ADIEU, FRANCE!
On the 15th of August, 1561, eight months after the demise of François
II., Mary Stuart was at Calais, on the point of taking her departure for
her Scottish kingdom.
During these eight months she had been engaged in an unceasing struggle,
day by day and hour by hour, with Catherine de Médicis and with her
uncles as well, who were as impatient as the regent, though for
different reasons, to have her well away from France; but Mary found it
hard to make up her mind to leave behind her that fair land where she
had been a queen, so happy and so well beloved. Even in the sorrowful
memories which recalled her premature widowhood, these loved spots held
for her a poetic charm which made it difficult for her to tear herself
away.
Mary Stuart not only felt that poetic charm, but she herself gave
expression to it. She not only wept for the demise of François as a
loving wife, but she sang of it like one of the Muses. Brantôme, in his
admiration for her, has preserved for us the sweet, plaintive verses
which she composed in her tribulation, and which bear comparison with
the most notable poetry of that age:
"En mon triste et doux chant,
D'un ton fort lamentable,
Je jette un deuil tranchant
De perte incomparable,
Et en soupirs croissans
Passent mes meilleurs ans.
"Fut-il un tel malheur
De dure destinée,
Ni si triste douleur
De dame fortunée,
Que mon cœur et mon œil
Voient en bière et cercueil!
"Que dans mon doux printemps,
À fleur de ma jeunesse,
Toutes les peines sens
D'une extrême tristesse
Et en rien n'ai plaisir
Qu'en regret et désir.
"Ce qui m'était plaisant
Me devient peine dure!
Le jour le plus luisant
Est pour moi nuit obscure,
Et n'est rien si exquis
Qui de moi soit requis!
"Si en quelque séjour,
Soit en bois, soit en prée,
Soit à l'aube du jour
Ou soit sur la vesprée,
Sans cesse mon cœur sent
Le regret d'un absent.
"Si parfois vers les cieux
Viens à dresser ma vue,
Le doux trait de ses yeux
Je vois en une nue.
Si les baisse vers l'eau,
Vois comme en un tombeau.
"Si je suis en repos
Sommeillant sur ma couche,
J'oy qu'il me tient propos,
Je le sens qui me touche!
En labeur, en recoy,
Toujours est près de moi.
"Mets, chanson, ici fin
À ta triste complainte
Dont sera le refrain:
Amour vraie et sans feinte
Qui pour séparation
N'aura diminution."[10]
It was while at Reims, to which city she at first withdrew with her
uncle De Lorraine, that Mary Stuart produced these melodious and
touching strains. She remained in Champagne until the end of the spring.
Then the religious troubles which had broken out in Scotland urgently
demanded her presence in that country. On the other side, the almost
passionate admiration which the boy Charles IX. expressed whenever he
mentioned his sister-in law disturbed the suspicious regent, Catherine.
Therefore it was necessary that Mary Stuart should resign herself to
depart.
She came to pay her parting respects to the court at St. Germain in
July; and the marks of devotion, of adoration almost, which were
showered upon her there, served only to augment, if that were possible,
her bitter regret.
Her dowry, charged upon Touraine and Poitou, had been fixed at twenty
thousand livres annually; she also carried many superb jewels with her
to Scotland, and it was thought that the hope of obtaining such rich
treasure might tempt some freebooter. Still more fear was entertained
that her safety might be endangered by some act of violence on the part
of Élisabeth of England, who already saw in the young Queen of Scots a
dangerous rival. Consequently a number of gentlemen proposed to escort
Mary to her own dominions; and when she reached Calais, she found
herself attended not only by her uncles, but by Messieurs de Damville
and de Brantôme,--in fact, by the better part of that splendid,
chivalrous court.
She found two galleys awaiting her in the harbor of Calais, ready to set
sail as soon as she should give the word; but she remained at Calais six
days, so painful was the final parting from those who had accompanied
her thus far on her way.
At last the 15th of August, as we have said, was definitely fixed upon
for her departure. It was a gloomy, threatening day, but without wind or
rain.
Upon the shore, and before setting foot upon the deck of the vessel
which was to bear her away, Mary, as a mark of her gratitude to all who
had thus escorted her to the utmost verge of their country, gave each of
them her hand to kiss as a last farewell.
They all came forward, and kneeling before her one after another pressed
their lips upon her beloved hand.
