King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

The King and Queen made many progresses through their circumscribed dominions. The first was in the summer of 1423, when they made a state entry also into Angers, and heard Mass at the Cathedral of St. Maurice. They presented to the Chapter two superb pieces of tapestry, depicting the Old and New Testaments. The Queen’s brother, Louis III., was of course in Italy, but the Duke of Bar-Lorraine and the Duchess Isabelle were there supporting the Queen-mother Yolande in rendering gracious hospitalities; the citizens provided a mystery-play, and the Court a tournament. The royal couple were lodged in the castle, from the gateway of which Queen Marie addressed the assemblage of people: “Vos citoyens et habitans de la ville d’Angiers soyeant toujours loyaux et fidèles à vostre sovereyns, et aussi des beaulx amis vers la couronne de France, laquelle je porte moi même.”[A] Vociferous plaudits hailed this declamation, and both Queen Yolande and Duke René made patriotic addresses.

Five years later Charles and Marie entered Anjou and took up their residence at Saumur, where the King received the homage of no less a fellow-Sovereign than the Duke of Brittany, this being due to the tactful policy of the Queen-mother. Charles also had a request to place before the loyal Angevines: he wanted money and men to carry on the ceaseless warfare against the English. In this he admirably succeeded, and through Duke René he gained help from Lorraine and Bar besides.

Marie, though the consort of a fugitive penniless King, had a suite worthy of herself and of her parentage and rank; the Queen-mother saw to that. Her Controller was Hardoin de Mailly, and her Master of Horse Jacques Odon de Maulevrier, a devoted friend of her brother, Duke René. The Queen’s four Dames d’Honneur were Catherine Bourgoing, Aimée de Beauvais, Philippe de la Rochefoucault, and Jeanne Sorel. Her Maids of Honour were Marie du Couldray, Jeanne de la Grosse, Catherine de Beauvais, Jeannett la Garrelle, Hervée Catherine de Montplaie, and Jehanne Biardelle, with three quite young girls whose Christian names alone have been preserved—Felize, Geffeline, and Jacquette—perhaps pet names.

Duke René, ever a liberal-minded and open-handed Prince, gave each of his sister’s ladies a robe of richest aigneaulx fur, with crimson satin lining, and twenty skins of martens for bordering their kirtle bodices. Each robe cost 16 florins (= £12), and was supplied by the Queen-mother’s furrier at Angers, one Martin Chebiton.

The immodest fashions set by Queen Isabeau and the ladies of her Court, and their outrageous modes of headgear, did not go unrebuked by the better sort of clergy. A very famous preaching friar, one Thomas Correcte, a Carmelite monk from Brittany, in particular inaugurated a crusade against feminine extravagances through the North of France and in Flanders during the second decade of the fifteenth century. He further strenuously denounced the dignified clergy who kept fashionable mistresses. He was welcomed heartily by the burghers of the towns through which he passed, and conducted to a special pulpit erected in the market-place, adorned with rich hangings and a gigantic crucifix. Guards of honour and musicians were at his service, and, in spite of opposition and natural predilections, the clergy fell into line with the popular fancy, and rang their bells on his arrival. His denunciations were quite in accord with the feelings of the people, but they incited the rougher element to take the law into their own hands. Squads of youths paraded the public thoroughfares in search of errant dames, and no sooner had their gaze alighted upon a lady of degree, coiffured à l’outrance, than a flight of stones, deftly aimed, quickly made havoc of her headgear. The popular cry, “Un hennin! un hennin! à bas les hennins!” produced a panic, so that the women dared hardly sally forth from their own doors. It was said that the friar personally organized these demonstrations, and even paid the lads to disenchant the fair sex by forcibly pulling down their hideous superstructures. At all events, women with dishevelled heads and disordered attire ran hither and thither helpless and defenceless. The worthy and enthusiastic evangelist had, however, an alternative fashion with which modest women might cover their heads and breasts. He prescribed the universal habit of wearing plain chapelles, the ordinary caps of peasant women. The raid, however, ceased to terrify the determined votaries of eccentricity in dress, and, as Monstrelet, the historian, pithily puts it, “Snails, when anybody passes near them, draw in their horns; but when the danger is past they put them forth again.” The hennin, so called by Friar Correcte, became still more gigantic and grotesque, although Queen Marie, backed by her good mother, Queen Yolande, made loud protests and refused their favours to transgressors.

