plan was dramatic, since it was Margot's; and as soon as she had conceived it, she was all impatience to put it into action.

'We must be very careful this time,' Margot whispered to two of her women. 'Such plans have a way of reaching my mother's ears. If she discovered what we have in mind, it would make everything very difficult; but if she discovered the means I intend to employ, it would make the plan impossible of achievement'

Catherine did discover something of the plan, but, fortunately for Margot, neither her method nor the date when she intended to carry it out.

There were guards posted at all exits from the palace; all staircases were watched.

Catherine sent for her daughter and questioned her closely.

'You know, my daughter, that I have given my word to the King that Monsieur shall not go away, that there shall be no attempt at escape?'

'Yes, Madame.'

'I am a little perplexed. There seems a certain coming and going between your, brother's apartments and yours.'

'We love each other, Madame.'

'In a seemly fashion, I hope.'

Margot looked innocent. 'Madame, how could love between a brother and sister be unseemly?'

'You know full well how that could be. You know that there are some who say that your love for Anjou is such a love.'

'Madame,' said Margot maliciously, 'you have been listening to His Majesty's mignons.'

'I am rejoiced to hear that it is just wicked gossip, my dear. What plans are being made for Monsieur to leave court?'

'Plans, Madame? Dare I say a second time that you have been listening to gossip?'

Catherine gripped her daughter's arm, and Margot flinched with the pain; she now looked like a younger Margot who had been very much in awe of her mother. She has not changed so very much, thought Catherine. She can still be afraid of me.

'You may say that if you will, my daughter; but I think there is often some truth in gossip.'