this pomp and ceremony. Perhaps in the
excitement of coming events she could forget some of her unhappiness.
She was told that the Constable of France would shortly come aboard to
have a word with her. She waited expectant while the great man was rowed out to her boat. The sight of him, surrounded by attendants, alarmed her. He had a fierce mouth and cruel eyes.
He bore the feminine name of Anne de Montmorency, and he told her that
great efforts had been made for her comfort while she stayed in Marseilles. He personally had supervised arrangements. It made her feel very important such a man should take such trouble on her account. There would be, he told her, one of the finest houses in the town at the disposal of her and her retinue. A similar house had been found for His Holiness and all the bishops and cardinals and Church dignitaries who had accompanied the Holy Father. There was another house for the French party. Anne de Montmorency would have the little
Duchess know that France was honoured to receive her and her distinguished relative. Caterina, in perfect French, made the reply which was expected of her and was rewarded by the grim man’s look of approval.
He took his leave and left her to await the time when she would land on
French soil and make her way into Marseilles. But before this could take place there must be the entry of the Pope in his ceremonial procession, followed by the King in his; after that it would be her turn.
At length it came. Seated on a roan horse that was covered with brocade,
Caterina rode into France. Behind her and before her rode the nobility of Italy. It mattered not that among them was Ippolito, for Ippolito was lost to her forever.
She dared no longer look his way; she dared not ride, a weeping bride, to meet her bridegroom.
And as she rode she became aware that all eyes in that vast crowd which
lined the streets were fixed upon her; and those eyes were unsmiling. Did they dislike her, then? Had she disappointed them?
She was frightened, realizing afresh that it was not only her lover whom she had lost; she had also said goodbye to home.
She held her head high. These foreigners should not know that they had
frightened her. She would have courage― the same sort of courage which had carried her through the Florentine mob. She would have need of it.
Ippolito, she thought, oh, Ippolito, is it then too late? Could we not run away even now?
But Ippolito, riding ahead, so handsome that eyes followed him, was
resigned to his loss. She must be resigned to hers also.
She began think about her young husband and wonder what he was like.
―――――――
The Pope himself performed the ceremony. Side by side, Caterina and
Henry stood before him, repeating the solemn words. All about them were the dazzling nobility of France and Italy.
Caterina scarcely heard the service; she was only vaguely aware of the
crowded church; all her interest was for the boy beside her.
He was tall, she saw, and well-built; his muscles hardened she was able to discover, by fencing, tilting and, of course, the chase. He was dark; and because, in her thoughts he had been an ogre, a monster not unlike Alessandro, she thought him handsome in his gorgeous, bejewelled clothes. He seemed to brood, though, to be sullen, and she feared he was not pleased with her. She wondered that, in view of her love for Ippolito, she have cared; yet she did care. It hurt her pride that she should have disappointed him. He kept his eyes averted; she wanted to smile at him, to imply that it was frightening for her as well as for him; she wanted to tell him that she had dreaded marriage; that she had suffered the torments of misery; but now that she had seen him she felt a little happier.
She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy
excitement of coming events she could forget some of her unhappiness.
She was told that the Constable of France would shortly come aboard to
have a word with her. She waited expectant while the great man was rowed out to her boat. The sight of him, surrounded by attendants, alarmed her. He had a fierce mouth and cruel eyes.
He bore the feminine name of Anne de Montmorency, and he told her that
great efforts had been made for her comfort while she stayed in Marseilles. He personally had supervised arrangements. It made her feel very important such a man should take such trouble on her account. There would be, he told her, one of the finest houses in the town at the disposal of her and her retinue. A similar house had been found for His Holiness and all the bishops and cardinals and Church dignitaries who had accompanied the Holy Father. There was another house for the French party. Anne de Montmorency would have the little
Duchess know that France was honoured to receive her and her distinguished relative. Caterina, in perfect French, made the reply which was expected of her and was rewarded by the grim man’s look of approval.
He took his leave and left her to await the time when she would land on
French soil and make her way into Marseilles. But before this could take place there must be the entry of the Pope in his ceremonial procession, followed by the King in his; after that it would be her turn.
At length it came. Seated on a roan horse that was covered with brocade,
Caterina rode into France. Behind her and before her rode the nobility of Italy. It mattered not that among them was Ippolito, for Ippolito was lost to her forever.
She dared no longer look his way; she dared not ride, a weeping bride, to meet her bridegroom.
And as she rode she became aware that all eyes in that vast crowd which
lined the streets were fixed upon her; and those eyes were unsmiling. Did they dislike her, then? Had she disappointed them?
She was frightened, realizing afresh that it was not only her lover whom she had lost; she had also said goodbye to home.
She held her head high. These foreigners should not know that they had
frightened her. She would have courage― the same sort of courage which had carried her through the Florentine mob. She would have need of it.
Ippolito, she thought, oh, Ippolito, is it then too late? Could we not run away even now?
But Ippolito, riding ahead, so handsome that eyes followed him, was
resigned to his loss. She must be resigned to hers also.
She began think about her young husband and wonder what he was like.
―――――――
The Pope himself performed the ceremony. Side by side, Caterina and
Henry stood before him, repeating the solemn words. All about them were the dazzling nobility of France and Italy.
Caterina scarcely heard the service; she was only vaguely aware of the
crowded church; all her interest was for the boy beside her.
He was tall, she saw, and well-built; his muscles hardened she was able to discover, by fencing, tilting and, of course, the chase. He was dark; and because, in her thoughts he had been an ogre, a monster not unlike Alessandro, she thought him handsome in his gorgeous, bejewelled clothes. He seemed to brood, though, to be sullen, and she feared he was not pleased with her. She wondered that, in view of her love for Ippolito, she have cared; yet she did care. It hurt her pride that she should have disappointed him. He kept his eyes averted; she wanted to smile at him, to imply that it was frightening for her as well as for him; she wanted to tell him that she had dreaded marriage; that she had suffered the torments of misery; but now that she had seen him she felt a little happier.
She had loved and lost, and happiness was dead as far as she was concerned; but she did not dislike her bridegroom; she could even fancy he bore a slight resemblance to Ippolito, for he was dark and tall and handsome. But the boy
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