LA REINE MARGOT
The Bearnais was too wise to venture so near the wolf's den as Loches or
Tours. The conference, therefore, took place in the little town of
Argenton, perched along either side of the Creuse, a huddle of
wooden-fronted houses cascading down to a clear blue river, every
balcony filled with flowers and fluttering that day with banners.
Catherine, the Queen-Mother, was to travel from Chartres to represent
her son King Henry III. of Valois, of Poland, and of France. Henry the
Bearnais rode over from his entrenched camp at Beauregard with a retinue
of Huguenot gentlemen, whose plain dark armour and weather-beaten
features showed more acquaintance with camp than with court.
The Bearnais, as usual, proved himself gay, kindly, debonnaire. The
Queen-Mother (also as usual) was ambassador for her slothful son,
conscious that her last summer was waning, mostly doing her travelling
in a litter. Catherine de Medici never forgot for a moment that she was
the centre round which forty years of intrigue had revolved. The wife of
one king of France, the mother of three others, she played her part as
in her youngest days. With death grappling at her heart, she surrounded
herself with the flower of the youth and beauty of Italy and France,
laughing with the gayest and ready with smile and gracious word for
king or knave.
The deportment of the Bearnais was in strong contrast with that of his
Huguenot suite. The King of Navarre made merry with all the world. He
was ever the centre of a bright and changeful group of maids-of-honour
to the Queen-Mother, with whom he jested and laughed freely, till Rosny
whispered behind his hand to D'Aubigne, "If this goes on, we shall make
but a poor treaty of it!"
And to him D'Aubigne replied grimly, "I will wager that my Lord Duke
d'Epernon looks well to that."
"No," said Rosny shortly, "the old vixen is the sly renard."
Soon the festival ran its blithest. The Queen-Mother had withdrawn
herself, possibly to repose, certainly to plot. With D'Epernon and the
maids-of-honour the Bearnais remained, our Abbe John by his side,
laughing with the merriest. Turenne and the other Huguenot veterans
brooded sullenly in the background, seeing matters go badly, but not
able to help it. Afterwards--well, they had a way all their own of
speaking their minds. And the brave, good-humoured king would heed them
too, in nowise growing angry with their freedoms. But, alas! by that
time the steed would be stolen, the treaty signed, and the Medici and
her maids-of-dishonour well on the way to Chartres.
The question was, whether or not Henry III. would throw himself wholly
into the hands of the League at the forthcoming Parliament of Blois, or
if, by a secret compact with the Bearnais, the gentlemen of the Huguenot
Gascon provinces would attend to support the royal authority.
"I shall go, if our Bearnais commands me," said Turenne; "but I wager
they will dye the Loire as red as ever they did the Seine on
Bartholomew's Day--aye, and fringe the Chateau with us, as they did at
Amboise. These Guises do not forget their ancient tricks."
"And right pretty you would look, my good Lord Turenne, your frosty
beard wagging in the wind and a raven perched on your bald pate!"
"If I were in your shoes, I would not talk so freely either of beards or
of baldness, D'Aubigne," growled Turenne. "I mind well when a certain
clever lad had no more than the beard of a rabbit, which only comes out
at night for fear of the dogs!"
"It is strange," said D'Aubigne, not in the least offended with his
comrade, "that he who has no fear of the swords, should grow weak at the
fluttering of a kerchief or before the artful carelessness of a
neck-ribbon."
"Not strange at all," said Turenne; "is he not a man and a Bearnais?
Besides, being a Bourbon, he will pay those the best to whom he owes
least. And we, who have loved him as we never loved father or mother,
wife or child, will be sent back to the chimney-corner with our thumbs
to suck!"
"Aye, because he is sure of us!" retorted D'Aubigne gloomily,
unconsciously prefiguring a day when he should sit, an exile in a
foreign town, eating his heart out, and writing a great book to the
praise of an ungrateful, or perhaps forgetful master.
"The most curious thing of all," said Rosny, "is that we shall always
love him--put down his fickleness to the account of others, cherish him
as a deceived woman does the man from whom she cannot wholly tear her
heart!"
"Yes," cried a new voice, as a red hassock of hair showed itself over
the brown Capuchin's robe, "these things will we do--some of us in
exile, all in sorrow, some in rags, and some in motley----"
He opened the robe wider, and under the stained brown the jester's
motley met their eyes.
"Who is this fool who mixes so freely in the councils of his betters?"
cried Turenne. "Is there never a wooden horse and a provost-marshal in
this--this ball-room?"
