Margot suffered greatly, but she did not suffer alone. Her closest friend, the Duchess Henriette de Nevers, mourned as well, her long chestnut lashes wetted by tears shed not for a lost king, but for Comte Annibal de Coconnas -- the first man in a long while who had been more than a source of physical pleasure to the beautiful Duchess. Coconnas had been the unfortunate Monsieur la Mole�s closest friend, and had perished bravely at his side.
United in grief as they had formerly been in the pursuit of pleasure, the two lovely young women could often be found clinging to each other in Margot�s apartments at the Louvre where they sat for hours gazing listlessly into space, thinking of nothing, talking of nothing, and feeling everything. More often than not, Margot held an ornately figured silver box in her lap. It was thus that Gillonne, Margot�s lady-in-waiting, found them on the one-month anniversary of Charles� death. �Your Majesty,� she said for the third time before Margot could be roused from her contemplation of the box which she fingered reflexively, �Your Majesty, a messenger has come from Ma�tre Ren� about the smelling salts that you ordered.�
�Ma�tre Ren�?� Margot replied listlessly, �I have given no order to Ma�tre Ren�.�
�The messenger has been admonished not to return without delivering his package, Your Majesty, and it must be surrendered only to your hands.�
Margot was many things at that moment, a distraught sister, a broken-hearted lover, but she was first of all a daughter of France and her instincts told her that this messenger was more than he appeared. �Let him come in,� she ordered, suddenly firm.
Gillonne went out and returned accompanied by Ren�s most senior apprentice. �Your Majesty,� he said saluting the Queen.
�You must pardon me for making you wait Monsieur,� Margot replied, the ghost of a smile flitting momentarily across her face, �but I had, in my grief and preoccupation, entirely forgotten the commission I had given to your master.�
�It is nothing, Your Majesty. Ma�tre Ren� felt certain that these,� he held out a small tightly wrapped package, �would be far more effective than ordinary smelling salts for your bouts of faintness.�
Margot made no reply, merely accepting the package from the messenger�s outstretched hand. Her expression remained intentionally blank, as did the face of Gillonne who was now charged with seeing the man out. The Duchess de Nevers alone showed a hint of emotion. For a moment the fires of curiosity and adventure, which had often lit her eyes in days past, flickered forth from beneath her swollen eyelids. But she had known Margot too long and knew the court of France too well to ask any questions until the door closed behind the messenger.
�Bouts of faintness Margot?� she said, �I have seen none, and we have been together almost constantly this last month.�
�Indeed, I am as astonished as you are, Henriette. Have but a moment�s patience! I shall open the package and all will be known at once.� Ever cautious, and well aware that Ma�tre Ren�s reputation for poisons far surpassed his reputation for perfumes, Margot slipped on a pair of gloves and used a small dagger to slit open the packet. Inside was a bottle corked tight. It contained not smelling salts but a piece of paper rolled very closely.
�Shall I leave?� asked Henriette.
�Mais non!� Margot shook her head dismissively, �you know that we have no secrets.�
The Duchess nodded silently, allowing Margot to unroll the paper in her lap. It was covered in a painstakingly miniaturized hand. Her eyes ran quickly to its termination. �It is from my husband, the King of Navarre,� she exclaimed making no effort to conceal her astonishment.
As she flattened out the paper bearing his signature, Margot�s thoughts turned to her husband for the first time in weeks. Of course, she had heard of his fortunate escape from Paris shortly after it occurred, and she had been sincerely relieved. She would no more have wished for her husband�s destruction than he would have wished for hers, and his destruction would certainly have followed had he remained in France to see Henri III take the throne. This was not to say that Margot loved her husband. To the contrary, she had possessed no love for him on their wedding day and had acquired none since. Yet
she had learned to respect and appreciate the man whom the demands of French politics and the will of her brother the King had decreed she must call husband.
�Madame,� the note opened:
It would be in neither of our interests to correspond openly at present,
although as husband and wife it is our right. I therefore ask you to pardon
the clandestine manner of my contact. Since my safe arrival in the
Navarre, you have seldom been from my mind, and I wish you to know
two things. First, that my thoughts are with you in your profound grief
over the loss of your brother, and the other who shall remain nameless
but who was still yet more dear. Second, that to the extent that you will
allow me the liberty, I continue to think of you as a trusted ally and friend
and I have by no means abandoned you. If such be your wish, I most
earnestly desire your removal at the earliest possible occasion to our
Court at Pau. I cannot say more at present for although I am confident
of my messenger, the security of any person or any message entering the
Louvre, as you well know, can never be taken for granted.