With respect to indecency in dress, the preacher insisted upon running a thick cord between the men and women of his audiences. The mixing of the sexes in public he gravely denounced, and the bareness of women’s breasts and the tightness of men’s hose excited his most eloquent tirades. The reason of the cord he quaintly phrased: “I perceive that sly doings will be going on!” The King of Sicily, Louis III., and Duke René, were quite in accord with the friar’s philippics; but the “King of Bourges” was another sort of man, and much of the coolness which existed between himself and Queen Marie was due to her moderation in dress and quietness of manner. Charles, it was said, chanced to hear the friar one day at Ponthieu, where he was in residence, and ordered him to keep silence and depart. The friar retired to his monastery after a year of eloquence and exertions, but his animadversions upon the lives of the higher clergy led to his being summoned to Rome, to answer to certain charges of breach of monkish discipline and errors of doctrine. The poor man seems to have felt his position keenly, so keenly, indeed, that to escape judgment he jumped out of the window of his cell and decamped. Being quickly captured, he was arraigned before the Holy Office of the Inquisition, and condemned to be burnt as a heretic. Perhaps he deserved punishment for his unguarded language, but he paid dearly indeed as a reformer of gay women’s fashions and gross parsons’ passions!

The years 1427 and 1428 saw France plunged in warfare. King Charles shook himself, metaphorically, and registered a vow that he would drive out every “desecrating English dog.” He bestirred himself, and led forlorn hopes here and there, only to meet with disaster; and then he gave way to despair, and declared that he would do no more for France or for himself. Queen Marie, with true Anjou-Aragon grit, chided him with his faint-heartedness, and one day she surprised him greatly by appearing in a full suit of armour and armed, and declared that “If you, Charles of France, will not lead your troops, I will!” Her example was contagious, for within a week scores of loyal, devoted women assumed mail and stood for the weal or woe of France. These heroic doings were noised abroad, and possibly they had effect in a very unexpected quarter, for in 1429 another heroine appeared in armour from the eastern frontier of France, and made good woman’s claim to military prowess. Thus quaintly wrote Monstrelet of her:

“In the course of this year (1429) a young girl called Jehanne, about twenty years of age, and dressed like a man, came to Charles, King of France, at Chinon. She was born in the village of Droimy, on the borders of Burgundy and Lorraine, not far from Vaucouleurs. She had been for some time an ostler and chambermaid at an inn, and had shown much courage in riding horses to water and in other feats unusual for young women to do. She called herself a ‘Maiden inspired by the Divine Grace,’ and said that she was sent to restore Charles to his kingdom.”

Very little has been recorded of what Queen Marie felt and said concerning that strange visitor. Nobody in all that recklessly gay Court at Chinon viewed the coming of the maid of Domremy more eagerly or more hopefully than did she. She had failed to rouse the King to strike a new blow for his throne, it is true, but she anxiously prayed that this heaven-sent village girl might be the means of doing so. The Queen gave La Pucelle a most sympathetic welcome. The mysteries of devotion and the dictates of religion had in her a very reverent disciple. Apartments were prepared for Jeanne’s reception quite near her own boudoir and private oratory, and its priest was placed at her disposal.

If Jeanne was dumbfounded at the spectacle of a King wholly apathetic to the duties of his high station, and of a Court abandoned, in the midst of dire disaster, to all the frivolities of the idle and the dissolute, she had at least one solace. The beautiful and serious face of the young Queen was to her a comfort and a stay. Looking from one bedizened beauty to another in that fatuous assembly, her eyes fastened themselves upon the one figure that was dissimilar to the rest,—the figure of a good woman, the daughter of the good Queen Yolande. She looked to her like what she conceived of her own saintly Margaret, of the Bois de Chènus. Marie received her unsophisticated visitor with emotion. She entered fully into her story, and conversed daily with her in private about herself, her home, her mission, and her “voices,” and thus she gained the girl’s confidence and her love. If Jeanne had conceived profound veneration for Queen Yolande,—she even called her “my St. Catherine,”—her sentiments towards Queen Marie were those of the most tender affection. Marie, so near her own age, so modest, so simple, and so true, became Jeanne’s confidant and loving patroness. To Marie the mere sight of the girl and her frank, girlish ways was quite sufficient, had she sought for proof positive, to dispel from her mind any suspicions which may have been forced upon her about Jeanne’s relations with her dear brother, René de Bar. Of course, she knew him far too well to credit any tales of faithlessness or dishonour on his part. He and she had been, till he was carried off to Bar-le-Duc by the good Cardinal Louis de Bar, the very dearest and most intimate of playmates in and out of school. Their intercourse had never ceased; such never fails between kindred souls, though parted by hemispheres. René was a just man still, and a true knight. Jeanne likened him to her own St. Michael.

All through Jeanne’s ordeals,—first the open scoffs of the courtiers and servitors at Chinon, then the covert jeers of the divines and busybodies at Poitiers, and lastly the base insinuations of libertines and adventurers,—the Queen stood by La Pucelle. Queen Yolande’s panel of matrons found Marie’s tribute of the utmost value; she staked her royal prerogative upon the girl’s absolute chastity, and the prying, posturing Court bowed to her decision.

