‘I will not have him tortured,’ said Catherine.

‘Monsieur,’ cried Mary hysterically, ‘you must save him. You are the greatest surgeon in France … in the world … and you can save him.’

‘I will try, Madame.’

‘Yes. Now! Lose not a minute … since every second is precious.’

‘Stay awhile,’ said Catherine. She began to pace up and down the apartment. ‘This needs thought.’

‘There is no time for thought!’ cried Mary angrily.

‘There must always be time for thought.’

‘Madame,’ said Paré, ‘you remember that our great good King, Francis the First, suffered from a similar abscess. Each year it grew big until it burst and let forth its evils. When it did not open, King Francis died.’

‘Open it, I beg of you,’ said Mary. ‘I am his wife. I am the Queen. I demand it.’

Catherine laid a hand on Paré’s arm. ‘It will be necessary for me to give my consent. I cannot do this in a hurry, and I cannot put my son’s life in danger.’

‘Your son’s life is in danger now, Madame.’

‘I cannot bear to have him hurt. If you but knew how he has suffered already!’

‘Heed her not,’ begged Mary. ‘Go and do it … now!’

The surgeon looked from the Queen to the Queen Mother. How calm was Catherine; how distrait Mary! Naturally, he must give his attention to the calm Queen Mother.

He began to talk to her persuasively, explaining the nature of the operation. But would he, Catherine wanted to know, take responsibility for the life of the King? Were he allowed to perform this operation and the King died, there would be many to ask if he had intended he should not recover. He was a Huguenot; the King was a Catholic. Would he perform the operation knowing that, if he failed, mighty reverberations might occur throughout the realm? The war between the Protestants and the Catholics was ever ready to break out anew. An operation by a Huguenot surgeon on a Catholic King! Oh, indeed it needed the deepest consideration.

Catherine walked up and down with the surgeon. Mary had flung herself on to a couch and was sobbing in helpless rage against the Queen Mother.

‘Passions run high in these times,’ said Catherine. ‘You are a Huguenot, Monsieur. Oh, do not hesitate to confess it to me. You have my sympathy. Do you not know that? I would not care that you should run the risk of facing such an accusation.’

‘Madame, you are too kind, too considerate. When men are sick, I think of all I can do for them … of consequences later.’

‘But, Monsieur, you are too useful a subject to be lightly lost. Tell me truthfully. You can see that I am a woman who knows how to bear her troubles. I have had enough, I can assure you, during my life. I can bear a little more. My son is sick, is he not?’

‘Very sick, Madame.’

‘And death is near.’

‘Death is very near.’

‘And the chances of success?’

‘There is just a chance, Madame, a frail chance. As you remember in the case of your father-in-law …’

‘Ah yes, tell me about the case of my father-in-law. I would hear it all. I must decide whether I can allow my son to face this ordeal.’

Paré talked; and Catherine, hurrying to ask questions whenever he showed signs of stopping, kept him talking. Outside, the December wind howled through the trees, and on the couch Mary Queen of France and Scotland lay sobbing as if her heart were broken.

At length Catherine said: ‘I cannot decide. It is too big a thing for me. Oh, Monsieur, was ever mother presented with such a problem? If my husband were only here! Oh, Monsieur Paré, bear with me. Remember I am a widow left with little children to care for. I want what is best for them, for they are more to me than my life.’

Mary had risen from the couch and rushed past them, and Catherine knew immediately whose help she intended to enlist.

‘Monsieur,’ said Catherine to Paré, ‘return with me to the King’s chamber, and pray with me that God and the Virgin may lead us to the right decision.’

They were kneeling by the bed when Mary came in with her uncles.

Catherine stood up. She looked at the face of her son and she knew that the intervention had come too late.

The Duke said: ‘Monsieur Paré, you can save the King’s life?’

Paré went to the bed and looked at the young King. ‘Nothing, my lord Duke, can save the King’s life now, for there are only a few minutes of it left to him.’

Mary flung herself on her knees, calling to her husband, to look at her, to smile at her, to live for her. But although Francis turned his head towards her, he did not seem to be aware of her.

