Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

His horse stood by cropping the grass. The King leaving the bundle of straw on the ground, sprang into the saddle without even touching the stirrup, and again addressed her. She was terrified at the idea of being surprised by any one, especially Bellegarde, who would have been so incensed, that he might have forgotten himself towards his Majesty.

For a moment Gabrielle was overcome. Tears came into her eyes out of sheer vexation and fear of consequences, both to him, who might fall into an ambuscade, and to herself. As she lifted up her hands to wipe the tears away, the scarf she had been embroidering, and which she still held, slipped out of her hand, and borne by the wind, after fluttering for a few moments, dropped on the King, who, catching it, exclaimed —

“Ventre Saint Gris! what have we here?”

“Oh, Sire!” cried Gabrielle, “it is my work – a scarf; it is all but finished, and now I have dropped it.”

“By all the rules of war, fair lady,” said Henry, “what falls from the walls of a besieged city belongs to the soldier; so, by your leave, dear Gabrielle, the scarf is mine; I will wear it.”

“Oh!” replied she, leaning over the balcony, “do give it me back; it is for Monsieur de Bellegarde, and he knows it. Should he see your Majesty with it, what will he think? He would never believe but that I gave it to you.”

“By the mass! it is too good for him; I will keep it without any remorse, and cover with a thousand kisses these stitches woven by your delicate fingers.”

“But, indeed, Sire, it is promised – Monsieur de Bellegarde will ask me for it; what am I to say?”

“Bellegarde shall never have it, I promise you. Tell him that, like Penelope, you undid in the night what you worked in the day. Come, come, now, Gabrielle, confess you are not in reality so much attached to Bellegarde as you pretend, and that if I can prove to you he is unworthy of your love and inconstant into the bargain, you will promise to give me his place in your heart. Besides, his position is unworthy of your beauty; there is but one ornament worthy of that snowy brow – Bellegarde cannot place it there; but I know another able and willing, when the cursed League is dispersed, to give that finishing touch to your loveliness.”

“Sire,” replied she, “I must not listen to what you say. I cannot believe anything against Bellegarde; I have known him all my life, and he has never deceived me. Nothing but the most positive evidence shall convince me that he is false.”

“How now? Saints et Saintes! you doubt my word – the word of a king! But, Gabrielle, I can give you proofs, be assured.”

“Oh, Sire, it is not for me to talk of proofs or to reproach him. Poor Bellegarde! my heart bleeds when I think of him.” Her head fell upon her bosom; again the tears gathered in her eyes. Then she looked up, and becoming aware all at once that it had grown quite dusk, she forgot every other feeling in fear for the King’s safety. “Sire, go away, I implore you, return to your quarters as fast as your horse can carry you. If I have been cold, remember what you are risking – your life and my good name! for you will be seen by some one.”

“Gabrielle, do you drive me away thus, when to leave you costs me such a pang! Heaven knows when this war will allow us again to meet! I never know from day to day but that some rebel of a Leaguer may finish me by a stray shot; much less do I know where or how I may be. The present is all I have – let me enjoy it.”

“Ah, Sire! only put down that atrocious League, and we will meet when you please. I shall offer up no end of prayers that it may be so.”

“Whatever comes out of those ruby lips will not fail of being heard; as to your slave Henry, the very knowledge that such a divinity stoops to interest herself in his fate will serve as a talisman to shield him from every danger.”

“Your Majesty speaks like a poet,” and a soft laugh was heard out of the darkness. “Now adieu, Sire! I wish you a safe journey wherever you go, and may you prevail against your foes. When you see Monsieur de Bellegarde, assure him of my love.”

“Ungrateful Gabrielle! thus to trifle with me. But I have proofs, vrai Dieu! I have proofs that shall cure you of that attachment.”

“Sire, why should you seek to make me unhappy? You know that for years I have been engaged to Bellegarde, and that I look forward to my marriage with the utmost delight. Why, then, endeavour to separate us?”

“Par exemple, ma belle, you give me credit for being vastly magnanimous, upon my word! What then, Gabrielle, would you have me resign you without a struggle? – nay, am I expected to bring about your marriage with a rival? That is a little too much, forsooth!”