If Queen Yolande clothed the maid in shining armour within the great Hall of Audience of Angers Castle, on the eve of the advance upon Orléans, Queen Marie knelt with her in prayer in the solemn choir of Angers Cathedral from Vespers to Compline. How much of her strength of will and the promptness of her action Jeanne d’Arc gained from the whole-hearted favour of these two good Queens the world may never know, but this much we all can apprehend: that unselfish human sympathy is a more mobile force than the uncertainties of Providence.

We can never know why Queen Marie was denied the satisfaction of witnessing and sharing in the coronation of Charles at Reims. She was living quietly at Bourges when the King set off for the metropolitical cathedral under the conduct of La Pucelle and of her brother René. She was prepared for the expedition, and her robes of state were ready for the ceremony, when suddenly Charles commanded her to remain where she was, saying that the march was full of dangers and quite impossible for the Queen and her ladies. La Pucelle begged the King to recall his prohibitions, saying that Queen Marie was quite as worthy as was he to receive a crown. The poor Queen put by her finery,—perhaps not altogether sorrowfully,—and went to reflect awhile at Gien upon the untowardness of human affairs in general and the inconsequences of Charles in particular. Her parting with Jeanne was affecting; Queen and peasant embraced each other affectionately—and never more they met.

II.

After the disastrous battle of Bulgneville, Duchess Isabelle of Lorraine set off to Vienne in Dauphiné, a province which ever remained faithful to the royal house of France, where the Court of Charles VII. was established, to claim his aid for her captive husband languishing at Bracon. In her train went her fairest Maid of Honour, Agnes Sorel, just twenty years of age; she was Mistress of the Robes to the Duchess. She made an immediate impression upon the jejune King, who urged Isabelle to allow her to be transferred to the suite of his consort—perhaps by way of quid pro quo. Queen Marie added her entreaties to the monarch’s suit. She had failed completely to rouse her husband; perhaps she thought Agnes would be more successful. The Duchess would not hear of the arrangement, and the beauteous Maid of Honour was anything but eager to be the creature of so unattractive a master.

Happier days, however, dawned both for King René and for King Charles, and jousts, pageants, and mystery-plays, were in full fling everywhere. At Angers, in particular, everything was gay and merry for the welcome of King René to his ancestral home,—after his duress at Tour de Bar,—and of Queen Isabelle. Agnes Sorel was still attached to her royal mistress, and, although unmarried, she numbered her lovers by the score.

Agnes Sorel, or Soreau, was born at Fromenteau, on the verge of the forest of Fontainebleau, on May 17, 1409. Her father was the Sieur Jehan Soreau, and her mother Catherine de Maignelais, who were quiet country people and occupied in agricultural pursuits. She had a younger sister, Jehanne, to whom she was devoted, and mothered her when Dame Catherine died. Her uncle, Raoul de Maignelais, followed the profession of arms, and made himself a name as a dauntless warrior in the service of King Charles VI. He had an only daughter, Antoinette, born 1420, who, her mother dying when she was very young, was confided to the care of her aunt, Catherine Soreau, and was brought up by her with her own little daughters. Nothing is positively known about Agnes’s girlhood, but in 1423 the two cousins entered the service of Isabelle, the Duchess of Bar-Lorraine. Bar-le-Duc, ever since the advent of the famous Countess Iolande, had been remarkable for the number of lovely damsels and comely youths from all parts of France attached to the “Court of Love,” under the patronage and maintenance of the Dukes and Duchesses. The young Duchess appears to have taken a particular fancy to fair Agnes, due no doubt to the girl’s physical beauty and mental brilliance. Few maidens at that merry Court excelled her in good looks, grace of figure, and distinction of deportment. Bourdigne, the Court chronicler, says “she was the most lovely girl in France.” She sang divinely,—a natural gift,—and danced bewitchingly, and gave promise of a splendid career. She was welcomed at Chinon with delight both by the King and Queen.

Perhaps one reason why Agnes’s presence was so grateful to the taciturn and indolent monarch was that she dressed so superbly, and yet so tastefully. The Queen and her ladies were subject to strict Court sartorial conventions, but the Demoiselle de Fromenteau knew no such restrictions. One day “la Belle des Belles,” as everybody called her, appeared as “Cleopatra,” another as “Diana,” and a third as “Venus,” and so on. Her costumes were of the richest and the thinnest. Her abundant beautiful brown hair, too, she dressed not only for the hennin à la mode,—bunched over the ears or gathered into a chignon,—but à la calotte galonnée: frizzed out, or en simple résille—in a net, or à tours, thrown round and round her head in massive coils. Agnes was short of stature, but she made up for this by wearing Venetian zilve, or high pattens, beautifully embroidered with silk and pearls. Her decollétage was never vulgar or immodest, like that of the King’s mother, but her well-formed bust was covered lightly by white lace or thinnest gauze. A string of pearls usually embraced her well-shaped throat. One article of clothing was peculiarly her own invention. Whilst the ladies of the Court, and even Queen Marie herself, wore serge chemises, hers were of fine Flemish linen. Very many of her tasteful fancies were taken up by the ladies about her, and Queen Marie herself followed suit by discarding the daily use of the hennin and the stiff and heavy fur borders of her kirtle. She, too, had hair as fair as that of Agnes, and she was privately quite as proud of it as was her Dame d’Honneur, for so “la Belle des Belles” had become.

