Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

Mary Stuart, a widow at eighteen, passionate and romantic, clung fondly to that “pleasant land” where she had spent such happy days with the gracious Francis. She had been created Duchesse de Touraine at her marriage, and craved earnestly to be allowed to enjoy that apanage rather than be banished to reign in a barren land, which she dreaded like a living tomb. But her ambitious uncles, the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine, who were to her as parents, obstinately insisted on her departure for Scotland. So she sailed from Calais; and, from the deck of the ship that bore her across the seas, as the shores of France – which she was never more to see – gradually faded from her view, she sang to her lute that plaintive song, so identified with her memory: —

“Adieu, oh plaisant pays!Adieu! oh ma patrie,La plus chérie, qui a nourriMa Belle enfance, – Adieu!”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE ASTROLOGER’S CHAMBER

WHEREVER Catherine chose to reside, either in Paris or in Touraine, an observatory for the stars was always at hand, and Cosmo Ruggiero, who had attended her from Italy, never left her. Cosmo was the Queen’s familiar demon; he was both astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher. He fed the glowing furnaces with gold and silver, sometimes with dead men’s bones; concocted essences, powders, and perfumes; drew horoscopes, and modelled wax figures in the likeness of those who had incurred the Queen’s enmity. These were supposed to suffer pangs from each stab inflicted on their images, and to waste away as their wax similitudes melted in the flames. Cosmo was also purveyor of poisons to her Majesty, and dealt largely in herbs and roots fatal to life. His apartments and the observatory were always near those of the Queen and connected with them by a secret stair.

We are at the Tuileries.10 It stands on a plot of ground outside Paris – where tiles were baked and rubbish shot – given by Francis I. to his mother, Louise de Savoie. Charles IX., who has succeeded his brother – Francis II. – inhabits the Louvre, now entirely rebuilt by Francis I. The Queen-mother desired to live alone. She therefore commanded Philippe de Lorme to erect a new palace for her use, consisting of a central pavilion, with ample wings. Catherine is now middle-aged; her complexion is darker, the expression of her face sterner and more impassive. She seldom relaxes into a smile except to deceive an enemy. In her own person she dislikes and despises the luxury of dress, and principally wears black since the death of her husband. But on fitting occasions of state she, too, robes herself in royal apparel. She stands before us in a long black dress, tightly fitting her shape. She has grown much stouter though she is still upright and majestic. Her active habits and her extraordinary capacity for mental labour are the same. A stiff ruff is round her neck and a black coif upon her head. Jewels she rarely uses. Her suite of rooms at the Tuileries, hung with sombre tapestry or panelled with dark wood, are studiously plain. She loves artists and the arts, but pictures and statues are not appropriate to the state business she habitually transacts. There is a certain consistent grandeur in her plain, unadorned entourage; a sense of subdued power – hidden yet apparent – that makes those who approach her tremble. Her second son Charles, now King of France, is wholly under her influence. He was only ten years old when he ascended the throne at the death of his brother Francis, and his mother has carefully stamped out every good quality in his naturally frank and manly nature. Now he is rough and cruel, loves the sight of blood, and has become a perfect Nimrod. He blows the horn with such violence, so often and so loud, that he has injured his lungs. Charles knows much more about the bears, wolves, deer, and wild boars of France, than of his Christian subjects.

The Princess Marguerite is now grown into a woman, “a noble mind in a most lovely person,” says the flattering Brantôme. Her mother encourages Marguerite’s taste for intrigue, and throws her into the company of women, such as Madame de Sauve, the court Ninon de l’Enclos of that day. Catherine contemplates her beauty, not with the profound affection of a mother, but as a useful bait to entrap those whom she desires to gain. When she was young herself the Queen never allowed any tender passion to stand in her way, but ruthlessly sacrificed all who were either useless or troublesome.

When the palace is quiet, and the sighing of the winter wind without, as it sweeps along the quays and ruffles the surface of the river, is only broken by the challenge of the sentinels on the bastion bordering the Seine, Catherine rises from her chair. She passes over her black dress a long white mantle, puts her feet into silken slippers, lights a scented bougie, takes from her girdle a golden key – which is hid there along with a poisoned dagger in case of need – draws aside the tapestry, unlocks a hidden door, and mounts a secret stair. Cosmo Ruggiero is seated on a folding stool in a small laboratory under the roof. He is reading an ancient manuscript. A lamp illuminates the page, and he is, or affects to be, so profoundly absorbed that he does not hear his terrible mistress enter. She glides like a ghost beside him and laying her hand on his shoulder rouses him. Ruggiero rises hastily and salutes her. Catherine draws a stool beside him, seats herself, and signs him to do so also.

