MARY STUART AND HER HUSBAND.
Francis II., aged sixteen, eldest son of Henry II., is nominally King of
France. He is gentle and affectionate (strange qualities for a son of
Catherine), well principled, and not without understanding. Born with a
feeble constitution and badly educated, he lacks vigour both of mind and
body to grasp the reigns of government in a period so stormy--a period
when Guise is at variance with Condé, and the nation is distracted
between Catholic and Protestant intrigues. Though yet a boy, Francis is
married to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, daughter of James V. and Mary
of Lorraine, and niece to the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine.
Francis and Mary have known each other from earliest childhood. At the
age of five the little Scottish Princess was sent to the Louvre to be
educated with her royal cousins. Even at that tender age she was the
delight and wonder of the Court--a little northern rosebud, transplanted
into a southern climate, by-and-by to expand into a perfect flower. Her
sweet temper, beauty, and winning manners gained all hearts. She was,
moreover, says Brantôme, quiet, discreet, and accomplished.
Accomplished, indeed, as well as learned, for, at fourteen, the
fascinating girl recited a Latin oration of her own composition in the
great gallery of the Louvre, before her future father-in-law, King
Henry, and the whole Court, to the effect “that women ought to rival,
if not to excel, men in learning.” She spoke with such composure, her
voice was so melodious, her gesture so graceful, and her person so
lovely, that the King publicly embraced her, and swore a great oath that
she alone was fit to marry with the Dauphin. Forthwith he betrothed her
to his son Francis. This marriage between a youth and a girl yet in
their teens was a dream of love, short, but without alloy.
Catherine rules, and Francis and Mary Stuart, too young and careless to
desire any life but a perpetual holiday in each others company, tremble
at her frown and implicitly obey her.
Now and then Mary’s maternal uncles, the princes of Lorraine, Francis,
the great Duc de Guise (the same who took Calais and broke the English
Queen’s heart), and the Cardinal de Lorraine, the proudest and falsest
prelate in the sacred college,[9] endeavour to traverse the designs of
Catherine, and to inspire their beautiful niece with a taste for
intrigue--under their guidance, be it well understood. But all such
attempts are useless. Mary loves poetry and music, revels in banquets
and masques, hunts and games, and toys with her boy-husband, of whose
society she never wearies.
Nevertheless, the Queen-mother hates her, accuses her of acting the part
of a spy for her uncles, the Guises, and, sneering, speaks of her as
“une petite reinette qui fait tourner toutes les tétes.”
The Court is at Amboise, that majestic castle planted on a pile of
sombre rocks that cast gloomy shadows across the waters of the Loire,
widened at this spot into the magnitude of a lake, the river being
divided by an island and crossed by two bridges.
Over these bridges they come, a glittering procession, preceded by
archers and attended by pages and men-at-arms. Francis rides in front;
he is tall, slight, and elegantly formed, and sits his horse with
elegant grace. His grey, almond-shaped eyes sparkle as he turns them
upon the young Queen riding at his side. Mary is seated on a dark
palfrey. She is dressed in a white robe, fastened from the neck
downwards with jewelled buttons. The robe itself is studded with gold
embroidery and trimmed with ermine. A ruff of fine lace, and a chain of
gold, from which hangs a medallion, are round her slender throat. Her
hair is drawn back from her forehead, and a little pointed cap, set with
jewels, to which is attached a thin white veil falling behind, sets off
the chiselled features, the matchless eyes, and exquisite complexion of
her fair young face.
Catherine and the Duc de Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de
Nemours follow. Behind them the gay multitude of a luxurious Court fills
up the causeway. Francis has a prepossessing face, but looks pale and
ill. As they ride, side by side, Mary watches him with tender anxiety.
Her sweet eyes rest on him as she speaks, and she caressingly places her
hand upon his saddle-bow as they ascend the rocky steep leading to the
castle.
When they dismount, the Queen-mother--her hard face set into a
frown--passes, without speaking a word, into her own apartments. The Duc
de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine also retire with gloomy looks. Not
a single word do either of them address to Francis or to Mary. The
young sovereigns enter the royal chambers, a stately suite of
apartments, the lofty windows of which, reaching from ceiling to floor,
overlook the river. Folding doors open into a gallery wainscoted with
oak richly gilt, with a carved ceiling richly emblazoned with
coats-of-arms. The walls are covered with crimson brocade set in heavy
frames of carved gold; chandeliers of glittering pendants hang from open
rafters formed of various-coloured wood arranged in mosaic patterns.
Beyond is a retiring room, hung with choice tapestry of flowers and
fruit on a violet ground, let into arabesque borders of white and gold.
Inlaid tables of marble bear statues and tazzas of alabaster and enamel.
Clustered candelabra of coloured Venetian glass hold perfumed candles,
and the flowers of the spring are placed in cups and vases of rarest
pottery.
Mary, with a wave of her hand, dismisses her attendants. Francis sinks
into a chair beside an open window, utterly exhausted. He sighs, leans
back his head, and closes his eyes.
