BROKEN FAITH.
We are at Madrid. Francis has been lured hither by incredible treachery,
under the idea that he will meet Charles V., and be at once set at
liberty.
He is confined in one of the rooms of the Alcazar, then used as a state
prison. A massive oaken door, clamped and barred with iron, opens from
the court from whence a flight of steps leads into two small chambers
which occupy one of the towers. The inner room has narrow windows,
closely barred. The light is dim. There is just room for a table, two
chairs, and a bed. It is a cage rather than a prison.
On a chair, near an open window, sits the King. He is emaciated and
pale; his cheeks are hollow, his lips are white, his eyes are sunk in
his head, his dress is neglected. His glossy hair, plentifully streaked
with grey, covers the hand upon which he wearily leans his head. He
gazes vacantly at the setting sun opposite--a globe of fire rapidly
sinking below the low dark plain which bounds his view.
There are boundless plains in front of him, and on his left a range of
tawny hills. A roadway runs beneath the tower, where the Imperial Guards
are encamped. The gay fanfare of the trumpets sounding the retreat, the
waving banners, the prancing horses, the brilliant accoutrements, the
glancing armour of the imperial troops, mock him where he sits. Around
him is Madrid. Palace, tower, and garden rise out of a sea of buildings
burnt by southern sunshine. The church-bells ring out the _Ave Maria_.
The fading light darkens into night. Still the King sits beside the open
window, lost in thought. No one comes to disturb him. Now and then some
broken words escape his lips:--“Save France--my poor soldiers--brave De
Foix--noble Bonnivet--see, he is tossed on the Spanish pikes. Alas!
would I were dead. My sister--my little lads--the Dauphin--Henry--Orléans--I
shall never see you more. Oh, God! I am bound in chains of
iron--France--liberty--Glory--gone--gone for ever!” His head sinks on
his breast; tears stream from his eyes. He falls back fainting in his
chair, and is borne to his bed.
Francis has never seen Charles, who is at his capital, Toledo. The
Emperor does not even excuse his absence. This cold and cautious policy,
this death in life, is agony to the ardent temperament of Francis. His
health breaks down. A settled melancholy, a morbid listlessness
overwhelms him. He is seized with fever; he rapidly becomes delirious.
His royal gaoler, Charles, will not believe in his danger; he still
refuses to see him. False himself, he believes Francis to be shamming.
The Spanish ministers are distracted by their master’s obstinacy, for if
the French King dies at Madrid of broken heart, all is lost, and a
bloody war with France inevitable.
At the moment when the Angel of Death hovers over the Alcazar, a sound
of wheels is heard below. A litter, drawn by reeking mules and covered
with mud, dashes into the street. The leather curtains are drawn aside,
and Marguerite d’Alençon, pale and shrunk with anxiety and fatigue,
attended by two ladies, having travelled from Paris day and night,
descends. Breathless with excitement, she passes quickly up the narrow
stairs, through the anteroom, and enters the King’s chamber. Alas! what
a sight awaits her. Francis lies insensible on his bed. The room is
darkened, save where a temporary altar has been erected, opposite his
bed, on which lights are burning. A Bishop officiates. The low voices of
priests, chanting as they move about the altar, alone break a death-like
silence. Marguerite, overcome by emotion, clasps her hands and sinks on
her knees beside her brother. Her sobs and cries disturb the solemn
ordinance. She is led almost fainting away. Then the Bishop approaches
the King, bearing the bread of life, and, at that moment, Francis
becomes suddenly conscious. He opens his eyes, and in a feeble voice
prays that he may be permitted to receive it. So humbly, yet so
joyfully, does he communicate that all present are deeply moved.
In spite, however, of the presence of Marguerite in Madrid, the King
relapses. He again falls into a death-like trance. Then, and then only,
does the Emperor yield to the reproaches of the Duchesse d’Alençon and
the entreaties of his ministers. He takes horse from Toledo and rides to
Madrid almost without drawing rein, until he stops at the heavy door in
the Alcazar. He mounts the stairs and enters the chamber. Francis, now
restored to consciousness, prompted by a too generous nature, opens his
arms to embrace him.
“Your Majesty has come to see your prisoner die,” says he in a feeble
voice, faintly smiling.
