Duc de Guise, and the Cardinal de Lorraine shall attend her.
In this interview between the heads of the Catholic party their plan of action is decided. A council of state is to be at once called at Amboise, to which the Huguenot chiefs, the Prince of Condé, the Admiral Coligni, his brother d’Andelot, the Cardinal de Châtillon, and others are to be invited to attend; and a conciliatory edict in favour of the Calvinists, signed by the King, is to be proclaimed.
Thus the Reformed party will be thrown completely off their guard, and La Renaudie and the conspirators, emboldened by the apparent security and ignorance of the government, will gather about Amboise, the better to carry out their designs of capturing the King, the Queen, and the Queen-mother, and banishing or killing the Guises, her supposed evil counsellors. But another and secret condition is appended to this edict which would at once, if known, have awakened the suspicions and driven back from any approach to Amboise both the conspirators and the great chiefs of the Huguenot party.
This secret condition is that Francis, Duc de Guise, shall be forthwith nominated Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and be invested with almost absolute power.
THE council assembles in a sombre chamber panelled with dark oak, crossed by open rafters—a chamber that had remained unaltered since the days of Louis XI. A long table stands in the centre surrounded with leather chairs heavily carved, on which are seated the members of the council. Condé, who is of royal blood, takes the highest place on the Calvinist side. He is somewhat below middle height and delicately formed. His complexion is fair, his face comely; his dark eyes, sunk deep in his head, bright with the power of intellect, are both cunning and piercing. Nevertheless, it is a veiled face and betrays nothing. His dress is dark and simple, yet studiously calculated to display to the best advantage his supple and elegant figure. There is an air of authority about him that betrays itself unwittingly in every glance he casts around the room. He is a man born to command.
Next to him is a man older, sturdier, rougher; a powerfully built man, who sits erect and firm in his chair. His head is covered with long white hair; he has overhanging eyebrows, a massive forehead, and a firmly-closed mouth. His weather-beaten face and sunken cheeks show that he has lived a life of exposure and privation—a man thus to meet unmoved peril or death. He wears a homely suit of black woollen stuff much worn, and as he sits he leans forward, plunged in deep thought. This is Admiral Coligni. Beside him is his brother D’Andelot, slighter and much younger: he is dressed with the same simplicity as the Admiral, but wants that look of iron resolve and fanatic zeal which at the first glance stamps Coligny as a hero. Châtillon has placed himself beside his brother prelate of Lorraine. Each wears the scarlet robe of a cardinal, over which falls a deep edging of open guipure lace; their broad red hats, tasselled with silken cords, lie on the table before them. Lorraine is thin and dark, with a treacherous eye and a prevailing expression of haughty unconcern. Châtillon is bland and mild, but withal shrewd and astute; a smile rests upon his thin lips as his eyes travel round the table, peering into every face, while from time to time he whispers some observation to the Cardinal de Lorraine, the Minister of State, who effects not to hear him.
A door opens within a carved recess or dais raised one step from the floor, and Francis and Mary appear. The whole council rises and salutes the young King and Queen. They seat themselves under a purple velvet canopy embroidered in gold with fleurs-de-lys and the oriflamme. They are followed by Catherine and Francis Duc de Guise, a man of majestic presence and lofty stature. He is spare, like the Cardinal, but his eager eye and sharply cut features, on which many a wrinkle has gathered, proclaim the man of action and the warrior, ardent in the path of glory, prompt, bold, and unscrupulous. At the sight of Coligni, Condé, and Châtillon he knits his brows, and a sinister expression passes over his face which deepens into a look of actual cruelty as he silently takes his place next to Catherine de’ Medici.
The young King and Queen sit motionless side by side, like two children who are permitted to witness a solemn ceremony upon the promise of silence and tranquillity. They are both curious and attentive. Not all Mary Stuart’s questions have elicited further information from her uncles, and Francis, too feeble in health to be energetic, is satisfied with the knowledge that the Queen-mother occupies herself with affairs of state.
The Queen-mother, with a curious smile upon her face, stands for a few moments on the estrade facing the council-chamber. She coldly receives the chiefs of the Reformed faith, but her welcome is studiously polite. With the same grave courtesy she greets the Guises, Nemours, and the other Catholic princes. All are now seated in a circle of which Francis and Mary, motionless under the canopy of state, form the centre. Catherine rises from her chair and in a guarded address speaks of danger to the Crown from the Huguenot party, darkly hinting at a treasonable plot in which some near the throne are implicated, and she calls on those lords favourable to the Reformed religion for advice and support in this emergency.
