Chapter 2

"In the first place, read me this letter from my brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, Gabriel."

Gabriel broke the seal and unfolded the letter, and after having cast a glance at it, handed it back to the duke, saying, as he did so,—

"Pardon, Monseigneur, but this letter is written in peculiar characters, and I cannot read it."

"Ah!" said the duke, "was it Jean Panquet's courier who brought it, then? It must be a confidential communication, I see,—a grated letter, so to speak. Wait a moment, Gabriel!"

He opened a casket of chased iron and took from it a paper with pieces cut out at regular intervals, which he laid carefully upon the cardinal's letter. "There," said he, handing it to Gabriel, "read it now!"

Gabriel seemed to have some hesitation about doing as he was bid; but François took his hand and pressed it, and said again, with a look of perfect confidence and good faith, "Come, read it; there's a good fellow!"

So the Vicomte d'Exmès read as follows:—

"Monsieur, my most honored and illustrious brother (ah, when shall I be able to call you by that one little word of four letters,—Sire!)—"

Gabriel stopped again; and the duke said, smiling,—

"You are astonished, Gabriel, and no wonder; but I trust that you have no suspicions of me. The Duc de Guise is not another Constable de Bourbon, my friend; and may God keep Henri's crown on his head, and grant him long life! But is there no other throne in the world save the throne of France? Since chance has placed me on an absolutely confidential footing with you, Gabriel, I do not wish to hide anything from you; but I am anxious to make known to you all my plans, and all my dreams, which are not, I think, such as could spring from a commonplace soul."

The duke rose and strode up and down the tent.

"Our family, which is allied to so many royal houses, may well, in my mind, Gabriel, aspire to any height of greatness. But the mere aspiration is nothing; attainment is my ambition. Our sister is Queen of Scotland; our niece, Mary Stuart, is betrothed to the Dauphin François; our grand-nephew, the Duc de Lorraine, is the chosen son-in-law of the king. And that is not all: in addition, we claim to represent the second house of Anjou, from which we are descended in the female line. Thence we derive our claims or rights—it's all the same thing—to Provence and Naples. Let us be content with Naples for the moment. Would not that crown look better on a Frenchman's head than on a Spaniard's? Now, what was my purpose in coming to Italy? To seize that crown. We are in alliance with the Duc de Ferrara, and closely bound to the Pope's nephews, the Caraffas. Paul IV. is an old man, and my brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, will succeed him. The throne of Naples is tottering, and I will mount it; and that is why,mon Dieu! I left Sienna and the Milanais behind me to pounce upon the Abruzzi. It was a glorious dream; but I fear greatly that it will never be more than a dream. For just consider, Gabriel, that I had less than twelve thousand men when I crossed the Alps! The Duc de Ferrara had promised me seven thousand; but he kept them on his own territory. Paul and the Caraffas had boasted how they would stir up a powerful faction in my interest in the kingdom of Naples, and agreed to furnish me with troops and money and supplies; but they have not sent me a man or a wagon or a sou. My officers are beginning to draw back, and my troops are murmuring. But it makes no difference; I will go on to the bitter end. I will not leave this promised land which my foot is now upon except at the last gasp; and if I do leave it, I will return! I will return!"

The duke stamped on the ground as if to take possession of it; his eyes shone; and he was noble and beautiful to look upon.

"Monseigneur," cried Gabriel, "how proud am I that I may be allowed to be your companion, to have such a trifling part as I may in such a glorious ambition!"

"And now," the duke said, smiling, "that I have given you the key to my brother's letter twice over, I fancy that you will be able to read and understand it So go on with it, while I listen."

"'Sire!' That is where I left off," said Gabriel.

"I have to inform you of two items of bad tidings and one of good. The good news is that the nuptials of our niece, Mary Stuart, are finally fixed for the 20th of next month, and are to be celebrated in due form at Paris on that day. One of the other pieces of news, of an evil tenor, comes from England. Philip II. of Spain has landed there, and is urging every day upon Queen Mary Tudor, his wife, who is passionately devoted to him, a declaration of war against France. No one has any doubt that he will succeed, although his wishes are directly opposed to the interest and the desire of the English people. There is talk already of an army to be assembled on the frontiers of the Low Countries, under the command of Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy. In that event, my dearest brother, we are suffering so from scarcity of troops here at home that Henri will be forced to recall you from Italy, so that our plans in that direction will at least have to be postponed. And consider, François, how much better it would be to delay their execution for a while than to compromise them; let there be no headstrong recklessness. It will be in vain for our sister, the Queen Regent of Scotland, to threaten to break with England, for you may believe that Mary of England, altogether infatuated with her young husband, will pay no attention to it; so take your measures accordingly."

"By Heaven!" broke in the Duc de Guise, bringing his fist down violently on the table, "you say only too well, my brother; and it takes a sly fox to smell the hounds. Yes, Mary the prude will surely allow herself to be led astray by her lawful husband; and no, of course I cannot openly disobey the king when he calls upon me to send his soldiers to him at so serious a crisis; and I would rather hold my hand from all the kingdoms on earth. Well, then, one obstacle the more in the way of this accursed expedition; for I leave it to you to say if it is not accursed, Gabriel, in spite of the Holy Father's blessing! Come, Gabriel, tell me frankly, for my ear alone, you do look upon it as hopeless, don't you?"

"I should not like, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "to have you class me with those who easily lose their courage; and yet, since you ask my opinion in all sincerity—"

"Enough, Gabriel! I understand you and agree with you. I foresee that it is not at this time that we are fated to accomplish together the great things that we were planning just now; but I swear to you that this is only a postponement, and to strike a blow at Philip II. in any part of his dominions will always be equivalent to attacking him here at Naples. But go on, Gabriel, for if I remember aright we have other evil tidings still to hear."

Gabriel resumed his reading.

"The other troublesome affair that I have to tell you of will be of no less serious moment, because it concerns our family's private matters; but there is no doubt still time to avert it, and so I make haste to give you notice of it. It is necessary that you should know that since your departure Monsieur le Connétable de Montmorency has shown, and quite naturally, the same ugly and bitter spirit toward us, and has never ceased to be envious of us, and to fume and swear, as has always been his custom whenever the king showed any favor to our family. The approaching celebration of our dear niece Mary's nuptials with the dauphin is not calculated to put him in a good humor. The balance which it is to the king's interest to preserve between the two houses of Guise and Montmorency is depressed considerably in our favor by this event; and the old constable is making a terrible clamor and outcry for something to counterbalance it. He has found this counterpoise, my dear brother, in a match between his son François, the prisoner of Thérouanne, and—"

The young count did not finish the sentence. His voice faltered, and every drop of blood left his face.

"Well, what's the matter, Gabriel?" asked the duke. "How pale you are and how discomposed! Did you have a sudden attack of pain?"