“No,” replies Charles, with characteristic caution and Spanish courtesy,
bowing profoundly and kissing him on either cheek; “no, your Majesty
will not die, you are no longer my prisoner; you are my friend and
brother. I come to set you free.”
“Ah, Sire,” murmurs Francis in a voice scarcely audible, “death will
accomplish that before your Majesty; but if I live--and indeed I do not
believe I shall, I am so overcome by weakness--let me implore you to
allow me to treat for my release in person with your Majesty; for this
end I came hither to Madrid.”
At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a
page, who announces to the Emperor that the Duchesse d’Alençon has
arrived and awaits his Majesty’s pleasure. Glad of an excuse to
terminate a most embarrassing interview with his too confiding prisoner,
Charles, who has been seated on the bed, rises hastily--
“Permit me, my brother,” says he, “to leave you, in order to descend and
receive your august sister in person. In the meantime recover your
health. Reckon upon my willingness to serve you. Some other time we will
meet; then we can treat more in detail of these matters, when your
Majesty is stronger and better able to converse.”
Charles takes an affectionate leave of Francis, descends the narrow
stairs, and with much ceremony receives the Duchess.
“I rejoice, madame,” says he, “to offer you in person the homage of all
Spain, and my own hearty thanks for the courage and devotion you have
shown in the service of the King, my brother. He is a prisoner no
longer. The conditions of release shall forthwith be prepared by my
ministers.”
“Is the King fully aware what those conditions are, Sire?” Marguerite
coldly asks.
Charles was silent.
“I fear our mother, Madame Louise, Regent of France,” continues the
Duchesse d’Alençon, “may find it difficult to accept your conditions,
even though it be to liberate the Sovereign of France, her own beloved
son.”
“Madame,” replies Charles evasively, “I will not permit this occasion,
when I have the happiness of first saluting you within my realm, to be
occupied with state affairs. Rely on my desire to set my brother free.
Meanwhile the King will, I hope, recover his strength. Pressing business
now calls me back to Toledo. Adieu! most illustrious princess, to whom I
offer all that Madrid contains for your service. Permit me to kiss your
hands. Salute my brother, the King, from me. Once more, royal lady,
adieu!”
Marguerite curtseys to the ground. The Emperor, with his head uncovered,
mounts his horse, again salutes her, and attended by his retinue puts
spurs to his steed and rides from the Alcazar on his return to Toledo.
Marguerite fully understands the treachery of his words. Her heart
swelling with indignation, she slowly ascends to the King’s chamber.
“Has the Emperor departed already?” Francis eagerly asks her.
“Yes, my brother; pressing business, he says, calls him back to Toledo,”
replies Marguerite bitterly, speaking very slowly.
“What! gone so soon, before giving me an opportunity of discussing with
him the terms of my freedom. Surely, my sister, this is strange,” says
Francis, turning eagerly towards the Duchess, and then sinking back pale
and exhausted on his pillows.
Marguerite seats herself beside him, takes his hand tenderly within both
her own, and gazes at him in silence.
“But, my sister, did my brother, the Emperor, say _nothing_ to you of
his speedy return?”
“Nothing,” answers Marguerite, drily.
“Yet he assured me, with his own lips, that I was already free, and that
the conditions of release would be prepared immediately.”
“Dear brother,” says the Duchess, “has your imprisonment at Madrid, and
the conduct of the Emperor to you this long time past, inclined you to
believe what he says?”
“I, a king myself, should be grieved to doubt a brother sovereign’s
word.”
“Francis,” says Marguerite, speaking with great earnestness and fixing
her eyes on him, “what you say convinces me that you are weakened by
illness. Your naturally acute intellect is dulled by the confusion of
recent delirium. If you were in full possession of your senses you would
not speak as you do. My brother, take heed of my words--you will never
be free.”
“How,” exclaims the King, starting up, “never be free? What do you
mean?”
“Calm yourself, my brother. You are, I fear, too weak to hear what I
have to say.”
“No, no! my sister; suspense to me is worse than death. Speak to me,
Marguerite; speak to me, my sister.”
“Then, Sire, let me ask you, when you speak of release, when the Emperor
tells you you are free, are you aware of the conditions he imposes on
you?”
“Not accurately,” replies Francis. “Certain terms were proposed, before
my illness, that I should surrender whole provinces in France, renounce
my rights in the Milanese, pay an enormous ransom, leave my sons
hostages at Madrid; but these were the proposals of the Spanish council.