“_Mon amour_,” says Mary, throwing her arms round him, and kissing his
white lips, “you are very weary. Tell me--why is the Queen-mother so
grave and silent? When I spoke she did not answer me. My uncles, too,
frighten me with their black looks. Tell me, Francis, what have I done?”
“Done, sweetest?--nothing,” answered Francis, unclosing his eyes, and
looking at her. “Our mother is busied with affairs of state, as are also
your uncles. There is much to disquiet them.” Francis draws her closer
to him, laying his head upon her shoulder wearily, and again closing his
eyes. “It is some conspiracy against her and your uncles--the
Guises--_mignonne_,” added he, whispering into her ear.
“Conspiracy! Holy Virgin, how dreadful! Why did you not tell me this
before we left Blois?”
“I feared to frighten you, dear love, ere we were safe within the thick
walls of this old fortress.”
Mary starts up and seizes his hand.
“Tell me, tell me,” she says, in an unsteady voice, “what is this
conspiracy?”
“A plot of the Huguenots, in which Condé and the Coligni are concerned,”
replies Francis, roused by her vehemence into attention. “Did you not
mark how suddenly our uncle, Francis of Guise, appeared at Blois, and
that he was closeted with her Majesty for hours?” Mary, her eyes
extended to their utmost limit and fixed on his, bows her head in
assent. “Did we not leave immediately after the interview for Amboise?
Did not that make you suspicious?”
“No, Francis; for you said that we came here to hold a joust and to hunt
in the forest of Chanteloup. How could I doubt your word? Oh! this is
horrible!”
“We came to Amboise, _ma mie_, because it is a stronghold, and Blois is
an open town.”
“Do you know no more? or will you still deceive me?” asks Mary eagerly,
looking at him with tearful eyes.
“My mother told me that the Duc de Guise was informed by the Catholics
of England (which tidings have been since confirmed), that the Huguenots
are arming in force, that they are headed by Condé, that they are
plotting to imprison the Queen-mother and your uncles, and to carry you
and me to Paris by force.”
“By force? Would they lay hands on us? Oh, Francis, are we safe in this
castle?” exclaims Mary, clasping her hands. “Will our guards defend us?
Are the walls manned? Is the town faithful? Are there plenty of troops
to guard the bridges?”
As she speaks, Mary trembles so violently that she has slid from her
chair and sinks upon the ground, clinging to Francis in an agony of
fear.
“Courage, my _reinette_! rise up, and sit beside me,” and Francis raises
her in his arms and replaces her on her chair. “Here we are safe. This
conspiracy is not directed against us, Mary. The people say my mother
and the Guises rule, not I, the anointed King. The Huguenots want to
carry us off to Paris for our good. _Pardieu!_ I know little of the plot
myself as yet; my mother refused to tell me. Anyhow, we are secure here
at Amboise from Turk, Jew, or Huguenot, so cheer up, my lovely queen!”
As Mary looks up again further to question him, he stops her mouth with
kisses.
“Let us leave all to the Queen-mother. She is wise, and governs for us
while we are young. She loves not to be questioned. Sweetest, I am
weary, give me a cup of wine; let me lie in your closet, and you shall
sing me to sleep with your lute.”
“But, Francis,” still urges Mary, gently disengaging herself from his
arms as he leads her away, “surely my uncles must be in great danger; a
conspiracy perhaps means an assassination. I beseech you let me go and
question them myself.”
“_Nenni_,” answers Francis, drawing her to him. “You shall come with me.
I will not part with you for a single instant. Ah! _mignonne_, if you
knew how my head aches, you would ask me no more questions, or I shall
faint.”
Mary’s expressive face changes as the April sunshine. Her eyes fill with
tears of tenderness as she leads Francis to a small closet in a turret
exclusively her own,--a _chinoiserie_, quaint and bright as the plumage
of a bird,--and seats him, supported by a pile of pillows, on a
couch--luxurious for that period of stiff-backed chairs and wooden
benches.
“Talk to me,” says Francis, smoothing her abundant hair, which hung in
dark masses on her shoulders as she knelt at his feet, “or, better
still, sing to me, I love to hear your soft voice; only, no more
politics--not a word of affairs of state, Mary. Sing to me those verses
you showed to Ronsard, about the knight who leapt into a deep stream to
pluck a flower for his love and was drowned by the spell of a jealous
mermaid who watched him from among the flags.”
Mary rises and fetches her lute. All expression of fear has left her
face. Reassured by Francis and occupied alone by him, she forgets not
only the Huguenots and the conspiracy, but the whole world, beside the
boy-husband, who bends lovingly over her as she tries the strings of her
instrument. So let us leave them as they sit, two happy children, side
by side, bathed in the brief sunshine of a changeful day in March, now
singing, now talking of country fêtes, especially of a _carrousel_ to
take place on the morrow in the courtyard of the castle, in which the
Grand Prieur is to ride disguised as a gipsy woman and carry a monkey on
his back for a child!