As she speaks an evil light gathers in her eye, especially when she declares that she has at this time summoned her son’s trusty counsellors of the Calvinist faith in order to consider an edict of pacification, calculated to conciliate all his Majesty’s subjects, and to rally all his faithful servants round his throne.
Her composed and serious countenance, the grave deliberation of her discourse, her frank yet stately avowal of peril to the State and desire for counsel in an hour of danger, are all so admirably simulated that those not aware of her perfidy are completely duped.
Francis, her son, listens with wonder to his mother’s words, believing, as he does, that she is both indignant and alarmed at the machinations of that very party she has called to Amboise and which she now proposes to propitiate.
The Duc de Guise, who perfectly understands her drift, secretly smiles at this fresh proof of the dissimulation and astuteness of his cousin who caresses ere she grasps her prey. When she has ended he loudly applauds her conciliatory resolutions, and by so doing astonishes still more the unsuspicious Francis, as well as his niece Mary whose wondering eyes are fixed on him.
As to Coligni and the other Protestants, they fall blindfolded into the snare spread for them by Catherine, all save the Prince de Condé, who, crafty and treacherous himself, is more suspicious of others. He has marked, too, the Queen-mother’s words, “some near the throne,” and thinks he knows to whom they are applied. However, he immediately rises and in a few well-chosen phrases declares himself ready to defend the royal cause with his life. The Admiral next speaks, and in an eloquent harangue he unsuspectingly dilates on his own views of the present administration, and reproves the ambition of those princes who usurp the government of France. “There are two millions of Protestants in the kingdom,” he says, “who look to the heads of their own faith for relief from the tyranny and injustice under which they have long languished. Two millions,” repeats Coligni in a grave, sad voice, looking steadfastly round the circle, “who seek to live at peace, industrious, tranquil, loyal. But these two millions demand that they shall enjoy equal privileges with the least of his Majesty’s Catholic subjects. This is now refused. They ask to be neither suspected, watched, nor wilfully persecuted. If any conspiracy exists, such as is known to her Majesty the Queen-mother—and I accept her statement as true with the deepest sorrow—it can only arise from the bitter feeling engendered by the disgrace of these Calvinistic subjects of this realm who are uniformly treated as aliens, and repulsed with cruel persistency from such places of trust and honour as their services have entitled them to enjoy. Let these heavy grievances be removed, let his Majesty reign for himself alone”—and Coligni’s eye rests on the Duc de Guise and the Queen-mother—“with equal favour over both parties, Catholic as well as Protestant. Let the conciliatory edict now before the council be made public, and I, Gaspard de Coligni, bind myself upon my plighted word as a noble and upon my conscience as a devout Calvinist, that the House of Valois will for ever live in the hearts of our people, and receive from them as entire a devotion as ever animated subject to his sovereign.”
A deep silence follows Coligni’s address, and the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine exchange glances of indignation.
Francis has become more and more mystified. Timid and inexperienced, he fears to betray his absolute ignorance of state affairs, and perhaps incense his mother by indiscreet questions. But when the parchment, heavy with seals of state, is produced and borne to him by the Chancellor for signature, he can no longer conceal his astonishment that he should be called on to sign an edict giving both liberty and protection to those very persons whom the Queen-mother and his uncles had represented to him as his mortal enemies. He looks so long and earnestly at Catherine, that she, fearing that by one mistaken word he is about to destroy the whole fabric of her masterly dissimulation, rises quickly from the arm-chair in which she sits, and advancing quickly towards him with a commanding look and imperious gesture, takes the pen from the hand of the Chancellor and presents it to him herself.
“Sign, my son,” says she, “this edict which has been framed by the unanimous advice of your council in favour of your loyal subjects. Fear not to sanction this royal act of mercy. Your Majesty is still too young to understand the far-seeing wisdom of the act. Take it on my word, Sire, take it now on my word. You will understand it better later.”
“Truly, madame,” replies the King, “I call God to witness that I desire the good of all my subjects, Huguenot and Catholic.” So saying he takes the pen and signs the edict. The council forthwith breaks up, and with what wondering curiosity on the part of the King and Mary, who dare ask no questions, cannot be told.
