He had never spared himself in the days when he was strong and healthy but had reveled in all sports and had indulged himself in all carnal pleasures; but it was different now. He was wise enough to know that he could only hope to go on living if he lived with care, and he did not intend to die yet; that was why he ate little, always had his meat boiled and retired early to bed. In fact he had put his days of dissipation behind him and would be more particular to do so now that the crown was his.

His friends, looking into his bright, over-prominent eyes, at his thick lips which were dry and parched, at his enlarged Adam’s apple, were concerned and they showed it.

Louis smiled. “Put your fears to rest,” he said. “I am alive and that is how I intend to remain.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll swear there’s rejoicing at a certain château in Cognac this day.”

“Madame d’Angoulême, I have heard, believes her boy to be already the Dauphin of France,” said the Archbishop.

Louis nodded. “And we must accept the fact that, were I to die tomorrow, he would be the next to mount the throne—unless the impossible happens ere long and I get me a son.”

“Sire …,” began Georges d’Amboise; then he stopped.

“Speak on,” said the King. “You need not weigh your words with me now, Georges, any more than you did in the past. You were about to say that to hope for a son is to hope for an impossibility.”

“And that,” put in the Maréchal, “is no fault of yours, Sire.”

“I know, I know. The Queen has been a good wife to me. At least she has been a docile, affectionate and uncomplaining wife; and because she is the daughter of Louis XI it was considered I had made an excellent match.”

“And so it would have been, Sire, had she been fertile.”

“Alas!” sighed Louis. He was thinking of poor limping Jeanne, with her pale face and shoulder which was so much higher than the other—her only asset, her royalty. Their marriage had never been fruitful and never could be. And a king should have heirs. He said the last thought aloud: “A King should have heirs.”

Georges d’Amboise hesitated, coughed and then said recklessly: “Sire, it is only possible if you find yourself a new wife.”

Louis’s eyes seemed more prominent than ever. “I had thought,” he said, “that it would be desirable to keep Brittany for the crown.”

The Maréchal caught his breath but it was the churchman to whom Louis was giving his attention.

“So recently a widow,” he whispered.

“Yet she has proved that she can bear children—sons. They did not live, it is true, but Charles was a weakling … like his sister Jeanne. If I were not married to Jeanne, if I could marry Anne of Brittany, I could perforce bring to my country all that as King I wish to. Brittany remaining in the crown; a Dauphin in the royal nursery.”

“It would be necessary first to divorce Jeanne,” the Maréchal pointed out.

“That’s true,” answered the King, still looking at Georges.

“If she would go into a nunnery,” murmured Georges. “If she would declare herself tired of life outside convent walls … and if Anne could be persuaded that there is nothing shameful in this divorce … it might be arranged.”

Louis laid his hand on Georges’s arm. “Think on it,” he said. “I know, my friend, that if you do, you will find the solution.”

In the royal apartments at Amboise, the Queen faced her husband. Louis had always found it difficult to look into her face because he was afraid that she would read there the repulsion he felt for her—and the pity. He was not a cruel man but in his youth he had been thoughtless. It had been a great shock to him when he was given this hunch-backed gnome for a wife; it had been small consolation to him that she had been the daughter of the King of France, and he later suspected that her father, the wily Louis XI, had married her to him to prevent heirs coming to the Orléans branch of the family and making trouble. It must have been a sore trial to him to see his only son, who had become Charles VIII, a malformed dwarf not much better than his daughter Jeanne.

It had not been necessary to remain at her side for long at a time, and he could never make love with her except in the dark. That was a fruitless occupation in any case for how could such a creature bear children? She had proved, as all had suspected she would, sterile.

Now she looked at him with affection for, oddly enough, she loved him. Poor Jeanne! She had been ready to love any who showed her kindness, and he had done that.

“Louis,” she said, coming to him with ungainly steps and looking up at him appealingly without touching him, for she knew that he did not care for her to do that, “I have heard rumors.”