Last of all was a gentleman who had never ceased to follow in Mary's
train since she left St. Germain, but had always kept in the background
on the road, hidden by his broad hat and the ample folds of his cloak,
and had neither made himself known nor spoken to a soul.
But when he came in turn to kneel before the queen, hat in hand, Mary
recognized Gabriel de Montgommery.
"Ah, is it you, Count?" said she. "I am indeed happy to see you once
more, my faithful friend, who wept with me for my poor dead king. But
why have you never spoken to me, if you were with these other
gentlemen?"
"I felt that I must see you without being seen, Madame," replied
Gabriel. "In my loneliness I could better collect my remembrances, and
enjoy more fully the pleasure that it gave me to perform so grateful a
duty."
"Thanks once more for this final proof of your attachment, Monsieur le
Comte," said Mary. "I should be glad if I might show my gratitude
otherwise than by mere words. I can do nothing more, unless it please
you to accompany me to my poor Scotland with Messieurs Damville and
Brantôme--"
"Ah, that would be my most devout wish, Madame!" cried Gabriel; "but
another duty binds me to France. One who is dearer to me than life, and
consecrated in my eyes, and whom I have not seen for more than two
years, is expecting me at this moment."
"Do you mean Diane de Castro?" asked Mary, eagerly.
"Yes, Madame," said Gabriel. "By a letter I received last month she
requested me to be at St. Quentin to-day, August 15. I shall not be with
her until to-morrow; but whatever may have been her motive in summoning
me, she will forgive me, I am sure, when she learns that I did not
desire to leave you until you were actually leaving France."
"Dear Diane!" remarked Mary, pensively; "yes, she also loved me well,
was like a sister to me. Hold, Monsieur de Montgommery; take this ring
to her as a remembrance from me, and go to her as quickly as you can.
She may need your help; and when her welfare is concerned, I do not wish
to detain you. Adieu! adieu, all my dear friends! They wait for me, and
I must go,--alas! I must."
She tore herself away from the arms of those who would still have held
her, stepped aboard the small boat, and was at once transferred to
Monsieur de Mévillon's galley, followed by the envied gentlemen who
were to go with her to Scotland.
But even as Scotland could not supply the void left by France in Mary's
heart, so those who accompanied her could not make her forget those she
had left behind; indeed, she seemed to love the latter the more dearly.
Standing at the stern of the galley, she never ceased to wave her
handkerchief, wet with tears, to the kinsfolk and friends whom she left
upon the shore.
At last they were in the open sea: and Mary's eyes were drawn in spite
of herself toward a vessel which was just entering the harbor she had
quitted, and which her gaze followed longingly in envy of its
destination. Suddenly the vessel pitched forward, as if she had struck
beneath the water-line; and trembling from stem to stern, she began to
sink, amid the piercing shrieks of her crew. It was all done so rapidly
that she was out of sight before Monsieur de Mévillon had time to send
a skiff to her assistance. For an instant a few heads could be seen
struggling in the water near the spot where the vessel had gone down,
but they disappeared one by one before they could be reached, although
the men pulled lustily; and the skiff returned without having saved a
single one of the poor wretches.
"Oh, Lord! oh, my God! what a fearful omen for my voyage is this!" cried
Mary Stuart.
Meanwhile the wind had freshened; and the galley began to attain some
speed, so that the crew had an opportunity to rest. Mary, seeing that
she was rapidly leaving the shore behind her, leaned against the
bulwarks with her eyes fixed upon the harbor, her sight dimmed by great
tears, and repeated again and again,--
"Adieu, France! adieu, France!"
She remained in that position nearly five hours,--that is to say, until
night fell; indeed, she would probably not have thought of leaving the
deck even then, had not Brantôme come to inform her that her presence
was awaited at supper.
Thereupon, weeping and sobbing more bitterly than before,--
"Now, dear France," she cried, "I lose thee indeed; since Night, jealous
of my last happiness, pulls her dark veil before my eyes to deprive me
of my pleasure in gazing at thee. So adieu, dear France! I shall never
see thee more!"
Then with a sign to Brantôme that she would follow him at once, she
drew forth her tablets, seated herself upon a bench, and wrote these
familiar lines by the last rays of daylight,--
"Adieu, plaisant pays de France!
O ma patrie
La plus chérie,
Qui a nourri ma jeune enfance!
