THE QUALITY OF MERCY.
Francis is at the Louvre, surrounded by his most devoted friends and
councillors, Chabannes, La Trémouille, Bonnivet, Montmorenci, Crequi,
Cossé, De Guise, and the two Du Bellays. The Louvre is still the
isolated stronghold, castle, palace, and prison, surrounded by moat,
walls, and bastions, built by Philippe Auguste on the grassy margin of
the Seine. In the centre of the inner court is a round tower, also
moated, and defended by ramparts, ill-famed in feudal annals for its
oubliettes and dungeons, under which the river flows. Four gates, with
posterns and towers, open from the Louvre; that one opposite the Seine
is the strongest. The southern gate--which is low and narrow, with
statues on either hand of Charles V. and his wife, Jeanne de
Bourbon--faces the Church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.[2] Beyond are
gardens and orchards, and a house called Fromenteau, where lions are
kept for the King’s amusement.
These are the days of stately manners, intellectual culture, and
increasing knowledge. Personal honour, as from man to man, is a
religion, of which Bayard is the high priest; treachery to woman, a
virtue inculcated by the King. The idle, vapid life of later courts is
unknown under a monarch who, however addicted to pleasure, cultivates
all kinds of knowledge, whose inquiring intellect seeks to master all
science, to whom indolence is impossible. His very meals are chosen
moments in which he converses with authors, poets, and artists, or
dictates letters to Erasmus and the learned Greek Lascaris. Such
industry and dignity, such grace and condescension, gather around him
the great spirits of the age. He delights in their company.
It is the King’s boast that he has introduced into France the study of
the Greek language, Botany, and Natural History. He buys, at enormous
prices, pictures, pottery, enamels, statues, and manuscripts. As in his
fervid youth at Amboise, he loves poetry and poets. Clément Marot is his
chosen guest, and polishes the King’s rhymes, of which some delicate and
touching stanzas (those on Agnes Sorel,[3] especially) have come down to
us.
Even that witty heretic, Rabelais, found both an appreciative protector
and intelligent friend in a sovereign superior to the prejudices of his
age. With learning, poetry, wit, and intellect, come luxury and
boundless extravagance. Brantôme speaks as with bated breath of the
royal expenditure. These are the days of broad sombrero hats fringed
with gold and looped up with priceless jewels and feathers; of
embroidered cloaks in costly stuffs--heavy with gold or silver
embroidery--hung over the shoulder; of slashed hose and richly chased
rapiers; of garments of cloth-of-gold, embroidered with armorial
bearings in jewels; of satin justaucorps covered with rivières of
diamonds, emeralds, and oriental pearls; of torsades and collars wherein
gold is but the foil to priceless gems. The ladies wear Eastern silks
and golden tissues, with trimmings of rare furs; wide sleeves and
Spanish fardingales, sparkling coifs and jewelled nets, with glittering
veils. They ride in ponderous coaches covered with carving and gilding,
or on horses whose pedigrees are as undoubted as their own, covered with
velvet housings and with silken nets woven with jewels, their manes
plaited with gold and precious stones. But these illustrious ladies
consider gloves a royal luxury, and are weak in respect of stockings.
Foremost in every gorgeous mode is Francis. He wears rich Genoa velvets,
and affects bright colours--rose and sky-blue. A Spanish hat is on his
head, turned up with a white plume, fastened to an aigrette of rubies,
with a golden salamander his device, signifying, “I am nourished and I
die in fire” (“Je me nourris et je meurs dans le feu”).
How well we know his dissipated though distinguished features, as
portrayed by Titian! His long nose, small eyes, broad cheeks, and
cynical mouth. He moves with careless grace, as one who would say, “_Que
m’importe?_ I am King of France; nought comes amiss to me.”
Now he walks up and down the council-room in the Louvre which looks
towards the river. His step is quick and agitated, his face wears an
unusual frown. He calls Bonnivet to him and addresses him in a low
voice, while the other nobles stand back.
