LAST DAYS.
Rambouillet is now a station on the railway between Versailles,
Chartres, and Le Mans. It is a sunny little town, sloping to the south,
in a sheltered hollow, over which the slanting roofs and conical turrets
of the palace rise out of stately elms and spiked poplars. The
principal façade of the château--which consists of two wings at right
angles to each other, having at each corner a circular turret,
surmounted by a spire--faces the mid-day sun. The ground lies low, and
canals, extending in three directions, bordered by terraced walks and
avenues, intersect the grassy lawns which lengthen into the tangled
woodland of the surrounding forest. Opposite the château, on an islet,
is a grotto called “La Marmite de Rabelais.” To the right, the three
canals flow into a river, spanned by a low bridge, known as “the
accursed bridge,” from some now obscure tradition foreboding evil to
those who pass over it. On every other side, the trunks of venerable
trees, their overarching branches closing above like a cloister--pillars
of oak, elm, and ash--wind away into grassy meads and shady dingles,
intersected by long rides cut straight through the forest, proper for
the stag-hunts which have been held in this ancient manor since the
Middle Ages.
The château itself has now been modernised, save where one ivy-crowned
round tower (the donjon of the mediæval fortress), in deep shadow,
frowns an angry defiance to the stucco and whitewash of the flimsy
modern façade.
It is the month of March, in the year 1547. Francis, attended by a small
retinue, has arrived at the foot of this round tower. Coming from the
south, he has crossed the river by “the accursed bridge.”
During the whole past year he has wandered from place to place,
revisiting all his favourite haunts as though conscious that he is
bidding them farewell. The restlessness of mortal disease is upon him.
Though he flies from city to hamlet, from castle to palace, vainly
seeking respite from pain, death haunts and follows him. His life is
agony. He is greatly changed--an internal fever consumes him. His eyes
are haggard; his face is thin, and his body emaciated. Only fifty-two
years old, like his great rival the Emperor Charles, he is prematurely
aged. Now he is half lifted from his coach and slowly led up a winding
staircase to his apartments on the second floor by his friend James
d’Angennes, to whose ancestors Rambouillet belonged. Francis comes from
Chambord, where Marguerite, now Queen of Navarre by her second marriage,
met him. Marguerite and her brother still cling to each other, but they
are both aged and full of care. Her beauty is faded and her health is
broken. Even she, though devoted as ever, cannot amuse Francis or
dissipate the weight that oppresses his spirit. The old topics that were
wont to delight him are irritably dismissed. He no longer cares for
poetry, is wearied of politics, shrinks from society, and abuses women.
It is at this time he writes with the point of a diamond, on the window
of his closet at Chambord, these significant lines:--
“Souvent femme varie;
Mal habile qui s’y fie!”
He can only talk to his sister on sorrowful subjects: of the death by
plague of his favourite son Charles, who caught the infection when
sleeping at Abbeville; or of his old friend, Henry VIII. of England, who
has also recently died.
The death of the latter seems to affect Francis terribly. “Our lives,”
he says, “were very similar--he was slightly older, but I shall not
long survive him.” Vainly does Marguerite combat these dismal
forebodings. She laments in secret the sad change. Ever sympathetic with
her brother, she, too, throws aside romance and poetry and composes “The
Mirror of a Sinful Soul,” to suit his altered humour. Alas! what would
Marguerite say if she knew what is carefully concealed from her? That
the great surgeon Paré--Paré, who was afterwards to draw the spear-point
from the cheek of the Balafré--has pronounced that the King’s malady is
hopeless!
After a short sojourn together at Chambord, the brother and sister part
never to meet again.
Francis was to have passed the carnival at Limours, says Du Bellay; now
he commands the masked balls and the court ballets to be held at
Saint-Germain en Laye. The King’s fancy changes; he will rouse himself;
he will shake off the horrible lethargy that is creeping over him; he
will dismiss sinister presentiments. Disguised himself, he will dance
among the maskers--the excitement will revive him.
But strong as is his will, high as is his courage, the mortal disease
within him is stronger still. Suddenly he countermands all his orders.
He will rather go to Rambouillet to visit his old friend, D’Angennes; to
meet Rabelais perhaps, who loves the old castle, and to hunt in the
great woods.
The quiet old manor, half hunting-lodge, half fortress, buried in
secluded woods just bursting into leaf, where the wild boar and the stag
are plentiful, will suit him better than banquets, balls, games, and
boisterous revelry. The once dauntless Francis is grown nervous and
querulous, and is painfully
[Illustration: DUCHESSE D’ÉTAMPES.]
conscious of the slightest noise. After a rapid journey he crosses the
ill-omened bridge and arrives at Rambouillet. No sooner has he been laid
in his bed than again his mind changes. He must rise and go to
Saint-Germain, more suitable than Rambouillet in accommodation for his
present condition. But the intense anguish he suffers renders his
project impossible. Well, he will remain. He will rest one night here;
then, he will depart. In the morning, says the same historian, he awakes
at daylight, feeling somewhat better. He commands a royal hunt for stags
and boars. Once more he hears the bugle of the huntsmen, the baying of
the hounds, the tramp of the impatient steeds. The fresh morning air
gives him fictitious strength. He rises from his bed, dresses himself,
descends, forces himself on horseback and rides forth, defying disease
and pain. Alas! he is soon brought back to the donjon tower and carried
up the stairs speechless and in mortal agony to his bed. Fever and
delirium ensue, but as the death shadows gather round him weakness
clears his brain.
“I am dying,” says he, faintly, addressing D’Angennes, who never leaves
him for an instant; “send for my son Henry.”
“Sire,” replies the Count, “his highness is already here.”
“Let him come to me at once; my breath fails me fast.”
The Prince enters and kneels beside the dying King. He weeps bitterly,
takes his father’s already cold hand in his own and kisses it. Francis
feebly returns the pressure. He turns his sunken eyes towards his son
and signs that he would speak. Henry, the better to catch his words,
rises and bends over him.
“My son, I have been a great sinner,” falters the dying King, “my
passions led me astray; avoid this, Henry. If I have done well, follow
that, not the evil.”
“Sire,” replies the Prince, “we all love and honour your Majesty.”
“Cherish France, my son,” continues the King; “it is a noble nation.
They refused me nothing in my adversity, nor will they you, if you rule
them rightly. Lighten the taxes, my son,--be good to my people.”
His voice grows fainter and less distinct, his face more ashen.
The Prince, seeing his lips move, but hearing no sound, lays his ear
close to his father’s mouth.
“Commend me to Catherine, your wife; beware of the Guises; they will
strip you; they are all traitors[6]; cherish my people.” He spoke no
more.
The Prince motions to D’Angennes, and the parish priest with his
acolytes enters, bearing the Host. Speechless, but conscious, with a
look of infinite devotion, Francis receives the sacraments. Then,
turning his dying eyes towards his son, he feebly raises his hands to
bless him.
Henry, overcome by the sight of his dying father, sinks prostrate beside
the bed. D’Angennes stands at the head, supporting his dying master in
his arms; while he wipes the moisture from his forehead, Francis
expires.