“Charmante Gabrielle,Percé de mille dards,Quand la gloire m’appelleA la suite de Mars,Cruelle départie.Que ne suis-je sans vieOu sans amour?”
“Charmante Gabrielle,Percé de mille dards,Quand la gloire m’appelleA la suite de Mars,Cruelle départie.Que ne suis-je sans vieOu sans amour?”
“Charmante Gabrielle,Percé de mille dards,Quand la gloire m’appelleA la suite de Mars,Cruelle départie.Que ne suis-je sans vieOu sans amour?”
Gabrielle looked, perhaps, a trifle too much pleased at the somewhat free admiration expressed in these verses, and spite of Bellegarde, approached the Don to thank him after he had finished.
“Lady, did my song please you?” said he softly, trying to kiss her hand. “If it had any merit you inspired me.”
“Yes,” replied she musingly. “You wished just now you were my prisoner. Had you been, I should long ago have freed you if you had sung to me like that, I am sure.”
“And why?” asked he.
“Because you have something in your voice Ishould have feared to hear too often,” said she in a low voice, lest Bellegarde should hear her.
“Then in that case I would always have remained your voluntary captive,ma belle.”
How long this conversation might have continued authorities do not state; but Bellegarde, now really displeased, approached the whispering pair, giving an indignant glance at Gabrielle and a look full of reproach at the Don.
“Come, come, Don Juan!” said he. “It is time to go. Where are our horses? The day wears on, we shall scarce reach the camp ere sundown.”
“Ventre Saint Gris!” said the Spaniard, starting, “there is surely no need for such haste.”
“Your promise,” muttered Bellegarde in his ear.
“Confound you, Bellegarde! You have introduced me into paradise, and now you drag me away just when the breath of heaven is warming me.” Don Juan looked broken-hearted at being obliged to leave, and cast the most loving glances towards Gabrielle and her handsome sisters.
“I opine we ought never to have come at all,” said Chicot, winking violently and looking at Gabrielle, who with downcast eyes evidently regretted the necessity of the Don’s departure.
“Mère de Dieu!” muttered the latter to Bellegarde, “you are too hard thus to bind me to my cursed promise.”
“Gabrielle,” said Bellegarde, drawing her aside, and speaking in a low voice, “one kiss ere I go. You are my beloved—my other self, the soul of my soul. Adieu! This has been a miserable meeting. You have grieved me, love; but perhaps it is myown fault. I ought to have come alone. That Spaniard is disgusting”—Gabrielle turned her head away—“But I will soon return. In the meantime, a caution in your ear. If this same Don Juan comes again during my absence to pay you a second visit, send him off I charge you, by the love I know you bear me. Give him hiscongéwithout ceremony; hold no parley, I entreat you; he is a sad good-for-nothing, and would come with no good intentions. I could tell you more. He is——, but next time you shall hear all. Till then, adieu!”
“I will obey you, Bellegarde,” replied Gabrielle somewhat coldly; “but the Spaniard seems to me an honest gentleman, and looks born to command.”
The whole party then proceeded to the courtyard, where the three horses were waiting.
“Adieu, most adorable Gabrielle!” cried the Spaniard, vaulting first into the saddle. “Would to heaven I had never set eyes on you, or that, having seen you, I might gaze to eternity on that heavenly face.”
“Well,” said Bellegarde gaily, for his spirits rose as he saw the Spaniard ready to depart, “you need only wait until peace be made, and then I will present you at Court, Don Juan, where Madame la Duchesse de Bellegarde, otherwise La Belle Gabrielle, will shine fairest of the fair.”
“You are not married yet, Duke, however,” rejoined the Spaniard, looking back, “and remember, you must first have his Majesty’s leave and licence—not always to be got. Ha, ha, my friend, I have you there!” laughed the Don. “Adieu, then, once more, most beautiful ladies, adieu to you all! Bellegarde,you have gained your bet.”
AFTER this meeting Don Juan soon contrived to return, and the lady, forgetful of her lover’s advice, received him. This was sufficient encouragement for so audacious a cavalier, and an intimacy sprang up between them ending in a confession of his being the King. Gabrielle was charmed, for she had always been his devoted partisan. What at first appeared bold and free in his manner she now ascribed to a proper sense of his own rank, born as he was to command and to be obeyed. Their romantic introduction and the disguise he had condescended to assume on that occasion captivated her imagination almost as much as his unbounded admiration of her person flattered her vanity. Henry, too, was a fit subject for devoted loyalty at that time, closely beset as he was by the troops of the League, unable to enter Paris, and only maintaining his ground by prodigies of valour and the most heroic perseverance.