MEANWHILE the conspirators, emboldened by the news of the edict of Amboise, carried out their purpose exactly as the Queen-mother intended, with perfect confidence and little concealment. Catherine’s object was to draw them towards Amboise and there destroy them. Band after band, in small detachments the better to avoid suspicion, rode up from Nantes where they lay, to concentrate in force on the Loire and within Amboise itself. When sufficiently strong they proposed to carry off the King and Queen by a coup-de-main, make away with the Jesuitical Guises, banish the Queen-mother to some distant fortress, and place Condé on the throne as Regent.
They came through the plains of Touraine, halting beside solitary farms, in the vineyards, under the willows and tufted underwood that border the rivers, and through the dark forests that lie on the hills behind Amboise. Band after band reached certain points, halted at the spots indicated to them, and met other detachments with whom they were to act; but not one of them was heard of more.
The walls of the castle of Amboise bristled with troops, and the open country towards Loches was full of soldiers. Trusty guards stationed on the double bridge across the Loire were instructed by the Duc de Guise, who wielded absolute power and who had now gained minute knowledge of the plot, to take all
suspected persons prisoners, or if needful, slay them as they stood. Crowds of prisoners poured into Amboise, tied together and driven like cattle to the shambles. Those who were known were reserved for a further purpose, the rest—the herd—were either hanged or drowned. The Loire was full of floating corpses.
Condé, wary with the wariness of his race, ventured not again to Amboise. Coligni and his brother knew not how to oppose a power exercised in the royal name, but Jean Barri de la Renaudie, the ostensible leader of the conspiracy and a bold adventurer, alarmed at the mysterious disappearance of party after party of his followers, set out in rash haste towards Amboise. He too was watched for and expected among the wooded hills of the forest of Château Renaud.
La Renaudie had encamped in the woods towards morning after advancing under cover of the night from Niort. Suddenly his detachment was approached by two or three horsemen, who, after reconnoitring for a few moments, retreated. These were evidently the advance guard of the royal forces. La Renaudie immediately broke up his camp and dashed on towards Amboise, concealed by the overhanging trees on the banks of a stream which flowed through a wild defile. In a hollow of the river, among beds of stone and sand, he was fallen upon by a regiment of royal troops who had tracked and finally caught him as in a trap. His own cousin Pardilliac commanded the attack, he recognised him by the flag. A deadly struggle ensued, in which both cousins fell. La Renaudie’s corpse, carried in triumph to Amboise, was hung in chains over the bridge.
Then Condé, Coligni, and the other Calvinists came fully to understand what the edict of conciliation really meant.
The Castle of Amboise during all this time had been strictly guarded; every door was watched, every gallery was full of troops; the garden and the walled plateau, within which stands the beautiful little votive chapel erected by Anne of Brittany, was like a camp. Silence, suspicion, and terror were on every face. Although the Queen-mother, with her crafty smiles and unruffled brow, affected entire ignorance and exhorted “la petite reinette,” as she called Mary, to hunt in the adjoining forest, and to assemble the Court in the state rooms with the usual banquets and festivities, Mary, pale and anxious, remained shut up with Francis in her private apartments.
“My uncle,” said Francis to the Duc de Guise whom he met leaving the Queen-mother’s retiring-room, “I must know what all these precautions mean. Why are so many troops encamped about the castle, the guards doubled, and the gates closed? Why do you avoid me and the Queen? Uncle, I insist on knowing more.”
“It is nothing, Sire—nothing,” faltered the Duke, who, dissembler as he was, could scarcely conceal the confusion the King’s questions caused him. “A trifling conspiracy has been discovered, a few rebels have been caught, your Majesty’s leniency has been abused by some false Huguenots. These troops assembled about the castle are your Majesty’s trusty guards brought here to ensure the maintenance of the terms of the edict.”
“But, uncle, the Queen and I hear the clash of arms and firing on the bridges as against an enemy. I cannot sleep, so great is the tumult. What have I done that my people should mistrust me? Huguenots and Catholics are alike my subjects. Are you sure, uncle, that it is not you and my mother that they hate? I would that you would all go away for a while and let me rule alone, then my people would know me.”
When all the Huguenot conspirators, about two thousand in number, were either massacred or imprisoned, Catherine threw off the mask. She called to her Francis and the young Queen. “My children,” said she, “a plot has been discovered by which the Prince de Condé was to be made Regent. You and the Queen were to be shut up for life, or murdered perhaps. Such as remain unpunished of the enemies of the House of Valois are about to be executed on the southern esplanade of the castle. You are too young to be instructed in all these details, but, my son, when you signed that edict, I told you I would afterwards explain it—now come and behold the reason. Mary, my reinette, do not turn so pale, you will need to learn to be both stern and brave to rule your rough subjects the Scotch.”