Agnes held Charles under a spell. She was his “Queen of Hearts”; he denied her nothing, her will was his. Her influence was complete, and if the poor neglected Queen had thrown upon her frail shoulders the heavy weight of sovereignty, it was fond Agnes’s fair hair that wore the light crown of gaiety. Her tact and unselfishness were remarkable; every domestic squabble and every State imbroglio were quietly and swiftly settled when she joined the fray. Charles could not do enough for his sweetheart. Besides costly presents of jewellery and clothes, he bestowed upon her the county of Penthièvre, the lordships of Roquecesière, Issoudon, and Vernon, with the Castle of Breauté and its great woods of pine-trees.

Agnes had by Charles four daughters; the youngest died in infancy, but the rest grew up, like their mother, famed for good looks and attractive manners, and were legitimatized and married well. Catherine de France, the eldest, wedded, in 1464, Jacques de Brézé, Comte de Maulevrier, and became the accomplished châtelaine of his splendid castle near Saumur. Alas for the joys of married life! the Count, himself unfaithful and intolerant, grew suspicious of his wife’s conduct,—she had attracted the attention of King René, among others,—accused her of adultery, and stabbed her as she was sallying forth one dark November day, 1477, bent upon an errand of charity. Their son, Louis de Brézé became the husband of the celebrated Diane de Poitiers, in 1515, before her liaison with King Henry II. Marguerite de France married, in 1458, Seigneur Olivier de Coëtivi, and died in 1473; and Jeanne de France became the wife of Antoine de Benil, Comte de Sancerre, and received from the King, her father, a dot of 40,000 écus d’or.

These three daughters were born and educated as Princesses of the Royal House, in conformity with the existent code of morals. Queen Marie not only made no demur at their status, but, acting upon the advice of good Queen Yolande, her mother, treated them in every respect as she did her own offspring. When Agnes’s second daughter was married, the Queen stood by her and gave her rich wedding presents. Certainly she was not subjected to the indignity of sharing hearth and home with her husband’s mistress. Dame Agnes Sorel resided at her own Castle de Breauté-sur-Marne, and there she bore him her family. The castle was a bijou residence,—a great favourite of Charles,—and Agnes made it a habitation of beauty, adorned not alone by her own gracious presence, but by the attendance of a brilliant Court, quite outrivalling that of the modest Queen, and filled her rooms and galleries with the countless beautiful and costly gifts of her former devoted mistress, Duchess Isabelle.

Agnes’s ascendancy over Charles VII. was purely erotic. She exercised no influence whatever upon the affairs of state, or, indeed, upon anything but what ministered to his personal pleasure and amusement. However, she was useful, and indeed invaluable, on more than one occasion of danger and suspicion. Unreservedly devoted to her paramour, she was sensitive of any dereliction of duty and of any appearance of intrigue. To her was solely due the detection of the conspiracy of 1449, which, fomented by the Dauphin, threatened the life of the King.

Marie inspired the fervent love of her son, Louis the Dauphin, as she did, in truth, the devotion of all her children. When a stripling of fourteen, he championed his mother against his father’s mistress; and when Agnes made a disparaging remark affecting the Queen, the lad immediately boxed her ears, and warned her never to repeat the offence in his hearing! From that day Louis hated “la Belle des Belles,” and never tired of checking her assumptions. He even dared to protest personally before his father against the King’s neglect of the Queen and his partiality for her Lady of Honour. Charles on one occasion took his son’s strictures seriously to heart, sent for Marie, bewailed his infidelity, and craved her pardon. But the wanton monarch’s day of righteousness was short, for he very soon forgot his son’s vehemence, and went on fondling his favourite.

“La Belle des Belles” died in childbed on February 18, 1450. Her end was quite unexpected, for she had gone on a visit of pleasure to her cousin, Antoinette de Maignelais, the Baroness of Villerequier, at the Castle of Mesnil la Belle, near the far-famed Abbey of Jumièges in Normandy. Her husband, André de Villerequier, was Chamberlain to Charles VII., who presented her at her bridal, as a wedding gift, the three islands, Oléron, Marennes, and Auvert, at the mouth of the River Charente. Floral games and spectacles were engaging the attention of the merry party assembled at the castle, and Agnes Sorel was the gayest of the gay, but unfortunately, tripping upon the sash of her gown, she fell heavily to the ground. She was carried tenderly to her chamber, and at once her life was despaired of. She had barely time to make her confession, and then, calling to mind the example of St. Mary Magdalen, she called aloud to Heaven for pardon of her sins and for the prayers of those standing by. She heard Mass and received the Last Sacraments, and painfully passed away in her cousin’s arms. The distracted Baroness laid the dead head of the lovely Agnes gently upon the pillow, closed the eyes which had spell-bound King Charles and many more besides, and, weeping bitterly, exclaimed: “The good God has taken away my Agnes because He feared she would never lose her beauty.”