But Rosny, whose business it was to know all things, had had dealings
with Jean-aux-Choux.
"It is the Fool of the Three Henries!" he whispered, "a wise man, they
say--bachelor of Geneva, a deacon at the trade of theology, and all
that!"
"I see nothing for it," D'Aubigne interrupted drily, "but that we should
agree to put all three Henries into motley, and set Jean-aux-Choux on
the throne!"
"Speak your mind plainly, Jean-aux-Choux," cried Turenne peremptorily;
"we are none of us of the Three Henries. And we will bear no fooling.
What is your message to us--Sir Fool with the Death's Head? Out with it,
and briefly."
Jean-aux-Choux waved his hand in the direction of the bridge of
Gargilesse.
"Yonder--yonder," he said, "is your answer coming to you!"
Beyond the crowded roofs of the old town, thatched and tiled, the white
track to Gargilesse and Croizant meandered amid the sparse and sunburnt
vegetation of autumn. Sparks of light, stars seen at noonday, began to
dance behind the little broomy knolls, where the pods were cracking open
merrily in the heat of the sun.
"They are spears," cried the well-advised veterans of the south, men of
the old Huguenot guard. "Who comes? None from that direction to do us
any good!"
Then Rosny, who, in moments of action, could make every one afraid of
him, with his fair skin and the false air of innocence on his face, in
which two blue eyes strange and stern were set, rode up to the King and,
bidding him leave ribbons and sashes to give his mind for a moment to
sword-points, he indicated, without an unnecessary word, the cavalcade
which approached from the south.
Henry of Navarre, who was never angered by a just rebuke, instantly left
the ladies with whom he had been jesting, and jumping on horseback, rode
right up to the top of a steep bank, which commanded the bridge by which
the horsemen must cross.
There he remained for a long while, none daring to speak further to him.
For again, in a moment, he had become the war-captain. Though not very
tall when on foot, the Bearnais sat his horse like a centaur, and it was
said of him, that the fiercer the fray, the closer Henry gripped his
knees, and the looser the rein with which he rode into the smother.
"Why," he cried, setting his gloved hands on either hip, "it is
Margot--my wife Margot, with another retinue of silks and furbelows!"
And the Bearnais laughed aloud.
"Check and checkmate for the old apothecary's daughter," he chuckled.
"After all, our little Margot is _spirituelle_, though she and I do not
get on together."
And setting spurs to his charger, he rode on far ahead of all his
gentlemen to welcome the Queen of Navarre at the bridge-head of
Argenton. There he dismounted, and throwing the reins to the nearest
groom, he walked to the bridle of a lady, who, fair, fresh, and smiling,
came ambling easily up on a white Arab.
It was Marguerite of Valois, his wife, who five years ago had possessed
herself of the strong castle of Usson in Auvergne. Sole daughter of one
king of France, sole sister of three others, and wife of the King of
Navarre, Marguerite of Valois had been a spoiled beauty from her
earliest years. The division of blame is no easy matter, but certainly
the Bearnais was not the right man to tame and keep a butterfly-spirit
like that of "La Reine Margot."
The marriage had been made and finished in the terrible days which
preceded the Saint Bartholomew. The two Queens of France and Navarre had
the business in hand. It had been baptised in torrents of Protestant
blood on that fatal night when the Guise ladies watched at their
windows, while beneath the Leaguers silently bound the white crosses on
their brows. Indeed, from the side of Catherine de Medici, the marriage
of Henry of Navarre and Marguerite of Valois had been arranged with the
single proper intent of bringing Coligny, Conde, and the other great
Huguenots to the shambles prepared for them.
It served its purpose well; but when her mother, Catherine de Medici,
and her royal brothers would gladly have broken off the marriage,
Margot's will was the firmest of any. But though there was little of
good in the life of the Queen Margot, there was ever something good in
her heart.
She refused to be separated from her husband, merely to serve the
intrigues of the Queen-Mother and the Guises.
"Once already I have been sacrificed to your plots," she said. "Because
of that, I have a husband who will never love me. A night of blood
stands between us. Yet will I do nothing against him, because he is my
husband. Nor yet for you, my kinsfolk, because ye paid me away like the
thirty pieces of silver which Judas scattered in the potter's field. I
was the price of blood," so she taunted her mother, "and for that my
husband will never love me!"
No, it was not for that, as history and legend tell all too plainly; but
she was a woman, and had the woman's right to explain the matter so.
