CHAPTER XIVTHE WIDOW OF FRANCE
Itwas a small room, the curtains at the windows were drawn, and a fire burned brightly in the grate. On the polished oak of the floor, black with age, were scattered rare eastern carpets, low, cushioned seats, carved tables, and cabinets, holding those delicate and elegant trifles a woman loves—strange carvings, crystals of Venice, rare articles offaience, caskets, and vases wrought in quaint designs.
On the writing-table, a winged Mercury, the work of Benvenuto Cellini, held a lamp which filled the room with its amber light. Near the window was a clavichord, and hard by it was a lute left carelessly on a stool, whilst Nambu, the Queen’s Barbary ape, slept profoundly on the yellow satin cushions covering the window-seat. Here and there were a few books. An illuminated breviary in a golden case, with the arms of France set in brilliants thereon, lay on aprie-dieumade from the wood of the gates of the Holy Sepulchre. Beside this was carelessly flung a fan of marabout feathers, a vinaigrette, and a pair of gloves, while against the wall, overhanging these things, was a large golden cross, on which a Christ writhed in his last agony.
On the writing-desk, its pages open, was a volume of “The Prince,” by Machiavel the Florentine. In a cabinet near were some books—the “Odes of Ronsard,” the “Commentaries of Cæsar,” the “Lives of Plutarch,” and, strangely enough, the songs of Clement Marot.
There was time to see all this and more, for when we entered the cabinet it was empty, and I let my eyes run over my surroundings, more in idle curiosity than with any hope of gathering from them an index to the character of the strange woman, whom we all thought a figure of wax while her husband lived, but whose hidden strength was now beginning to be felt and feared. For five-and-twenty years, as wife and queen, she had suffered insult and contumely, such as falls to the lot of few women to bear. She had seen her rights as a wife and mother usurped, and the most brutal speech that has ever, perhaps, been made to a queen by a subject, had been flung at her by Anne de Montmorenci. She had endured and waited, until at length the time was white for her harvest of vengeance, and then she reaped. No pity had been shown to her, and she had learned how to be merciless. One by one her enemies had fallen. Diana was gone. That was indeed a day of triumph, when the insolent favorite was expelled from the Louvre! Then came the turn of others; but Montmorenci still lived, the first peer of the kingdom, Constable of France. In her eagerness to strike at him, foronce the crafty Italian overreached herself, and fell into the snares set for her by her deadliest foes. How she escaped the Guise; how she humbled herself and sought the friendship of the Constable; how she played off ambition against ambition, party against party, and maintained her position to the last, are matters foreign to this story of the disaster of my life. I have merely digressed thus, to give some insight into the character of the woman we are to meet, a character so warped by the years of duplicity she had been forced to exercise, that it had become impossible for her to follow a straight course, even when such a course showed no difficulty against the attainment of her ends.
As we waited for Catherine, Marcilly turned toward a little table near to him, and picked up a bouquet of violets set in a holder of golden filagree. He was about to inhale the fragrance of the flowers, when Sancerre put his hand on his wrist, saying:
“Par le mordieu!Monsieur! Have you been so long away from the Court not to know that the scent of flowers here is sometimes unhealthy?”
Jean put down the bouquet with a slight start, and Cipierre paled a little beneath his sunburn, as he muttered something under his breath, and then checked himself, for a door we had not observed, so hidden was it in the wainscoting, opened slightly, and a figure stepped into the room.
It was Catherine, and I confess it was notwithout an emotion of misgiving and dislike that I saw the Queen-Mother again. She was tall for a woman, and inclined to stoutness, but her features, beneath the low, triangular cap she wore, were pale and clear-cut, and in the sleepy deeps of her dark eyes there gleamed a power and a strength, a light that had never shone in them when her husband was King.