King Charles was not with his sweetheart in her death, but he grieved and rocked himself in woe. “Because she was what she was,” he sobbed, “for that I mourn.” He hastened to Jumièges, and with every mark of sincere affection he assisted in placing his Agnes in her coffin. Her heart he had enclosed in a costly gold vase, which he carried about with him wherever he went, and when he died it was deposited by his command beneath a black marble slab in front of the high-altar of Jumièges, with the simple epitaph: “Agnes Seurelle—Dame de Breauté.” Fair Agnes’s body, still comely in death, was ultimately translated by Charles to Loches, and interred in the basement of the King’s Apartments. Her tomb, surmounted by a statue, was erected by her royal lover. Upon a block marble bed reclines a white marble effigy of “la Belle des Belles,” evidently sculptured after life. The fascinating features with her sweet smile are beautifully chiselled, and the graceful figure lightly covered by a long chemise admirably exhibits her exquisitely-proportioned form.

Agnes, in a will she made a year before her death, directed that her body should rest at Jumièges, and she bequeathed 1,000 écus d’or (= £500) to the monastery for Masses for the rest of her soul. She had for years been a munificent benefactress to the clergy of the abbey. When Charles had joined his sweetheart in the Paradise of Love, the ungrateful monks were desirous of removing Agnes’s heart and its memorial tablet, on the score that she had led an immoral life; but Louis XI., in spite of his fierce hatred of his father’s mistress, reproved the religious, and warned them that, if they determined to cast out her remains, they must also divest themselves of the gifts and legacies of their patroness. “If you,” the new King said, “disturb her ashes, I shall expect you to hand over to me the gold écus.” Needless perhaps to say, the worldly-wise Canons kept the money and the heart.

The death of Agnes Sorel had a terrible effect upon the subsequent life of Charles the King. She and Queen Marie between them had managed to keep him free from amorous imbroglios, but now, with only his wife’s protestations to guard him, he gave way to immoderate indulgences, and he, to quote the French,—“enlardit sa vie de tenir males femmes en son hostel!”

III.

“Everything must be sacrificed for the glory of France!” was no empty, echoing cry in a desert; it was the pleading and persistent cry of a devoted wife and a patriotic Queen. Into the ears of the King of France and into the ears of everybody who was even in the smallest degree likely to be able to do anything at all for her beloved country, the admirable Queen Marie poured her complaint. She stood for the expulsion of the English invaders of her native soil, and for the composure of the feuds and jealousies of the French Sovereigns and nobles. “God and reason,” she went on to exclaim, “are on my side; rouse you like men and fight!” Surely he is a coward or a simpleton in whose heart a woman’s voice and a woman’s taunts fail to enkindle enthusiasm. All France flocked to do homage to the “little Queen of Bourges,” to kiss her hand, and to lay their swords at the feet of the King. From Loches to Chinon and Tours, right down the river valley of the Rhone, and throughout Dauphiné, that voice went echoing. The new campaign was hers, hers the credit, hers the glory, for great deeds were done that shamed men’s apathy.

Alas! her enthusiasm found faint response in Charles. A skit of the time denounced him thus: “Nouvelle du Roy nullement; ne que se il fust à Romme oue Jherusalemme!”—“The King is of no use whatever; he might as well be at Rome or at Jerusalem!” Still, the Queen did not fail for loyal soldiers nor for consummate captains; first and foremost was her beloved brother René, now King of Sicily-Anjou.

But now enemies more terrible than the hated English, more insidious than the squabbling Princes, stalked the broad plains of suffering France—the three fell sisters, famine, flood, and fever. The price of foodstuffs rose portentously; wheat, butter, oil, and cheese, were a hundred times dearer than their usual cost. Men grovelled like pigs for offal, and women and children laid themselves down to die just where they were. Queen Marie’s tender heart grieved sorely for her people’s misery. She sold what jewellery she had left, and pawned her available property to minister to the prevailing want. And then a new terror seized the land—the rivers were in flood, and what stocks and crops the famine had left were washed away, and beggary stared the nation in the face. The Queen instituted pilgrimages of women to celebrated shrines, and she herself put on the deepest mourning and spent her time in prayer. All seemed to be of no avail to stay the afflicting hand of Heaven, for no sooner were the waters abated than the scourge of fever was let loose on the devoted land of France, and corpses were flung out of echoing doorways and left for chance burial, or to be the prey of scavaging dogs. Had the Day of Judgment dawned? men asked each other, whilst they promptly covered their mouths against the infection. Delirium would have seized all the remnants of the population had not the intrepid Queen ridden up and down, risking her own precious life and appealing to one and all to be courageous, bear all, and hope for better days.