Catherine, erect and calm, led the way to the state apartments overlooking on either side the garden, terrace, and river. Large mullioned windows had by the command of Francis I. taken the place of the narrow lights of the older fortress. He had changed the esplanade and southern terraced front within the walls and the balconied windows to the north overlooking the town, into that union of manoir and château which he first created.
The boy-King and Queen followed tremblingly the steps of their mother, who strode on in front with triumphant alacrity. Without, on the pleasant terrace bordered by walls now bristling with guns and alive with guards and archers, on the pinnacles and fretted roof of the votive chapel, which stands to the right in a tuft of trees inside a bastion, the sun shone brightly, but the blue sky and the laughing face of nature seemed but to mock the hideous spectacle in front. Close under the windows of the central gallery, a scaffold was erected covered with black, on which stood an executioner masked, clothed in a red robe. Long lines of prisoners packed closely together, a dismal crowd, wan and emaciated by imprisonment in the loathsome holes of the mediæval castle, stood by hundreds ranged against the outer walls and those of the chapel, guarded by archers and musketeers; as if such despairing wretches, about to be butchered like cattle in the shambles, needed guarding! The windows of the royal gallery were wide open, flags streamed from the architraves, and a loggia, or covered balcony, had been prepared, hung with crimson velvet, with seats for the royal princes.
Within the gallery the whole Court stood ranged against the sculptured walls. Catherine entered first. With an imperious gesture she signed to Mary, who clung, white as death, to her husband, to take her place under a royal canopy placed in the centre of the window. Francis she drew into a chair beside herself, the Chancellor, the Duc de Guise, his brother the Cardinal, and the Duc de Nemours seated themselves near. Their appearance was the signal to begin the slaughter. Prisoner after prisoner was dragged up beneath the loggia to the scaffold and hastily despatched. Cries of agony were drowned
in the screeching of fifes and the loud braying of trumpets. The mutilated bodies were flung on one side to be cast into the river, the heads borne away to be placed upon the bridge. Blood ran in streams and scented the fresh spring breezes. The executioner wearily rested from his labour, and another masked figure, dressed like himself, in red from head to foot, took his place.
Spellbound and speechless sat the young Queen. A look of horror was on her face. She had clutched the hand of Francis as she sat down, and ere a few minutes had passed, she had fainted.
Catherine, who, wholly unmoved, was contemplating the death of her enemies the Huguenots, turned with a terrible frown towards her son, handing him some strong essence with which to revive Mary. As her senses returned, even the basilisk eyes of her dreaded mother-in-law could not restrain her. One glance at the awful spectacle gave her courage; she gave a wild scream, and rushing forward, flung herself passionately at the feet of her uncle, Francis of Guise.
“Uncle, dear uncle, stay this fearful massacre. Speak to the Queen, or I shall die. Oh! why was I brought here to behold such a sight?”
“My niece,” answered the Duke solemnly, raising her from the ground, and tenderly kissing her on the cheek, “have courage; these are but a few pestilent heretics who would have dethroned you and your husband, the King, and set up a false religion. By their destruction we are doing good service to God and to the blessed Virgin. Such vermin deserve no pity. You ought to rejoice in their destruction.”
“Alas! my mother,” said Francis, also rising, “I too am overcome at this horrible sight, I also would crave your highness’s permission to retire; the blood of my subjects, even of my enemies, is horrible to see. Let us go!”
“My son, I command you to stay!” broke in Catherine, furious with passion, and imperiously raising her hand to stay him. “Duc de Guise, support your niece, the Queen of France. Teach her the duty of a sovereign.”
Again Francis, intimidated by his mother’s violence, reseated himself along with the unhappy Mary, motionless beside him. Again the steel of the axe flashed in the sunshine, and horrible contortions writhed the bodies of the slain. It was too much. Mary, young, tender, compassionate—afraid to plead for mercy as though committing a crime, again fainted, and was again recovered. The Queen-mother, to whom the savage scene was a spectacle of rapture, again commanded her to be reseated; but Francis, now fully aroused by the sufferings of his wife, interposed.
“My mother, I can no longer permit your Majesty to force the Queen to be present. You are perilling her health. Govern my kingdom and slay my subjects, but let me judge what is seemly for my wife.”
So, bearing her in his arms, with the assistance of her ladies, Francis withdrew.