Should she, then, be unkind, and repulse him, when he vowed to her, on his knees, that his only happy moments were spent in her society? The image of Bellegarde grew fainter and fainter; their meetings became colder and more unsatisfactory. He reproached her for her unbecoming encouragement of a libertine monarch; Gabrielle defended herself by declaring that her heart was her own, and that she might bestow it where she thought proper.As yet, however, there had been no formal rupture between them. Bellegarde loved the fascinating girl too fondly to renounce her lightly; and she herself, as yet undecided, hesitated before resigning a man whose attachment was honourable and legitimate, and whose birth and position were brilliant, to receive the dubious addresses of a married monarch. True, the shameful excesses of Marguerite de Valois, his Queen, excused and almost exonerated the King; Henry urged this circumstance with passionate eloquence, promising Gabrielle, spite of state reasons, to marry her as soon as, settled on the throne, he had leisure legally to prove the scandalous conduct of his wife and to obtain a papal divorce. This, to a vain and beautiful woman like Gabrielle, was a telling argument.
Still, Gabrielle had not broken with Bellegarde; she delighted to irritate the passion of the King by yet professing some love for her old admirer. At times she refused to see Henry at all, and actually went on a visit to her aunt, Madame de Sourdis, without even bidding him adieu. This coquetry made the King desperate. He was so overcome at her sudden departure, that he was ready, according to his habit, to promise anything she asked. The difficulty was how to reach her, for he must start from Mantes, at the gravest risk, passing through two outposts and seven leagues of open country occupied by the League. But now he was wrought up to such a pass that he was ready to sacrifice his Crown or his head to win her. As soon, therefore, as he ascertained that Gabrielle had returned to Cœuvres he swore a solemn oath to see her or die. The country wascovered with troops; alone he dared not venture; with attendants he compromised his beloved. Such obstacles were maddening. At last he decided to set forth on horseback, accompanied only by a few devoted followers. With this escort he rode four leagues through the most dangerous part of the route, then left them at a certain spot to await his return. Towards Cœuvres he wandered on alone until he found a roadside house. There he offered a peasant some gold pieces to lend him a suit of clothes, in order, as he told the man, the more safely to deliver some letters of importance to the Seigneur of Cœuvres. The peasant readily consented to his proposal. In those boisterous days of internecine warfare nothing of this kind caused astonishment, spies, in every species of disguise, continually passing to and fro between the two armies. So Henry IV., in the garb of a peasant, pushed on alone.
The day was fast falling, deep shadows gathered in the forest and around the castle. Gabrielle sat within in the twilight embroidering a scarf. She was thinking over all the difficulties of her position, divided as she was between regard for the generous Bellegarde and her passion each day growing stronger for the King. Suddenly her maid Louise came into the room and begged her, as she had passed all day in the house, to take a little fresh air.
“Come, madame, while there is yet a little light; come, at least, to the balcony that looks out over the terrace, where the breeze is so pleasant, and see the sun set over the tree-tops.”
“No, no,” replied Gabrielle, shaking her head sadly. “Leave me alone. I have enough to think
Image not available: THE CASCADE OF ST. CLOUD. From an engraving by Rigaud.THE CASCADE OF ST. CLOUD.From an engraving by Rigaud.
about, and I want to finish my scarf, or it will not be done by the time I promised Bellegarde. Besides I do not fancy open balconies in the month of November; it is too cold.”
“Oh! but,” pleaded Louise, “the day has been so splendid—like summer in the forest. Pray come, madame.”
“Why do you plague me so? I never remember your great desire for open air before.” And Gabrielle rose. She was no sooner on the balcony, watching the last streaks of golden light glittering among the branches and lighting up the plain beyond in a ruddy mist, than all at once she heard a rustling noise, and on looking down saw, just under the balcony, on the grass-plot, a peasant on a horse, laden with a bundle of straw.
The peasant stopped and gazed at her for some time, then, throwing away the straw, he flung himself from his horse and fell on his knees before her, clasping his hands, as if about to worship at some shrine.
Juliette, Gabrielle’s sister, now joined her on the balcony. Readier-witted than she, Juliette whispered—
“Gabrielle, it is the King—he is disguised!”