Adieu, France! adieu, mes beaux jours!
La nef qui disjoint nos amours
N'a eu de moi que la moitié:
Une part te reste, elle est tienne.
Je la fie à ton amitié,
Pour que de l'autre il te souvienne."[11]
At last she went below, and said as she joined her shipmates who were
awaiting her,--
"I have done just the opposite of what the Queen of Carthage did; for
Dido, when Æneas left her, gazed ceaselessly at the waves, while I find
it hard to take my eyes from the land."
They urged her to be seated, and to sup with them; but she could eat
nothing, and withdrew at once to her cabin, charging the helmsman to
arouse her at break of day if the land were still in sight.
On this point at least fortune smiled upon poor Mary; for the wind died
away, and the galley scarcely moved during the night, except with the
aid of oars; so that when day broke they were still within sight of
France.
The helmsman entered the queen's cabin, as she had ordered him to do;
but he found her already awake and seated upon her berth, gazing out
through an open porthole at the beloved shore.
However, this pleasure was of short duration; for the wind freshened
again, and France was soon lost to sight. Mary had only one hope left:
that was that an English fleet would appear in the offing, and they
would be obliged to turn back. But that last hope proved futile, like
the others; a fog, so dense that they could not see from one end of the
vessel to the other, came down upon the ocean,--almost miraculously, as
it seemed, being midsummer. They sailed on at hazard, incurring the risk
of going astray, but avoiding all danger of being seen by the enemy.
At last, on the third day, the fog lifted; and they found themselves
close upon a rocky shore, where the galley would doubtless have gone to
pieces if they had sailed two cables' lengths farther. The pilot took an
observation, and found that he was off the coast of Scotland, and having
skilfully extricated the vessel from the breakers which surrounded her,
made the port of Leith, near Edinburgh.
The wits who accompanied Mary said that they had landed in a fog in a
mischief-making country of marplots.[12] Mary's coming was entirely
unexpected; so that she and her suite were, perforce, content to make
their way to Edinburgh upon donkeys, wretchedly equipped, many of which
were without saddles, and had nought but cords for reins and stirrups.
Mary could not refrain from contrasting these sorry nags with the superb
French palfreys which she was accustomed to see caracoling about in the
hunting-field, or the lists. She shed a few tears of regret as she
compared the fair land she had left with that upon which she now stood.
But soon, with her fascinating grace, and struggling to smile through
her tears, she said,--
"I must bear my ills in patience, since I have exchanged my paradise for
a hell."
In such manner did Mary Stuart arrive on British soil. We have narrated
elsewhere ("Les Stuarts") the story of the rest of her life and her
demise; and how impious England, the arch-enemy of all that France holds
sacred, slew grace in her person, as it had already slain inspiration in
that of Jeanne d'Arc, and was subsequently to make an end of genius in
the person of Napoleon.
[Footnote 10: "Sad and plaintive is my song
Of the days now gone forever;
And I mourn the whole day long
The loss of him whom I shall never
More behold. In grief and pain, alas!
The fairest years of my life must pass.
"How pitiless and stern is fate!
That I, to fortune born and pleasure,
Must bend beneath the cruel weight
Of pain and sorrow without measure;
While Destiny thus bounds my whole career
By the dark shadow of the funeral bier.
"In the bright springtime of my life,
Of my youth the very flower,
A melancholy, widowed wife,
I sit and sob the weary hour;
Nor can my heart a taste of joy acquire
In aught save vain regret or vain desire.
"That to me now is bitter pain
Whereat my face was wont to lighten;
And God's bright sunshine seeks in vain
The darkness of my night to brighten:
Nor in my sight is aught so fair or fine
As to arouse a wish that it were mine.
"Wheresoe'er my steps may lead,--
Whether through the forest roaming.
Or perchance by flowery mead,
Or at dawn or in the gloaming,--
Still my fond heart doth ceaselessly deplore,
And mourn the loss of him who is no more.
"If to heaven my eyes I raise,
In some cloud-shape, outlined faintly,
I behold my dear one's face
Smiling with his smile so saintly;
If my glance wanders o'er the ocean's wave,
I seem to see him beckoning from the grave.
"If my eyes in slumber close,
I can hear his dear voice calling;
And my soul with rapture glows
At his soft touch so lightly falling
Upon my cheek. Thus is he near me ever,
Whether I toil or rest; nor can grim Death us sever.
