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then I said: “And did he, Madame?”
    “But of course he did. You see, this Pope was the notorious Alexander VI—Roderigo Borgia. He had a son. Ah, you say, but Popes do not marry. No, little one, you are right. But it is not necessary to marry to have sons… and this Pope had a son called Cesare Borgia. He loved him dearly and sought great favors for him. Now Louis was in a position to be of great use to this young man, and in return for favors to Cesare, the annulment was granted.”
    “What happened to Jeanne, Madame?”
    “What do you think? She accepted her dismissal with quiet resignation. Would you have done so? I would not. But we do not belong to that band of worthy females. Louis was free and he married another saintly one—Anne of Brittany—the widow of the previous King. But she was not quite perfect. She was lame, but pretty, they say, very witty and clever. Both she and Louis had great respect for each other; and although she could not give him sons—fortunately for François—she did produce two daughters—Mesdames Claude and Renée whom you have seen at Court.”
    She paused and I almost held my breath. I was always afraid that she would remember that she was talking too much, and stop. For the first time in my life I was glad that I was of little account.
    “They were married for fifteen years,” she went on dreamily. “Fifteen years… think of that! She was a very good ruler, though some say she had more care for Brittany than for France. But she was greatly respected and Louis was very sorry when she died.”
    “He is sorry no longer since he could not have married Your Grace if she had not died.”
    “Oh, he is not sorry now. He is living as he never did before.”
    Then she laughed and studied her face carefully in the mirror.
    “So much gaiety,” she whispered. “I say to him: “Why does not my lord retire early? I will be at the revels in your stead. I will represent you.” But he says, “No. No, my Queen, I shall be there.” Poor tired old man! And he comes to his bed so wearily at night that there is nothing else for him to do but sleep the sleep of the exhausted.” She smiled. “He is afraid, you see, because…”
    She looked at me steadily and I cast down my eyes and tried to look innocent and to hide my eager desire to hear more. “You see…he is afraid of François. I believe that François is in love with me…a little.”
    “You are so beautiful that it is not surprising,” I told her.
    She shook her head. “François is passionately in love with all thingsbeautiful. Fine buildings, fine music, poetry, pictures, statues and beautiful women. But most of all he is in love with himself. So, my clever little Boleyn, he would not have a great deal of love to spare for one person. He would like to make love to me—and the prospect is all the more enticing because he would be afraid to. What if I were to be with child…by him! What a situation! It is enough to make the gods laugh. He wants me… very much he wants me. He says so with his eyes. I know. But what if he gave me a child? That child would be the King of France because all would think it was the King's. His son would be a king, but it is himself he wants the crown for.”
    She stopped suddenly. “What am I saying? You are a witch. You are probing my secret thoughts. Go away. You are dismissed.” Then she caught my arm and held it so tightly that I could have cried out with the pain. “If you ever mention a word of what I say to anyone…I'll have you in the Tower. Yes, I shall send to my brother and say, ‘The child Boleyn is to go to the Tower. She is a traitor.’”
    “I will never say a word …”
    “Go away. I don't want to see you. I want to go home. I want to see Charles again.”
    I crept away. I was heartbroken for I did not know what I had done to displease her.
    Time dragged heavily when I was not with her.
    Those months were full of revelations for me. I think I grew up then. The Court was