“Nenni, Sire; I only ask you not to prevent it. Such artifice would be unworthy so generous a monarch to a faithful servant like poor Bellegarde, to whom I am – ” and she could not help again laughing, so dismal was the look of the King – “to whom I am bound in all honour. Then there is your Majesty’s wife, the Queen of Navarre – for, Sire, you seem to forget that you have a wife.”

“Yes, as I have a Crown, which I am never to wear. That infernal Marguerite is keeping her state with a vengeance, and forgetting, par Dieu, she has a husband. The people of Usson, in Auvergne, call shame on her; they know what she is better than I do.”

“Sire, I beg of you to speak at least with respect of Madame Marguerite de France.”

“Why should I not be frank with you, ma belle, at least? Ah, Margot, la reine Margot, à la bonne heure! I only wish she were in her coffin at Saint-Denis along with her brothers. I shall be quit of a wife altogether until I enter Paris, and then we shall see – we shall see who will be crowned with me. But, mignonne, I must indeed bid you adieu. Morbleu! my people will think I am lost, and besiege the château. Adieu until I can next come. I will write to you in the meantime. Remember to forget Bellegarde, as you value the favour of your Sovereign.”

And kissing the scarf he had stolen from her, the King put spurs to his horse and galloped away into the darkness.

Gabrielle d’Estrées followed his pernicious counsel but too readily, as the sequel will show. Unable to resist the continued blandishments of the King, and silencing her conscience by a belief in his promise of marriage, she sacrificed her lover, the Duc de Bellegarde, sincerely and honourably attached to her for many years and whom she had once really loved, for the sake of the gallant but licentious Henry. She followed the King to Mantes, in company with her father, whom the King made General of Artillery and loaded with honours. After this Henry would not hear of her returning to the Château of Cœuvres, a place, he said, too remote and difficult of access. He finally prevailed on her to accompany him to the camp at Saint-Germain.

The Duc de Bellegarde was banished.

In the autumn she was still at Saint-Germain, where the King, in his brief intervals of leisure, showed more and more delight in her society.

One day he entered Gabrielle’s apartment, and dismissing his attendants sank into a chair without saying a word. He heaved a deep sigh. Gabrielle looked up at him, wondering at his silence – she perceived that he was weeping. Surprised at his emotion, she asked him, with an offended air, if the sight of her had caused those tears, for if such were the case she would go back to the Castle of Cœuvres, if it so pleased his Majesty.

“Mignonne,” replied Henry very gravely, taking her hand and kissing it, “it is indeed you who are partly the cause of my grief, but not because you are here. Seeing you makes me envy the happiness of the poorest peasant in my dominions, living on bread and garlic, who has the woman he loves beside him, and is his own master. I am no king, I am nothing but a miserable slave, jostled between Calvinists and Catholics, who both distrust me.”

“Come, come, Sire, dismiss these fancies, at least while you are with me,” answered she.

“On the contrary, Gabrielle, it is the sight of you that recalls them. You have escaped from the control of a father to live with me, while my chains press about me tighter than ever. I cannot, I dare not break them, – and be wholly yours. You gain and I lose – that is all.”

“Sire,” said she, sadly, “I am not sure of that. Women, I believe, are best in the chains you speak of. I shall see. If I have gained, you will keep your promise to me. I am not so certain of it; all I know is, whatever has been or is to be, that I love you,” and she turned her languishing blue eyes full upon him.

“Gabrielle, I swear I will keep my promise. Does not every act of my life prove my devotion?”

“Well then, Sire, succeed in putting down that odious League, march on to Paris, and I shall be happy. To see you crowned and anointed at Rheims I would give my life!”

“Never fear, sweet; this will come about shortly. I am certain. There, are, however, more difficulties than you are aware of. If I become a Catholic, as all my nobles wish me to do – and beautiful France is well worth a mass – then the Calvinists will at once reorganise this cursed League; and, if I persist in my faith, which my poor mother reared me up to love sincerely – why then I shall be forsaken by all the Catholics; a fact they take care to remind me of every day of my life. Vrai Dieu! I only wish I were once again Prince of Navarre, free and joyous, fighting and hunting, dancing and jousting, without an acre of land, as I was formerly.”

“Sire, all will be well; be more sanguine, I entreat you. If my poor words have any power over you,” she added, encouragingly, “dismiss such gloomy thoughts. Believe me, the future has much in store for you and for me.”