“Well, Cosmo! always studying; always at work in my service,” says she, in a low metallic voice.

“Yes, madame, I have no other pleasure than in your Majesty’s service.”

“Yes, yes! you serve the Queen for love, and science out of interest – I understand. Disinterestedness is the custom of our country, my friend.”

“Your Majesty mistakes; I serve her as a loyal servant and countryman should.”

“La! la!” says Catherine, “we know each other, Cosmo, – no professions. Is the poison ready I ordered of you, the subtle powder to sprinkle on gloves or flowers? It is possible I may want it shortly.”

Ruggiero rises and hands a small sealed packet, enclosed in satin, to the Queen, who places it in her bosom.

“Madame,” he says, “beware! this poison is most powerful.”

“So much the worse for those for whom it is destined,” replied Catherine; and a cruel smile lights up her face for a moment. “It will serve me the quicker. But to business, Cosmo. What say the stars? Have you drawn the horoscopes?”

“Here, madame, are the horoscopes”; and he draws from his belt a bundle of papers. “Here are the celestial signs within the House of Life of all the royal persons concerned, traced by the magic pencil from the dates you furnished me.”

Catherine glances at the papers. “Explain to me their import,” says she, looking at him with grave attention.

“Your present design, madame, to marry Madame Marguerite to the King of Navarre appears favourable to the interests of France. A cloud now rests upon the usually brilliant star of the King of Navarre, but another night, madame, perhaps – ”

“This is all very vague, Ruggiero, I want an absolute prediction,” says Catherine, fixing her black eyes full upon the soothsayer. “Among all these illustrious personages is there not one whose horoscope is clear and defined?”

“Assuredly, madame; will your Majesty deign to interrogate me as to the future? I will unfold the purposes of the stars as I have read them.”

“You have spoken of the Princess. Does she love the young Duc Henri de Guise?”

“Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her affections.”

“The Queen of Navarre – will she still forward this marriage?”

“It will cause her death.”

“How?”

“By poison.”

“Where?”

“At Paris.”

“That is well,” answers the Queen, and deep thought darkens her swarthy face. “Her son, the King of Navarre – what of him?”

“He, madame, is safe for awhile, though he will shortly be exposed to extreme peril.”

“But is he destined to die violently?”

“Perhaps; but long years hence. His hair will be gray before the poniard I see hovering over him strikes. But, as I have said to-night, there is a cloud upon his star. Long he will certainly escape steel, fire, illness, or accident; he will bear a charmed life. Madame, the King of Navarre will be a proper husband for Madame Marguerite.”

“But how of that bold man, the Duc de Guise, who dares without my leave to aspire to the hand of the Princess?” asked Catherine.

“Henri de Guise, madame, will die a violent death, as will his father and Coligni. The Admiral will be stabbed in his own house. This is certain.”

The Queen smiles, and for a time is silent.

“Tell me,” at length she almost whispers, “have you discovered anything more about myself and my sons?”

“Madame, I tremble to reply,” replies Ruggiero, hesitating.

“Speak, I command you, Cosmo.”

Catherine rises, and lays her hand heavily upon his arm. Her eyes meet his.

“If I must reveal the future of your Majesty and the royal princes, well, let it be done. Your Majesty can but kill me. I fear not death.”

“Fool, your life is safe!”

“You, madame, will live; but the Princes, your sons – ” and he stops and again hesitates.

“Speak!” hisses Catherine between her set teeth. “Speak, or, pardieu! I will force you,” and she raises her hand aloft, as if to strike him.

“Madame,” replies Ruggiero, quite unmoved by her violence, rising from his stool, and moving towards the wall, “you yourself shall see the future that awaits them.” He withdraws a black curtain covering an arched recess and revealed a magic mirror. “The kings your sons, madame, shall pass before you. Each shall reign as many years as he makes the circuit of that dark chamber you see reflected on the polished steel. There is your eldest son, Francis. See how feebly he moves, how pale he looks. He never lived to be a man. Twice he slowly passes round, and he is gone. The next is Charles, ninth of that name. Thirteen times he turns around, and as he moves a mist of blood gathers about him. Look, it thickens – it hides him. He shall reign thirteen years, and die a bloody death, having caused much blood to flow. Here is Henri, Duc d’Anjou, who shall succeed him. A few circuits, and then behold – a muffled figure – a monk, springs on him from behind. He falls and vanishes.”

