Juan asked her name.
“It is Marguerite, but my brother Charles nicknamed her Margot. She is the gayest creature I ever knew. How I wish she were here!”
“I wish I could bring her to you, if that would please you,” said Carlos wistfully.
“Mayhap she could come on a visit?” suggested Alexander.
“It is a long journey,” said Isabella. “I wonder how she would like it here.”
“You are sad,” Carlos put in.
“Only when I think of those at home in France. There were so many of us. Francois, who is now the King, and Charles, Henri, Claude, Margot, and little Hercule …”
“Well,” said Juan, “now you have Carlos, Alexander, and Juan.”
She smiled and kissed them in turn. It was astonishing to them, but they knew it was the way of the French.
Carlos could not bear to see her kiss the others; he put his arms about her and clung to her as long as he dared.
There was bad news from Flanders. He knew that Orange was organizing a revolt.
He was sitting deep in thought, when she appeared—an enchanting vision in her Parisian dress, her black hair dressed in a new style. How could he help but be delighted to see her? It was so much more pleasant to contemplate her than the treacherous Orange.
“But I am interrupting,” she said. “I came to show you the pictures which have arrived from Paris.”
“Everything that is charming would seem to come from Paris,” he said. “I pray you, let me see the pictures.”
She showed him the one of her mother first. The plump, inscrutable face looked back at him.
“And the other is my little sister. This is beautiful. Is she not charming? Do you like this picture, Philip?”
“Very much.”
“I wish you could see Margot.” She looked at him wistfully. “Oh, Philip, how
She sat, rather timidly, it was true, upon his knee. The French were so demonstrative, but he understood. She was going to ask some favor. It was a little childish of her, but then he loved her childishness. And this was a habit they would have taught her in the French court.
He looked at her quizzically yet indulgently, and she went on: “Carlos will have to have a wife. He grows old. Philip … would it not be wonderful if he could marry my sister Marguerite?”
Now it was all quite clear. So Madame le Serpent had set his own wife to cajole him. Catherine had made one of her daughters Queen of Spain, and she wished to make sure that the Queen who followed should be a daughter of hers. Catherine clearly set great store by Spanish friendship; but the woman was not so clever as she rated herself. Did she think he was a besotted fool to be persuaded on matters of state policy even by the most charming of wives?
He drew Isabella toward him and put his arm about her; and as he did so he looked at the plump, flat face of the woman in the picture.
He was thinking: Yes, Madame, you sent me your daughter and I made her my wife. From now on she shall be my wife entirely and cease to be your obedient daughter. If she is to act the spy and agent, it is better that she should act so for her husband than for her mother.
And he decided that he would mold her; he would make her completely his. He had won her friendship and affection with his gentleness; before long he would win her passionate devotion; then she would be free from her mother’s influence.
At length he answered: “My dearest, we must not think of marriage for Carlos at this stage. He does not enjoy good health; and I do not intend to allow him to marry until his health has greatly improved. If and when such a time should come, I will choose a wife for him. Until then, let us not think of his marrying.” Seeing her disappointment, he smiled wryly. “Why,” he went on, “your little sister looks so gay. The Louvre is the place for her. Do not brood on the marriages of others; think only of ours, which we are discovering to be a good one, are we not?”
“Yes, Philip, but …”
“Isabella,” he interrupted, “your mother writes often to you, does she not?”
“Why, yes, indeed.”
“You never show me her letters.”
“N … no. Was it your wish that I should?”
He saw the panic in her eyes and marveled at the power of a woman who could arouse it at such great distance. “Only if you wished to show them to me,” he said.
“I … I would, of course, do so if you wished it.”
He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “There are times when I think you are afraid of your mother. Are you, my dear?”
“Afraid of her … but I love her. I love all my family.”
“Perhaps it is possible to love and fear. I would not have you afraid. There is nothing to fear. Why should the Queen of Spain fear the Queen Mother of France? Tell me that.”