Marie had happy days and proud to cancel days of gloom and penury. Toulouse was en fête; it was the month of May, 1435, best loved of all the children of Mary; and she made a stately entry into that ancient, loyal city with the King by her side. Oddly enough, she was mounted on pillion behind her young son, the Dauphin Louis, then a lad of twelve. Her vesture was superb—a blue brocaded satin robe, bordered heavily with royal ermine. She was décolletée, her bosom covered with jewels and chains of gold. Upon her head, rising out of a regal diadem of flashing gems, she wore a chaperon, a hood of fine white cambric shaped like a crescent, raised at the points, and lightly covered with a thin white gauze veil. Her hair was bunched over her ears, and carried in a golden jewelled net. Her feet were shod in white, gold-embroidered kid, and she wore, after her mother’s fashion, jewelled white kid gloves. Four Chamberlains, also mounted, held a state canopy of cloth of gold and white plumes over their royal mistress and her white charger.

A bright day dawned for Queen Marie. It was the Festival of the Forerunner, June 24, 1436, and the ancient and loyal city of Tours was decked for the royal nuptials of the Dauphin. The King and Queen of France with the good Queen Yolande and their suite awaited at the Château du Plessis-lès-Tours the arrival of the young bridal couple. Louis had gone to meet his bride at Saumur; he was but a boy of thirteen, small, ill-looking, and not too clever. Princess Margaret, daughter of James I. of Scotland, with a following of Scottish nobles and Maids of Honour, a tall, sprightly girl of twelve, vastly enjoyed her voyage, and clapped her hands delightedly at the flowers and fruits of Anjou. She embraced her little husband-to-be, and took him by the hand as they stepped on board the state barge in waiting at the river quay.

Among the bevy of fair maidens who welcomed the royal bride was Jehanne de Laval, who was attached to the suite of the Dauphiness. The grand hall of the castle and state-rooms were hung with tapestry and lengths of cloth of gold. There the Sovereigns were seated on a canopied daïs, wearing their crowns and robes of state. The little Princess entered the Presence somewhat nervously, still holding the hand of the young Dauphin, and chaperoned by her Scottish Mistress of the Robes. Making a graceful obeisance, Margaret advanced with childlike confidence, and Queen Marie, rising, went to greet her young daughter-in-law; she embraced her tenderly, and introduced her to the King and to Queen Yolande. The courtiers pressed forward to kiss the Princess’s hand, and many costly gifts were laid at her feet. Wearied at length with the ceremonies, Queen Marie conducted her interesting visitor to her own apartments, where dinner was served.

The bells of all the churches in Tours set up merry janglings at dawn next day, and the cathedral was crowded by a goodly company of wedding guests. The King and the two Queens were seated on their thrones. Charles wore a black velvet doublet and hose, his berretta was of red, and he bore round his neck a decoration sent from the King of Scotland. The Queen was arrayed in crimson velvet and ermine. She wore an abbreviated hennin with a fine lace fall; her hair was embroidered with gold. The young Prince was in blue and silver, his bride in bridal white. Everybody bore wedding favours—Scottish heather and French lilies entwined with white satin ribbons. The Archbishop of Reims performed the ceremony, accompanied by a number of Bishops and dignified clergy.

Margaret at once became a great favourite with the King and Queen. Her Northern vigour and sweet manners were good credentials; but, unhappily, the young bridegroom from the first took a dislike to his consort. She was never happy when he was present, and her furtive eyes searched in vain for tokens of affection and camaraderie. “There was no one,” wrote Philippe de Commines a few years later, “in all the world whom she dreaded more than the Dauphin.” Her life was indeed a sad one; neglected by her husband, misunderstood and disesteemed at Court, the poor young Dauphiness passed her time mostly with Queen Marie and in futile regrets for her dear, dear home in Scotland.

Queen Marie’s other son, Charles, Duc de Berry, the last of all her surviving children, born December 28, 1446, was a Prince of no strength of character. Easily led by others, he became involved in endless imbroglios, and aided and abetted his elder brother the Dauphin, in his unfilial conduct towards their father. Created Duke of Guienne and Duke of Normandy in 1469,—after the expulsion of the English,—he was a source of constant anxiety and trouble to his mother. The Queen of Sicily-Anjou, Isabelle de Lorraine, his godmother, with King René, took the young Prince in hand, but he did not well repay their solicitude. Immoral, dissipated, and in debt, Charles de Berry spent his time in debauches and intrigues; he was own grandson of Isabeau the Infamous. Among his many mistresses, Derouillée de Montereau, widow of Louis d’Amboise, exercised the greatest influence. She, too, was the cause of his death, for at lunch one day she placed a peach in his wineglass, and she challenged Charles to bite the fruit with her. Her half she swallowed, and she fell dead in a few minutes, whilst her royal paramour lingered in acute suffering for three whole days, and at last succumbed to the poison on May 28, 1472. Whether she caused the fruit to be poisoned we know not; most likely she knew all about it, and only followed in the steps of those whose immorality turns love to hate and sanctity to madness. This was a characteristic of society in the Renaissance, the cloven hoof of the old Adam showing beneath the sumptuous garments of the new man.