"Have done, O Muse, with thy sad strain!
What boots it to be ever singing?
Yet of my song, this sweet refrain
Is ever in my ears ringing:
The love that's true, with adoration blending,
In absence loseth nought; its growth is never ending."]
[Footnote 11: "Farewell to thee, thou pleasant shore,
The loved, the cherished home to me,
Of infant joy a dream that's o'er!
Farewell, dear France! farewell to thee!
"The sail that wafts me bears away
From thee but half my soul alone:
Its fellow-half will fondly stay,
And back to thee has faithful flown.
"I trust it to thy gentle care;
For all that here remains with me
Lives but to think of all that's there,
To love and to remember thee."]
[Footnote 12: It is impossible to translate this passage so as
adequately to convey the meaning of the text, "on avait pris terre par
un _brouillard_ dans un pays _brouillé_ et _brouillon_."--TRANSLATOR.]
CONCLUSION
Gabriel did not reach St. Quentin until August 16. At the entrance to
the town he found Jean Peuquoy awaiting him.
"Ah, here you are at last, Monsieur le Comte!" cried the honest weaver.
"I was sure that you would come! But you are too late, alas! too late!"
"What! too late?" asked Gabriel, in alarm.
"Alas! yes. Did not Madame Diane de Castro in her letter ask you to be
here yesterday, the 15th?"
"To be sure," said Gabriel; "but no particular stress was laid upon the
date, nor did Madame de Castro say why she desired my presence."
"Well, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Jean, "yesterday was the day on
which Madame de Castro--I should say, Sister Bénie--pronounced the
words which make her a nun forever, with no possibility of returning to
the world."
"Ah!" said Gabriel, turning pale.
"Whereas, if you had been at hand," continued Jean, "you might perhaps
have been able to prevent what is now an accomplished fact."
"No," said Gabriel, gloomily, "no, I could not, I ought not, nor would I
have attempted even to oppose that step. Providence doubtless kept me at
Calais, for my heart would have broken by its helplessness in the face
of her sacrificial act; and the poor, dear, afflicted soul which thus
gave itself to God's service might have had to suffer more from my
presence than she did when left alone at that solemn moment."
"Oh, but she was not alone," said Jean.
"Of course you were there, Jean, and Babette, and the poor and
unfortunate, her devoted friends."
"We were not the only ones, Monsieur le Comte," said Jean. "Sister
Bénie's mother was also with her."
"Who,--Madame de Poitiers?" exclaimed Gabriel.
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte, Madame de Poitiers herself, who, on receipt of
a letter from her daughter, hastened hither from her retirement at
Chaumont-sur-Loire, was present at the ceremonial yesterday, and should
be with the new nun at this moment."
"Oh!" said Gabriel, in terror, "why did Madame de Castro send for that
woman?"
"Why, Monseigneur, as she said to Babette, that woman is, after all, her
mother."
"Alas! I begin to think I ought to have been here yesterday," said
Gabriel. "If Madame de Poitiers is here, it can be with no good purpose,
nor to fulfil any pious maternal duty. Let us go to the Benedictine
convent, if you please, Master Jean. I am in greater haste than ever now
to see Madame de Castro, for I fear that she needs me. Come, let us
hurry!"
Gabriel was shown without objection into the parlor of the convent,
where he had been expected since the preceding day.
Diane was waiting in the parlor with her mother. Gabriel, upon seeing
her once more after so long a separation, was carried away by an
irresistible impulse, and fell on his knees, pale and dejected, before
the grating which separated them forever from each other.
"My sister! my sister!" was all he could say.
"My brother!" replied Sister Bénie, softly.
A tear rolled slowly down her cheek; but at the same time she smiled as
the angels should smile.
Gabriel, turning his head slightly, met the gaze of the other Diane,
Madame de Poitiers. She was laughing, as demons should laugh.
But Gabriel, with careless contempt for her exasperating demeanor,
concentrated his regard and his thought entirely upon Sister Bénie.
"My sister!" he repeated eagerly, and with bitter anguish.
Diane de Poitiers at this point coldly remarked,--
"It is as your sister in Jesus Christ, doubtless, Monsieur, that you
call by that title her who yesterday was still Madame de Castro?"