“Ah! dear Gabrielle, when I am far away over mountains and valleys, separated from those lovely eyes that now beam so brightly on me, I feel all the torments of jealousy. Away from you, happiness is impossible.”

“Well, Sire, if it is only my presence you want, I will follow you to the end of the world – I will go anywhere;” Gabrielle spoke with impassioned ardour.

“Ma mie! it is this love alone that enables me to bear all the anxieties and troubles that surround me on every side. I value it more than the Crown of France; but this very love of yours, entire as I believe it to be, is the one principal cause of my misery.”

“How can that be?” answered she caressingly; “I love you – I will ever be constant, I swear it solemnly, Henry.”

“Yes,” replied he thoughtfully, “but I have promised you marriage – you must sit beside me as Queen of France. Do you forget that I have the honour of being the husband of a queen – the sister of three defunct monarchs – the most abandoned, the most disgraceful, the most odious – ”

“Sire, you need not think about her; you are not obliged to be a witness of her disorders. Let her enjoy all her gallantries at the Castle of Usson. You can easily divorce her when you please – and then nothing can part us.”

“Ventre Saint Gris! cursed be the demon who dishonours me by calling herself my wife! that wretch who prevents my marrying the angel whom I love so entirely – your own sweet self!”

“Henry, my heart at least is yours.”

“Yes, dearest; but not more mine than I am yours eternally – and I would recompense your love as it deserves. But know, Gabrielle, that Marguerite de Valois absolutely refuses to consent to a divorce that I may marry you. She declares she acts in my interests; but I believe her odious pride is offended at being succeeded by a gentlewoman of honest and ancient lineage, a thousand times better than all the Valois that ever lived, a race born of the Devil, I verily believe. I have threatened her with a state trial; the proofs against her are flagrant. She knows that she would in that case be either beheaded or imprisoned for life. Not even that shakes her resolve, so inveterate is she against our union.”

“Alas! poor lady – did she ever love you?”

“Not a whit; she was false from the beginning. Let us speak of her no more,” said the King, rising and walking up and down the room. Then stopping opposite Gabrielle, who, dismayed at what she heard, sat with her face buried in her hands, he asked her, “How about Bellegarde?”

Gabrielle shrank back, then looked up at him.

“Are you sure he is entirely banished from your remembrance?”

“As much as if I had never known him,” replied she promptly.

“I depend upon your pledge of meeting him no more, because, good-natured as I am – and I am good natured, Par Dieu!– I am somewhat choleric and hot (God pardon me), and if by chance I ever surprised you together, why, vrai Dieu, if I had my sword I might be sorry for the consequences.”

“Sire, there is no danger; you may wear your sword for me. If such a thing ever occurred, it is I who would deserve to die.”

“Well, ma mie, I must draw the trenches nearer the walls of Paris. In my absence remain at Mantes,” said Henry. “Then I must advance upon Rouen. I expect a vigorous resistance, and God only knows how it will end. I leave all in your care, and invest you, fair Gabrielle, with the same power as if you were really queen. Would to heaven you were – confound that devil of a Margot! I will return to you as often as I can, and write constantly. Now I must say that sad word, adieu. Adieu! adieu! ma mie.”

Gabrielle consoled the King as best she could, and after much ado he took his departure, always repeating, “adieu, ma mie.”

After he had passed down the great gallery, Gabrielle rushed to one of the windows overlooking the entrance, to catch the last sight of him. She saw him vault on horseback, and ride down the hill with a brilliant retinue; that excellent creature, Chicot the jester, as faithful as Achates, but whom he had the misfortune soon after to lose, close at his side.

CHAPTER XXV.

ITALIAN ART

YEARS have passed. The wars of the League are over, and Henry is undisputed master of France. He has proved himself a hero in a hundred battles, but has acquired nothing heroic in his appearance. Still in the prime of life, he has the keenest sense of enjoyment, the warmest heart, the old love of danger and contempt of consequences. His time is divided between hunting in the forest of Fontainebleau and the society of Gabrielle d’Estrées, and her little son Cæsar, created Duc de Vendôme.