The Cardinal was bending over him, and briefly Francis appeared to recognise the man who had overshadowed and spoilt the last years of his life. In Francis’s eyes that terror with which he had been wont to look at the Cardinal showed itself for a second or so; and it might have been that, seeing the boy was about to leave this life, the Cardinal was suddenly conscience-stricken; and perhaps he realised that in Francis’s mind were lurking the horrors which he had witnessed during the massacre of Amboise and which had, ostensibly, been perpetrated at his commands.

The Cardinal murmured in an urgent whisper: ‘Pray, Sire, and say this: “Lord, pardon my sins and impute not to me, Thy servant, the sins committed by my ministers under my name and authority.”’

Francis’s lips moved; he tried to follow the lifelong habit of obedience; but it may have been that the Cardinal’s words bewildered him as they did those others who heard them, for it was the first and only time in his life that the Cardinal of Lorraine had shown that he possessed a conscience.

Francis’s head sank back on the pillow, and there was no sound in the room but the moaning of the wind through the leafless trees and Mary Stuart’s heartbroken sobbing.


* * *

In his dungeon under the Castle of Amboise, Condé sat disconsolately at table, contemplating his fate. The stale stench of the dungeon nauseated him. He thought tenderly of his wife, their two sons and his dear little daughter. Perhaps he would never see them again. What a fool he had been to ignore the advice of Eléonore and Jeanne and to have made the journey to Orléans, to have walked straight into that trap which had been prepared for himself and his brother!

What was the meaning of the Queen Mother’s strange friendship? Was she in love with him? Condé shrugged his shoulders. Many women had been in love with him. He smiled reminiscently. Sometimes he wished – as he knew Antoine did – that he had not been blessed with such a saintly woman for a wife. What gaiety there had been in the days before his marriage; always there had seemed to be the light adventure, romance, some different woman to enchant him with some novelty of passion. And yet, how could they – he and his brother, so alike in looks and character – ever be unfaithful to two such women as Jeanne and Eléonore!

He sighed. This was not the time for such thoughts. What was the motive of the Queen Mother? Could she really have him in mind as her lover-to-be? God forbid! That woman! There were occasions when the very thought of her sent shivers even down this brave man’s spine. Her way of entering his cell often startled him; one minute she was not there and the next she would be standing quietly in the shadows, so that he had the impression that she had been standing outside, listening to his conversation with his jailers, and had silently glided in like the snake to which some people had compared her.

Oh, he had been gallant; he had been charming. How could it have been otherwise? She could save him, if anyone could. But for what?

He flicked a cobweb off his fine coat. This dungeon disgusted him. He could smell the sweat of others who had lived here before him; now and then he was aware of the unmistakable odour of blood, for his cell was not very far from those shambles they called the torture-rooms. Death awaited him, and his time was short. The Queen Mother had not visited him recently. Had she turned back once more to his enemies, the Guises? They were more useful friends just now than the Bourbons could be.

His thoughts went to Eléonore. One of his jailers, whom he had managed to charm, had told him that she had been to Orléans when he had been there, in the hope of seeing him. Dear sweet wife, the best of mothers! He knew he was unworthy of her.

He was melancholy to-day because he was bored. He needed continual excitement, and now there was nothing to do but await death. Death! He had never thought of it seriously before, although he had courted it a hundred times. Could this be the end, then, of the Prince of Condé? Was this the finale of that tragi-comedy which his life had been, the end of his grandiose schemes for sitting on the throne of France? He was ambitious, and because he had been born near the throne, it had, all his life, stood there before his mind’s eye as a possible acquisition.

What was happening above him? He looked at the dismal ceiling of his cell; he looked at the wall down which the moisture trickled. When it was dark the rats came and looked at him hopefully; yet not far from this spot the noble Loire flowed by in sunshine.

One of his jailers passed by the table. He whispered so that the other jailer could not hear: ‘Monsieur, King Francis is dead. Your life is saved!’

Condé stared before him, too full of emotion to speak. He thought of the river and the buds on the trees just beyond his prison; he pictured the tears in his wife’s eyes and the smiles on the faces of his children. King Francis was dead, and it was King Francis who had condemned Condé to death. Condé went on thinking of all those things which he had believed he would never see again.