"Nothing, Monseigneur, absolutely nothing, except possibly a little over-fatigue and a slight dizziness; but I am all right again now, and will go on if you please. Let me see, where was I? The cardinal was saying, I think, that there was a remedy. Oh, no, farther along. Here's the place:—"

"In a match between his son François and Madame Diane de Castro, the legitimatized daughter of the king and Madame Diane de Poitiers. You will remember, brother, that Madame de Castro, who was left a widow at the age of thirteen, her husband, Horace Farnèse, having been killed at the siege of Hesdin six months after the wedding, remained for five years at the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris. The king, at the constable's solicitation, sent for her to return to court. She is a perfect pearl of beauty, my brother, and you know that I am a competent judge. Her charms made a conquest of all hearts at first sight, and of the father's heart more than all the rest. The king, who had already endowed her with the duchy of Chatellerault, has added the duchy of Angoulême to her possessions. She has been here only two weeks, and yet her supreme influence over the king is already an admitted fact. Her fascination and her sweet disposition are, no doubt, the moving causes of his very great fondness for her. At last things have got to such a point that Madame de Valentinois, who for some unknown reason has thought fit to invent another mother for Madame de Castro, seems to me just at present to be very jealous of this newly risen power. So it will be a very good thing for the constable if he succeeds in getting such a potent ally into his household. Between ourselves, you know that Diane de Poitiers never can refuse much of anything to the old villain; and although our brother D'Aumale is her son-in-law, Anne de Montmorency is still more closely connected with her. The king, moreover, is inclined to make some amends for the preponderating force which he sees that we are beginning to wield in his council and his armies. And this infernal marriage is very likely to be brought about."

"Again your voice falters, Gabriel," the duke interposed; "rest a bit, my boy, and let me finish the letter myself, for it interests me exceedingly. For, to tell the truth, that will give the constable a dangerous advantage over us. But I thought that great gaby of a François was already married to a De Fiennes. Come, give me the letter, Gabriel."

"But I am all right, upon my word, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, who had been reading a few lines ahead, "and I am perfectly well able to read the few lines that remain."

"This infernal marriage is very likely to be brought about. There is only one thing in our favor. François de Montmorency is bound by a secret marriage to Mademoiselle de Fiennes; and so a divorce is a necessary preliminary. But for that, the Pope's assent must be obtained; and François is just setting out for Rome to obtain it. So make it your business, my dear brother, to anticipate him with his Holiness, and through our friends the Caraffas and your own influence to induce him to reject the petition for a divorce, which will be supported, let me warn you, by a letter from the king. But the threatened position is of sufficient importance to call forth your best energies to defend it, as you defended St. Dizier and Metz. I will act with you to the best of my ability, for it will need all we both can do. And with this, my dear brother, I pray God to grant you a long and happy life."

"Well, nothing is lost yet," said the Duc de Guise, when Gabriel had finished reading the cardinal's letter; "and the Pope, who refuses to supply me with soldiers, might at least be willing to make me a present of a bull."

"So, then," said Gabriel, trembling with emotion, "you have some hope that his Holiness will refuse to ratify this divorce from Jeanne de Fiennes, and will be opposed to this marriage of François de Montmorency?"

"Yes, yes! indeed, I have hopes of it. But how deeply moved you are, my friend! Dear Gabriel! he does enter passionately into our interests! I am quite as heartily at your service, Gabriel, be sure of that. And come now, let us talk about your affairs a little; and since, in this undertaking, of which I can foresee the issue only too plainly, you will scarcely have an opportunity, I imagine, to swell the list of noteworthy services for which I am in your debt, by any fresh exploits, suppose I make a beginning of paying my debt to you? I don't choose to be too heavily in arrear, my good fellow. Can I be of help or assistance to you in any way whatever? Tell me now; come, tell me frankly."

"Oh, Monseigneur is too kind," replied Gabriel; "and I do not see—"

"For these last five years, when you have been continually fighting under me," said the duke, "you have never accepted a sou from me. You must be in need of money; why, God bless me, everybody needs money. It is not a gift or a loan that I offer you, but payment of a debt. So let's have no empty scruples; and although we are, as you know, rather pressed for money, still—"

"Yes, I do know very well, Monseigneur, that the want of a little means sometimes causes your grandest schemes to fall through; and I am so far from being in need myself that I was going to offer you some thousands of crowns, which would come in very handily for the army, and are quite useless to me, really."

"And which I will gladly accept, for they come at a very good time, I confess; and so one can do absolutely nothing for you, O young man without a wish! But stay," he added in a lower tone, "that rascal Thibault, my body-servant, you know, at the sack of Campli, day before yesterday, put aside for me the young wife of theprocureurof the town, the beauty of the neighborhood, judging from what I hear, always excepting the governor's wife, on whom no one can lay his hand. But as for me, upon my word, I have too many other cares in my head, and my hair is getting grizzly. Come, Gabriel, what would you say to my prize?Sang-Dieu! but you are built just right to make amends for the loss of aprocureur! What do you say to it?"

"I say, Monseigneur, with regard to the governor's wife, of whom you speak, and upon whom no hand has been laid, that it was I who fell in with her in the confusion, and carried her away, not to abuse my rights, as you might think. On the contrary, my object was to shield a noble and beautiful woman from the violence of a licentious soldiery. But I have since discovered that the fair creature would have no objection to adopting the cause of the victors, and would be very glad to shout, like the soldier of Gaul: 'Væ victis!' But since I am now, alas! less inclined than ever to echo her sentiments, I can, if you desire, Monseigneur, have her brought here to one who can appreciate better than I, and more worthily, her charms and her rank."

"Oh, oh!" cried the duke, laughing heartily. "Such extraordinary morality almost savors of the Huguenot, Gabriel. Can it be that you have a secret leaning toward those of the religion? Ah, take heed, my friend! I am by conviction, and by policy, which is worse, an ardent Catholic, and I will have you burned without pity. But come, joking apart, why the deuce are you so strait-laced?"

"Because I am in love, perhaps," said Gabriel.

"Oh, yes, I remember, a hate and a love. Well, then, can't I show my good-will to you by putting you in a way to meet your foes or your love? Are you in want of a title, for example?"

"Thanks, Monseigneur; I am no longer in need of that, and as I said to you in the first place, my ambition is not for vague and empty honors, but for a little personal renown. Therefore, since you conclude that there is nothing more of importance to be done here, and I am not likely to be of much use to you, it would be a very great gratification to me to be commissioned by you to carry to Paris, for the marriage of your royal niece, for instance, the flags you have won in Lombardy and in the Abruzzi. My happiness would leave nothing to be desired if you would deign to give me a letter to his Majesty, which should bear witness to him and to the whole court that some of these flags have been taken by my own hand, not altogether without danger to myself."

"Indeed, I will! That is very easily done; and more than that, it is quite right too," said the Duc de Guise. "I shall be very sorry to part with you; but in all probability it will only be for a short time, if war breaks out on the Flemish frontier, as everything seems to indicate, and we will meet again there, will we not, Gabriel? Your place is always where there is fighting to be done; and that is why you are so anxious to get away from here, where there is nothing to be had now but weariness and ennui, by Heaven! But we will have better sport in the Low Countries, Gabriel, and I trust that we shall enjoy it together there."

"I shall be only too glad to follow you, Monseigneur."