“Am I to believe that Bourbon has not merely rebelled against me, but
that the traitor has fled into Spain and made terms with Charles?”
“Your Majesty’s information is precise.”
“What was the manner of his flight?”
“The Duke, Sire, waited at his fortress of Chantelle until the arrival
of Monsieur de Pompérant from your Majesty’s Court at Chambord, feigning
sickness and remaining shut up within his apartments. After Monsieur de
Pompérant’s arrival, a litter was ordered to await his pleasure, and De
Pompérant, dressed in the clothes of the Duke and with his face
concealed by a hood, was carried into the litter, which started for
Moulins, travelling slowly. Meanwhile Bourbon, accompanied by a band of
gentlemen, was galloping on the road to the frontier. He was last seen
at Saint-Jean de Luz, in the Pyrenees.”
“By our Lady!” exclaims Francis, “such treason is a blot upon
knighthood. Bourbon, a man whom we had made as great as ourselves!”
“The Duke, Sire, left a message for your Majesty.”
“A message! Where? and who bore it?”
“De Pompérant, Sire, who has already been arrested at Moulins. The Duke
begged your Majesty to take back the sword which you had given him, and
prayed you to send for the badge which he left hanging at the head of
his bed at Chantelle.”
“_Diable!_ does the villain dare to point his jests at his sovereign?”
and Francis flushes to the roots of his hair with passion. “I wish I had
him face to face in a fair field”--and he lays his hand on the hilt of
his sword;--“but no,” he adds in a calmer voice, “a traitor’s blood
would but soil my weapon. Let him carry his perfidy into Spain--’twill
suit the Emperor; I am well rid of him. Are there many accomplices,
Bonnivet?”
“About two hundred, Sire.”
“Is it possible! Do we know them?”
“The Comte de Saint-Vallier, Sire, is the principal accomplice.”
“What! Saint-Vallier, the Captain of our Archers! That strikes us
nearly. This conspiracy, my lords,” says Francis, advancing to where
Guise, La Trémouille, Montmorenci, and the others stand somewhat apart
during his conversation with Bonnivet, “is much more serious than I
imagined. I must remain in France to wait the issue of events. You,
Bonnivet, must take command of the Italian campaign.”
Bonnivet kneels and kisses the hand of Francis.
“I am sorry for Jean de Poitiers,” continues Francis, turning to Guise.
“Are the proofs against him certain?”
“Sire, Saint-Vallier accompanied the Constable to the frontier.”
“I am sorry,” repeats the King, and he passes his hand thoughtfully over
his brow and muses.
“Jean de Poitiers, my _ci-devant_ Captain of the Guards, is the father
of a charming lady; Madame Diane, the Seneschale of Normandy, is an
angel, though her husband, De Brèzè--hum--why, he is a monster. Vulcan
and Venus--the old story, eh, my lords?”
There is a general laugh.
A page enters and announces a lady humbly
[Illustration: HENRY, DUKE OF MONTMORENCI, MARSHAL OF FRANCE.
FROM A PORTRAIT BY BALTAZAR MONCORNET.]
craving to speak with his Majesty. The King smiles, his wicked eyes
glisten. “Who? what? Do I know her?”
“Sire, the lady is deeply veiled; she desires to speak with your Majesty
alone.”
“But, by St. Denis--do I know her?”
“I think, Sire, it is the wife of the Grand Seneschal of
Normandy--Madame Diane de Brèzè.”
There is a pause, some whispering, and a low laugh is heard. The King
looks around displeased. “I am not surprised,” says he. “When I heard of
the father’s danger I expected the daughter’s intercession. Let the lady
enter.”
With a wave of his hand he dismisses the Court, and seats himself on a
chair of state under a rich canopy embroidered in gold with the arms of
France.
Diane enters. She is dressed in long black robes which sweep the floor.