As might very well have been expected at a Court of self-seekers and sycophants, the integrity and unselfishness of the Queen were goads to slander and aids to hypocrisy. She was assailed on account of her absolute faithfulness to the marriage bond and for her want of personal ambition. Roués could not understand her; mondaines would not tolerate her; the King’s favourites and mistresses,—not Agnes Sorel, be it said,—strove all they could to poison his mind against his consort. The names of many prominent Princes and courtiers were linked scandalously with the Queen’s. Arthur de Richemont, son of Duke Jehan VI. of Brittany, the Constable of France; Pierre de Giac de la Trémouille, Captain of the King’s Guards; Étienne Louvet, President of the Privy Council; and the Count of Dunois, better known as the “Bastard of Orléans,” were all said to have shared the Queen’s confidences and her favours. The latter was thrown, indeed, very much with Her Majesty, and ranked among the Princes of the Royal House. Son of the assassinated Duke of Orléans by an unknown mother, the Duchess brought him up along with her own children, and she hoped he would live to avenge his father’s death. The “Bastard” was the playmate of the children of King Louis II. of Sicily-Anjou and Queen Yolande, and he and the Princess Marie were much drawn to one another.

The two young people were one day in the gardens of the Hôtel de St. Pol along with the Comte de Ponthieu,—Charles VII.,—and the Princes and Princesses of Sicily-Anjou, when the Count, wearied of his forced attentions to the Princess Marie, sauntered away by himself. Xaintrailles followed him and remonstrated with him for his coolness to his fiancée. Charles replied that they were not fully betrothed, and that he did not admire and did not love Marie. Xaintrailles told Dunois what the Count had said, and Dunois, with a scornful laugh, exclaimed: “One must be dull and blind indeed not to be smitten by her eyes—the most beautiful eyes in the whole world, and quite incapable of seeing the faults of others.” Dunois was very much in love with the Princess, and did not conceal his passion, so much so that when he kissed her hand, as he often did, he also lifted the hem of her skirt and implanted a kiss there, as a lover’s token of humility.

Dunois contrived têtes-à-tête as often as he could with his sweetheart, as he called Marie d’Anjou. One day, it is said, Charles passed down a sheltered path in the gardens, and his companion pointed out to him a couple love-making in a secluded arbour. They chided him with the feebleness of his suit, and told him it would serve him right if Marie married Dunois. He said he did not care a bit if she did or if she did not. They were all mere children—the Count sixteen, Marie fifteen, and Dunois of a like age. The intimacy between the Princess and her lover became embarrassing to the whole Court, but time went on, and developments were awaited by the curious and intriguing. A summer’s day came when some ladies of the Court went wandering about searching for shady shelters. Right away from the palace, near a springing fountain, they came upon a crossing in the path, and there in the sandy dust they read, written by a stick or something:

Puzzling over the meaning of this strange verse, the ladies beheld the Princess hastening to where they stood. With heightened colour she asked them: “What are you doing here? Why are you not with the Queen of Sicily?” Then effacing the writing with her foot, she added: “I cannot think why I did not efface those words; I have committed an indiscretion. But take note I did not name the unhappy person who wrote them.” The romance went on unchecked. Dunois, still under age, very adroitly contrived to remove the suspicions his conduct had aroused in the mind of Queen Yolande, and Marie took dutifully and silently the maternal reproofs. Then came the death of Charles VI., and Princess Marie was proclaimed Queen of France. With more than a sigh,—almost a broken heart,—she set herself to play her part as a virtuous woman and as a loyal spouse. Dunois did not renounce his devotion to the Queen, and she never forgot the love she had borne him—a Prince the very antithesis of her husband, remarkable for personal beauty and mental accomplishment, just the sort of man all women love. Daily she poured out her soul before the altar of her private chapel for strength to be true and faithful, and victory was hers; but it cost her dear.

This fascinating story of the loves of Count Dunois d’Orléans and Princess Marie d’Anjou was worked up by fanatics into a culpable liaison of the Queen. It grew in vile misrepresentation, and swelled in garbled facts until it became abhorrent in the ears of all decent-minded people. Some of Charles’s legitimate children were said to have been fathered by the Count. The Queen very wisely refrained from making replies to the evil stories, the only sensible way of dealing with them. “Exempt,” as wrote Varillas, “not only from the faults of the Court, but still more from suspicion that she had any part therein, she had all the same to suffer from the poison of calumny.” On the other hand, Marie suffered in patience the disdain and unfaithfulness of the King, and returned his evil with her good. Her entire life was a scene of sacrifice and an arena of benevolence.