"Meanwhile, how soon would you like to be off, Gabriel, to carry to the king this wedding gift, of which your brain conceived the idea?"

"The sooner the better, I should say, Monseigneur, if the marriage is to take place on the 20th of May, as Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine informs you."

"Very true. Well, then, you shall go to-morrow, Gabriel; and you will have none too much time either. So go and get some rest, my friend, while I write the letter which will commend you to the king's notice, as well as the reply to my brother's, of which you will kindly take charge; and say to him besides, that I hope for a favorable result to the matter in which the Pope is concerned."

"And perhaps, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "my presence at Paris may help along the result you desire to that matter, and so my absence may be of some service to you."

"Always mysterious, Vicomte d'Exmès! but I am used to it from you. Adieu, then; and may the last night that you pass near me be a pleasant one!"

"I will return in the morning to get my letters and your blessing, Monseigneur. Ah! I leave with you my retainers, who have followed me in all my campaigns. I ask your permission to take with me only two of them and my squire, Martin-Guerre; he will answer all my needs; he is devoted to me, and is afraid of only two things in the whole world,—his wife and his shadow."

"How is that?" said the duke, laughing.

"Monseigneur, Martin-Guerre fled from his native place, Artigues, near Rieux, to get away from his wife Bertrande, whom he adored, but who used to beat him. He entered my service after Metz; but either the Devil or his wife, to torment him or punish him for his sins, kept appearing to him from time to time in his own image. Yes, all of a sudden, he would see by his side another Martin-Guerre, a striking likeness of himself, as like as if it were his reflection in a mirror; and by our Lady! that frightened him. But for all that he has an utter contempt for bullets, and would carry a redoubt single-handed. At Renty and at Valenza he twice saved my life."

"Take this valiant coward with you by all means, Gabriel. Give me your hand again, my dear friend, and be ready in the morning. My letters will be waiting for you."

Gabriel was ready to start bright and early the next day; he passed the night dreaming without closing his eyes. He waited on the Duc de Guise to receive his last instructions, and pay his parting respects, and on the 26th of April, at six in the morning, he set out for Rome, and thence for Paris, attended by Martin-Guerre and two of his followers.

It is the 20th of May, and we ask our readers to go with us to the Louvre at Paris, and to the apartments of the wife of the Great Seneschal, Madame de Brézé, Duchesse de Valentinois, commonly called Diane de Poitiers. Nine o'clock in the morning has just struck on the great clock of the château. Madame Diane, all in white, in a decidedly coquettishnegligé, is leaning or half reclining on a bed covered with black velvet. King Henri, already dressed in a magnificent costume, is sitting on a chair at her side.

Let us glance a moment at the scene and thedramatis personæ.

The apartment of Diane de Poitiers was resplendent with all the magnificence and taste which that fair dawning of art called the Renaissance had had the skill to lavish upon a king's chamber. Paintings signed "Le Primatice" represented various incidents of the hunting field, wherein the Huntress Diane, goddess of woods and forests, naturally figured as the principal heroine. The gilded and colored medallions and panels repeated on all sides the intertwined armorial bearings of François I. and Henri II. In like manner were memories of father and son intertwined in the heart of the fair Diane. The emblems were no less historical and full of meaning, and in twenty places was to be seen the crescent of Phœbus-Diane, between the Salamander of the conqueror of Marignan, and Bellerophon overthrowing the Chimæra, a device adopted by Henri II. after the taking of Boulogne from the English. This fickle crescent appeared in a thousand different forms and combinations which did great credit to the decorators of the time: here the royal crown was placed above it, and there four H's, fourfleurs de lis, and four crowns together made a superb setting for it; again it was threefold, and then shaped like a star. The mottoes were no less varied, and most of them were written in Latin. "Diana regum venatrix" (Diana, huntress of kings),—was that a piece of impertinence or of flattery? "Donec totum impleat orbem" can be translated in two ways,—"The crescent is to become a full moon," or "The king's glory will fill the whole world." "Cum plena est, fit æmula solis," can be freely translated, "Beauty and royalty are sisters." And the lovely arabesques which enclosed devices and mottoes, and the superb furnishings on which they were reproduced,—all these, if we should attempt to describe them, would not only put our magnificence of the present day to the blush, but would lose too much in the description.

Now let us cast our eyes upon the king.

History tells us that he was tall, supple, and strong. He had to resort to regular diet and daily exercise to combat a certain tendency to stoutness; and yet in the chase he left the swiftest far behind, and carried away the palm from the strongest at the jousts and tourneys. His hair and beard were black, and his complexion very dark, which gave him so much more animation, if we may believe contemporary memoirs. He wore, at the time we make his acquaintance, as indeed he always did, the colors of the Duchesse de Valentinois,—a coat of green satin slashed with white, glistening with pearls and diamonds; a double chain of gold, to which was suspended the medal of the order of Saint Michael; a sword chased by Benvenuto; a collar of white point de Venise; a velvet cloak dotted with golden lilies hung gracefully from his shoulders. It was a costume of singular richness, and suitable to a cavalier of exquisite elegance.

We have said in brief that Diane was clad in a simple white peignoir of a singularly thin and transparent stuff. To paint her divine loveliness would not be so easy a matter; and it would be hard to say whether the black velvet cushion on which her head lay, or the dress, startling in its purity, by which her form was enveloped, served best to set off the snows and lilies of her complexion. And surely it was such a perfect combination of delicate outlines as to drive Jean Goujon himself to despair. There is no more perfect piece of antique statuary; and this statue was alive, and very much alive too, if common report is to be believed. As for the graceful motion with which these lovely limbs were instinct, we must not attempt to describe it. It can no more be reproduced than can a ray of sunlight. As for age, she had none. In this point, as in so many others, she was like the immortals; but by her side the youngest and most blooming seemed old and wrinkled. The Protestants babbled about philters and potions, to which they said that she had recourse to enable her to remain always sixteen. The Catholics replied that all she did was to take a cold bath every day, and wash her face in ice water even in winter. Her prescription has been preserved; but if it be true that Jean Goujon's "Diane au Cerf" was carved from this royal model, that prescription has no longer the same effect.

A King's Mistress.

Thus was she a worthy object of the affection of the two kings whom one after the other her beauty had dazzled. For if the story of the favor obtained by Monsieur Saint-Vallier, thanks to his fine brown eyes, seems apocryphal, it is almost conclusively proved that Diane was François's mistress before she became Henri's.

"It is said," chronicles Le Laboureur, "that King François, who was the first lover of Diane de Poitiers, having expressed to her one day, after the death of François the dauphin, some dissatisfaction at the lack of animation exhibited by Prince Henri, she told him that he needed to have a love affair, and that she would make him fall in love with her."

What woman wills, God wills; and Diane was for twenty years the dearly and only beloved of Henri.

But now that we have examined the king and the favorite, is it not time to hear what they are saying?

Henri, holding a parchment in his hand, was reading aloud the following verses, not without some interruptions and by-play which we cannot set down here, because they were part of the setting of the piece.