Rather, it was the root-difference of all lack of common interest and
mutual love. Two young people, with different upbringings, with mothers
wide apart as the heaven of Jeanne d'Albret and the inferno of the
Medici, were suddenly thrown together with no bond save that of years to
unite them. Each went a several way--neither the right way--and there is
small wonder that the result of such a marriage was only unhappiness.
Said Henry of Navarre to Rosny, his best confidant, when there was
question of his own wedding:
"Seven things are needed in the woman I ought to marry."
"Seven is a great number, Your Majesty," answered the Right Hand of the
Bearnais; "but tell them to me, and I will at least cause search to be
made. I will make proclamation for the lady who can put her foot into
seven glass slippers, each one smaller than the other!"
"First, then," said the King of Navarre, posing a forefinger on the palm
of his other hand, and speaking sagely, as a master setting out the
steps of a proposition, "she must have beauty of person!"
"Good," said Rosny; "Your Majesty has doubtless satisfied himself that
there are such to be found in the land--once or twice!"
"Wait, Rosny--let me finish!" said the King. And so continued his
enumeration of wifely necessities, as they appeared to a great prince of
the sixteenth century.
"_Item_, she must be modest in her life, of a happy humour, vivid in
spirit, ready in affection, eminent in extraction, and possessed of
great estates in her own right!"
For all answer Rosny held up his hands.
"I know--I know," smiled the Bearnais, "you would say to me that this
marvel of womankind has been dead some time. I would rather say to you
that she has never been born!"
So it came about that Marguerite, the pretty, foolish butterfly of the
Valois courts, and her Bearnais husband, rough, soldierly, far-seeing,
politic, had not seen each other for five years. Marguerite had shut
herself up in the castle of Usson, one of the dread prison fortresses
built by "that fox," Louis the Eleventh.
Though sent almost as a prisoner there, or at least under observation,
she had speedily possessed herself of castle and castellan, guard and
officers, kitchen scullions and gardener varlets. For she had the open
hand, especially when the money was not her own, the ready wit, and
above all, the charming smile, though even that meant nothing. At least,
Margot the Queen was not malicious; and so it was without any fear, but
rather with the sort of silent amusement with which we applaud a child's
new trick, that the King dismounted, kissed his wife's hand, answered
her gay greetings, and even cast a critic's eye on the array of beauties
who followed in her train.
Many gallant gentlemen of the south also accompanied her. Raimonds and
Castellanes were there, Princes of Baux and Seigneurs de la Tour--all
willing at once to visit the camp of the Bearnais, and to testify their
loyalty to the Court of France. For in the south, the League and the
Guises had made but little progress.
"Why, Margot, what brings you hither?" said the Bearnais, as he paced
along by his wife's side, while the suite had dropped far enough behind
for them to speak freely.
"Well, husband mine," said the Queen Margot, "you have been a bad boy to
me, and if I had not been mine own sweet self, you and my brother (peace
to his ashes, as soon as he is dead!) would have shut me up in a big,
dull castle to do needlework alone with a cat and a duenna. But I was
too clever for you. And, after that, they poisoned your mind against
little Margot--oh, I know. So I do not blame you greatly, Henry. Also, I
have a temper that is trying at short range--I admit it. So I am come to
make up--at least, if you will. And further, if by chance my good,
simple mother and that gallant, crafty Epernon lad have any tricks to
try upon you--why, then I have brought a bag of them too, and can play
them, trick for trick, till we win--you and I, Harry!"
Margot the Queen waved her hand to the covey of beauties who rode behind
her.
"I would say that they are all queens of beauty," she said, smiling down
at him; "but do you know (I am speaking humbly because I know well that
you do not agree) I am the only really pretty queen in the world?"
"As to that I do most heartily take oath," said the Bearnais.
"Ah, but," said Margot, touching him gently on the cheek with the lash
of her riding-whip, "I mind well how you swore you would wed the Queen
of England, provided she brought you that rich land--aye, though she had
as many wrinkles on her brow as the sea that surrounds her isle, or even
the Infanta of Spain, old and wizened as a last year's pippin, if only
she brought you in dower the Low Countries!"
"Ah, Margot," said Henry, smiling up at his wife, "and I thought it was
your sole boast that you never cast up old stories! You always found new
ones--or made them!"
"I did but tease," she said; "but indeed, for all my mother is so ill,
this is no time for jesting. I have come to see that you get fair play
among them all, my little friend Henry. Though you love me not greatly,
and I did sometimes throw the table-equipage at your head, yet Margot of
France and Navarre is not the woman to see her husband wronged--least of
all by her own mother and that good, excellent, mignon-loving brother of
mine, the King-titular of some small remnant of France."