“Rumors?” he repeated; and he felt a deep dismay. Had they already been talking of his proposed divorce? Had they already been linking his name with that of Anne of Brittany? He was regretful for two reasons. First that Jeanne must be hurt; and second that the proud Anne of Brittany might be shocked at the thought of marrying another husband so soon, particularly as he was a man who had to rid himself of a wife to marry her.

“I understand,” went on Jeanne mournfully. “I am of little use to you. I cannot give you a Dauphin and I see that that is what France expects of you … now.”

“You should not distress yourself,” he told her gently.

“But I do,” she replied. “You have always been kind to me, Louis, and I know how I have failed you.”

“There are many childless couples in France.”

“They are not the King and Queen.”

Then suddenly she began to weep. “Oh Louis, Louis, do not abandon me. I know I have nothing to offer you. Look at me! None would ever have married me had I not been a king’s daughter. And you do not need me. The crown is yours through your own line. I have brought nothing to you. You will cast me off, Louis. They will persuade you that it is your duty …”

He put his arms about her. “Jeanne,” he said, “set aside your fears. Why, I’d rather die without a son than hurt you.”

She slid to her knees and embraced his legs, alas looking sadly repulsive crouching there. He wished she would rise; he was hating himself because he knew that Georges d’Amboise was already preparing a plan to dissolve their marriage; and that she could not long be kept in ignorance of this. Her grief would be the greater because he had tried to soothe her with false words.

Louise of Savoy set out for Paris to see the new King. Jeanne de Polignac warned her to be careful, but Louise was full of purpose.

“Forget not,” she said, “that my position is different from what it was before the death of Charles. Am I not the mother of the heir presumptive?”

“All the more reason why you should act with care,” replied the practical Jeanne.

Louise laughed. “Do you think I ever forget that I am his mother and that he needs me! Set your fears at rest, Jeanne. I am going to have him acknowledged; and the best way in which I can do this is to get him the title which is his due and which will proclaim to all that the King regards him as the heir to the throne. Why, the title falls vacant, does it not, now that Louis has given it up to take that of King? François is going to be Duc d’Orléans—that royal title belongs to him now.”

“All I say is, Louise, take care.”

“And you, my dear, take care of the children while I am away.” She embraced her friend. “How I rely on you, Jeanne! I’d never leave him in anyone else’s hands.”

When François and Marguerite came to say farewell to their mother, she embraced the girl tenderly but clung to the boy as though she had almost made up her mind not to leave him.

“My precious will do what Jeanne and Marguerite tell him while I’m away?”

“Yes, dearest Maman, Precious will,” answered the boy.

“That’s my little love.” She looked appealingly up at Jeanne and Marguerite, and although she did not speak, her eyes told them that she was placing in their hands her greatest treasure.

François stood at the gates of the castle, Jeanne on one side of him, Marguerite on the other; Jeanne the younger, with Madeleine and Souveraine, stood behind him and a short distance from this little group were some of their attendants.

Louise turned to look back again. “I shall soon be with you. Take care while I’m away.”

They watched her until she and her band of attendants were out of sight.

“I should like to go to Paris,” François announced.

“You will one day,” Marguerite told him.

When he rode to Paris it would be in a purple robe and he would have a standard on which were the golden lilies. His mother had told him this, and the picture was clear in his mind. But it was not yet; and in the meantime he had to amuse himself.

Marguerite took his hand and they went to the nurseries where Madeleine and Souveraine were playing with their dolls.

They stood watching Madeleine who was dressing one of the dolls and talking to it as though it were a baby.

“Come along, Marguerite,” said Souveraine, “here is the little Papillon. See how dirty she has made her dress! Change it and scold her, will you? Tell her she will be in trouble if she cannot keep her dresses cleaner than that.”

Marguerite stared at the doll which was being thrust at her and said stonily: “How could that be blamed for making the dress dirty? It was Madeleine who did it.”

Souveraine looked as though she was about to cry. “Why will you never play our games, Marguerite?” she demanded. “I believe you laugh at us. And we’re older than you, remember?”

“You are too old to play with dolls,” said six-year-old Marguerite, “and so am I.”

François looked on with interest. He would have liked to join the game, only instead of being mother to the dolls, he would have been their King and they would have been his subjects.