Except for the lace ruff at her neck, she was all in black, and at the golden girdle round her waist hung a small poniard, the handle inlaid with gems, a string oftêtes-de-mort, and an ebony crucifix. She came toward us with a firm but slow step, bending slightly to our bow, and appearing not to recognize either Marcilly or myself, looked at our companions, as she said in a quiet, even voice:
“Messieurs! The hour is late. It must be a matter of urgency that brings you here.”
“It is, madame,” replied Sancerre; “we bring you news, and in connection with that news monsieur, the Captain of Orleans, and I require the orders of the King.”
“Indeed! And the news?” As she spoke she took the violets from the holder Marcilly had laid down, and held them idly in her slender, delicate hand.
“The Admiral has written to the Constable urging him to move at once on Orleans, and Montmorenci is in strong force now at Yvoy le Marron.”
They looked at each other steadily as Sancerre spoke, each with the same thought in their hearts, each trying to conceal that thought from the other. How much Sancerre knew I am not sure; it was only in after years I discovered that it was Catherine herself who had prompted the sending of the Admiral’s letter. In her desperate attempt to free herself from the Guise, she was willing to take any step, however humiliating, though it must have been gall and wormwood to have been compelled to seek aid from Anne de Montmorenci.
Perhaps it was to hide some expression of this on her features that she suddenly turned, and with a quick movement of her hand cast the violets into the fire; then she faced Sancerre again, saying:
“I know all this and more. I know, too, that the Princess of Condé is close to Orleans, on her way here—here!” she repeated, with a slight laugh.
“Ah! This was the news Richelieu brought!” It was Cipierre who spoke, and Catherine laughed again.
“Perhaps! But I know even more. Monsieur of Arles writes to say that certain men of his guard have been attacked and slain by the following of the Princess, and”—here she glanced at us—“I know, moreover, that swords have been drawn on my captain of Chenonceaux in broad day, by those who call themselves faithful servants of the King.”
“Madame,” answered Sancerre, “if those swords had not been drawn, the Admiral’s letter would never have reached.”
She began to play with the poniard at her girdle, and to bite her under lip. Cipierre stood grim and silent, and Sancerre watched her with an odd smile on his face, half-amused, half-sarcastic, as he waited for his reply; but, none coming, he continued:
“Would your Majesty prefer our taking our orders on these matters from the Duke of Guise, or the Cardinal of Lorraine?”
“Mille démons!” muttered Cipierre, and the Queen said, in an icy voice:
“As the matter is urgent I will deal with it now. The Princess must not come to Orleans, you understand, and the Constable should be warned that he comes at his peril.”
“This will be done, but Anne de Montmorenci will take the risk.”
“That is his affair!” She shrugged her shoulders; yet there was a momentary flash of triumph in her eyes. She had got the news she wanted, the certainty that the Constable would move; and now, as if to end the interview, she said:
“This is all, gentlemen, is it not?”
“All, madame, except one thing. We have two prisoners here, who voluntarily surrender to your Majesty, and beseech your mercy toward them.”
At these words both Marcilly and I started, but Sancerre gave us a warning glance, and grippedCipierre by the arm, as if to restrain him from speech.
She was looking at us now with a faint smile, whether in mockery or not, playing on the corners of her lips.
“So these are the prisoners,” she said; “I know these gentlemen as——”
“Faithful servants of the King, and of the House of Valois,” said Sancerre, adding, as he lowered his voice, “there is still time before all is lost.”
“Before all is lost.” She repeated the words mechanically, and then, as if grasping the full significance of their meaning, she became for a space unconscious of our presence, standing before us as if she was alone with herself. For a breath it seemed as if that dark and subtle heart was to lay aside the mask that covered it. “Lost!” she murmured. “Is it for this my hands are red?” she shuddered slightly, and then recovered herself, her face strangely white, her lips pale. “No! Not yet! I hold cards too!” She laughed bitterly. “Ah, Guise? ’Tis a woman’s wit against all your strength!” Then, with an effort, she brought herself to the moment, and turned to us, once more the actress, once more incapable of pursuing an open course.