Douce et belle bouchelette,Plus fraîche, et plus vermeilletteQue le bouton églantine,Au matin!Plus suave et mieux fleuranteQue l'immortelle amarante,Et plus mignarde cent foisQue n'est la douce roséeDont la terre est arroséeGoutte à goutte au plus doux mois!Baise-moi, ma douce amie,Baise-moi, chère vie,Baise-moi, mignonnement,Serrement,Jusques à tant que je die:Las! je n'en puis plus, ma mie;Las! mon Dieu, je n'en puis plus.Lors ta bouchette retire,Afin que mort, je soupire,Puis, me donne le surplus.Ainsi ma douce guerrière,Mon cœur, mon tout, ma lumière,Vivons ensemble, vivons,Et suivonsLes doux soutiens de jeunesse,Aussi bien une vieillesseNous menace sur le port,Qui, toute courbe et tremblante,Nous attraîne, chancelante,La maladie et la mort.[1]

"And what might be the name of this polite versifier who tells us so well what we are doing?" asked Henri when he had finished his reading.

"He is called Remy Belleau, Sire, and promises to rival Ronsard, it seems to me. Oh, well!" continued the duchess, "do you put the value of this lover's poem at five hundred crowns, as I do?"

"He shall have them, this protégé of yours, my beautiful Diane."

"But we must not allow this to make us forget the earlier ones, Sire. Have you signed the warrant for the pension that I promised in your name to Ronsard, the prince of poets? You have, haven't you? Well, then, I have only one favor more to ask at your hands, and that is the vacant abbey of Recouls for your librarian, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, our French Ovid."

"Ovid shall have his abbey, never fear, my fair Maecenas," said the king.

"Ah, how fortunate are you, Sire, to have the power of disposing of so many benefices and offices at your pleasure! If I could only have your power just for one short hour!"

"Haven't you it always, ingrate?"

"Really, have I, my Lord? But you haven't given me a kiss for two whole minutes! That's right, dear. So you say that your power is always at my command? Don't tempt me, Sire! I warn you that I shall avail myself of it to pay the enormous claim which Philibert Delorme has presented to me, on the ground that my Château d'Anet is finished. It will be the glory of your reign; but how dear it is! Just one kiss, my Henri!"

"And for this kiss, Diane, take for your Delorme the sum produced by the sale of the governorship of Picardy."

"Sire, do you think that I sell my kisses? I give them to you, Henri. This Picardy governorship is worth two hundred thousand livres, I should think, is it not? And then I can take the pearl necklace which has been offered me, and which I was very anxious to wear to-day at the wedding of your dear son François. A hundred thousand livres to Philibert, and a hundred thousand for the necklace; this Picardy matter will do very well."

"Especially as you estimate it at quite double its real worth, Diane."

"What! is it worth only one hundred thousand livres? Well, then, it's a very simple matter for me to let the necklace go."

"Nonsense!" said the king, laughing; "there are three or four vacant companies somewhere which will pay for the necklace, Diane."

"Oh, Sire, you are the most generous of kings, as you are the best beloved of lovers."

"Yes, you do really love me as I love you, do you not, Diane?"

"He really has the face to ask such a question!"

"But I, you see, dear, I adore you more and more every day, because you are every day more beautiful. Ah, what a lovely smile you have, sweetheart, and what a sweet expression! Let me kneel here at your feet. Put your fair hands on my shoulders. Oh, Diane, how lovely you are, and how dearly I love you! I could stay here and just gaze at you for hours, nay, for years. I would forget France, I would forget the whole world."

"And even this formal celebration of Monseigneur the Dauphin's marriage?" said Diane, smiling; "and yet it is to be solemnized this very day and in two hours' time. And even if you are all ready in your magnificence, Sire, I am not ready at all, you see. So go, my dear Lord, for it is time for me to call my women. Ten o'clock will strike in a moment."

"Ten o'clock," said Henri; "and upon my word, I have an appointment at that hour."

"An appointment, Sire? With a lady, perhaps?"

"With a lady."

"Pretty, no doubt?"

"Yes, Diane, very pretty."

"Then it can't be the queen."

"Oh, you wretch! Catherine de Médicis has a certain sort of beauty of her own, a stern and cold style of beauty, but undeniable. However, it is not the queen whom I expect. Can you guess who it is?"

"No, I really cannot, Sire."

"It is another Diane, dear,—the living memento of our young affections, our daughter, our darling daughter."

"You said that too loud and too often, Sire," said Diane, frowning, and in a somewhat embarrassed tone. "It was agreed that Madame de Castro should pass for the child of another than myself. I was born to have legitimate children by you. I have been your mistress because I loved you; but I will not put up with your openly declaring me your concubine."

"That shall be as your pride dictates, Diane," was the king's reply; "but you love our child dearly, do you not?"

"I like to have you love her."

"Oh, yes! I love her very much. She is so fascinating, so clever, so sweet! And then, Diane, she reminds me so of my younger days and of the time when I loved you—ah! no more passionately than to-day, God knows, but when I loved you so that I was willing to commit a crime."

The king, who had suddenly fallen into gloomy reflection, raised his head.

"This Montgommery! You didn't care for him, did you, Diane? You didn't care for him?"

"What a foolish question!" said the favorite, with a disdainful smile. "Still so jealous after twenty years!"

"Yes, I am jealous; I am, and shall always be jealous of you, Diane. Surely you didn't love him; but he loved you, the villain,—he dared to love you!"

"Mon Dieu! Sire, you have always lent too willing an ear to the slanders with which these Protestants are always pursuing me. That is not the part of a Catholic king. In any event, whether the man loved me or not, what does it matter, if my heart never for an instant ceased to be wholly yours, for the Comte de Montgommery has been dead many years?"

"Yes, dead!" said the king, in a hollow voice.

"Come, let us not grow mournful over these reminiscences on a day which ought to be a day of rejoicing," said Diane. "Have you seen François and Marie yet? Are they always so lovelorn, these children? Well their terrible impatience will soon be at an end. Think, in two hours they will be made one, and so glad and happy, but still not so delighted as the Guises, whose wishes are fully satisfied by this marriage."

"Yes, but who is in a fury about it?" said the king. "My old Montmorency; and the constable has so much the more reason to lose his head, because I greatly fear that our Diane is not destined for his son."

"But, Sire, didn't you promise him this marriage by way of amends?"

"Certainly I did; but it seems that Madame de Castro has objections—"

"A child of eighteen just out of a convent! What objections can she possibly have?"

"It is to confide them to me that she is probably waiting in my apartments at this very moment."

"Go to her, then, Sire, while I proceed to beautify myself to please you."

"And after the ceremony I shall see you again at the tilting match. I am going to break a lance in your honor once more to-day, and I propose to make you queen of the lists."

"The queen? And who is the other?"

"There is only one, Diane, and you know it very well.Au revoir."

"Au revoir, Sire, and pray don't be rash and careless in this tilting; you make me shudder sometimes."

"There is no danger there, I'm sorry to say; for I could wish that there might be, so that I might seem a little more deserving in your eyes. But time is passing, and my two Dianes are both impatient. Tell me just once more that you love me."

"Sire, I love you as I always have loved you, and as I shall love you forever."