Louise burst into a loud laugh at their surprise and ran away. It was now apparent why she was so anxious to make Gabrielle go on the balcony to see the sun set. Gabrielle had not dreamt of seeing the King, who was reported to be encamped at some distance. Her first feeling was one of anger for his utter want of dignity. To kneel on the wet grass, and in the dress of a peasant! Besides, this disguisewas most unbecoming to him. He looked positively hideous.
Juliette retired, and Gabrielle was left standing alone on the balcony before the King. As yet she had not spoken.
“What! not a word to greet me?” cried Henry, rising. “Why,vrai Dieu, many a lady of our Court would have flung herself down headlong to welcome me, and never cared if she broke her neck! Come,belle des belles, look down graciously upon your devoted slave, whose only desire is to die at your feet.”
“Sire,” replied Gabrielle, “for heaven’s sake go away. Return to Mantes, and never let me see you again so vilely dressed. Always wear your white panache and your scarlet mantle when you come. Without it you are not Henre Quatre. Better stay away altogether, for you know well your enemies are prowling about in this neighbourhood. Besides, who can tell? Bellegarde may come. Pray, I entreat you, go away directly.”
“Ma foi!” replied the King, “let them come, Leaguers or Spaniards, Bellegarde or the devil, what care I, if La Belle Gabrielle looks kindly on me? Come down to me, Gabrielle.”
“Kind I will certainly not be if your Majesty do not at once depart. Kneeling in that manner is too ridiculous. I will not come down. I shall go away. I am no saint to be prayed to, heaven knows. If your Majesty won’t remount, I shall really go away.”
“You could not have the heart, Gabrielle,” replied Henry, “when I have run such risks to see you for a moment.”
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 toleave 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 toresist 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 nothingbut 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 Iwere 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 notobliged 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.
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 thebishops; on Sunday I make theperilous 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 thepalace 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 youin judgment or in beauty. I cherish and honour you beyond all earthly things.”
“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 youin 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
Image not available: GENERAL VIEW OF FONTAINEBLEAU. FROM AN OLD PRINT.GENERAL VIEW OF FONTAINEBLEAU.FROM AN OLD PRINT.
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 thisdrôlehither, 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 husbandof 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.”
Gabrielle neither speaks nor moves, save that she shakes with sobs. Sully gazes at her with a cynical air as of a man who would not be deceived.
“You see, Rosny,” whispers the King into his ear, “that she does not govern me, much as I love her. You do me wrong to say so.” Sully shrugged his shoulders. “No, she shall not control you, who only live for my service. I must make her feel that I am displeased. Speak, Gabrielle,” he continues aloud, in a voice which he endeavours to make severe, “speak.” Receiving no answer he turns away with affected unconcern. Yet in spite of his words, he glances over his shoulder to watch her. Had Sully not been present, he would have flown to her on the spot and yielded. This Sully well knew; so he did not stir.
There is an awkward pause. Horrible suspicions rush into Gabrielle’s mind. That strange story of the ferryman and the taxes; Sully’s audacious language; the King’s coldness: it could only mean one thing, and as this conviction comes over her, her heart dies within her.
“Sire,” she answers at last, suppressing her sobs as she best could and approaching where Henry stood, affecting not to notice her, “I see that you have permitted the Duc de Sully to come here in order to insult me. You want to abandon me, Sire. Say so frankly; it is more worthy of you. But remember that I am not here by my own wish, save for the love I bear you.” As she utters these words her voice nearly failed her; but by a strong effort she continues, “No one can feel more forlorn than I do. Your Majesty has promised me marriageagainst the advice of your ministers. This scene is arranged between you to justify you in breaking your sacred word, else you could never allow the lady whom you design for so high an honour to be thus treated in your very presence.”
Henry, placed between Sully and Gabrielle, is both angry and embarrassed. Her bitter words have stung him to the quick. He knows that she has no cause to doubt his loyalty.
“Pardieu, madame, you have made me a fine speech. You talk all this nonsense to make me dismiss Rosny. If I must choose between you, let me tell you, Duchesse, I can part with you better than with him.” Gabrielle turns very pale, and clings to a chair for support. “Come, Rosny, we will have a ride in the forest, and leave the Duchesse to recover her usually sweet temper”; and without one look at her, Henry strode towards the door.
These bitter words are more than his gentle mistress can bear. With a wild scream she rushes forward, and falls flat upon the floor at the King’s feet. Henry, greatly moved, gathers her up tenderly in his arms. Even the stern Sully relents. He looks at her sorrowfully, shakes his head, collects his papers, and departs.