When the butchery was over, and the headless bodies were floating in the river or strung up on the branches of the trees or piled in heaps about the castle, Catherine retired. She commanded that the remains of the chief conspirators should be hung in chains from the iron balustrades of the stone balcony which protects the windows of the royal gallery and which still remains intact, on the north front of the castle, towards the river. The remainder were to be thrown into the Loire. This stone balcony borders now, as then, the whole length of the state apartments towards the river. A fall of some hundred feet down a sheer mass of grey rock on which the castle stands makes the head dizzy. Over this precipice the headless bodies dangled, swaying to and fro in the March wind, a hideous and revolting sight. No one could pass through any of the apartments of the castle without beholding it. But despised humanity in the shape of the murdered Huguenots asserted its claim on the attention of the Court, and the stench of these bodies hung to the balcony, and of those strung up on the trees, and the rotting corpses that dammed up the river, soon became so overwhelming, that even Catherine herself was forced to retreat, and accompany her son and the young Queen to Chenonceau. The shock and excitement were, however, too much for the sickly Francis. Rapidly he pined and died; no physician was found who could cure a nameless malady.
Mary Stuart, a widow at eighteen, passionate and romantic, clung fondly to that “pleasant land” where she had spent such happy days with the gracious Francis. She had been created Duchesse de Touraine at her marriage, and craved earnestly to be allowed to enjoy that apanage rather than be banished to reign in a barren land, which she dreaded like a living tomb. But her ambitious uncles, the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine, who were to her as parents, obstinately insisted on her departure for Scotland. So she sailed from Calais; and, from the deck of the ship that bore her across the seas, as the shores of France—which she was never more to see—gradually faded from her view, she sang to her lute that plaintive song, so identified with her memory:—
WHEREVER Catherine chose to reside, either in Paris or in Touraine, an observatory for the stars was always at hand, and Cosmo Ruggiero, who had attended her from Italy, never left her. Cosmo was the Queen’s familiar demon; he was both astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher. He fed the glowing furnaces with gold and silver, sometimes with dead men’s bones; concocted essences, powders, and perfumes; drew horoscopes, and modelled wax figures in the likeness of those who had incurred the Queen’s enmity. These were supposed to suffer pangs from each stab inflicted on their images, and to waste away as their wax similitudes melted in the flames. Cosmo was also purveyor of poisons to her Majesty, and dealt largely in herbs and roots fatal to life. His apartments and the observatory were always near those of the Queen and connected with them by a secret stair.
We are at the Tuileries.[10] It stands on a plot of ground outside Paris—where tiles were baked and rubbish shot—given by Francis I. to his mother, Louise de Savoie. Charles IX., who has succeeded his brother—Francis II.—inhabits the Louvre, now entirely rebuilt by Francis I. The Queen-mother desired to live alone. She therefore commanded Philippe de Lorme to erect a new palace for her use, consisting of a central pavilion, with ample wings. Catherine is now middle-aged; her complexion is darker, the expression of her face sterner and more impassive. She seldom relaxes into a smile except to deceive an enemy. In her own person she dislikes and despises the luxury of dress, and principally wears black since the death of her husband. But on fitting occasions of state she, too, robes herself in royal apparel. She stands before us in a long black dress, tightly fitting her shape. She has grown much stouter though she is still upright and majestic. Her active habits and her extraordinary capacity for mental labour are the same. A stiff ruff is round her neck and a black coif upon her head. Jewels she rarely uses. Her suite of rooms at the Tuileries, hung with sombre tapestry or panelled with dark wood, are studiously plain. She loves artists and the arts, but pictures and statues are not appropriate to the state business she habitually transacts. There is a certain consistent grandeur in her plain, unadorned entourage; a sense of subdued power—hidden yet apparent—that makes those who approach her tremble. Her second son Charles, now King of France, is wholly under her influence. He was only ten years old when he ascended the throne at the death of his brother Francis, and his mother has carefully stamped out every good quality in his naturally frank and manly nature. Now he is rough and cruel, loves the sight of blood, and has become a perfect Nimrod. He blows the horn with such violence, so often and so loud, that he has injured his lungs. Charles knows much more about the bears, wolves, deer, and wild boars of France, than of his Christian subjects.
The Princess Marguerite is now grown into a woman, “a noble mind in a most lovely person,” says the flattering Brantôme. Her mother encourages Marguerite’s taste for intrigue, and throws her into the company of women, such as Madame de Sauve, the court Ninon de l’Enclos of that day. Catherine contemplates her beauty, not with the profound affection of a mother, but as a useful bait to entrap those whom she desires to gain. When she was young herself the Queen never allowed any tender passion to stand in her way, but ruthlessly sacrificed all who were either useless or troublesome.