"What do you mean, Madame? Great God! what do mean?" asked Gabriel, with
a shudder, as he rose to his feet.
Diane de Poitiers, without replying directly to his question, addressed
her daughter:--
"The time has arrived, my child, I think, to reveal to you the secret of
which I spoke yesterday, and which, in my opinion, my bounden duty
forbids me to conceal from you any longer."
"Oh, what can it be?" cried Gabriel, distractedly.
"My child," continued Madame de Poitiers, calmly, "as I have told you,
it was not simply to give you my blessing that I have emerged from the
retirement in which I have been living for nearly two years, thanks to
Monsieur de Montgommery. Pray do not consider my words ironical,
Monsieur," she added in a tone of bitter irony in reply to a gesture of
Gabriel's. "In truth, I am extremely obliged to you for having torn me
away, with or without violence, from an impious and corrupt world. I am
happy now! The divine grace has touched me, and my whole heart is filled
with the love of God. To show my gratitude to you, I wish to save you
from the commission of a sin,--a crime, it may be."
"Oh, what can it be?" It was Sister Bénie who asked the question now
with fast-beating heart.
"My child," continued Diane de Poitiers, in her infernal, cool tones, "I
imagine that I might yesterday, with a single word, have arrested upon
your lips the sacred vows you were about to utter. But was it for me,
miserable sinner that I am, and so happy to be free from earthly
bonds,--was it for me to steal from God a soul which was about to
confide itself to Him, free and pure? No! and I held my peace."
"I dare not guess! I dare not!" muttered Gabriel.
"To-day, my child," the ex-favorite resumed, "I break my silence,
because I see from Monsieur de Montgommery's grief and earnestness that
you still possess his entire soul. Now he must make up his mind to
forget you; he must do it. But if he continues to soothe himself with
the fancy that you may be his sister, the daughter of the Comte de
Montgommery, he can allow his memory to return to you now and then
without remorse. That would be a crime! —a crime to which I, having
been converted since yesterday, do not propose to be accessory. You are
not the sister of Monsieur le Comte, but are really the daughter of King
Henri II., whom Monsieur le Comte so unfortunately slew in that fatal
tournament."
"Oh, horror!" cried Sister Bénie, hiding her face in her hands.
"You lie, Madame!" said Gabriel, vehemently. "It must be that you lie!
Where is your proof that you speak the truth?"
"Here," replied Diane de Poitiers, in a most peaceful tone, handing him
a paper which she took from her bosom.
Gabriel seized the paper with trembling hand, and read it eagerly.
"It is a letter from your father," continued Madame de Poitiers,
"written a few days before his death, as you see. He complains of my
cruelty, as you will see again; but he submits, as you may also see,
reflecting that in any event I shall soon be his wife, and that the
lover will have suffered disappointment only to make the husband's
happiness more pure and perfect. Oh, the words of that letter, which is
signed and dated, are in no wise equivocal! Am I not right? So you see,
Monsieur de Montgommery, that it would have been criminal for you to
think of Sister Bénie; for you are bound by no tie of blood to her who
is now the spouse of Jesus Christ. And in saving you from such impiety,
I hope that I have acquitted my debt to you, and have more than repaid
you for the bliss I enjoy in my solitude. We are quits now, Monsieur de
Montgommery, and I have no more to say to you."
Gabriel, while this bitter, mocking speech was being delivered, had
finished reading the baleful but sacred letter. It left no room whatever
for doubt. It was to Gabriel like the voice of his father rising from
the tomb to make known the truth.
When the wretched young man raised his wild, haggard eyes, he saw Diane
de Castro lying unconscious before a _prie-Dieu_.
He rushed instinctively toward her; but the heavy iron bars arrested his
steps.
As he turned back he saw Diane de Poitiers, and upon her lips was
playing a smile of placid contentment.
Mad with grief, he took two steps toward her with uplifted hand.
But he stopped in terror at his own act; and beating his brow like an
insane man, he cried simply,--
"Adieu, Diane! adieu!" and fled.
If he had remained a second more, he could not have forborne to
annihilate that blaspheming mother like the viper that she was!
Outside the convent Jean Peuquoy was anxiously awaiting him.
"Do not question me! Ask me nothing!" exclaimed Gabriel at once, in a
frenzy of despair.
