Dreamy afternoon stillness brooded over Montalme, the doves cooed
monotonously on the roof. In one of the deep, oak-panelled window
niches Blanche stood gazing down into the courtyard, which was full of
dark shadows. There stood De Lancy in the picturesque costume Titian
has immortalised in the portraits of Francis I., the puffed sleeves and
high ruff under which the handsomest man in France was pleased to hide
the stoop in his shoulders and the thickness of his neck.
To young De Lancy this costume was wonderfully becoming. With the black
velvet bonnet at his ear, he was amusing himself with a falcon, which,
perched on his shoulder, he alternately teased and soothed; then a
greyhound stretched to full length came bounding forward with light,
quick leaps, and sprang upon him. De Lancy slipped his thin, delicate
hand behind his ear, and stroked him with all the tenderness which men
of our day are accustomed to bestow on their dogs and horses, with a
certain pride in their training. At this, however, the falcon became
jealous, beat his wings, and pecked the hound with his beak. De Lancy
enjoyed teasing the two animals, and when by alternate caresses he had
made both positively unhappy, he pressed with one hand the head of the
falcon against his cheek, and with the other the head of the hound to
his breast. Then the two creatures were contented, and he smiled--his
eyes grew darker, and his white teeth glistened.
But the heart of the maiden, who, gazing down into the court, saw the
pretty play, was convulsed with pain,--was it a kind of jealousy which
agitated her--or simply a wish? Suddenly De Lancy glanced up, and
espying the young lady of the castle, greeted her respectfully. Blanche
thanked him somewhat bashfully, and drew back trembling from head to
foot. When she ventured again to look down into the court, De Lancy was
no longer to be seen.
But the wings of the gently moved afternoon air bore to her ear a
little song which the gay youth trilled to himself as he strolled away:
"Ha! me chere ennemie
Si tu veux m'apaiser,
Redonne--moy la vie
Par l'esprit d'un baiser.
Ha! j'en ay la douceur
Senti jusque au c[oe]ur.
C'est une douce rage
Qui nous poindra doucement
Quand d'un meme courage
On s'aime incessament.
Heureux sera le jour
Que je mourrai d'amour!"
V
This audacious love-song at that time flitted from lip to lip at the
court of King Francis, until about a year later the poet Ronsard sang
it,--and after he had enriched it with two or three daintily elaborated
verses it was incorporated with his works.
De Lancy had often hummed it when hastening through the gray corridors,
or walking in the garden under the sombre boughs of the blossoming
lindens. But never had Blanche heard it so completely and clearly. Warm
and full the tones of his voice rang in her ears. Through this
exuberant and frivolous nature passed the agitating sense of an almost
pathetic tenderness.
Blanche stared before her into the empty air, and there came into her
face a great terror--a mighty longing!