When the palace is quiet, and the sighing of the winter wind without, as it sweeps along the quays and ruffles the surface of the river, is only broken by the challenge of the sentinels on the bastion bordering the Seine, Catherine rises from her chair. She passes over her black dress a long white mantle, puts her feet into silken slippers, lights a scented bougie, takes from her girdle a golden key—which is hid there along with a poisoned dagger in case of need—draws aside the tapestry, unlocks a hidden door, and mounts a secret stair. Cosmo Ruggiero is seated on a folding stool in a small laboratory under the roof. He is reading an ancient manuscript. A lamp illuminates the page, and he is, or affects to be, so profoundly absorbed that he does not hear his terrible mistress enter. She glides like a ghost beside him and laying her hand on his shoulder rouses him. Ruggiero rises hastily and salutes her. Catherine draws a stool beside him, seats herself, and signs him to do so also.
“Well, Cosmo! always studying; always at work in my service,” says she, in a low metallic voice.
“Yes, madame, I have no other pleasure than in your Majesty’s service.”
“Yes, yes! you serve the Queen for love, and science out of interest—I understand. Disinterestedness is the custom of our country, my friend.”
“Your Majesty mistakes; I serve her as a loyal servant and countryman should.”
“La! la!” says Catherine, “we know each other, Cosmo,—no professions. Is the poison ready I ordered of you, the subtle powder to sprinkle on gloves or flowers? It is possible I may want it shortly.”
Ruggiero rises and hands a small sealed packet, enclosed in satin, to the Queen, who places it in her bosom.
“Madame,” he says, “beware! this poison is most powerful.”
“So much the worse for those for whom it is destined,” replied Catherine; and a cruel smile lights up her face for a moment. “It will serve me the quicker. But to business, Cosmo. What say the stars? Have you drawn the horoscopes?”
“Here, madame, are the horoscopes”; and he draws from his belt a bundle of papers. “Here are the celestial signs within the House of Life of all the royal persons concerned, traced by the magic pencil from the dates you furnished me.”
Catherine glances at the papers. “Explain to me their import,” says she, looking at him with grave attention.
“Your present design, madame, to marry Madame Marguerite to the King of Navarre appears favourable to the interests of France. A cloud now rests upon the usually brilliant star of the King of Navarre, but another night, madame, perhaps——”
“This is all very vague, Ruggiero, I want an absolute prediction,” says Catherine, fixing her black eyes full upon the soothsayer. “Among all these illustrious personages is there not one whose horoscope is clear and defined?”
“Assuredly, madame; will your Majesty deign to interrogate me as to the future? I will unfold the purposes of the stars as I have read them.”
“You have spoken of the Princess. Does she love the young Duc Henri de Guise?”
“Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her affections.”
“The Queen of Navarre—will she still forward this marriage?”
“How?”
“By poison.”
“Where?”
“At Paris.”
“That is well,” answers the Queen, and deep thought darkens her swarthy face. “Her son, the King of Navarre—what of him?”
“He, madame, is safe for awhile, though he will shortly be exposed to extreme peril.”
“But is he destined to die violently?”
“Perhaps; but long years hence. His hair will be gray before the poniard I see hovering over him strikes. But, as I have said to-night, there is a cloud upon his star. Long he will certainly escape steel, fire, illness, or accident; he will bear a charmed life. Madame, the King of Navarre will be a proper husband for Madame Marguerite.”
“But how of that bold man, the Duc de Guise, who dares without my leave to aspire to the hand of the Princess?” asked Catherine.
“Henri de Guise, madame, will die a violent death, as will his father and Coligni. The Admiral will be stabbed in his own house. This is certain.”
The Queen smiles, and for a time is silent.
“Tell me,” at length she almost whispers, “have you discovered anything more about myself and my sons?”
“Madame, I tremble to reply,” replies Ruggiero, hesitating.
“Speak, I command you, Cosmo.”
Catherine rises, and lays her hand heavily upon his arm. Her eyes meet his.
“If I must reveal the future of your Majesty and the royal princes, well, let it be done. Your Majesty can but kill me. I fear not death.”
“Fool, your life is safe!”
“You, madame, will live; but the Princes, your sons——” and he stops and again hesitates.
“Speak!” hisses Catherine between her set teeth. “Speak, or, pardieu! I will force you,” and she raises her hand aloft, as if to strike him.
