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