The king, before letting the curtain fall behind him, threw her a last kiss with his hand. "Adieu, my dearly loving and dearly loved Diane," said he. And he left her.

Then a panel hidden by hangings in the opposite wall opened.

"For the love of heaven, have you done enough chattering for to-day?" said the Constable de Montmorency, roughly, as he came into the room.

"My friend," said Diane, rising, "you must have seen that even before ten o'clock, which was the hour of my appointment with you, I did everything I could to send him away. I was quite as uncomfortable as you were, believe me."

"As uncomfortable as I!Pasques-Dieu! no, my dear; and if you flatter yourself that your discourse was either instructive or entertaining—In the first place, what is this new crotchet, of refusing your daughter Diane's hand to my son François, after having solemnly promised it? By the crown of thorns! would one not say that the bastard was conferring a great honor on the Montmorency family by condescending to enter it? The marriage must take place; do you understand, Diane? And you must take measures to see that it does. It is the only means left of restoring the balance between us and the Guises, whom the deuce take! So, Diane, in spite of the king, in spite of the Pope, in spite of everything, I wish that this should come to pass."

"But, my friend—"

"Ah!" cried the constable, "and when I tell you that I wish it so,Pater noster!"

"It shall be as you say, my friend," Diane in her fear of him made haste to say.

[1]Sweet and lovely little mouth,Fresher and ruddier than bud of eglantineAt morn!Sweeter and more fragrant than the immortal amaranth,And a hundred times dearerThan the gentle dew which waters the earth,Drop by drop, in the sweetest month!Kiss me, sweet friend; kiss me, dear life.Kiss me lovingly, closely, until I say:Alas, my love, I can bear no more!Alas, my God, I can bear no more!Then take away thy little mouth, till dead I sigh;Then bestow on me the rest.Thus, sweet warrior, my heart, my light, my all,Let us live together; let us liveAnd follow the sweet delights of youth,Since near the haven old age threatens us,Which, bowed and trembling, tottering, brings usSickness and death.

[1]

Sweet and lovely little mouth,Fresher and ruddier than bud of eglantineAt morn!Sweeter and more fragrant than the immortal amaranth,And a hundred times dearerThan the gentle dew which waters the earth,Drop by drop, in the sweetest month!Kiss me, sweet friend; kiss me, dear life.Kiss me lovingly, closely, until I say:Alas, my love, I can bear no more!Alas, my God, I can bear no more!Then take away thy little mouth, till dead I sigh;Then bestow on me the rest.Thus, sweet warrior, my heart, my light, my all,Let us live together; let us liveAnd follow the sweet delights of youth,Since near the haven old age threatens us,Which, bowed and trembling, tottering, brings usSickness and death.

The king, on returning to his own apartments, did not find his daughter there; but the usher who was in attendance told him that after waiting for him a long while Madame Diane had gone to the rooms set apart for the king's children, leaving word that she should be informed as soon as his Majesty returned.

"Very well," said Henri, "I will join her there. Leave me, for I will go alone."

He passed through a large hall, then a long corridor, at the end of which he softly opened a door, and stood looking behind a long half-drawn curtain. The children's cries and shouts of laughter had drowned the noise of his steps; and he was able, himself unseen, to watch a most delightful and graceful picture.

Standing at the window, Mary Stuart, the beautiful young bride, had gathered around her Diane de Castro, and Elisabeth and Marguerite de France, all three very assiduous to help her, and chattering away for dear life, smoothing out a fold in her dress or fixing a lock of hair that had escaped from its fastening,—in short, giving that finishing touch to her lovely toilette which only women know how to give. At the other end of the room, the brothers, Charles, Henri, and François, the youngest of all, laughing and shouting at the top of their voices, were pushing with all their strength against a door which François the dauphin, the young bridegroom, was trying in vain to open, while the little rogues were determined to prevent him from having a sight of his wife till the last moment.

Jacques Amyot, the preceptor of the princes, was talking seriously in a corner with Madame de Coni and Lady Lennox, the governesses of the princesses.

There in one apartment, within a space that could be covered by one glance, was assembled a large part of the history of the future, its woes, its passions, and its glory. There were the dauphin, who became François II.; Élisabeth, who married Philip II., and became Queen of Spain; Charles, who was Charles IX.; Henri, who was Henri III.; Marguerite de Valois, who married Henri IV., and was Queen of Navarre; François, who was successively Duc d'Alençon, d'Anjou, and de Brabant; and Mary Stuart, who was twice a queen, and a martyr too.

The illustrious translator of Plutarch watched with a gaze at once sad and absorbed the sports of these children and the future destinies of France.

"No, no, François, you shall not come in!" cried rather harshly the brutal Charles Maximilien, who was in after years to give the word for the fearful slaughter of Saint Bartholomew.

And with his brothers' help he succeeded in pushing the bolt, and thus made an entrance out of the question for poor François, who was too frail in any event to have made his way in, even against these children, and who could only stamp in his vexation, and beg from the other side of the door.

"Dear François, how they do torment him!" said Mary Stuart to his sisters.

"Keep quiet, do, Madame la Dauphine, at least until I put in this pin," laughed little Marguerite. "What a fine invention these pins are, and what a great man the one who thought of them last year ought to become!" said she.

"And now that the pin is in place," said gentle Élisabeth, "I am going to open the door for poor François, in spite of these young fiends; for it makes me sad to see him so sad."

"Oh, yes, you know all about that, you do, Élisabeth," said Mary Stuart, sighing; "and you are thinking of your courtly Spaniard, Don Carlos, son of the King of Spain, who fêted us and amused us so at St. Germain."

"See how Elisabeth is blushing," cried little Marguerite, clapping her hands mischievously. "The fact is that he was very fine and gallant, this Castilian of hers."

"Come, come," said Diane de Castro, the eldest of the sisters, in a motherly sort of way, "it isn't right to jest so among sisters, Marguerite."

Nothing could have been more fascinating than the sight of these four lovely maidens, each so different from the others, and each so perfect in herself. Beautiful flowers just opening their buds: Diane, all purity and sweetness; Élisabeth, serious and affectionate; Mary Stuart, all captivating languor; and Marguerite a sparkling madcap. Henri, moved and fascinated, could not feast his eyes enough with the charming picture.

However, he had to make up his mind to go in. "The king!" they cried with one breath; and all, boys and girls together, rushed to meet their king and father. Only Mary Stuart held back a little, and went softly and drew the bolt which was keeping François prisoner. The dauphin lost no time in coming in, and the young family was complete.

"Good-morning, my dears," said the king. "I am very glad to find you all so well and happy. Were they keeping you out, François, my poor boy? But you are going to have time enough now to see your betrothed sweetheart often and always. Are you very fond of one another, my children?"

"Oh, yes, Sire, I do love Mary!" and the passionate boy pressed a burning kiss on the hand of her who was to be his wife.

"Monseigneur," said Lady Lennox, sharply and rather sternly, "one does not kiss a lady's hand in public in that way, especially in his Majesty's presence. What will he think of Madame Mary and her governess?"

"But isn't this hand mine?" said the dauphin.

