In spite of that, Francis had adored his pretty Scottish Mary and Elizabeth was deeply in love with her husband, Philip. Claude, during this period of Catherine's life, was of no importance to her since her husband's title was a minor
one. However, Charles, Henry, Marguerite, and young Hercules, Duke of Alengon, remained unmarried and until their marriages had been satisfactorily arranged the Queen Mother's interest in all other dynastic well-being was secondary.
So in Philip's snub she saw not so much a threat to her country by a mighty adversary as an impediment to her matrimonial projects. Elizabeth was reluctant to talk about it. She had, her mother reminded her sharply, become more Spanish than Spain. They argued; Elizabeth wept but refused to discuss matters which obviously her husband had warned her not to discuss. So Catherine had no choice but to take her proposals to Alba, an embarrassing move at best, for their dislike for each other was no secret. And Alba chose to be most discouraging.
"Madame," he said slowly, apparently weighing his words carefully, "what you propose would, methinks, find small favor in the eyes of the King. To begin with, Don Carlos is already betrothed to his cousin, the Princess Anne of Austria. As for your sons, His Majesty, King Charles and His Grace, the Duke of Anjou"—Alba brought the tips of the fingers of his right hand to meet those of his left—"much, very much must be made clear before such contracts could be considered." How much was to be made dear, as the smooth voice of Philip s first minister continued, Catherine soon learned. She might have known, she told herself bitterly, listening, that Philip would marry Don Carlos to a relative and so keep the marriage portions of both bride and groom within his grasp, not to mention the crowns of Bohemia, Hungary, and
the Duchy of Austria. But the dowager, thirty-eight-year-old Dona Juana, still seemed a highly desirable bride for thirteen-year-old Anjou. What then was the obstacle there?
"Simply this/' Alba told her. "Once and for all do away with the Huguenots of France; free your country and, I may add, the Court, completely from heresy; take off the heads of leaders like Conde and Coligny to show your good faith. Then, when this has been accomplished, make your proposals again and His Most Catholic Majesty may listen.
Otherwise—" He made a gesture describing the dusting of crumbs from a table.
Almost a month had been consumed in talks while the heat of summer in southern France wore tempers thin and the sudden electrical storms with wind and hail shredded the elaborate scenery and costumes for the spectacular tableaux Catherine had brought to entertain the Spanish Court, Now there was nothing to do but pack what remained of it and start the long wearing journey home. So Elizabeth and her mother bade each other a tearful, last good-by.
Across the centuries there have been many surmises regarding those long conferences between Catherine and Alba. Did she then and there promise to foment a movement which years later would result in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew's Eve? Did she promise the deaths of key men in the ranks of the Opposition? No one knows. Catherine was a product of her day. She has been called a monster by many historians and a cruelly maligned woman by others. One can only follow the most reputable sources and draw one's own conclusions.
Another year—two—three passed. In Spain a little daughter was born to Elizabeth in 1566 and named Dona Isabel Clara Eugenia, and the following year another daughter, Dona Catalina Francisca. Don Carlos, sinking slowly into complete imbecility, was imprisoned by his father in a dun-geonlike apartment of the palace in Madrid. Windows were nailed shut, this in spite of summer heat, and the sick man
begged for pans of cool water in which he would stand for hours on end, alternately singing Psalms, shouting obscenities, and piteously asking, when Elizabeth appeared at the grating in his door, to be released, to be allowed to breathe fresh air. The young Queen's sympathy for the madman was the only remaining bright thing in his life, and when he died in the late summer of 1568, it was with her name on his lips. He had always loved her and in his final delirium he saw her as a supernatural being sent to comfort him.
In France the religious war continued and the venerable Constable de Montmorency, dead on the battlefield, was replaced by Prince Henry, Duke of Anjou, seventeen, whom Catherine had instructed the King to create Lieutenant General and Commander in Chief. Charles, always conscious of the favoritism his mother showed Henry, wept and stormed at both of them, insisting that he should have led his troops. However, Catherine quickly put an end to the tirade, diplomatically pointing out that as King he must not expose himself to the dangers of war; his people needed him and he must take no chances. Also, she reminded him, a king could scarcely lead subject against subject, and this, after all, was a civil war. With this Charles tried to console himself, but it was not easy.
The Queen Mother was not well; she admitted it herself. Her enormous appetite was finally ruining her digestion, and gout and rheumatism were wearing her out. She had long sleepless nights during which she
