Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

“That’s the point, Jeanne. Louis doesn’t intend that she shall remain his Queen. He’s determined to have an heir, and he’s going to rid himself of her in order to do so.”

Jeanne was startled now, seeing the threat to Francois’s hopes as clearly as Louise did.

“Still,” she temporized, “Louis is scarcely a strong man.”

“Strong enough to get a son if he had a healthy bride. I’ve heard rumors, Jeanne. He wants something else besides a son, and he’s looking to a new bride to give it to him … Brittany!”

“No!”

“’Tis so.”

“Anne of Brittany will never marry a divorced man.”

“Not if he is King of France? You don’t know Anne. I understand her well, and I’ll tell you why. She and I share an ambition. We want to be the mother of the King of France. She is a determined woman, and so am I. And you know as well as I do that if I realize my ambition she cannot, and if she gets what she wants that is enough to make me lose everything I hope for. We’re rivals, Jeanne. We’re enemies. And if this divorce takes place, I shall not know a moment’s peace for years … not until Anne is too old to bear a son—and she is but a young woman. Do you wonder that I am uneasy?”

They were silent, thinking of all that this meant.

At last Louise spoke. “Louis, I am sure, is certain of ridding himself of Jeanne and getting Anne. He’s certain that she will give him a boy.”

“Anne wasn’t very successful with Charles—three boys all dead.”

“But boys, Jeanne. And Charles was a dwarf … little better than his sister whom Louis is now trying to discard. No. I am sure his hopes are high. That is why he would not give Francois the Orleans title. He suggested he should become Duc de Valois instead.”

The two women stared into space as though they were trying to peer into the future.

The King came to Cognac. He had a fancy to see the boy who, unless he could get a son, would follow him as King of France.

There was a bustle in the castle and throughout the countryside. All along the route the people lined the roadside to cheer the new King.

Louise greeted the sovereign while on either side of her were two of the most beautiful children Louis had ever seen. The girl with the clear, intelligent eyes was very charming; as for the boy, he was as robust as any parent could wish.

Louis took them in his arms and embraced them warmly. He was impressed with the girl, but his eyes kept straying to the boy, who greeted him without a trace of shyness.

“I have a dog,” the boy told him.

“Have you?” asked the King.

“Yes, and I have a pony. I ride on their backs. My dog is big.” The plump arms were outstretched as far as they would go. “And we have a baby, Marguerite and I. Her name is Francoise. She is a very good baby.”

Louis noticed that the little boy was allowed to take the stage. Well, he could understand the mother’s fondness.

I’d give half my kingdom, he thought, for a son like that.

Francois had put his hand confidently in that of the King.

“Are you a king?”

Louis admitted that he was.

“I shall be one when I grow up.”

“Is that so?” said Louis with a smile; and he thought: Not if I can prevent it, my little man.

“Yes, a great king,” prattled Francois. “And I shall have two queens—Marguerite and my mother.”

Louis looked at Louise who was faintly embarrassed.

“I see,” he said, “that your son already displays excellent judgment.”

He was conducted to his apartments and when he was alone with his own attendants he was very thoughtful. He could not get that boy out of his mind. What vitality! Why had they not married him to Louise of Savoy instead of poor tragic Jeanne!

He was unhappy every time he thought of his wife, so he tried to thrust her from his mind and look ahead to the days when he would be married to Anne. He was thinking a great deal about Anne. There was something about that woman. It was true she limped a little and was somewhat pale and certainly severe; but she was a Queen in truth, born to rule; and once they had dispensed with this awkward business of freeing him from one who was useless to him, she would be a good wife.

He could trust Georges to arrange things. Before he had come to the throne he used to say, when he was in a difficulty: “Let Georges do it.” He said that now. There was no one quite so wily, when dealing with delicate matters, as a man of the Church. Georges would find a reason, which would satisfy even Anne, why his marriage should be dissolved. He did not anticipate a great deal of trouble, because he was so sure of help from that quarter from which it was most essential. The Holy Father would be ready to grant the divorce in exchange for certain favors to his son. It was easy to deal with a Borgia, and Pope Alexander VI loved his son Cesare so deeply that it should not be impossible to strike a bargain. Trust Georges to arrange this matter.

In the meantime he had the importunity of people such as Louise of Savoy to contend with. She would not be quite so complacent about this merry little fellow on whom she doted when he and Anne, safely married, presented the country with their son. That would put that somewhat long though enchanting nose of Monsieur Francois out of joint. Not that he was aware of that yet—with his dogs, ponies and babies.