"Not yet, Monseigneur," said the duenna; "and I propose to fulfil my duty till the last minute."

"Don't be afraid," said Mary, in an undertone to her young husband, who was beginning to sulk; "when she isn't looking, I will give it you again."

The king laughed beneath his beard.

"You are very strict, my Lady; but then you are quite right," he added, checking himself. "And you, Messire Amyot, you are not dissatisfied with your pupils, I trust. Pay great regard to the words of your learned preceptor, young gentlemen, for he is on intimate terms with the great heroes of antiquity. Messire Amyot, is it long since you have heard from Pierre Danot, who was our old master, and from Henri Étienne, our fellow-pupil?"

"The old man and the young one are both well, Sire, and will be very proud and happy to know that your Majesty has deigned to remember them."

"Well, children," said the king, "I wanted to see you before the ceremony, and am very glad that I have seen you. Now, Diane, I am at your service, my dear, so come with me."

Diane bowed low and followed the king from the room.

Diane de Castro, whose acquaintance we made when she was yet a mere child, was now almost eighteen years old. Her beauty had fulfilled all its promise, and had developed in regularity and charm at the same time; the predominant expression of her sweet and lovely face was one of childlike openness and honesty. Diane de Castro in character and in mind was still the child whom we first knew. She was not yet thirteen when the Duc de Castro, whom she had never seen since the day she was married to him, had been killed at the siege of Hesdin. The king had sent the child-widow to pass her mourning period at the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris; and Diane had found such warm affection and such pleasant customs there that she had asked her father's permission to remain with the kind sisters and her companions until he should be ready to make some other disposition of her. One could but respect such a devout request; and Henri had not taken Diane from the convent until about a month before, when the Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the preponderance acquired by the Guises in the government, had solicited and obtained for his son the hand of the daughter of the king and his favorite.

During the mouth she had passed at court, Diane had not failed at once to attract universal respect and admiration. "For," says Brantôme, in his work on famous women, "she was very kind, and did nothing to offend anybody; and yet her spirit was very noble and high, and she was very obliging and discreet, and most virtuous." But her virtue, which shone forth so pure and lovely amid the general wickedness of the time, was entirely free from any touch of austerity or harshness. One day some man remarked in her hearing that a daughter of France ought to be valiant and strong, and that her shyness smacked somewhat of the cloister, whereupon she learned to ride in a very few days, and there was no cavalier who was so fearless and dashing a rider as she. After that she always went with the king to the chase; and Henri yielded more and more to her charming way of seeking, without the least pretence for any occasion, however trifling, of anticipating his wishes and making herself agreeable to him. So Diane was granted the privilege of entering her father's apartments whenever she chose, and she was always sure of a welcome. Her touching grace, her modest ways, and the odor of sweet maidenliness and innocence which one seemed to breathe when she was near, even to her smile, which was the least bit sad, combined to make her perhaps the most exquisite and ravishing figure of that whole court, which could boast of so many dazzling beauties.

"Well, my darling," said Henri, "now I am ready to hear what you have to tell me. There's eleven o'clock striking. The marriage ceremony at St. Germain l'Auxerrois is not to be performed till noon, so that I have half an hour to give you, and no more. These are the pleasant moments of my life that I pass with you."

"Sire, what a kind and indulgent father you are!"

"Oh, no, but I love you dearly, my precious child; and I desire with all my heart to do something that will gratify you, so long as I do not thereby prove false to the grave interests of state which a king must always consider before any natural ties. And now, Diane, to prove it to you, I will first of all give you my answer to the two requests you made of me. Good Sister Monique, who loved you and watched over you at your convent of the Filles-Dieu, has been appointed at your recommendation Lady Abbess of the convent of Origny at St. Quentin."

"Oh, how grateful I am, Sire!"

"As for brave Antoine, your favorite servant at Vimoutiers, he will draw a handsome pension from our treasury for life. I am very sorry, Diane, that Enguerrand is no longer alive. We should have liked to show our gratitude in kingly style to the worthy squire who brought up our dear daughter Diane so happily; but you lost him last year, I think, and he has not even left an heir."

"Sire, you are too generous and kind really."

"And more than that, Diane, here are the letters-patent which make you Duchesse d'Angoulême. And this is not a fourth part of what I should like to do for you; for I see that you are sometimes thoughtful and sad, and that is why I was in haste to talk with you, because I longed to comfort you, or to cure your sorrow. What is it, my dear? Aren't you happy?"

"Ah, Sire," replied Diane, "how can I help being happy, being thus surrounded by your love and your continual kindness? I only long for one thing, and that is that the present, so full of happiness, may continue. The future, fine and glorious as it may be, will never equal it."

"Diane," said Henri, in a grave voice, "you know that I took you from the convent to give your hand to François de Montmorency. It would be a grand match, Diane; and yet this alliance, which, I don't conceal from you, would have been of great advantage to the interests of my crown, seems to be very distasteful to you. You owe me at least your reasons for this refusal, which troubles me so, Diane."

"Surely I will not hide them from you, my Father. And in the first place," said Diane, with some embarrassment, "I have been told that François de Montmorency has already been secretly married to Mademoiselle de Fiennes, one of the queen's ladies."

"It is true," replied the king; "but this marriage, contracted clandestinely, without the constable's consent and mine, is rightfully void; and if the Pope decrees a divorce, you certainly, Diane, will not show yourself more exacting than his Holiness. So if this is your only reason—"

"But there is another, dear Father."

"And what is it, pray? How can an alliance which would be esteemed an honor by the highest-born and wealthiest heiresses in France work ill to you?"

"Why, Father, because—because I love some one else," cried Diane, throwing herself, confused and weeping, into her father's arms.

"You love some one, Diane?" repeated Henri, amazed; "and what might be the name of this favored individual?"

"Gabriel, Sire."

"Gabriel what?" asked the king, smiling at her.

"I have no idea, Father."

"How can that be, Diane? In Heaven's name, explain yourself!"

"I will tell you everything, Sire. It is an attachment of my childhood's days. I used to see Gabriel every day He was so courteous and obliging and gallant and handsome and clever and affectionate! He used to call me his little wife. Ah, Sire, do not laugh; it was a very serious and holy sentiment, and the first that ever made its impression on my heart. Other attachments may take their places beside it, but can never destroy it. And yet I allowed myself to be married to the Duc Farnèse, Sire, but it was because I knew not what I did; because I was forced into it, and obeyed blindly like the little girl that I was. Since then I have lived and learned, and have come to understand of what treachery I was guilty to Gabriel. Poor Gabriel! when he left me he didn't shed a tear, but what unutterable sadness there was in the look he gave me! All this has come back to me with the happy memories of my childhood during the lonely years that I passed at the convent. And thus I have lived each of the years that I was with Gabriel twice over,—in fact and in fancy, in reality and in my dreams. And since I have returned to court here, Sire, I have seen among the accomplished gentlemen who surround you like another crown not one who can compare with Gabriel; and François, the obsequious son of the haughty constable, will never make me forget the proud and gentle companion of my young days. And so, dear Father, now that I realize what I did and its effect, I shall remain true to Gabriel so long as you leave me free."

