throne of France.”
Louis nodded. “Have you put the case before Queen Anne?”
He waited nervously for the reply.
Georges was frowning. “She is reluctant. She feels that to marry so soon after the death of her husband would be a little unseemly.”
Louis beat his fist on his knee. “I am in no mind to wait.”
“You should have no fear on that account, Sire. There is one thing for which she longs and that is to be the mother of the King of France. I mentioned Louise and her Francois, and that was adding fuel to the flame. I am sure that Louise—and young Francois—are scarcely ever out of her thoughts. She sees Louise as her greatest rival. She cannot endure the thought of her triumph. I do not think we shall have trouble with Queen Anne, Sire, once you are free of Queen Jeanne.”
“I am sorry that I have to do this, Georges.”
Georges lifted his shoulders. “It is the fate of royal personages, Sire. I am sure she will understand.”
“Well, let us hasten on the affair. Have you prepared the case?”
“I have, Sire. You will swear that the marriage is impossible of consummation. The Queen is unfit to be a wife and a mother. That is good enough reason for a king to put his wife away.”
“Poor Jeanne, I fear she will take this sadly.”
“She will recover.”
“It is not strictly true to say that she is unfit to be a wife.”
“It is in this case, Sire.”
“There are times when I almost wish …” Louis did not finish his sentence. It was quite untrue of course. He was longing to be rid of Jeanne; he dreamed nightly of Anne who was becoming more and more desirable to him. He was certain that in the first weeks of their marriage she would conceive. But it was true to say that he wished he did not have to hurt Jeanne.
“It will be over very quickly, Sire. The physicians will ask to examine Queen Jeanne.”
“To examine her!”
“To ascertain her unfitness for marriage.”
“But she will never submit to such indignity.”
“Then all is well, Sire,” smiled Georges, “for then it will be assumed that she is indeed unfit, for if she were not, it will be said, why should she refuse the examination?”
Louis gazed at his friend; then he rose and going to the window looked out.
Yet it must be, he thought. There were demands of kingship to be served.
Jeanne could not believe it. Louis had always been so kind. It was true that he found her repulsive, but she had loved him dearly because he had always made such an effort to pretend this was not the case. He had been unfaithful to her; she had expected that. It was his kindness which had always made her feel so safe. He was also so genial, so logical—except when he was ill or anxious. Then he was inclined to be irritable, but that was natural.
And now he was assuring the Court of Enquiry that it was impossible to consummate the marriage, and on those grounds he was asking for a divorce.
She had wept the night before until she slept from exhaustion. Now her eyes were swollen and she looked uglier than ever.
“If only my brother Charles had not died!” she murmured. “Then Louis would not have been King. He would not have cared that I could not give him a son. And Anne of Brittany would not be free to marry him.”
The bishops came to her—one of them was the brother of Georges d’Amboise who she knew worked wholeheartedly for the King and had arranged this matter for him. They were determined, she knew, to give Louis the verdict for which he was asking.
Gently they told her that she was judged unfit for marriage.
“It is not true,” she answered. “Except that my back is crooked, my head set awry, my arms too long, my person unprepossessing.”
“Madame, you have but to submit to an examination. The royal physicians are ready to wait on you.”
Her thick lips, which did not meet, were twisted in a bitter smile.
“I’ll swear they know the answer to what they seek before they begin their examinations,” she answered. “Nay, messieurs, I will not submit to this further indignity. You—and others—forget, it seems, that, unwanted as I am, I am yet the daughter of a king.”
“Madame, it would be wise …”
“Messieurs, you have my leave to depart.”
When they left her she covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro.
This was the end of life as she had known it. The answer would be to go into a convent where she must devote herself to the good life and forget that she ever tried to be a wife to Louis.
She rose and picked up her lute. She had been a good lutist, and when she played men and women had been apt to pause and listen. They forgot then that she was deformed and ugly; they only heard the sweet music she made. Often she had found great comfort in her music and when she felt sad and neglected she had told herself: “There is always my lute.”
But one did not play the lute in a convent.