There is a pause.

“What! Cosmo,” whispers Catherine, who stood supporting herself on the back of a high chair opposite the magic mirror. “Francis, Charles, Henry are gone, but do they leave no child?”

“None, madame.”

“Where, then, is D’Alençon, my youngest boy? Let me see him.”

“Madame,” falters Ruggiero, “his highness is not destined to reign. The successor of your sons is before you”; and on the magic glass rises up, clear and distinct, the image of the King of Navarre. With strong, firm steps he circles the mystic chamber of life twenty times. As he passes on the twenty-first round, a mist gathers round him; he falls and vanishes.

At the sight of Henry of Navarre, the Queen’s composure utterly forsakes her. She trembles from head to foot and sinks into a chair. A sombre fire shoots from her eyes.

“I will take care that shall never be!” gasps she, unable to speak with rage.

After a few moments she rose, took up her light, and without one other word descended as she had come.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT CHENONCEAU

THE Château of Chenonceau, so greatly coveted by Catherine de’ Medici in her youth, still remains to us. It lies in a rural district of the Touraine, far from cities and the traffic of great thoroughfares. Spared, from its isolated position, by the First Revolution, this monument of the Renaissance, half palace half château, is as beautiful as ever – a picturesque mass of pointed turrets, glistening spires, perpendicular roofs, lofty pavilions, and pillared arches. It is partly built over the river Cher, at once its defence and its attraction.

Henry II., as also his father, Francis, who specially loved this sunny plaisance and often visited it in company with his daughter-in-law, Catherine, and his mistress, the Duchesse d’Étampes, had both lavished unknown sums on its embellishment.

Chenonceau is approached by a drawbridge over a moat fed by the river. On the southern side a stately bridge of five arches has been added by Diane de Poitiers in order to reach the opposite bank, where the high roofs and pointed turrets of the main building are seen to great advantage, rising out of scattered woods of oak and ash, which are divided into leafy avenues leading into fair water-meadows beside the Cher. By Catherine’s command this bridge has been recently covered and now forms a spacious wing of two stories, the first floor fitted as a banqueting hall, the walls broken by four embayed windows, opening on either side and looking up and down the stream.

A fresh-breathing air comes from the river and the forest, a scent of moss and flowers extremely delicious. The cooing of the cushat doves, the cry of the cuckoo, the flutter of the breeze among the trees, and the hum of insects dancing in the sunbeams are the voices of this sylvan solitude. The blue sky blends into the green woods, and the white clouds, sailing over the tree-tops, make the shadows come and go among the arches of the bridge and the turrets of the château.

A sudden flourish of trumpets breaks the silence. It is Catherine, in the early summer, coming, like Jezebel, to possess herself of her fair domain. She is habited in black and wears a velvet toque with an ostrich plume. A perfect horsewoman, she rides with a stately grace down the broad avenue leading from the high road, followed by her maids of honour – a bevy of some forty beauties, the escadron volant de la reine, who serve her political intrigues by fascinating alike Huguenots and Catholics.

To the right of the Queen-mother rides Madame Marguerite, her daughter – by-and-by to become infamous as Queen of Navarre, wife of Henry IV. – now a laughter-loving girl, who makes her brown jennet prance, out of pure high spirits. She is tall, like all the Valois, and finely formed. Her skin is very fair and her eyes full of expression; but there is a hard look on her delicately-featured face that belies her attractive appearance.

On the other side of the Queen-mother is her son, the young King, Charles IX. He has a weak though most engaging countenance. Naturally brave and witty and extremely frank and free, the artifices of his mother’s corrupt Court have made him what he now is – cruel, violent, and suspicious. Catherine has convinced him that he is deceived by all the world except herself, and leads him at her will. He is to marry shortly the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian. Beside him is the vicious and elegant Duc d’Anjou, his next brother, of whom Charles is extremely jealous. Already Henry has been victor at Jarnac, and almost rivals Henry of Navarre in the number of battles he fights. He is to be elected King of Poland during his brother’s life. Henry is handsomer than Charles, but baby-faced and effeminate. He wears rouge, and is as gay as a woman in his attire. Catherine’s youngest son, D’Alençon, long-nosed, ill-favoured, and sullen, rides beside his sister.