"Have you ever seen him since you left Vimoutiers, Diane?"

"Alas, no, Father!"

"But you must have heard from him at least?"

"Not a word. I simply know from Enguerrand that he left the province after my departure; he told Aloyse, his nurse, that he would never come back until he had made himself an honorable and dreaded name, and that she need not be anxious about him. And with that he left her, Sire."

"And have his family never heard aught of him?" asked the king.

"His family?" repeated Diane. "I never knew of his having any other family than Aloyse, Father; and I never saw any relatives of his when I went with Enguerrand to pay a visit at Montgommery."

"At Montgommery!" cried Henri, while the color fled from his face. "Diane, Diane, I trust he is not a Montgommery! Tell me, for Heaven's sake, that he is not a Montgommery!"

"Oh, no, indeed, Sire for if he had been, he surely would have lived at the château, whereas he lived with Aloyse, his nurse, in her modest dwelling. But what have the counts of Montgommery ever done to you, Sire, to move you to such an extent? Are they enemies of yours? In their province they are mentioned only with the deepest respect."

"Of course, that is true!" said the king, with a nervous, disdainful laugh; "and they have done nothing to me, nothing at all, Diane! What could a Montgommery do to a Valois, pray? But to return to this Gabriel of yours. Was it not Gabriel that you called him?"

"Yes."

"And he had no other name?"

"No other that I know of, Sire; he was an orphan like me, and no one ever mentioned his father in my presence."

"And you have no other objection to make, Diane, to this projected alliance with Montmorency, except your former affection for this young man? No other at all, have you?"

"That one is enough; so my heart tells me, Sire."

"Very true, Diane; and perhaps I should not undertake to overcome your scruples if your friend were on the spot, where we could know and appreciate him, and although he may be, I can guess, of uncertain parentage—"

"But is there not a bar on my escutcheon too, your Majesty?"

"Yes, but at least you have an escutcheon, Madame; and you will be good enough to bear in mind that the Montmorencys no less than the Castros consider it an honor to receive into their family a legitimatized daughter of mine. Your Gabriel, on the other hand—but then, that is not the question now. The important fact in my mind is that he has not turned up in six years, and that he has probably forgotten you, Diane, and has, it is more than likely, given his heart to another."

"Sire, you do not know Gabriel: his is an untutored and faithful heart, which will burn itself out in love for me."

"Very well, Diane. To you no doubt it seems improbable that he would be unfaithful to you; and you are quite right to deny it. But everything leads you to suppose that this young man went to the wars. And if so, is it not probable that he has died there? I afflict you, my dear child, for your fair brow has grown pale, and your eyes are swimming in tears. Yes, I can see that your feeling for him is a very deeply rooted one; and although it has seldom been my lot to meet with such, and I have got into the habit of being incredulous about these great passions, I have no inclination to laugh at this of yours, but I respect it. But just see, my darling, in what an embarrassing position you place me by your refusal, and all on account of a childish attachment whose object is nothing more than a mere memory and a shadow. The constable, if I insult him by withdrawing my pledged word, will be angry, and not unjustly, my child, and will very probably leave my service; and then it will be no longer I, but the Duc de Guise, who will be king. Think for a moment, Diane, of the six brothers of that family: the Duc de Guise has at his command the whole military power of France; the cardinal all the finances; a third controls my Marseilles fleet; a fourth commands in Scotland; and a fifth is about to take Brissac's place in Piedmont. So that from one extremity of my realm to the other, I, the king, cannot dispose of a soldier or a crown without their assent. I speak gently to you, Diane, and explain these matters to you; I stoop to implore where I might command. But I think it much better to let you judge for yourself, and that it should be the father and not the king who obtains his daughter's consent to his plans. And I shall obtain it, for you are a good and obedient child. This marriage will be my salvation, my dear child; it will give to the Montmorencys that measure of influence which it will withdraw from the Guises. It will equalize the two arms of the balance of which my royal power is the beam. Guise will become less overbearing, and Montmorency more at my devotion. What! you do not answer, dear. Do you remain deaf to the prayer of your father, who does not storm at you or use harsh words, but who, on the contrary, enters into all your thoughts, and asks of you only that you will not deny him the first service which you can do him in return for what he has done, and all that he wishes still to do for your happiness and honor? Come, Diane, my dear daughter, you will consent, won't you?"

"Sire," replied Diane, "you are a thousand times more powerful when your voice sues for something that it might command. I am ready to sacrifice myself to your interests, but only on one condition, Sire."

"And what is that, you spoiled child?"

"That this marriage shall not take place for three months, and meanwhile I will send to Aloyse for news of Gabriel, and will resort to every other possible source of information, so that if he is no more, I may know it; and if he is still living, I may at least ask him to return me my plighted word."

"Granted with all my heart," said Henri, overjoyed beyond measure; "and I will say in addition that wiser words never fell from a child's lips. So you shall search for your Gabriel, and I will help you as you have need of me; and in three months you shall marry François, whatever be the result of our investigations, and whether your young friend be living or dead."

"And now," said Diane, sadly shaking her head, "I don't know whether I ought to pray most earnestly for his death or his life."

The king opened his lips, and was on the point of giving utterance to a suggestion not very paternal in character, and of rather doubtful consoling power. But he had only to look at Diane's frank expression and lovely face, to stop the words before they came; and he betrayed his thought only by a smile.

"For good or for ill, she will conform to the customs of the court," he said to himself.

And then aloud,—

"The time has come to go to the Church, Diane; allow me to escort you to the great gallery, Madame, and then I will see you again at the tilting, and at the games in the afternoon. And if you are not too much incensed with me for my tyrannical conduct, perhaps you will condescend to applaud my strokes with the lance, and my passades, my fair umpire."

That same day, in the afternoon, while the jousting and holiday-making was in progress at Tournelles, the Constable de Montmorency was completing his examination, in Diane de Poitiers's closet at the Louvre, of one of his secret agents.

The spy was of medium height and swarthy complexion; he had black hair and eyes, an aquiline nose, a forked chin, and projecting lower lip, and his back was slightly crooked. He bore a most striking resemblance to Martin-Guerre, Gabriel's faithful squire. Any one seeing them separately might well have mistaken either for the other; and he who saw them standing side by side would have taken them for twin brothers, so exactly alike were they in every respect. They had the same features and the same figure, and were apparently of the same age.

"And the courier, what did you do with him, Master Arnauld?" asked the constable.

"Monseigneur, I put him out of the way. It had to be done; but it was in the night and in the forest of Fontainebleau. The murder was laid at the door of robbers. I am very careful."

"Never mind, Master Arnauld; it is a very serious matter, and I blame you for being so ready to play with your knife."

"I shrink at nothing when Monseigneur's service is at stake."

"That's all very well; but once for all, Master Arnauld, remember that if you allow yourself to steal, I will allow you to hang," said the constable, dryly and rather contemptuously.

"Never fear, Monseigneur; I am a man of discretion and foresight."

"Now let's see the letter."

"Here it is, Monseigneur."