The Emperor, speaking personally to a brother sovereign, would never
press anything on me unbecoming my royal condition; therefore it is that
I desire to treat with himself alone.”
“Alas! my brother, you are too generous; you are deceived. Much
negotiation has passed during your illness, and since my arrival.
Conditions have been proposed by Spain to the Regent, that she--your
mother--supported by the parliament of your country, devoted to your
person, has refused. Listen to me, Francis. Charles seeks to dismember
France. As long as it remains a kingdom, he intends that you shall never
leave Madrid.”
“Marguerite, my sister, proceed, I entreat you!” breaks in Francis,
trembling with excitement.
“Burgundy is to be ceded; you are to renounce all interest in Flanders
and in the Milanese. You are to pay a ransom that will beggar the
kingdom. You are to marry Elinor, Queen Dowager of Portugal, sister to
Charles, and you are to leave your sons, the Dauphin and the Duc
d’Orléans, hostages in Spain for the fulfilment of these demands.”
Francis turns very white, and sinks back speechless on the pillows that
support him. He stretches out his arm to his sister and fondly clasps
her neck. “Marguerite, if it is so, you say well,--I shall never leave
Madrid. My sister, let me die ten thousand deaths rather than betray the
honour of France.”
“Speak not of death, dearest brother!” exclaims Marguerite, her face
suddenly flushing with excitement. “I have come to make you live. I,
Marguerite d’Alençon, your sister, am come to lead you back to your army
and to France; to the France that mourns for you; to the army that is
now dispersed and insubordinate; to the mother who weeps for her beloved
son.” Marguerite’s voice falters; she sobs aloud, and rising from her
chair, she presses her brother in her arms. Francis feebly returns her
embrace, tenderly kisses her, and signs to her to proceed. “Think you,”
continues Marguerite more calmly, and reseating herself, but still
holding the King’s hand--“think you that councils in which _Bourbon_ has
a voice----” At this name the King shudders and clenches his fist upon
the bed-clothes. “Think you that a sovereign who has treacherously lured
you to Madrid will have any mercy on you? No, my brother; unless you
agree to unworthy conditions, imposed by a treacherous monarch who
abuses his power over you, here you will languish until you die! Now
mark my words, dear brother. Treaties made under _duresse_, by _force
majeure_, are legally void. You will dissemble, my generous King--for
the sake of France, you will dissemble. You must fight this crafty
emperor with his own weapons.”
“What! my sister, be false to my word--I, a belted knight, invested by
the hands of Bayard on the field
[Illustration: THE CHEVALIER BAYARD.
AFTER A. DE NEUVILLE.
(By permission of Estes & Lauriat.)]
of Marignano, stoop to a lie? Marguerite, you are mad!”
“Oh, Francis, hear me!” cries Marguerite passionately, “hear me; on my
knees I conjure you to live, for yourself, for us, for France.” She
casts herself on the floor beside him. She wrings his hands, she kisses
his feet, her tears falling thickly. “Francis, you must, you shall
consent. By-and-by you will bless me for this tender violence. You are
not fit to meddle in this matter. Leave to me the care of your honour;
is it not my own? I come from the Regent, from the council, from all
France. Believe me, brother, if you are perjured, all Europe will
applaud the perjury.”
Marguerite, whose whole frame quivers with agitation, speaks no more.
There is a lengthened pause. The flush of fever is on the King’s face.
“My sister,” murmurs Francis, struggling with a broken voice to express
himself, “you have conquered. Into your hands I commit my honour and the
future of France. Leave me a while to rest, for I am faint.”
Treaties made under _duresse_ by _force majeure_ are legally void. The
Emperor must be decoyed into the belief that terms are accepted by
Francis, which are to be broken the instant his foot touches French
soil. It is with the utmost difficulty that the chivalrous monarch can
be brought to lend himself to this deceit. But the prayers of his
sister, the deplorable condition of his kingdom deprived of his presence
for nearly five years, the terror of returning illness, and the thorough
conviction that Charles is as perfidious as he is ambitious, at length
prevail. Francis ostensibly accepts the Emperor’s terms, and Queen
Claude being dead, he affiances himself to Charles’s sister, Elinor,
Queen Dowager of Portugal.
Francis was perjured, but France was saved.