“Madame,” replies Ruggiero, quite unmoved by her violence, rising from his stool, and moving towards the wall, “you yourself shall see the future that awaits them.” He withdraws a black curtain covering an arched recess and revealed a magic mirror. “The kings your sons, madame, shall pass before you. Each shall reign as many years as he makes the circuit of that dark chamber you see reflected on the polished steel. There is your eldest son, Francis. See how feebly he moves, how pale he looks. He never lived to be a man. Twice he slowly passes round, and he is gone. The next is Charles, ninth of that name. Thirteen times he turns around, and as he moves a mist of blood gathers about him. Look, it thickens—it hides him. He shall reign thirteen years, and die a bloody death, having caused much blood to flow. Here is Henri, Duc d’Anjou, who shall succeed him. A few circuits, and then behold—a muffled figure—a monk, springs on him from behind. He falls and vanishes.”
There is a pause.
“What! Cosmo,” whispers Catherine, who stood supporting herself on the back of a high chair opposite the magic mirror. “Francis, Charles, Henry are gone, but do they leave no child?”
“None, madame.”
“Where, then, is D’Alençon, my youngest boy? Let me see him.”
“Madame,” falters Ruggiero, “his highness is not destined to reign. The successor of your sons is before you”; and on the magic glass rises up, clear and distinct, the image of the King of Navarre. With strong, firm steps he circles the mystic chamber of life twenty times. As he passes on the twenty-first round, a mist gathers round him; he falls and vanishes.
At the sight of Henry of Navarre, the Queen’s composure utterly forsakes her. She trembles from head to foot and sinks into a chair. A sombre fire shoots from her eyes.
“I will take care that shall never be!” gasps she, unable to speak with rage.
After a few moments she rose, took up her light, and without one other word descended as she had come.
THE Château of Chenonceau, so greatly coveted by Catherine de’ Medici in her youth, still remains to us. It lies in a rural district of the Touraine, far from cities and the traffic of great thoroughfares. Spared, from its isolated position, by the First Revolution, this monument of the Renaissance, half palace half château, is as beautiful as ever—a picturesque mass of pointed turrets, glistening spires, perpendicular roofs, lofty pavilions, and pillared arches. It is partly built over the river Cher, at once its defence and its attraction.
Henry II., as also his father, Francis, who specially loved this sunny plaisance and often visited it in company with his daughter-in-law, Catherine, and his mistress, the Duchesse d’Étampes, had both lavished unknown sums on its embellishment.
Chenonceau is approached by a drawbridge over a moat fed by the river. On the southern side a stately bridge of five arches has been added by Diane de Poitiers in order to reach the opposite bank, where the high roofs and pointed turrets of the main building are seen to great advantage, rising out of scattered woods of oak and ash, which are divided into leafy avenues leading into fair water-meadows beside the Cher. By Catherine’s command this bridge has been recently covered and now forms a spacious wing of two stories, the first floor fitted as a banqueting hall, the walls broken by four embayed windows, opening on either side and looking up and down the stream.
A fresh-breathing air comes from the river and the forest, a scent of moss and flowers extremely delicious. The cooing of the cushat doves, the cry of the cuckoo, the flutter of the breeze among the trees, and the hum of insects dancing in the sunbeams are the voices of this sylvan solitude. The blue sky blends into the green woods, and the white clouds, sailing over the tree-tops, make the shadows come and go among the arches of the bridge and the turrets of the château.
A sudden flourish of trumpets breaks the silence. It is Catherine, in the early summer, coming, like Jezebel, to possess herself of her fair domain. She is habited in black and wears a velvet toque with an ostrich plume. A perfect horsewoman, she rides with a stately grace down the broad avenue leading from the high road, followed by her maids of honour—a bevy of some forty beauties, the escadron volant de la reine, who serve her political intrigues by fascinating alike Huguenots and Catholics.
To the right of the Queen-mother rides Madame Marguerite, her daughter—by-and-by to become infamous as Queen of Navarre, wife of Henry IV.—now a laughter-loving girl, who makes her brown jennet prance, out of pure high spirits. She is tall, like all the Valois, and finely formed. Her skin is very fair and her eyes full of expression; but there is a hard look on her delicately-featured face that belies her attractive appearance.