Gabrielle has nominally been married to the Sieur de Liancourt, in accordance with court etiquette, which did not permit a single lady permanently to form part of a Court without a Queen. Henry has been severely commented on for this marriage mockery, for husband and wife parted at the church door. Gabrielle, who has been created Duchesse de Beaufort, is exceedingly unpopular. The divorce from “la reine Margot” is still incomplete, that obstinate princess objecting to conclude the needful formalities on the ground that Gabrielle is not of royal blood. Conquered by her prayers, her sweetness, and her devotion, Henry is still resolved to marry his lovely duchess. In vain he urges, threatens, and storms; the tyrant Queen will not consent. By Gabrielle’s advice he has become a Catholic. “Ma Gabrielle,” he writes from Paris, “I have yielded to your entreaties. I have spoken to the bishops; on Sunday I make the perilous leap. I kiss my angel’s hand.”

A strong political party opposed the marriage. Sully was dead against it. Gabrielle, it was argued, however fascinating and correct in conduct, was no match for Henry the Great. Besides, as being already the mother of two children by the King, a disputed succession would be certain. The Court of Rome had plans of its own, too, about the King’s marriage, and already the name of Marie de’ Medici had been mentioned as a fitting consort. The Pontiff himself favoured the match, and he alone could solve every difficulty with regard to the divorce. Sully looked askance at the excessive influence Gabrielle exercised over his master. The Florentine marriage was approved by him, and the negotiations had already begun. Marie de’ Medici fulfilled every requirement. She was young, beautiful, rich, and allied to the throne of France by her relative, Catherine de’ Medici. As long as Gabrielle lived there was no chance of inducing the King to consider seriously any other alliance. Must she die? Poor Gabrielle! there were not wanting foreign noblemen like Maréchal d’Ornano, besides a host of low Italian usurers and Jews brought to France by Catherine de’ Medici – mere mushrooms who had acquired enormous wealth by pillaging the Court – who lent the King money and pandered to his desires, ready and willing to forward his marriage with a richly dowered princess, their countrywoman, even by a crime.

Gabrielle is at Fontainebleau. She expects the King, who is in Paris. An extraordinary depression, a foreboding of evil, overwhelms her. She knows but too well of the powerful party arrayed against her, – that Sully is her enemy, that the Pope is inflexible about granting the divorce, even if Marguerite de Valois should consent, which she will not whilst Gabrielle lives; she knows that all France is reluctant to receive her as its queen. But there is the King’s promise of marriage, repeated again and again with oaths of passionate fondness. Will he keep that promise of marriage? That is the question. She knows he loves her; but love is but an episode in the chequered life of a soldier-king. How many others has he not loved? How many promises of marriage has he not broken? True, she is always treated as his wife. She lodges in the apartments assigned to the Queen of France in the “Oval Court.” She is seated beside him on occasions of state; every favour she asks is granted, all who recommend themselves to her intercession are pardoned. The greatest ladies of the Court – the Duchesse de Guise and her witty daughter, the Duchesse de Retz, even the austere Duchesse de Sully – are proud to attend upon her. Bellegarde, the faithful Bellegarde, restored to favour, now her devoted servant, watches over her interests with ceaseless anxiety. Yet her very soul is heavy within her; her position is intolerable. After all, what is she but the mistress of the King? She shudders at the thought.

The season is spring. The trees are green; their tender foliage but lightly shades the formal walks ranged round a fountain in a little garden (still remaining) that Henry has made for her under the palace walls. The fountain, in the centre of a parterre of grass and flowers, catches the rays of the April sun, glitters for an instant in a flood of rainbow tints, then falls back in showers of spray into a marble basin supported by statues.

Gabrielle is dressed in a white robe; the long folds trail upon the ground. Her auburn hair, drawn off her face, is gathered into a coronet of gold; rich lace covers her bosom, and a high ruff rises from her shoulders; on her neck is a string of pearls, to which is attached a miniature of the King. With the years that have passed the bloom of youth is gone; the joyous expression of early days has died out of those soft pleading eyes. Lovely she is still; her complexion is delicately fair, and the pensive look in her face is touching to the last degree. Graceful and gracious as ever, there is a sedate dignity, a tempered reserve, in her address, befitting the royal station which awaits her.

She stops, sighs, then listens for the sound of horses’ feet. There is not a breath stirring, save the hum of insects about the fountain and the murmur of the breeze among the trees. She takes from her bosom a letter. It is in the King’s handwriting and shows manifest signs of having been often handled. She kisses the signature, and reads these words: —

“You conjured me to take with me as much love for you as I know I leave with you for me. Now in two hours after you receive this you shall behold a knight who adores you. People call him King of France and of Navarre, but he calls himself your subject and your slave. No woman can compare to you in judgment or in beauty. I cherish and honour you beyond all earthly things.”