And as honest Peuquoy gazed at him in sorrowful astonishment, he said
more gently,--
"Forgive me! I fear I am almost mad. I cannot collect my thoughts, you
see. It is to avoid the necessity of thinking that I propose to go, to
fly, to Paris. Go with me, if you will, my friend, as far as the gate
where I left my horse. But, in God's name, talk about yourself; say
nothing of me or my affairs!"
The worthy weaver, as much to comply with Gabriel's wish as to try to
distract his thoughts, went on to tell how Babette was marvellously
well, and had recently presented him with a young Peuquoy,--a splendid
fellow; how their brother Pierre had established himself in business as
an armorer at St. Quentin; and how, only the month before, they had had
news from Martin-Guerre, by a Picardy trooper returning home, and had
learned that he was still happy with his reformed Bertrande.
But it must be confessed that Gabriel, who was, as it were, made blind
and deaf by his grief, did not understand and only partly heard this
joyous narration.
However, when he and Jean Peuquoy arrived at the Paris gate, he warmly
pressed the honest burgher's hand.
"Adieu, my friend," said he. "Thanks for your affectionate kindness.
Remember me most kindly to all your loving circle. I am glad to know
that you are happy; think sometimes in your prosperity of me in my
wretchedness."
And without waiting for any other response than the tears which shone in
Jean's eyes, Gabriel mounted his horse, and set off at a gallop.
When he reached Paris (as if fate had determined to overwhelm him with
affliction of every sort at once), he found that Aloyse, his dear nurse,
had died, after a short illness, without having seen him again.
The next day he called upon Admiral de Coligny.
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "I know that the persecutions and
religious wars will soon begin anew, despite all the efforts to prevent
them. Understand that henceforth I can offer to the Reformed cause not
only my heart, but my sword as well. My life is good for nothing except
to serve you; so take it, and spare it not. Moreover, in your ranks I
can best defend myself against one of my enemies, and finish the
punishment of the other."
Gabriel had in his mind the queen-regent and the constable.
It is needless to say that Coligny enthusiastically welcomed the
invaluable auxiliary whose courage and vigor had been put to the proof
so many times.
The count's history from that moment is identical with that of the
religious wars which drenched the reign of Charles IX. with blood.
Gabriel de Montgommery played a terrible part in those wars; and at
every momentous crisis the mere mention of his name drove the color from
the cheeks of Catherine de Médicis.
When, after the massacre at Vassy in 1562, Rouen and the whole of
Normandy openly declared themselves for the Huguenots, the Comte de
Montgommery was named as the principal author of this uprising of an
entire province.
The same year the Comte de Montgommery was at the battle of Dreux, where
he performed prodigies of valor.
It was he, they said, who wounded with a pistol-ball the Constable de
Montmorency, who commanded in chief, and would have made an end of him
if the Prince de Porcien had not sheltered the constable and received
him as a prisoner.
Every one knows that a month after this battle, where Le Balafré had
wrested victory from the constable's unskilful hands, the noble Duc de
Guise was treacherously murdered before Orléans by the fanatic Poltrot.
Montmorency, relieved of a rival, but also deprived of his ally, was
less fortunate at the battle of St. Denis in 1567 than at that of Dreux.
The Scotchman Robert Stuart called upon him to surrender. He replied by
striking him across the face with the flat of his sword, whereupon some
one fired a pistol at him (the constable); the ball pierced his side,
and he fell, mortally wounded.
Through the stream of blood which obscured his sight he thought that he
recognized the features of Gabriel.
The constable breathed his last the following day.
Although he had now no direct personal foes, the Comte de Montgommery
did not lessen the force of his blows. He seemed invincible and
immortal.
When Catherine de Médicis asked who had compelled Béarn to submit to
the King of Navarre, and had caused the Prince of Béarn to be
recognized as general-in-chief of the Huguenots, the answer
was--Montgommery.
When, on the day following the massacre of St. Bartholomew (1572), the
queen-mother, in her thirst for vengeance, inquired, not as to those who
had perished, but as to those who had escaped, the first name mentioned
was--Montgommery.
Montgommery threw himself into Rochelle with Lanoue. The town sustained
nine fierce assaults, and cost the royal army forty thousand men. In the
capitulation which ensued, it retained its freedom; and Gabriel was
allowed to depart, safe and sound.