Her head is covered with a thick lace veil which she raises as she
approaches the King. She weeps, but her tears do not mar her beauty,
which is absolutely radiant. She is exquisitely fair and wonderfully
fresh, with golden hair and dark eyebrows--a most winsome lady.
She throws herself at the King’s feet. She clasps her hands. Her sobs
drown her voice.
“Pardon, Sire, pardon my father!” she at length falters. The King stoops
forward, and raises her to the estrade on which he stands. He looks
tenderly into her soft blue eyes, his hands are locked in hers.
“Your father, madame, my old and trusted servant, is guilty of treason.”
“Alas! Sire, I fear so; but he is old, too old for punishment. He has
been hitherto a true subject of your Majesty.”
“He is blessed, madame, with a most surpassing daughter.” Francis pauses
and looks steadfastly at her with eyes of ardent admiration. “But I fear
I must confirm the sentence of my judges, madame; your father is certain
to be found guilty of treason.”
“Oh! Sire, mercy, mercy! grant me my father’s life, I implore you”; and
again Diane falls prostrate at the King’s feet, and looks supplicatingly
into his face. Again the King raises her.
“Well, madame, you are aware that you desire the pardon of a traitor; on
what ground do you ask for his life?”
“Sire, I ask it for the sake of mercy; mercy is the privilege of kings,”
and her soft eyes seek those of Francis and rest upon them. “I have come
so far, too, from Normandy, to invoke it--my poor father!” and she sobs
again. “Your Majesty will not send me back refused, broken-hearted?”
Still her eyes are fixed upon the King.
“Mercy, Madame Diane, is, doubtless, a royal prerogative. I am an
anointed king,” and he lets go her hands, and draws himself up proudly,
“and I may use it; but the prerogative of a woman is beauty. Beauty,
Madame Diane,” adds Francis, with a glance at the lovely woman still
kneeling at his feet, “is more potent than a king’s word.”
There is silence for a few moments. Diane’s eyes are now bent upon the
ground, her bosom heaves. Francis contemplates her with delight.
“Will you, fair lady, deign to exercise your prerogative?”
“Truly, Sire, I know not what your Majesty would say,” replies Diane,
looking down and blushing.
Something in his eyes gives her hope, for she starts violently, rises,
and clasping her hands together exclaims, “How, Sire! do I read your
meaning aright? can I, by my humble service to your Majesty----”
“Yes, fair lady, you can. Your presence at my Court, where your adorable
beauty shall receive due homage, will be my hostage for your father’s
loyalty. Madame Diane, I declare that the Comte de Saint-Vallier is
PARDONED. Though he had rent the crown from off our head, your father is
pardoned. And I add, madame, that it was the charm of his daughter that
rendered a refusal impossible.”
Madame Diane’s face shines like April sunshine through rain-drops; a
smile parts her lips, and her glistening eyes dance with joy; she is
more lovely than ever.
“Thanks, thanks, Sire!” And again she would have knelt, but the King
again takes her hands, and looks into her face so earnestly that she
again blushes.
Did that look of the King fascinate her? or did the sudden joy of saving
her father move her heart with love? Who can tell? It is certain,
however, that from this time Diane left Normandy, and became one of the
brightest ornaments of that beauty-loving Court. Diane was a woman of
masculine understanding, concealed under the gentlest and most
fascinating manners; but she was also mercenary, intriguing, and
domineering. Of her beauty we may judge for ourselves, as many portraits
of her are extant, especially one of great excellence by Leonardo da
Vinci, in the long gallery at Chenonceau.
Diane was soon forsaken, but the ready-witted lady consoled herself by
laying siege to the heart of the son of Francis, Prince Henry,
afterwards Henry II.
Henry surrendered at discretion. Nothing can more mark the freedom of
the times than this _liaison_. Yet both these ladies--Diane de Poitiers
and her successor in the favour of the King, the Duchesse
d’Étampes--were constantly in the society of two most virtuous queens
Claude, and Elinor of Spain, the successive wives of Francis.