“Messieurs,” she said, addressing Jean and myself, “I thank you for coming here. But you have done wrong—expect no help from me—none. M. de Guise knows of your coming—there is but one order I can give, but I will give you time ere Iissue it. I give you until sunrise to-morrow to escape.”
“Madame,” replied Marcilly, “we weighed the risk before we came. We have not come here like bats in the night, to flit away like bats with the dawn. Madame, trust us!”
“Mordieu!Madame! You have no traitors around you for once. Do not lose any chance, however small!” It was Cipierre who spoke, impatient at her fencing.
“Traitors! The very tapestry in this room has eyes and ears—aye! and tongues too!” she answered. “But I believe you. For once I believe there are no traitors around me.”
And I, who was about to be the blackest of traitors, though I knew it not then, felt a glow coming over me at the words.
“Madame,” said Sancerre, “then act on that belief. This is no time for hesitation. Cannot you see what the Guise will do at the first hint of the Constable’s moving? The Prince must be saved. He, and he alone, can make head against Lorraine. With his death there would be an end to us. We must play every card now.”
Catherine looked around the room as if seeking to find words for her reply. At last she broke out:
“What would you have me do? I am powerless. Ah!”—she hissed, rather than spoke—“they compass me like bees—I can give you no help.”
“Your Majesty has only to extend to us theKing’s peace for our late alleged offences,” said Marcilly. “We would then be free of the streets of Orleans. That is all the aid we seek. We answer for the rest.”
“We must get that to-night if it is to be of any use,” I added.
She had played her game long enough, whatever her object was in thus delaying. Perhaps it was to test our sincerity. Who can tell? But now she yielded, yet even in yielding remained an actress. She glanced at me for a moment, and then turned to Marcilly with a smile on her face.
“Monsieur le Comte!There is some one else whose pardon you should first seek, for not having seen her before. You will find her waiting in the passage,” and with a wave of her hand she indicated the door by which she had entered the room.
I knew what she meant, and for a moment my brain seemed to reel; but I felt the Queen’s eyes on me, and steadied myself. Marcilly had gone like a flash, but as he opened the door there was a glad cry—such a cry, such a tone as could only come from the heart of a woman who loved, and it stabbed me like a knife. I knew in a moment that my house of cards had come down. I felt—I cannot tell why—that the love I thought mine was never mine, and with this sprang up a bitter resentment against Marie. It was Jean whom she loved, whom she had always loved, and I—Ihad been fooled. To think that I had been fighting a phantom all this time! To think that those struggles with myself, those victories gained, those hours of abasement, were due to a spectre of my own creating! How different would the past year have been had I but known! Had I but guessed! But to have been fooled! To have been made a sport and plaything, to while away the dull hours of a born coquette—I, Gaspard de Vibrac, Knight of the King’s Order! In a moment it seemed that all my love had turned to a bitter hatred. There was a new madness burning in me, not the madness of passion, of love, but the more baleful fires of hatred and revenge.
And I was wrong even then in the conclusion I jumped to. I know now that it is possible for a woman, a good and pure woman, to mistake the feelings of her heart, to imagine she loves where she does not, and to tread on the edge of a moral precipice, where a false step means the ruin of a soul. And because such a woman was strong enough to save herself, I was base enough to brand her coquette, vile enough to think of revenge. I could hear nothing except that glad cry of welcome; I saw as in a dream before me the figures of the Queen-Mother and our two friends engaged in earnest converse. What they said was nothing to me. I did not hear a word. Once or twice I fancied they looked at me, but I paid no heed to them, standing a little apart,leaning on the hilt of my sword, my soul once more adrift on that dark sea from which but so short a while since I thought I had come safe to port. So I stood until the tension was broken by Catherine’s measured voice:
“Monsieur de Vibrac! Be so good as to call Bentivoglio here. We will see the King at once.”