The Holy-week is at hand. Gabrielle, who is to be crowned within a month, is to communicate and keep her Easter publicly at Paris, while the King remains at Fontainebleau. An unaccountable terror of Paris and a longing desire not to leave the King overwhelm her. Again and again she alters the hour of her departure. She takes Henry’s hand and wanders with him to the Orangery, to the lake wherethe carp are fed, to the fountain garden, and to the Salle de Diane, which he is building. She cannot tear herself from him. She speaks much to him of their children, and commends them again and again to his love. She adjures him not to forget her during her absence.
“Why!ma belle des belles!” exclaims the King, “one would think you were going round the world; remember, in ten days I shall join you in Paris, and then my Gabrielle shall return to Fontainebleau as Queen of France. I have ordered thatbon diableZametti, to receive you at Paris as though you were already crowned.”
Now Zametti was an Italian Jew from Genoa, who had originally come to France in the household of Catherine de’ Medici, as her shoemaker. He had served her and all her sons in that capacity, until Henry III., amused by his jests, and perceiving him to be a man of no mean talents, gave him a place in the Customs. Zametti’s fortune was made, and he became henceforth usurer and money-lender in chief to the reigning monarch.
“I love not Zametti,” replies Gabrielle, shuddering. “I wish I were going to my aunt, Madame de Sourdis, she always gives me good advice. Cannot your Majesty arrange that it should be so still?”
“It is too late, sweetheart. I do not like Madame de Sourdis; she is not a fitting companion for my Gabrielle. Zametti has, by my orders, already prepared his house for your reception, and certainparuresfor your approval; besides, what objection can you have to Zametti, the most courteous and amusing of men?”
“Alas! Henry, I cannot tell; but I dread him. I would I were back again. I feel as though I were entering a tomb. I am haunted by the most dismal fancies.”
She drives through the forest accompanied by the King, who rides beside her litter, attended by the Ducs de Retz, Roquelaure, Montbazon, and the Maréchal d’Ornano, to Mélun, where a royal barge awaits her, attended by a flotilla of boats decorated with flags and streamers in the Venetian style. Here they take a tender farewell; again and again Gabrielle throws herself upon the King’s neck and whispers through her tears that they will never meet again. Henry laughs, but, seeing her agitation, would have accompanied her and have braved the religious prejudices of the Parisians, had it not been for the entreaties of D’Ornano. Almost by force is he restrained. Gabrielle embarks; he stands watching her as the barge is towed rapidly through the stream; one more longing, lingering look she casts upon him, then disappears from his sight. Downcast and sorrowful the King rides back to Fontainebleau.
All night long Gabrielle is towed up the river. She arrives at Paris in the morning. Zametti, the Italian usurer and jeweller, with a numerous suite of nobles and attendants, is waiting on the quay to receive her. She is carried to Zametti’s house, or rather palace, for it was a princely abode, near the Arsenal, in the new quarter of Paris then called the Marais.
Here unusual luxuries await her, such as were common only in Italy and among Italian princes: magnificent furniture, embroidered stuffs, deliciousperfumes, rich dishes. She rests through the day (the evening having been passed in the company of the Duchesse de Guise and her daughter), and the first night she sleeps well. Next day she rises early and goes to church. Before she leaves the house, Zametti presents her with a highly decorated filigree bottle, containing a strong perfume.
Before the service is over she faints. She is carried back and placed, by her own desire, in Zametti’s garden, under a tuft of trees. She calls for refreshments. Again in the garden she sinks back insensible. This time it is very difficult to revive her. When she recovers, she is undressed and orders a litter to be instantly prepared to bear her to her aunt’s house, which is situated near Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, close to the Louvre.
In the meantime her head aches violently, but she is carried to her aunt’s, where she is put to bed. Here she lies with her sweet eyes wide open and turned upward, her beautiful face livid, and her mouth distorted. In her anguish she calls incessantly for the King. He cannot come, for it is Holy-week, which he must pass out of her company. She tries to write to him, to tell him of her condition. The pen drops from her hand. A letter from him is given her; she cannot read it. Convulsions come on, and she expires insensible.
That she died poisoned is certain. Poisoned either by the subtle perfume in the filigree bottle, or by some highly flavoured dish of Zametti’s Italiancuisine.
THE scene is again at Fontainebleau. Henry’s brow is knit. He is gloomy and sad. With slow steps he quits the palace by the Golden Gate, passes through the parterre garden under the shadow of the limeberceauwhich borders the long façade of the palace, and reaches a pavilion under a grove of trees overlooking the park and the canal. This pavilion is the house he has built for Sully. The statesman is seated writing in an upper chamber overlooking the avenues leading to the forest.
