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

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He did not want any change. To be Dauphin at the Court of France was a wonderful life.

One bright day Louise’s anxieties were miraculously swept away. The Queen had given birth to a child who lived, but the child was a girl and little Princess Renee could present no threat to Francois the Dauphin.

“And this must be the last,” Louise told Jeanne. “She can never manage it again.”

Francois pursued his way at Court, charming all. Marguerite was now married to the Duc d’Alencon. Poor Marguerite, she was a most reluctant bride; but she had been brought up to do her duty and, although she suffered so intensely that it was feared she might die of melancholy, she went through with the marriage.

Francois, to whom she confided all things, wept with her, for her sorrows would always be his. She was seventeen, Francois fifteen; and he was angry with himself because he was powerless to help her.

There was little point, he said, in being Dauphin if one could not have one’s way. He wanted to go out and kill Alencon so that the man could not marry his sister.

Marguerite, who had declared that she would rather be dead than have to live with the man whom they had chosen for her husband, forgot her own grief when she saw how upset her brother was.

“Why, my dearest,” she said, “I would marry ten such men rather than that you should be unhappy on my account. Smile, Francois. What does it matter whom I marry? I shall love one man until I die, and that is you, my brother.”

They embraced; they kissed; they mingled their tears.

“And you know, Marguerite, my pearl of pearls, I shall never love a woman as I love you.”

“I know it, for we are as one, beloved. We are part of that trinity to which I am honored to belong, while feeling myself unworthy.”

Francois assured her that she and their mother were the most wonderful of women, and when he was King of France he would do all in his power to make her the happiest woman alive. She should leave her husband; she should come to Court; they would be together always.

Marguerite was comforted. “No world could ever be desolate which contained my beloved brother,” she told him.

The Court was at Blois and Francois was in love.

He had seen the girl on her way to church; she was demure, keeping her eyes downcast and he had followed her. He did not want her to know that he was Dauphin; he wanted her to love him for himself alone, and he had come to suspect that many of the women at Court showed a preference for him partly because of his rank.

This girl was different. She was not of the Court. He did not know who she was, but he suspected she was the daughter of some not very prominent citizen.

After church he followed her to a house in the town; it was a humble enough dwelling from his viewpoint and he was only the more enchanted by this; it seemed incredible that one so fair and dainty could live in such a place.

For days he watched for the girl. He hung about near the house; and one day when she was going to church he waylaid her as she crossed the churchyard.

“I beg of you,” he said humbly, “stay awhile. I would speak with you.”

She turned and faced him. She was very young, and more beautiful seen closely than from afar. He was filled with happiness because he noticed that her gown, though tastefully made, was of simple material, and very different from the garments worn by Court ladies.

“What have you to say to me?” she asked.

“That you are beautiful and I have long desired to tell you so.”

She sighed. “Well, now ’tis done,” she said, and turned away.

He laid a hand on her arm, but she shook her head. “I know that you are the Dauphin,” she said. “It is not fitting that you should be my friend.”

“How did you know who I am? And I tell you it seems very fitting to me, because I am eager to be your friend.”

“I should always know you,” she replied. “You have changed very little. You don’t remember me though.”

“Pray tell me your name.”

“It is Francoise,” she said.

“Francoise!” He took her by the shoulders and peered into her face. Then he laughed aloud with pleasure. “Little Francoise! Our baby … grown into a beautiful girl … the most beautiful girl in France.”

Francoise lowered her eyes. He thought he had discovered her afresh; but she had seen him many times when he rode with the King or members of the royal party. She had thought him the most handsome, charming creature in the world, and when she had seen the women clustering round him, a great sadness had touched her. She had longed then to be young again—a baby whom he held in his arms. She had felt it was the greatest sadness in her life that he should be the Dauphin of France and she a humble maiden. If he had been a shepherd, or a lackey of the Court, how happy she could have been!

“Look at me, Francoise,” he commanded, and she obeyed. She saw the desire in his eyes, as he took her hands in his and pressed burning kisses on them.

But Francoise was frightened; she withdrew her hands and ran away.

Francois stood looking after her. He was smiling in a dazed fashion.

He was in love for the first time in his life.