A dreamy smile comes over her face. Again she raises her head to listen, and again hears nothing. Wearily she paces round and round the fountain, holding the letter still in her hands. Then she enters the palace by an arcaded corridor, and mounting a flight of steps, seats herself in the vestibule to await the King’s arrival. At length he enters the court named “The White Horse.” Gabrielle is on the terrace to receive him.

“You are late, Sire.”

“Yes, sweetheart. I thought I should never get here. The Seine was swollen and we had a saucy ferryman. Come hither, Gabrielle, and I will tell you what he said, while he pulled us across the river. He was a funny rogue.”

“Did he not know you then, Sire?”

“No. How should he in this grey doublet and with only a single gentleman? He asked me if we were gallants for the Court. I said yes, we were bound to Fontainebleau to hunt with the King. ‘People say we have a hero for a King,’ he said; ‘but, morbleu! this hero taxes everything. Even the very boat your excellency sits in is taxed. We will pay for him nevertheless; he is an honest King. But it is his mistress, folks say, who wants the money to pay for her fine gauds and dresses. She is but a plain gentlewoman born, after all. If she were a princess now, why then I’d forgive her.’ So you see, Gabrielle, when you are a queen, the people will love you and pay the taxes willingly.” And

Henry laughs and looks at Gabrielle, who has changed colour; but the King does not observe it and continues his story. “ ‘Sirrah,’ I said to him, ‘you malign a charming lady.’ ‘Devil take her!’ replied the churlish ferrymen; ‘I wish she were in heaven.’ So I rode away without paying my toll. The fellow bellowed after me, and ran, but could not catch me. We will call this drôle hither, and divert ourselves with him.”

As Henry proceeds with his story, Gabrielle’s look of pain has deepened.

“I pray your Majesty to do nothing of the kind,” she answers sharply; “I do not love coarse jokes.” Henry looks at her with surprise.

“I am wretched enough already, heaven knows, without being mocked by the ribaldry of a low bargeman, who, after all, has reason for what he says. Why did you tell me this story, Henry?” she adds in a plaintive tone, bursting into tears. “Am I not degraded enough already?”

“How, Gabrielle, this from you? when, spite of every obstacle, within a few weeks you will be crowned my queen?”

A knock is now heard at the door, and Sully enters. He looks hot and surly. He barely salutes the King, and scowls at Gabrielle, who instantly retreats to the farther corner of the room. Sully wears a threadbare doublet, his grey hair is uncombed over his forehead, and he carries some papers in his hand.

“Sire,” he says, addressing the King abruptly and unfolding these papers, “if you pass this document, you had better declare yourself at once the husband of her grace there, the Duchesse de Beaufort.” Sully points at Gabrielle, who cowers in the corner.

Poor Gabrielle is thunderstruck, and trembles at the certainty of a violent scene. She had often had to bear at different times roughness, and even rudeness, from Sully, but such language as this she had never heard. What does it mean?

The King takes the papers in his hand.

“What are these, Sully?” he says, looking grave. “Bills for the entertainment given by the Duchesse de Beaufort for the baptism of my second son, Alexandria, son of France, eight thousand francs! Impossible! Baptismal fees for a son of France? There is no son of France. I wish to God there were! What does all this mean, Sully?”

“It means, Sire, that if you sign that paper, I shall leave the Court.”

“Come, come, my good Rosny, you forget that the Duchess is present”; and he glances at Gabrielle, who lay back on the arm-chair, weeping bitterly.

“No, Sire; I mean what I say. My advice is disregarded; I am superseded by a council of women”; and he turns fiercely towards the Duchesse. “The nation groans under heavy taxes. Complaints reach me from every quarter. What am I to do, if the revenues are squandered like this?”

Gabrielle’s sobs had now become audible. Henry, still holding the paper, looks greatly perplexed.

“The amount is certainly enormous. Some enemy of her grace must have done this. Tell me, Gabrielle, you cannot have sanctioned it? There are no ‘sons of France.’ Say to me, Gabrielle, that you were ignorant of all this.”