ALL LOST SAVE HONOUR.
The next scene is in Italy. The French army lies encamped on the broad
plains of Lombardy, backed by snowy lines of Alpine fastnesses.
Bonnivet, in command of the French, presumptuous and inexperienced, has
been hitherto defeated in every battle. Bourbon, fighting on the side of
Spain, is, as before, victorious.
Francis, stung by the repeated defeat of his troops, has now joined the
army, and commands in person. Milan, where the plague rages, has opened
its gates to him; but Pavia, distant about twenty miles, is occupied by
the Spaniards in force. Antonio de Leyva is governor. Thither the French
advance in order to besiege the city.
The open country is defended by the Spanish forces under Bourbon.
Francis, maddened by the presence of his cousin, rushes onward.
Montmorenci and Bonnivet, flatterers both, assure him that victory is
certain by means of a _coup de main_.
It is night; the days are short, for it is February. The winter moon
lights up the rich meadow lands divided by the broad Ticino and broken
by the deep ditches and sluggish streams which surround the city. Tower,
campanile, dome, and turret, with here and there the grim façade of a
mediæval palace, stand out in the darkness.
Yonder among the meadows are the French, darkening the surrounding
plain. Francis knows that the Constable is advancing to support the
garrison of Pavia, and he desires to carry the city by assault before
his arrival. Ever too rash, and now excited by a passionate sense of
injury, Francis, with D’Alençon, De la Trémouille, De Foix, and
Bonnivet, leads the attack at the head of his cavalry. Now he is under
the very walls. Despite the dim moonlight, no one can mistake him. He
wears a suit of steel armour inlaid with gold; a crimson surcoat,
embroidered with gilt “F’s”; a helmet encircled by a jewelled crown, out
of which rises a yellow plume and golden salamander. For an instant
success seems certain; the scaling-ladders thick with soldiers are
already planted against the lowest walls, and the garrison retreats
under cover of the bastions. A sudden panic seizes the troops beneath,
who are to support the assault. In the treacherous moonlight they have
fallen into confusion among the deep, slimy ditches; many are drifted
away in the current of the great river. A murderous cannonade from the
city walls now opens on the assailants and on the cavalry. Francis falls
back. The older generals conjure him to retreat and raise the siege
before the arrival of Bourbon, but, backed by Bonnivet and Montmorenci,
he will not hear of it. The battle rages during the night. The morning
light discovers the Spaniards commanded by Bourbon and Pescara, with the
whole strength of their army, close under the walls. Again the King
leads a fresh assault--a forlorn hope, rather. He fights desperately;
the yellow plumes of his helmet wave hither and thither as his horse
dashes wildly from side to side amidst the smoke, in the thickest of the
battle. See, for an instant he falters,--he is wounded and bleeding. He
recovers, however, and again clapping spurs to his horse, scatters his
surrounding foes; six have already fallen by his hand. Look! his charger
is pierced by a ball and falls with his rider. After a desperate
struggle the King extricates himself; now on foot, he still fights
furiously. Alas! it is in vain. Every moment his enemies thicken around
him, pressing closer and closer. His gallant followers drop one by one
under the unerring aim of the Basque marksmen. La Trémouille has fallen.
De Foix lies a corpse at his feet. Bonnivet in despair expiates his evil
counsel by death.[4] Every shot takes from him one of the pillars of his
throne. Francis flings himself wildly on the points of the Spanish
pikes. The Royal Guards fall like summer grass before the sickle; but
where the King stands, still dealing desperate blows, the bodies of the
slain form a rampart of protection around him. His very enemies stand
back amazed at such furious courage. While he struggles for his life
hand to hand with D’Avila and D’Ovietta, plumeless, soiled, and bloody,
a loud cry rises from a thousand voices--“It is the King--LET HIM
SURRENDER--_Capture the King!_” There is a dead silence; the Spanish
troops fall back. A circle is formed round the now almost fainting
Francis, who lies upon the blood-stained earth. De Pompérant advances.
He kneels before the master whom he has betrayed, he implores him to
yield to Bourbon.
At that hated name the King starts into fresh fury; he grasps his sword,
he struggles to his feet. “Never,” cries he in a hoarse voice; “never
will I surrender to that traitor! Rather let me die by the hand of a
common marksman. Go back, Monsieur de Pompérant, and call to me the
Vice-King of Naples.”
Lannoy advances, kneels, and kisses his hand. “Your Majesty is my
prisoner,” he cries aloud, and a ringing shout is echoed from the
Spanish troops.
Francis gives him his sword. Lannoy receives it kneeling, and replaces
it by his own. The King’s helmet is then removed; a velvet cap is given
to him, which he places on his head. The Spanish and Italian troopers
and the deadly musketeers silently creep round him where he lies on the
grass, supported by cushions, one to tear a feather from his broken
plume, another to cut a morsel from his surcoat as a relic. This
involuntary homage from his enemies is evidently agreeable to Francis.
As his surcoat rapidly disappears under the knives of his opponents, he
smiles, and graciously acknowledges the rough advances of those same
soldiers who a moment before thirsted for his blood. Other generals with
Pescara advance and surround him. He courteously acknowledges their
respectful salutations.
“Spare my poor soldiers, spare my Frenchmen, generals,” says he.
These unselfish words bring tears into Pescara’s eyes.
“Your Majesty shall be obeyed,” replies he.
“I thank you,” replies Francis with a faltering voice.
A pony is now brought to bear him into Pavia. Francis becomes greatly
agitated. As they raise him up and assist him to mount, he turns to his
escort of generals--
“Marquis,” says he, turning to Pescara, “and you, my lord governor, if
my calamity touches your hearts, as it would seem to do, I beseech you
not to lead me into Pavia. I would not be exposed to the affront of
entering as a prisoner a city I should have taken by assault. Carry me,
I pray you, to some shelter without the walls.”
“Your Majesty’s wishes are our law,” replies Pescara, saluting him. “We
will bear you to the monastery of Saint-Paul, without the gate towards
Milan.”
To Saint-Paul the King was carried. It was from thence he wrote the
historic letter to his mother, Louise de Savoie, Regent of France, in
which he tells her, “_all is lost save honour_.”