The King enters unannounced; he throws his arms round Sully, then sinks into a chair. Sully looks at him unmoved. He is accustomed to outbreaks of passion and remorse caused by the King’s love affairs, and he mentally ascribes his master’s present trouble to this cause. “Sully,” says Henry, speaking at last, “I am betrayed, betrayed by my dearest friend.Ventre de ma vie!Maréchal Biron has conspired against me, with Spain.”
“How, Sire?” cries Sully, bounding from his chair; “have you proofs?”
“Ay, Sully, only too complete; his agent and secretary Lafin has confessed everything. Lafin is now at Fontainebleau. I have long doubted the good faith of Biron, but I must now bring myself to hold him as a traitor.”
“If your Majesty has sufficient proofs,” said Sully, re-seating himself, “have him at once arrested.Allow him no time to communicate with your enemies.”
“No, Sully, no; I cannot do that: I must give my old friend a chance. Of his treason, there is, however, no question. He has intrigued for years with the Duke of Savoy and with Spain, giving out as his excuse that the Catholic faith is endangered by my heresy, and that I am a Calvinist. He has entered into a treasonable alliance with Bouillon and D’Auvergne; and worse, oh, far worse than all, during the campaign in Switzerland he commanded the battery of St. Catherine’s Fort to be pointed against me.—God knows how I was saved.”
“Monstrous!” cries Sully, casting up his hands. “And your Majesty dallies with such a miscreant?”
“Yes, I can make excuses for him. He has been irritated against me by the base insinuations of the Duke of Savoy. Biron is vain, hot-tempered, and credulous. I know every detail. He shall come here to Fontainebleau: I have summoned him. The sight of his old master will melt his heart. He will confide in me; he will confess, and I shall pardon him.”
“I trust it may be as your Majesty wishes,” answers Sully; “but you are playing a dangerous game, Sire. God help you safe out of it.”
Biron, ignorant of the treachery of Lafin, arrives at Fontainebleau. He reckons on the King’s ignorance and their old friendship, and trusts to a confident bearing and a bold denial of all charges. They meet—the Maréchal and the King—in the great parterre, where, it being the month of June, sweetly scented herbs and gay flowers fill the diamondedbeds—under the limeberceausurrounding the garden. Biron, perfectly composed, makes three low obeisances to the King, then kisses his hand. Henry salutes him. His eyes are moist as he looks at him. “You have done well to confide in me,” he says; “I am very glad to see you, Biron,” and he passes his arm round the Maréchal’s neck, and draws him off to describe to him the many architectural plans he has formed for the embellishment of the château, and to show him the great “gallery of Diana” which is in course of decoration. He hopes that Biron will understand his feelings, and that kindness will tempt him to confess his crime. Biron, however, is convinced that if he braves the matter out, he will escape; he ascribes Henry’s clemency to an infatuated attachment to himself. He wears an unruffled brow, is cautious and plausible though somewhat silent, carefully avoids all topics which might lead to discussion of any matters touching his conduct, and pointedly disregards the hints thrown out from time to time by the King. Henry is miserable; he feels he must arrest the Maréchal. Sully urges him to lose no time. Still his generous heart longs to save his old friend and companion in arms.
Towards evening the Court is assembled in the great saloon. The King is playing a game ofprimero. Biron enters. He invites him to join; Biron accepts, and takes up the cards with apparent unconcern. The King watches him; is silent and absent, and makes many mistakes in the game. The clock strikes eleven, Henry rises, and taking Biron by the arm, leads him into a small retiring-room orcabinet at the bottom of the throne-room, now forming part of that large apartment. The King closes the door carefully. His countenance is darkened by excitement and anxiety. His manner is so constrained and unnatural that Biron begins to question himself as to his safety; still he sees no other resource but to brave his treason out. “My old companion,” says the King, in an unsteady voice, standing in the centre of the room, “you and I are countrymen; we have known each other from boyhood. We were playfellows. I was then the poor Prince de Béarn, and you, Biron, a cadet of Gontaut. Our fortunes have changed since then. I am a great king, and you are a Duke and Maréchal of France.” Biron bows; his confident bearing does not fail him.
“Now, Biron,” and Henry’s good-natured face grows stern—“I have called you here to say, that if you do not instantly confess the truth (and all the truth, instantly, mind), you will repent it bitterly. I was in hopes you would have done so voluntarily, but you have not.—Now I can wait no longer.”