Marie, in her quiet, unobtrusive way, did very much for the correction of morals in Court and country. Due to her representation, Charles at Toul abolished the obscene Fête des Fous, which was observed through his dominions. It was a scandalous exhibition, an indecent orgy, shared in alike by laity and clergy. The latter chose a local Pope or Bishop, to whom for the time the actual Bishop of the diocese rendered up the attributes of his office. The mock prelate was enthroned in the cathedral, and then a wild scene of profanity was witnessed. Men and women dressed as buffoons, many exposing their nakedness without shame, joined in licentious dances and blasphemous songs, and gorged themselves with roast pork and other coarse viands and intoxicating beverages served upon the altars. In the holy censers were burnt common corks and bits of leather; the holy-water stoups were used for nameless indecencies; and promiscuous prostitution made each sacred edifice a brothel and a Gehenna.

Early in the year 1457 Ambassadors from Duke Ladislaus of Austria came to France to ask from Charles VII. the hand of his youngest daughter, Madeleine, a girl of fourteen, and dowered with beauty if not with wealth. Passing through Lorraine and Bar, King René greeted them, entertained them handsomely, and accompanied them to Tours. The King and Queen of France were at the castle with their three daughters,—Jeanne; Yolande, the wife of Amadeo IX., Duke of Savoy; and Madeleine,—and a numerous and distinguished suite. In the Grand Salle twelve long tables were placed, each seating seven guests. At the first were the two Kings and the Queens with the three Princesses and the Duke of Savoy. The Masters of Ceremonies were the Counts Gaston de Foix, Dunois, and de la Marche, with the Grand Seneschal of France. It was a typical entertainment—lavish, long, and laborious. The first course consisted of white hypocras and “rosties”—hors d’œuvres(?)—served in crystal vessels. The second course offered grands pâtes de chapons à haute grasse, with boars’ tongues, and accompanied by seven kinds of soup—all served on plates of silver. The third course presented all kinds of game-birds with venison and boars’ heads served on silver dishes. The fourth course was des petites oyseaux on toast and spit, with prunes and salads, set forth on dishes of silver gilt. The fifth course consisted of tarts, orange trifles, candied lemons, and many sorts of sweetmeats, beautifully arranged on plates and stands of coloured jewelled glass. The sixth and last course was hypocras again, but red, served with oublies—perhaps macaroons and wafers.

The wines which accompanied this regal menu, unhappily, are not mentioned by the chronicler, but the name of Tours in connection with delicacies of the palate has always been a cachet of excellence; its cuisine and its cellars are still unsurpassed in France. The banquet was accompanied by minstrelsy and masque. King René himself arranged the musical programme; indeed, he brought with him some of his famous troubadours. After dinner the august company disposed themselves, some to the merry dance, some to the quiet têtes-à-tête, and some to cards—then so fashionable and so much beloved by the King and Queen of France. A very famous pack was used, the Queens of the suit being Isabeau for “Hearts,” Marie for “Clubs,” Agnes Sorel for “Diamonds,” and Jeanne d’Arc for “Spades,” Kinged respectively by Charles VI., Louis III., Charles VII., and René; and the Knaves, Xaintrailles, La Hire, Dunois, and Barbazan—a quaint conceit!

Upon the death of Louis III., his sister, Queen Marie, came in for a considerable fortune—renounced, be it said, by that most loving of all brothers, René, in her behalf. It was said that the new Duke assigned the whole of his revenues from Anjou to the use of his sister. He settled certain estates upon her which she very quickly and cleverly turned to good account. In person the Queen visited her new properties, dressed plainly in black and without ceremony, inquired into the condition of the labourers and the promise of the harvest, and then, calling to her assistance the well-known financier of Bourges, Jacques Cœur, opened out business relations with England. The vineyards of Anjou—at least, those bordering the Loire—were among the most fruitful in France. These the Ministers of the Queen exploited, and opened out a very profitable export trade from the port of La Rochelle. The sweet white vinous brandies of Annis became established favourites of English palates. Anjou cheese, too, was excellent; it still is made from milk of Anjou cows and goats. Crême de Blois was famous long before Roquefort, Cantal, or Brie, came into request, and with fresh butter was exported largely to Southampton, much to the profit of Queen Marie’s exchequer.

These homely touches introduce the student of “La Vie Privée des Français” to a charming hobby of the good Queen Marie—her love of animals and birds. In the Comptes de Roy René is a letter to the Agents of the Audit; it is dated July 16, 1458, and is as follows: