did not give her a glance.
When the ceremony was over, Caterina forgot her bridegroom, for the most
dazzling, brilliant personage she had ever seen in the whole of her life came forward and took her hand. She lifted her eyes and looked into the twinkling ones that smiled down at her. They were kind eyes, though they looked tired and had dark bags beneath them; they were debauched eyes, but not depraved; they were amused, but not sardonic; they seemed to say, ‘This seems an ordeal, does it not? But it will pass, and you will find that it contained much to laugh at. That is life.’
‘I will lead the bride back to my own residence,’ he declared, ‘where a
banquet is awaiting her.’
This kind and charming man was none other, she knew, than Francis
himself, the King of France. She flushed as she murmured her thanks. She could not but be charmed; she could not help the flutter of excitement that his presence brought to her. Such grace, such kindness, such brilliance must inevitably dim even the image of Ippolito.
She had seen him before. He had kissed her when he had welcomed her to
France; he had called her daughter , and had given her rich gifts. She had known that richer gifts had gone from Italy to France― and there was the promise of many more― but never had gifts seemed so precious as those given with the charm of the King. He had not forgotten, either, to whisper a compliment on her appearance, which had not been necessary to the ceremonial etiquette, but had been given out of kindness, to make her feel happy and at home. She realized now, as he took her hand, that if her wretchedness had lifted a little, if a life that must be lived without Ippolito had in the last few days seemed a little less grey, it was due to this man.
Now, for the wedding ceremony, he looked more dazzling than he had at
their first meeting. He wore white satin, and his mantle, studded with pearls and precious stones, was of cloth of gold. She herself was magnificent with her corsage of ermine and her white satin gown, studded with pearls and diamonds, but she felt insignificant beside him.
How the people cheered him! How they loved him! Who would not? He was
a King who looked like a King.
‘Well, little daughter,’ he murmured to her, ‘the ceremony is over. Now you shall be our daughter in very truth.’
‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘you have made me feel that I already am. I shall
always remember that the biggest welcome I had in France was from her King.’
He looked at her with a smile, and thought that it was a shame that she
should be married to his tongue-tied son, since she would know how to make the remarks which would be expected of her.
‘My sweet Catherine,’ he said, ‘you are now a Frenchwoman. You are no
longer Italian Caterina, but French Catherine. This is a christening ceremony as well as a wedding. How do you like the change?’
‘It sounds very pleasant― as you say it.’
‘I see you are well schooled in diplomacy. A necessary art, I do assure you, for ladies and gentlemen of the court.’
‘A necessary art for all, Sire.’
‘Ah, you are a wise little girl. Tell me― in confidence if you like. What you think of your husband?’
‘I like his looks.’
‘And what of his quiet ways?’
‘I have scarcely had time to know them.’
‘Well, well, little Catherine. Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.’
‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘but mine, Sire, was made in Rome.’
He laughed. ‘And in France, my dear. We studied your picture and I said:
What a charming child! And I thought then I would love my new daughter.’
‘And now that you have seen her in the flesh, Sire?’
‘And now, I no longer say, I think , but I know .’
‘You are quick to love, Sire.’
He looked at her sharply. She looked demure. He wondered what tales had
reached her of the amorous King of France
‘Love,’ he said lyrically, ‘is the most beautiful of all the gifts the gods have given us. I
When the ceremony was over, Caterina forgot her bridegroom, for the most
dazzling, brilliant personage she had ever seen in the whole of her life came forward and took her hand. She lifted her eyes and looked into the twinkling ones that smiled down at her. They were kind eyes, though they looked tired and had dark bags beneath them; they were debauched eyes, but not depraved; they were amused, but not sardonic; they seemed to say, ‘This seems an ordeal, does it not? But it will pass, and you will find that it contained much to laugh at. That is life.’
‘I will lead the bride back to my own residence,’ he declared, ‘where a
banquet is awaiting her.’
This kind and charming man was none other, she knew, than Francis
himself, the King of France. She flushed as she murmured her thanks. She could not but be charmed; she could not help the flutter of excitement that his presence brought to her. Such grace, such kindness, such brilliance must inevitably dim even the image of Ippolito.
She had seen him before. He had kissed her when he had welcomed her to
France; he had called her daughter , and had given her rich gifts. She had known that richer gifts had gone from Italy to France― and there was the promise of many more― but never had gifts seemed so precious as those given with the charm of the King. He had not forgotten, either, to whisper a compliment on her appearance, which had not been necessary to the ceremonial etiquette, but had been given out of kindness, to make her feel happy and at home. She realized now, as he took her hand, that if her wretchedness had lifted a little, if a life that must be lived without Ippolito had in the last few days seemed a little less grey, it was due to this man.
Now, for the wedding ceremony, he looked more dazzling than he had at
their first meeting. He wore white satin, and his mantle, studded with pearls and precious stones, was of cloth of gold. She herself was magnificent with her corsage of ermine and her white satin gown, studded with pearls and diamonds, but she felt insignificant beside him.
How the people cheered him! How they loved him! Who would not? He was
a King who looked like a King.
‘Well, little daughter,’ he murmured to her, ‘the ceremony is over. Now you shall be our daughter in very truth.’
‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘you have made me feel that I already am. I shall
always remember that the biggest welcome I had in France was from her King.’
He looked at her with a smile, and thought that it was a shame that she
should be married to his tongue-tied son, since she would know how to make the remarks which would be expected of her.
‘My sweet Catherine,’ he said, ‘you are now a Frenchwoman. You are no
longer Italian Caterina, but French Catherine. This is a christening ceremony as well as a wedding. How do you like the change?’
‘It sounds very pleasant― as you say it.’
‘I see you are well schooled in diplomacy. A necessary art, I do assure you, for ladies and gentlemen of the court.’
‘A necessary art for all, Sire.’
‘Ah, you are a wise little girl. Tell me― in confidence if you like. What you think of your husband?’
‘I like his looks.’
‘And what of his quiet ways?’
‘I have scarcely had time to know them.’
‘Well, well, little Catherine. Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.’
‘But,’ she said quickly, ‘but mine, Sire, was made in Rome.’
He laughed. ‘And in France, my dear. We studied your picture and I said:
What a charming child! And I thought then I would love my new daughter.’
‘And now that you have seen her in the flesh, Sire?’
‘And now, I no longer say, I think , but I know .’
‘You are quick to love, Sire.’
He looked at her sharply. She looked demure. He wondered what tales had
reached her of the amorous King of France
‘Love,’ he said lyrically, ‘is the most beautiful of all the gifts the gods have given us. I
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