“Sire, I have not failed in my duty,” replies Biron haughtily; “I have nothing to confess; you do me injustice.”
“Alas, my old friend, this denial does not avail you. I knowall!”—and Henry sighs and fixes his eyes steadfastly upon him. “I conjure you to make a voluntary confession. Spare me the pain of your public trial. I have kept the matter purposely secret. I will not disgrace you, if possible.”
“Sire,” answers Biron, with a well-simulated air of offended dignity. “I have already said I have nothingto confess. I can only beseech your Majesty to confront me with my accusers.”
“That cannot be done without public disgrace—without danger to your life, Maréchal. Come, Biron,” he adds, in a softer tone, and turning his eyes upon him where he stands before him, dogged and obstinate; “come, my old friend, believe me, every detail is known to me; your life is in my hand.”
“Sire, you will never have any other answer from me. Where are my accusers?”
“Avow all, Biron, fearlessly,” continues Henry, in the same tone, as if not hearing him. “Open your heart to me;—I can make allowances for you, perchance many allowances. You have been told lies, you have been sorely tempted. Open your heart,—I will screen you.”
“Sire, my heart is true. Remember it was I who first proclaimed you king, when you had not a dozen followers at Saint-Cloud,” Biron speaks with firmness, but avoids the piercing glance of the King; “I shall be happy to answer any questions, but I have nothing to confess.”
“Ventre Saint Gris!” cries Henry, reddening, “are you mad? Confess at once—make haste about it. If you do not, I swear by the crown I wear to convict you publicly as a felon and a traitor. But I would save you, Maréchal,” adds Henry in an altered voice, laying his hand upon his arm, “God knows I would save you, if you will let me.Pardieu!I will forgive you all!” he exclaims, in an outburst of generous feeling.
“Sire, I can only reply—confront me with myaccusers. I am your Majesty’s oldest friend. I have no desire but the service of your Majesty.”
“Would to God it were so!” exclaims the King, turning upon Biron a look of inexpressible compassion. Then moving towards the door he opens it, and looks back at Biron, who still stands where he has left him, with his arms crossed, in the centre of the room. “Adieu,Baronde Biron!”—and the King emphasises the word “Baron,” his original title before he had received titles and honours—“adieu! I would have saved you had you let me—your blood be on your own head.” The door closed—Henry was gone.
Biron gave a deep sigh of relief, passed his hand over his brow, which was moist with perspiration, and prepared to follow.
As he was passing the threshold, Vitry, the Captain of the Guard, seized him by the shoulder, and wrenched his sword from its scabbard. “I arrest you, Duc de Biron!”
Biron staggered, and looked up with astonishment. “This must be some jest, Vitry!”
“No jest, monseigneur. In the King’s name, you are my prisoner.”
“As a peer of France, I claim my right to speak with his Majesty!” cried Biron, loudly. “Lead me to the King!”
“No, Duke; the King is gone—his Majesty refuses to see you again.”
Once in the hands of justice, Biron vainly solicited the pardon which Henry would gladly have granted. He was arraigned before the parliament, convicted of treason, and beheaded at the Bastilleprivately,the only favour he could obtain from the master he had betrayed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The pleasant days are now long past when Henry wandered, disguised as a Spaniard or a peasant, together with Bellegarde and Chicot, in search of adventures—when he braved the enemy to meet Gabrielle, and escaped the ambuscades of the League by a miracle. He lives principally at the Louvre, and is always surrounded by a brilliant Court. He has grown clumsy and round-shouldered, and shows much of the Gascon swagger in his gait. He is coarse-featured and red-faced; his hair is white; his nose seems longer—in a word, he is uglier than ever. His manners are rougher, and he is still more free of tongue. There is a senile leer in his eyes, peering from under the tuft of feathers that rests on the brim of his felt hat, as cane in hand, he passes from group to group of deeply curtseying beauties in the galleries of the Louvre. He has neither the chivalric bearing of Francis I., nor the refined elegance of the Valois Princes. Beginning with his first wife, “la reine Margot,” the most fascinating, witty, and depraved princess of her day, his experience of the sex has been various. The only woman who really loved him was poor Gabrielle, and to her alone he had been tolerably constant. Her influence over him was gentle and humane, and, although she sought to legalise their attachment by marriage, she was singularly free from pride or personal ambition.
Now she is dead. He has wedded a new wife, Marie de’ Medici, whose ample charms and imperious ways are little to his taste. “We have married you,