Therefore, I entreat you to prevail upon your friend the Duchess de
Nevers to act as conductress for our future correspondence. Residing
as she does by turns at the Hotels de Nevers and de Guise, she can be under
no suspicion. If she is willing to undertake the risk of acting as our
go-between, she need only pay a visit to Ma�tre la Huri�re at the hostelry
of La Belle Etoile and tell him that she is interested in collecting any
personal correspondence that may still be left there for Monsieur Coconnas.
This will signal her acquiescence and she will be told how and when to
expect my letters.
I am, as always, your servant. Henri de Navarre
�Well?� demanded Henriette impatiently.
�He reassures me that I am not abandoned, and asks whether you will act as intermediary for all future correspondence.�
�Have I ever refused when you have sought my assistance?�
�Good, then it is settled,� said Margot and she proceeded to give the Duchess her instructions. �And now, Henriette, my head is so full and my heart is so heavy, I would ask that you leave me.�
�There is something else Margot, something you are not telling me.�
�Indeed there is. Henri proposes that I join him in the Navarre. I must consider carefully before deciding on a course of action.�
�Very well,� said the Duchess rising gracefully, �you have asked for no advice and yet I will offer some. You must go. You must go though your departure will add a thousand times to my own sorrow. Here, your life is a misery. There is too much to remind you of dear Hyacinthe. More importantly, here you are nothing while there you may be Queen.� With that the Duchess departed, leaving Margot alone with her thoughts and her scrap of paper.
Margot did not remain motionless for long. The paper in her hands must be destroyed immediately. There was no privacy in the Louvre. Margot�s mother, Catherine de M�dicis, had a key to every lock and possessed the uncanny ability of introducing her presence just when it was least wanted. There was no fire, for it was the second week of July 1574 and Paris was sweltering. Margot moved quickly to her writing table, and after reading the letter once more, lit a taper kept there for the purpose of melting sealing wax and burned the paper to ash. Taking the paltry remnants of the note in her hand she went to the nearest window, ground them between her fingers, and let them flutter to the ground below. All evidence of her husband�s correspondence was gone, but his words, so few and honestly written, had ingrained themselves in her memory.
Reflecting upon the letter, the first thing that Margot felt was gratitude. Not for Henri�s offer to receive her in the Navarre. This was her due. She had been a faithful ally, and she believed her husband to be a man of honor, capable of no less than the offer that he had made. Rather, what stirred her was his solicitude on the point of her loss of la Mole. Once again Henri had risen above the position of the cuckolded husband and extended a kindness where no kindness could reasonably have been expected. At that moment, for the first time, she longed to go to Navarre.
She saw clearly the truth and wisdom in the words of Henriette de Nevers. Paris, the gayest capital in Europe, was like a tomb for her now. The fetes and revelries which
had already begun in honor of her brother Henri III, begun despite the fact that the royal family was in mourning for Charles IX, were a torture to her. She could not laugh, she could not be gay, and therefore to the present Court she could not be useful. Had her husband died during the first two years of their marriage, as her Mother had planned, she would have been a powerless widow, and so she had fought to preserve Henri de Bourbon with all her ingenuity. But now, with Henri in Pau, she was almost worse than a widow. As a widow she would have been at her brother�s disposal to be married again to the advantage of his Court and his reign. But now she had no purpose and while she was in no immediate peril -- she could rely at least to some extent on the affections of her brothers to protect her -- there was certainly no advantage to her in remaining in Paris.
In Pau she would be Queen. More importantly she would be free, away from Paris and its memories, away from the demands of clever conversation and fashionable appearance. The Navarre would provide a refuge from the world that she had known and loved so fully while La Mole was alive. She knew that she could count on her husband to make her life comfortable. �And who knows,� she said aloud, speaking as much to the silver casket resting in her lap as to herself, �who knows but that one day my ambitions may reawaken although my heart is beyond all hope of revival.� And then, as she had done every night since she had retrieved it from the executioner, she withdrew Hyacinthe la Mole�s preserved head from the silver box, lovingly kissed his still beautiful lips, and then called Gillonne to put her to bed.
Excepted from Margot and the Three Henries
Copyright 2008 J. Tuennerman. All Rights Reserved