"Very well! unseal it without breaking the seal, and read it. For Heaven's sake, do you suppose for a moment that I am going to read it?"

Master Arnauld du Thill took from his pocket a sharp little chisel, and cut carefully around the seal, and unfolded the letter. He turned at once to the signature.

"Monseigneur sees that I was not mistaken. The letter addressed to the Cardinal de Guise is from Cardinal de Caraffa, as that wretched courier was simpleton enough to tell me."

"Read it, then, by the crown of thorns!" cried Anne de Montmorency.

Master Arnauld read as follows,—

"MONSEIGNEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—Just three words of importance. In the first place, in accordance with your request, the Pope will let the affair of the divorce drag slowly along, and will put François de Montmorency off from consistory to consistory (he arrived at Rome yesterday) before finally refusing the dispensation that he solicits."

"Pater noster!" growled the constable. "May the Devil take them, all these red hats!"

Arnauld continued his reading:—

"In the second place, Monsieur de Guise, your illustrious brother, after having taken Campli, is holding Civitella in check. But before we resolve to send him the men and supplies that he asks, and which we can only give him at a great sacrifice, we must at least be assured that you will not call him away to serve in Flanders, as the report goes is likely to be the case. Just see that he remains with us, and his Holiness will make up his mind to an extensive issue of indulgences, hard though the times may be, to assist Monsieur François de Guise in soundly whipping the Duke of Alva and his haughty master."

"Adveniat tuum regnum," growled Montmorency. "We will remember that, body and blood! We will remember that, even if we have to call the English into France. Go on, Arnauld, go on, by the Mass!"

The spy resumed:—

"In the third place, I have to announce to you, Monseigneur, to encourage you and support you in your endeavors, the speedy arrival at Paris of a messenger from your brother, Vicomte d'Exmès, who is bringing to Henri the flags conquered in this Italian campaign. He is about to set out, and will arrive no doubt at the same time that my letter does, which, however, I have chosen to intrust to our regular courier; his presence, and the glorious trophies which he will offer to the king, will assuredly be of great service to you in conducting your negotiations in every direction."

"Fiat voluntas tua," cried the constable, in a perfect fury of rage. "We will give this ambassador from hell a fine reception. I commend him to you, Arnauld. Is that the end of that cursed letter?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, all but the usual complimentary words, and the signature."

"Good! you see that there is some work cut out for you, my fine fellow."

"I ask for nothing better, Monseigneur, with a little money thrown in to assist in obtaining good results."

"Here are a hundred ducats, knave. You must always feel the money in your hand."

"But I spend so much in Monseigneur's service."

"Your vices cost you more than my service does, you scoundrel."

"Oh, how mistaken Monseigneur is in me! I dream only of leading a quiet life, in happiness and affluence, somewhere in the country, with my wife and children about me, and passing the rest of my days in peace, like an honest father and husband."

"A most charmingly virtuous and bucolic picture, to be sure! Oh, well, then, mend your ways, put by a few doubloons, and marry, and you will be in a fair way to realize these dreams of domestic felicity. What prevents you?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, my fiery spirit! And then what woman would ever have me?"

"Meanwhile, and pending your hymeneal plans, suppose you seal that letter again very carefully, and carry it to the cardinal. You must disguise yourself, you understand, and say that your dying comrade enjoined upon you—"

"You may trust me, Monseigneur. The resealed letter and the substituted courier will seem more authentic than the real articles."

"The deuce take it!" said Montmorency; "we forgot to take down the name of this plenipotentiary whose coming is announced. What is he called?"

"Vicomte d'Exmès, Monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, that was it, villain. Now see that you remember the name. Well! who dares to interrupt me again?"

"Pardon, Monseigneur," said the constable's fourrier, entering. "A gentleman arrived from Italy is asking to see the king on behalf of the Duc de Guise; and I thought I ought to advise you of it, especially since he was very anxious to speak with the Cardinal de Lorraine. He calls himself Vicomte d'Exmès."

"That was very proper of you, Guillaume," said the constable. "Show the gentleman in here. And do you, Master Arnauld, take your place there behind that hanging, and don't let slip this opportunity of having a good look at the man with whom no doubt you will have some business to transact. It is for your benefit that I receive him, so keep your eyes and ears open."

"I am quite sure, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, "that I have already come across him in my travels. But no matter! It is just as well to be certain of it. Vicomte d'Exmès, is it?"

The spy slipped behind the hangings, as Guillaume appeared, ushering Gabriel into the room.

"Pardon me," said the young man, politely saluting the old constable; "but to whom have I the honor of addressing myself?"

"I am the Constable de Montmorency, Monsieur; what is your will?"

"Pardon me again," said Gabriel; "but what I have to say I must say to the king."

"But you know that his Majesty is not at the Louvre, do you not? and in his absence—"

"I will follow his Majesty or await his return," Gabriel interposed.

"His Majesty is at the fêtes at the Tournelles, and will not return before evening. Don't you know that the marriage of Monseigneur le Dauphin is being celebrated to-day?"

"No, Monseigneur; I only learned of it on my way hither. But I came by way of the Rue de l'Université and the Pont au Change, and did not pass through the Rue St. Antoine."

"Then you ought to have followed the crowd. That would have shown you the way to the king."

"But I have not yet had the honor of being presented to his Majesty. I am an entire stranger at court. I hoped to find Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine at the Louvre. It was his Eminence for whom I inquired, and I can't imagine why I have been conducted to you, Monseigneur."

"Monsieur de Lorraine," said the constable, "loves these sham fights, being a churchman; but I, who am a man of the sword,—I care only for real fighting, and that is why I am at the Louvre, while Monsieur de Lorraine is at the Tournelles."

"If you please, Monseigneur, I will go and seek him there, then."

"But,mon Dieu, stay and rest a bit, Monsieur; for you seem to have arrived from a distance,—from Italy, no doubt, since you entered the city by the Rue de l'Université."

"From Italy, in truth, Monseigneur. I have no reason to conceal the fact."

"You come from the Duc de Guise, perhaps? Well, what is he about down there?"

"Permit me, Monseigneur, to inform his Majesty in the first instance, and to take my leave to the end that I may fulfil that duty."

"So be it, Monsieur, since you are in such haste. No doubt," he added with an assumed air of pleasantry, "you are in a hurry to renew your acquaintance with some fair lady or other. I'll warrant that you are in haste and fear at the same time. Come, now, isn't that so, my young sir?"

But Gabriel put on his coldest and most serious expression, and replied only with a low bow, as he left the apartment.

"Pater noster qui es in cœlis" snarled the constable, when the door had closed behind Gabriel. "Does this cursed fop imagine that I wanted to make advances to him, to win him over to my side, perchance, or to corrupt him possibly? As if I didn't know perfectly well what he is going to say to the king! No matter! if I fall in with him again, he shall pay me dear for his unsociable airs and his defiant insolence! Ho, there, Master Arnauld! Come, come! Where is the blackguard? Vanished too, by the cross! Everybody seems to have taken on a fit of stupidity to-day. The Devil seize them!Pater noster!"

Back to Index Next