She wished she could recapture that excitement about her dresses which she had felt when she discussed them with Mary Stuart and even little Margot—who, though so young, was quite conscious of fashion—in the familiar apartments of the Louvre or at Blois.
At intervals along the road the peasants had come out to wave a sad farewell to the little Princess, to marvel at her beauty, and to wish her good luck in her married life.
At the town of Chatelleraut, Catherine de Medici gave her daughter a last embrace and uttered the final words of advice and warning. Antoine, with some French nobles and the Spaniards who had met the party, continued to accompany Elisabeth.
It was a journey of a hundred accidents. The weather was bad and they must at times travel through sleet and snow; some of the baggage was mislaid and the French ladies were in a panic, thinking they might not have dresses fine enough in which to face the Spaniards. The French were closely guarding French honor and carefully watching for slights; and the Spaniards were even more jealous of their dignity.
When it was time for Elisabeth to be formally handed over and to say good-bye to Antoine, whom she loved, she felt herself unable to bear the parting.
When Antoine made his speech, in which he said that he had brought the Princess from the house of the greatest King in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign on Earth, she broke down and wept; whereupon the emotional Antoine so far forgot his dignity as to break off his ceremonial speech, take her in his arms, and try to comfort her.
All the noble Spaniards—the greatest in the land assembled to represent their King in this important ceremony—were shocked by such conduct. Their glances implied that the Queen would have to learn to behave differently now that she was in Spain.
The Duke of Infantado, head of the great Mendoza family, whose duty it had been to receive her at this stage on behalf of the King, reproved her as he led her away.
“I beg your Highness to remember,” he said, “that you are now the Queen of Spain, and the Queen of Spain does not so condescend to the Duke of Vendome—even though he may call himself the King of Navarre.”
Elisabeth’s grief subdued her fear. She said sharply: “The Duke of Infantado is greatly daring to speak thus to the Queen of Spain, who will say good-bye to those she loves in the manner of her own people, who do not seek to hide their genuine feelings if they wish to show them.”
The Duke was taken aback, but she was so beautiful, so young, so appealing that she blunted the edge of his Spanish dignity; moreover, he realized that she was not the frivolous girl he had imagined her to be. He could only bow his head and murmur: “I crave your Highness’s pardon.”
She was calmer now that she had said good-bye to her relations. It was too late to hope for a miracle, and since the death of her father she had done with hoping for miracles. Her clothes were not only rich, they were becoming; and the Spaniards had never seen anything like them. She bowed and smiled at the people with French warmth which was so different from Spanish frigidity. She charmed these people as she rode among them. “Surely she is the most beautiful Queen in the world,” they said.
She had long since learned to read the Castilian language, and now she rapidly taught herself to speak it, and if her accent was that of a Frenchwoman, it merely added to her fascinating qualities.
Even the old members of the Spanish nobility were won over by her manners. Even grim Alba himself was attracted by her.
One grows up, thought Elisabeth. One cannot cry when one has no tears left. This is the fate which befalls all princesses.
But she knew that the greatest trial had yet to come. Each day brought her nearer to it, and every little fracas between French and Spaniards prepared her for it. There was still the meeting with Philip—and after that the life with him—to be faced.
Carlos was in a state of extreme tension, though no one but Ruy and Juana seemed to be aware of this. Carlos would have heard the reports regarding the bride; she seemed to have enchanted all those who had come into contact with her, and, although she was not yet fifteen, she had appeared to make even the grim Alba behave like a young man in love.
“Guard my little one,” muttered Juana. “I pray all the saints to guard him.”
Ruy was thinking: Is Philip blind? Does he not realize the effect of this on one so unbalanced as Carlos?
He must be prepared to go to the defense of Philip, for anything might happen. In such a moment Carlos’s mind might topple over into complete insanity. Ruy must be at hand to guard the King.
Philip seemed almost indifferent. He was worried about the Netherlands. The Prince of Orange was hatching evil plots; he knew it. His cousin Maximilian and his sister Maria were growing closer to the German princes; they must be watched. There was so much to occupy his mind, and he only had time to think that this Elisabeth of Valois would suit him because she was young and would bear him children. Marriage was a duty to be endured for the sake of his country.
He was facing a new phase of his career, and he was determined to be ready to meet it. He had said good-bye to Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had gone into a convent, for she knew that, now he was the King, their life together was ended. All Isabel’s children would be provided for by Philip, and later would have good posts in his household or in his armies. Philip could be trusted to do his duty.
He had already sent for his half-brother Juan, in order that he might fulfill the promise he had made to their father, and Juan was being brought up and educated with Carlos.
There was another boy who shared their lessons. This was Philip’s cousin, Alexander Farnese, whom Philip had brought home with him from the Netherlands.
Alexander was the son of Margaret of Parma, who was herself one of the illegitimate daughters of the Emperor Charles. Charles had always made his children’s welfare a concern of his, and he had married Margaret to Alessandro, the illegitimate son of Pope Clement. Alessandro, who had been known as the Nero of Florence, had, fortunately for Florence and Margaret, died a violent death a year after the marriage. After Margaret had been a widow for some years Charles found another bridegroom for her; but in her second marriage Margaret was hardly