He then made his way into Sancerre, which was besieged by the governor
of Berri. He was well skilled, our readers will remember, in the defence
of beleaguered towns. A handful of Sancerrois, with no other arms than
iron-shod clubs, held out for four months against a body of six thousand
soldiers. When at last they capitulated, they obtained the same terms
granted at Rochelle,--liberty of conscience and immunity of person.
Catherine de Médicis viewed with ever-growing fury the continual
escapes of her old unconquerable foe.
Montgommery left Poitou, which was in a blaze, and returned to Normandy
to rekindle the flames which were subsiding there.
Setting out from St. Lo, within three days he had taken Carentan and
despoiled Valognes of all her supplies. All the Norman nobility ranged
themselves under his standard.
Catherine de Médicis and the king at once put three armies in the
field, and proclaimed the ban and the _arrière-ban_ in Mans and in
Perche. The royal forces were led by the Duc de Matignon.
This time Montgommery no longer fought individually. Lost in the ranks
of the Reformers, he devoted himself to thwarting Charles IX., and had
his army, as the king had his.
He formed an admirable plan, which bade fair to assure him a brilliant
victory.
He left Matignon besieging St. Lô with his whole force, secretly
quitted the town, and made his way to Domfront. There François du
Hallot was to join him with all the cavalry of Bretagne, Anjou, and the
Caux country. With these forces he proposed to fall unexpectedly upon
the royal army before St. Lô, which, being thus caught between two
fires, would be annihilated.
But treachery conquered the unconquerable. An ensign warned Matignon of
Montgommery's secret departure for Domfront, whither he was accompanied
by only forty horsemen.
Matignon cared much less about reducing St. Lô than about capturing
Montgommery; so he left the siege in charge of one of his inferior
officers, and hastened to Domfront with two regiments of foot, six
hundred horse, and a strong artillery force.
Any other than Gabriel de Montgommery would have surrendered without
entering upon a resistance sure to be of no effect; but he, with his
forty men, determined to show a bold front to that army.
In De Thou's history the incredible narrative of that siege may be read.
Domfront held out for twelve days, during which time the Comte de
Montgommery made seven furious sallies; at last, when the walls of the
town, riddled and tottering, were practically in the enemies' hands,
Gabriel abandoned them, but only to ensconce himself in what was called
the Tower of Guillaume de Bellême, and fight on.
He had only thirty men with him.
Matignon ordered to the assault a battery of five pieces of heavy
artillery, a hundred cuirassiers, seven hundred musketeers, and a
hundred pikemen.
The attack lasted five hours; and six hundred cannon-shot were fired
into the old donjon.
In the evening Montgommery had but sixteen men left; but he still held
out. He passed the night working at the breach like a common laborer.
The assault began again with daybreak. Matignon had received
reinforcements during the night, and had under his command around the
tower of the Bellême donjon and its seventeen defenders fifteen
thousand soldiers and eighteen pieces of artillery!
The courage of the besieged did not fail; but their powder was
exhausted.
Montgommery, rather than fall into the hands of his enemies alive,
determined to fall upon his own sword; but Matignon sent him a flag of
truce, the bearer of which swore in the name of his chief "that his life
should be spared, and he should be allowed to depart."
Montgommery thereupon gave himself up, trusting to the oath. He should
have remembered the fate of Castelnau.
On the same day he was sent to Paris in fetters. Catherine de Médicis
at last had him in her power. It was by treachery, to be sure; but what
mattered that? Charles IX. was dead; and pending the return of Henri
III. from Poland she was queen-regent and omnipotent.
Montgommery was dragged before parliament, and condemned to death June
26, 1574.
For fourteen years he had been fighting against the wife and children of
Henri II.
On the 27th of June, the Comte de Montgommery--to whom, in mere
refinement of cruelty, the extraordinary torture had been applied--was
carried to the scaffold and beheaded. His body was subsequently drawn
and quartered.
Catherine de Médicis was present at the execution.
Thus closed the career of that extraordinary man,--one of the noblest
and bravest souls that the sixteenth century had seen. He had never
risen above the second rank, but had always shown himself worthy of a
place in the first. His death fulfilled to the letter the predictions of
Nostradamus,--
"Enfin, l'aimera, puis las! le tuera
Dame du roy."
Diane de Castro did not survive him. She had died
the year before, abbess of the Benedictines of St.
Quentin.
THE END.