Chapter 53
Looking down at the delicate bouquet of flowers in her arms, Mary longed for the Lord to perform a miracle before her eyes once again and turn back time.
Let's turn back time to the morning she arrived at the Louvre.
She would surely push aside the blue velvet dress and white mink shawl that Seton brought, then put on that drab gray widow's dress, and ride her horse through the mud to Charles IX.
Or we could go back in time to five years ago at sea.
She must have had the crew throw the blond youth lying on the deck overboard, so that this shimmering golden peacock, kneeling on one knee, could keep the sharks company.
"..." The Queen of Scots lowered her head slightly, inhaled the elegant and lingering fragrance of the lilies, and said, "Since you have already said so, as your monarch, I am of course happy to share in your glory. However, Albert, since you have already given me this bouquet, how to dispose of it is up to my will."
“Of course,” Albert said.
Under the watchful eyes of everyone, the Queen of Scots untied the delicate bouquet, took out the largest and most beautiful lily, and handed it to her lady-in-waiting, Miss Mary Seton.
“Sethon, I hope this little gift will brighten your day,” Mary said with a smile.
Seton knelt and happily accepted the small gift, breaking off a stem of the lily and tucking it into her long brown hair.
She's very good at styling all sorts of hairstyles. The bun she's wearing today consists of two small braids tied up at the back of her head, knotted into an intricate pattern, with the lower half of her hair hanging down freely. From a distance, it looks like she's wearing a delicate flower wreath on her head. Now, with the addition of this lily, she looks even more elegant and playful.
Following this, the Queen of Scots did the same, giving the remaining flowers to the noble ladies of France, asking them to adorn their skirts and hair with them, as a way of celebrating the upcoming art festival and Candlemas at the Louvre.
It was still early spring, and the trees along the roadside were just beginning to sprout green buds. These vibrant flowers, however, were cultivated in advance in the greenhouse by the Louvre's gardeners. They were precious and rare. The noble ladies who received this gift were all overjoyed. They tucked the flowers into their hats or pinned them to their brooches as a unique adornment. They then walked hand in hand in groups of three or five toward the Louvre's gardens.
—The art festival hosted by His Majesty the King is being held in the garden.
Marie Antoinette returned to the Louvre and had no interest in attending the art celebrations.
Even if it was specially organized for her.
Once, when she was a young girl, she was quite fascinated by art. She could stay up all night talking with poets, immersing her thoughts in the philosophy of ancient Greece, the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci, and the sonnets of Ronsard.
But the countless hardships she endured, beginning with François's death, proved that art, amidst the cold swords and treacherous power games, was not even as valuable as a stale piece of oatmeal.
At least the oatmeal bread would keep her fed while she was on the run.
As for the poet's verses... she lay down to rest in the roadside weeds, her body covered in dirt, and when she recalled those poems, she only felt more empty and desperate.
She absolutely, absolutely would not allow herself to end up like that again!
Thinking of this, Mary's body suddenly trembled, forcibly breaking free from her past memories, and she looked up at the window.
Before we knew it, it was already dark.
Outside the window, amidst the neatly trimmed bushes, elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies held beeswax candles in their hands, letting the warm candlelight illuminate their palms. They laughed and joked with each other, flitting through the garden like butterflies among flowers, participating in various games and games.
The original way to celebrate Candlemas was for believers to light candles late at night and go to church to pray, asking for God's blessing under the bright candlelight. Later, after this custom spread to the Louvre, it was quickly adapted and made into various ways by the nobility.
They wouldn't be like a farmer, foolishly carrying candles to church and kneeling to pray for a good harvest next year. Instead, they would seek out ladies and young women with whom they could spend a pleasant evening in the soft, hazy candlelight.
The French court was so open about relationships between men and women.
As Mary gazed at this long-unseen scene of luxury, she pondered, half-heartedly, Queen Mother Catherine's attitude.
Her trip to Paris was originally intended to win over Queen Catherine the Queen Mother, hoping she would maintain the old alliance and send troops to aid Scotland when it was at war with England. However, due to a twist of fate, because of that little scoundrel Charles IX, she didn't even say a word, which only increased Queen Catherine the Queen Mother's dislike for her.
Perhaps changing the objective to get Queen Catherine the Queen Mother on one's side, or hoping that she would not participate in the Anglo-Soviet War, would be more realistic.
As Mary thought of this, she saw a noblewoman who had been drinking wine entangled with another young man in the bushes. She turned away from the window, but as soon as she turned back, a figure pressed her against the wall and kissed her hard on the lips.
Caught off guard, Mary first felt a sharp pain in the back of her head, followed by the sensation of liquid mingling between her lips and teeth. Her movements were passionate and impulsive; she immediately reached out and pushed the person away, then, relying on her instincts, slapped the figure hard across the face!
"Smack—"
Just as Mary was about to call for the guards, the figure took a few steps back, stood by the window, and revealed its true face.
—It was Charles IX.
After recognizing who had laid a hand on her, Mary narrowed her eyes slightly, then raised her hand and slapped Charles IX across the face again!
The young French king was initially nervous, but after being slapped a second time, he became furious!
“...How dare you hit me?! Mary, you are rejecting the King of France!” Charles IX whispered.
“So you still remember you’re the King of France? I thought you were some shameless thief! Weren’t you attending a celebration in the garden?” Mary asked.
"I have no interest in dealing with the flattery of those nobles or the flirtatious displays of those women. My mother knows how I feel about you, so she arranged for Miss Marie Toucher to come and see me, to let me experience the pleasures of being a man..." Charles IX first pursed his lips, then looked aggrieved, "...You've heard of Marie Toucher, haven't you? She's a real beauty, pretty and witty. Even the Duke of Montmorency is head over heels for her. Marie, I rejected her for you, sneaking off to see you, and this is how you treat me, huh?"
If François were in heaven and saw this, he would surely be furious. Although he has a good temper, he's not without one. And Queen Catherine, your son is only fifteen years old. Isn't it a bit too early to arrange a mistress for him? Oh well, we can't judge 16th-century thinking by the standards of the future…
Mary tapped impatiently on the marble statue in the hallway and said calmly, "There's only one reason I refuse you, and that's because you're still a child."
Charles IX raised an eyebrow, took a step forward, and said defiantly, "I'm a mature man now. If François can bring you pleasure, so can I! ... Marie, want to give it a try?"
Mary suppressed the urge to slap Charles IX a third time and calmly said, "True maturity lies not in the body, but in wisdom and status. Your brother can bring me the crown of queen, a legitimate marriage, and wholehearted love. What can you bring me?"
At this point, Mary looked at Charles IX with pity, then shook her head.
“…You even have to come to see me behind Queen Mother Catherine’s back, afraid of upsetting your mother. Poor child, go find your Miss Mary Toussaint,” Mary said with a light laugh.
Charles IX was so angry that his chest heaved and his face turned red, but he couldn't find a reasonable rebuttal.
After a long while, he finally said, "You really are... no wonder my mother would rather let the Duke of Anjou marry that old woman Elizabeth than let me marry you!"
In the shadows of the corridor, Mary's pupils contracted for a moment.
"The Duke of Anjou proposed to Elizabeth? When did this happen?" Mary asked casually.
"When? I can't quite remember, but it seems like it was when you mentioned you were coming to stay in France that Elizabeth sent an envoy to invite the Duke of Anjou to London to discuss the marriage," Charles IX said casually.
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