On the other side of the Queen-mother is her son, the young King, Charles IX. He has a weak though most engaging countenance. Naturally brave and witty and extremely frank and free, the artifices of his mother’s corrupt Court have made him what he now is—cruel, violent, and suspicious. Catherine has convinced him that he is deceived by all the world except herself, and leads him at her will. He is to marry shortly the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian. Beside him is the vicious and elegant Duc d’Anjou, his next brother, of whom Charles is extremely jealous. Already Henry has been victor at Jarnac, and almost rivals Henry of Navarre in the number of battles he fights. He is to be elected King of Poland during his brother’s life. Henry is handsomer than Charles, but baby-faced and effeminate. He wears rouge, and is as gay as a woman in his attire. Catherine’s youngest son, D’Alençon, long-nosed, ill-favoured, and sullen, rides beside his sister.
Behind the royal Princess, is Francis, Duc de Guise, a man, as we have seen, of indomitable will and unflinching purpose; fanatical in his devotion to the Catholic Church, and of unbounded ambition. He secretly cherishes the settled purpose of his house,—destruction to the race of Valois. Ere long he will be assassinated at Orléans, by Poltrot, a Huguenot, a creature of Coligni, who firmly believes he will ensure his salvation by this crime. Such is Christianity in the sixteenth century! There are also two cardinals mounted on mules. Lorraine, a true Guise, most haughty and unscrupulous of politicians and of churchmen; and D’Este, newly arrived from Ferrara, insinuating, treacherous, and artistic. He has brought in his train from Italy the great poet Tasso, who follows his patron, and wears a garbadine and cap of dark satin. Tasso looks sad and careworn, spite of the high favour shown him by his countrywoman, the Queen-mother. Ronsard, the court poet, is beside Tasso, and Châtelard, who, madly enamoured of the widowed Queen, Mary Stuart, is about to follow her to Scotland, and to die of his presumptuous love ere long at Holyrood.
As this brilliant procession passes down the broad avenue through pleasant lawns forming part of the park, at a fast trot, a rider is seen mounted on a powerful black horse, who neither entirely conceals himself nor attempts to join the Court. As he passes in and out among the underwood skirting the adjoining forest, many eyes are bent upon him. The Queen-mother specially, turns in her saddle the better to observe him, and then questions her sons as to whether they recognise this solitary cavalier, whose face and figure are completely hidden by a broad Spanish hat and heavy riding-cloak.
At the moment when the Queen-mother has turned her head to make these inquiries and is speaking earnestly to Francis of Guise, whom she has summoned to her side, the unknown rider crosses the path of the Princess Marguerite (who in frolicsome mood is making her horse leap over some ditches in the grass), and throws a rose before her. Marguerite looks up with a gleam of delight, their eyes meet for an instant; she raises her hand, kisses it, and waves it towards him. The stranger bows to the saddle-bow, bounds into the thicket, and is seen no more. The royal party cross the drawbridge through two lines of attendants, picquers, retainers, pages, and running footmen, and dismount at the arched entrance from which a long stone passage leads to the great gallery, the staircase, and the various apartments.
Leaving the young King and the Princes, his brothers, to the care of the chamberlains who conduct them to their various apartments, the Queen-mother turns to the left, followed by the Princess, who is somewhat alarmed lest her mother should have observed her recognition of the disguised cavalier. They pass through the guard-room—a lofty chamber, with raftered ceilings and walls hung with tapestry, on which cuirasses, swords, lances, casques, shields, and banners are suspended, fashioned into various devices.
Beyond is a saloon, and through a narrow door in a corner is a small writing-closet within a turret. Catherine, who knows the château well, has chosen this suite of rooms apart from the rest. She enters the closet alone, closes the door, seats herself beside the casement, and gazes at the broad river flowing beneath. Her eyes follow the current onwards to where the stream, by a graceful bend, loses itself among copses of willow and alder. She smiles a smile of triumph. All is now her own. Then she summons her chamberlain, and commands a masque on the river for the evening, to celebrate her arrival. None shall say that she, a Medici, neglects the splendid pageantry of courts. Besides, the hunting parties, banquets, and masques are too precious as political opportunities to be disregarded.
Having dismissed her chamberlain, who with his white wand of office bows low before her, she calls for writing materials, bidding the Princess and a single lady-in-waiting, Charlotte de Presney, her favourite attendant, remain without in the saloon.
This is a large apartment, used by Catherine as a sleeping-room, with a high vaulted ceiling of dark oak, heavily carved, the walls panelled with rare marbles, brought by the Queen’s command from Italy. Busts on sculptured pedestals, ponderous chairs, carved cabinets and inlaid tables, stand around. In one corner there is a bedstead of walnut-wood with heavy hangings of purple velvet which are gathered into a diadem with the embossed initials “C. M.,” and an antique silver