Behind the royal Princess, is Francis, Duc de Guise, a man, as we have seen, of indomitable will and unflinching purpose; fanatical in his devotion to the Catholic Church, and of unbounded ambition. He secretly cherishes the settled purpose of his house, – destruction to the race of Valois. Ere long he will be assassinated at Orléans, by Poltrot, a Huguenot, a creature of Coligni, who firmly believes he will ensure his salvation by this crime. Such is Christianity in the sixteenth century! There are also two cardinals mounted on mules. Lorraine, a true Guise, most haughty and unscrupulous of politicians and of churchmen; and D’Este, newly arrived from Ferrara, insinuating, treacherous, and artistic. He has brought in his train from Italy the great poet Tasso, who follows his patron, and wears a garbadine and cap of dark satin. Tasso looks sad and careworn, spite of the high favour shown him by his countrywoman, the Queen-mother. Ronsard, the court poet, is beside Tasso, and Châtelard, who, madly enamoured of the widowed Queen, Mary Stuart, is about to follow her to Scotland, and to die of his presumptuous love ere long at Holyrood.

As this brilliant procession passes down the broad avenue through pleasant lawns forming part of the park, at a fast trot, a rider is seen mounted on a powerful black horse, who neither entirely conceals himself nor attempts to join the Court. As he passes in and out among the underwood skirting the adjoining forest, many eyes are bent upon him. The Queen-mother specially, turns in her saddle the better to observe him, and then questions her sons as to whether they recognise this solitary cavalier, whose face and figure are completely hidden by a broad Spanish hat and heavy riding-cloak.

At the moment when the Queen-mother has turned her head to make these inquiries and is speaking earnestly to Francis of Guise, whom she has summoned to her side, the unknown rider crosses the path of the Princess Marguerite (who in frolicsome mood is making her horse leap over some ditches in the grass), and throws a rose before her. Marguerite looks up with a gleam of delight, their eyes meet for an instant; she raises her hand, kisses it, and waves it towards him. The stranger bows to the saddle-bow, bounds into the thicket, and is seen no more. The royal party cross the drawbridge through two lines of attendants, picquers, retainers, pages, and running footmen, and dismount at the arched entrance from which a long stone passage leads to the great gallery, the staircase, and the various apartments.

Leaving the young King and the Princes, his brothers, to the care of the chamberlains who conduct them to their various apartments, the Queen-mother turns to the left, followed by the Princess, who is somewhat alarmed lest her mother should have observed her recognition of the disguised cavalier. They pass through the guard-room – a lofty chamber, with raftered ceilings and walls hung with tapestry, on which cuirasses, swords, lances, casques, shields, and banners are suspended, fashioned into various devices.

Beyond is a saloon, and through a narrow door in a corner is a small writing-closet within a turret. Catherine, who knows the château well, has chosen this suite of rooms apart from the rest. She enters the closet alone, closes the door, seats herself beside the casement, and gazes at the broad river flowing beneath. Her eyes follow the current onwards to where the stream, by a graceful bend, loses itself among copses of willow and alder. She smiles a smile of triumph. All is now her own. Then she summons her chamberlain, and commands a masque on the river for the evening, to celebrate her arrival. None shall say that she, a Medici, neglects the splendid pageantry of courts. Besides, the hunting parties, banquets, and masques are too precious as political opportunities to be disregarded.

Having dismissed her chamberlain, who with his white wand of office bows low before her, she calls for writing materials, bidding the Princess and a single lady-in-waiting, Charlotte de Presney, her favourite attendant, remain without in the saloon.

This is a large apartment, used by Catherine as a sleeping-room, with a high vaulted ceiling of dark oak, heavily carved, the walls panelled with rare marbles, brought by the Queen’s command from Italy. Busts on sculptured pedestals, ponderous chairs, carved cabinets and inlaid tables, stand around. In one corner there is a bedstead of walnut-wood with heavy hangings of purple velvet which are gathered into a diadem with the embossed initials “C. M.,” and an antique silver toilet-table, with a mirror in Venetian glass set in a shroud of lace. The polished floor has no carpet, and there is not a chair that can be moved without an effort. A window, looking south towards the river and the woods, is open. The summer breezes fill the room with fragrance. Under a ponderous mantelpiece of coloured marbles Marguerite seats herself on a narrow settee. Her large, sparkling eyes and animated face, her comely shape, and easy though stately bearing, invite, yet repel, approach. She still wears her riding-dress of emerald velvet laced with gold, and a plumed cap lies beside her. Her luxuriant hair, escaped from a golden net, covers her shoulders. She is a perfect picture of youth and beauty, and as fresh as her namesake, the daisy.

Charlotte de Presney, at least ten years older than the Princess, is an acknowledged belle. Her features are regular, her complexion brilliant, and her face full of intelligence; but there is a cunning expression about her dimpling mouth that greatly mars her beauty.

“Have you nothing for me, Charlotte?” whispers the Princess, stretching out her little hand glistening with precious stones. “I know you have. Give it me. His eyes told me so when he passed me in the avenue.”

“Your highness must not ask me. Suppose her Majesty opens that door and sees me in the act of giving you a letter?”

“Oh! méchante, why do you plague me? I know you have something hidden; give it me, or I will search you,” and she jumps up and casts her soft arms round the lady-in-waiting.

Charlotte disengages herself gently, and with her eyes fixed on the low door leading into the Queen’s closet sighs deeply, and takes a letter from her bosom, bound with blue silk, and sealed with the arms of Guise.

“Ah! my colours! Is he not charming, my lover?” mutters Marguerite, as her eager eyes devour the lines. “He says he has followed us, disguised, from Tours; not even his father knows he has come, but believes him to be in Paris, in case he should be questioned by the Queen-mother, – Charlotte, do you think her Majesty recognised him in the avenue? He was admirably disguised.”

“Your highness knows that nothing escapes the Queen’s eye. The sudden appearance of a stranger in this lonely spot must have created observation.”

“Ah! is he not adorable, Charlotte, to come like a real knight-errant to gaze at his lady-love? How grand he looked – my noble Guise, my warrior, my hero!” and Marguerite leans back pensively on the settee, as though calling up his image before her.

“Her Majesty will be very angry, madame, if she recognised him. I saw her questioning the Duke, his father, and pointing towards him as he disappeared into the wood,” answered Charlotte, with the slightest expression of bitterness in her well-modulated voice.

“Henry has discovered,” continues Marguerite, still so lost in reverie that she does not heed her remark, “that the Queen has a masque to-night on the river. He will be disguised, he tells me, as a Venetian nobleman, in a yellow brocaded robe, with a violet mantle, and a red mask. He will wear my colours – blue, heavenly blue, the symbol of hope and faith – on his shoulder-knot. Our watchword is to be ‘Eternal love.’ ”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaims Charlotte, with alarm, laying her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, “your highness will not dare to meet him?”

“Be silent, petite sotte,” breaks in the Princess. “We are to meet on the southern bank of the river. Charlotte, you must help me; I shall be sure to be watched, but I must escape from the Queen by some device. Change my dress, and then – and then – ” and she turns her laughing eyes on the alarmed face of Charlotte, “under the shady woods, by the parterre near the grotto, I shall meet him – and, alone.”

“And what on earth am I to say to the Queen if she asks for your highness?” replies Charlotte, turning away her face that the Princess might not see the tears that bedew her cheeks.

“Anything, my good Charlotte; you have a ready wit, or my mother would not favour you. I trust to your invention, it has been often exercised,” and she looked archly at her. “Tell the Queen that I am fatigued, and have retired into the château until the banquet, when I will rejoin her Majesty. There is no fear, ma mie, especially as the Comte de Clermont is at Chenonceau. Her Majesty, stern and silent though she be, unbends to him and greatly affects his company,” and she laughs softly and points towards the closed door.

“I trust there is, indeed, no fear of discovery, Princess,” returns Charlotte; “for her Majesty would never forgive me.” At which Marguerite laughs again.

“Princess,” says Charlotte, looking very grave, and seating herself on a stool at her feet, “tell me, truly, do you love the Duc de Guise?” Charlotte’s fine eyes are fixed intently on Marguerite as she asks this question.