LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE.
Louise de Lafayette--the only child of Comte Jean de Lafayette, of
Hauteville, and of Margaret de Boulon-Busset, his wife--was the young
lady selected to fill the vacant post of maid of honour to the Queen,
_vice_ De Hautefort, banished.
So long a time had elapsed since the departure of the latter that it
seemed as though Anne of Austria never intended to replace her; however,
the new mistress of the robes, the Duchesse de Sennécy, a distant
relative of Mademoiselle de Lafayette, urged the Queen so strongly in
her favour, that the appointment was at last announced.
Louise de Lafayette had passed many years of her girlhood in a convent,
and was somewhat _dévote_, but she was sincere in her piety, and
good-natured to excess. Not only was she good-natured, but she was so
entirely devoid of malice that it actually pained her to be made
acquainted with the faults of others. Perhaps her chief characteristic
was an exaggerated sensibility, almost amounting to delusion. She
created an ideal world around her, and peopled it with creatures of her
own imagination, rather than the men and women of flesh and blood among
whom she lived--a defect of youth which age and experience would
rectify. She possessed that gift, so rare in women, of charming
involuntarily--without effort or self-consciousness. When most
attractive and most admired, she alone was unconscious of it; envy
itself was disarmed by her ingenuous humility.
Louise was twenty-three years old when she was presented to the Queen at
Fontainebleau by the Principessa di Mantua, during her morning
reception. The saloon was filled with company, and great curiosity was
felt to see the successor of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The most
critical observers were satisfied. The new maid of honour, though modest
and a little abashed, comported herself with perfect self-possession.
She was superbly dressed, had a tall and supple figure, good features,
and a complexion so exquisitely fair and fresh, and such an abundance of
sunny hair, as to remind many in the circle of her Majesty when, in the
dazzling beauty of her fifteenth year, she came a bride into France. But
Anne of Austria never had those large appealing grey eyes, beaming with
all the confidence of a guileless heart, nor that air of maiden reserve
which lent an unconscious charm to every movement, nor that calm and
placid brow, unruffled by so much as an angry thought.
Why had not Mademoiselle de Lafayette married? was the general question
which passed round the circle.
“Because she has found no one worthy of her,” was the reply of her
friend and cousin, the Duchesse de Sennécy.
After the new maid of honour had made her curtsey to the Queen, who
received her very graciously, the King (who had as usual placed himself
almost out of sight, near the door, in order to ensure a safe retreat if
needful) emerged, and timidly addressed her.
Since the scene at the monastery of the Val de Grâce, and the discovery
of Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s treachery, Louis had never once appeared
at the Queen’s lever until this morning. At the few words of compliment
he found courage to say to her, Louise blushed and curtsied, but made no
reply.
The next day the King was again present at her Majesty’s lever. He did
not speak, but his eyes never for an instant left the new maid of
honour.
The Court was at this time greatly agitated by political events. The
Spaniards were making the most alarming progress in France; they had
penetrated in the north as far as Corbie, in Picardy; in the south they
were overrunning Provence. Troops and money were both wanting. The
position of the ministry was so critical that even Richelieu was at
fault. Louis, roused from his habitual apathy, suddenly remembered that
he was the son of a great warrior, and electrified the Council of State
by announcing that he intended at once to take the field in person. A
resolve so contrary to his usual habits excited great discussion and
general interest.
* * * * *
The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal
guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a
_with_-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the
same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco
after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high
relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling
is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers
disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display
the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the
walls.
The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups
itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the
Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di
Mantua; the Duchesse de Sennécy is in attendance. The King is seated on
a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now
treat him either with impertinence or _hauteur_. If she cannot bring
herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge.
She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister,
Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame
de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she
has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has
perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour,
and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and
perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the
Queen, could entertain a doubt.
As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her,
which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to
observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in
earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers
about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an
instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her
snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie
before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and
Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face
expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more
animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she
listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words
as though, to her at least, they are inspired.
“The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would
that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I
possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps
never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh,
and the tears gather in his eyes.
The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him,
her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate
condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too
timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him
motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they
may betray her.
“Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who
feels that he is missed!”--here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance
at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at
Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened
breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues
the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his
life in the front of the battle. Were I”--and his voice sinks almost
into a whisper--“were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should
seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I
know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by
those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound
by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to
some,”--again his eyes seek out the Queen--“and a blessing to myself. I
am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should
live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express
more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment.
“Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to
reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible
for her to say more.
The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her
bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence,
then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by
the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and
unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of
silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon
them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation
must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my
departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance
tells him he will not be refused.
At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she
is so absent that her friend, Madame de Sennécy, reprimands her sharply.
The next morning the Duchess went to her young cousin’s room. Madame de
Sennécy had a very decided taste for intrigue, and would willingly have
replaced the Duchesse de Chevreuse in the confidence of Anne of Austria,
but she wanted her predecessor’s daring wit, her adroitness, witcheries,
and beauty; above all, she lacked that generous devotion to her
mistress, which turned her life into a romance. Now Madame de Sennécy
thought she saw a chance of advancing her interests by means of her
cousin’s growing favour with the King. She would gain her confidence,
and by retailing her secrets excite the jealousy and secure the favour
of the Queen.
“My dear child,” said she, kissing Louise on both cheeks, a bland smile
upon her face, “will you excuse my early visit?” She seated herself
opposite to Mademoiselle de Lafayette, the better to observe her.
“Excuse the warmth with which I spoke to you last night in the Queen’s
sleeping-room; but really, whatever attention the King may pay you, _ma
chère_, you must not allow yourself to grow careless in her Majesty’s
service. As mistress of the robes, I cannot permit it. All the world, my
dear cousin, sees he is in love with you”--Louise blushed to the roots
of her hair, shook her head, and looked confused and unhappy--“of course
he loves you in his fashion. I mean,” added Madame de Sennécy quickly,
seeing her distress, and not giving her time to remonstrate, “a
perfectly Platonic love, nothing improper, of course. He loves you
timidly, modestly, even in his most secret thoughts. I am told by his
attendants that the King shows every sign of a great passion, much more
intense than he ever felt for Mademoiselle de Hautefort, who, after all,
trifled with him, and never was sincere.”
“I do not know the King well enough, Duchess, to venture an opinion on
his character,” replied Mademoiselle de Lafayette, with diffidence, “but
I may say that if I had any prepossessions against his Majesty, I have
lost them; I am sure he is capable of the tenderest friendship; he longs
to open his heart to a real friend. His confidence has been hitherto
abused.”
“My dear child, I have come here to advise you to be--well--that
friend.”
“Oh! madame, I fear I am too inexperienced to be of use to him; but if
the King does ask my advice, which seems very presumptuous in me to
suppose, I shall conceal nothing that I think, neither facts nor
opinions.”
“Ah, my cousin, try to rouse him; make him reign for himself; tell him
to shake off that dreadful Cardinal.”
“That is, I fear, impossible; I am too ignorant of politics. Besides,
what can I do now? he is going away to the war.”
“Well, but, _petite sotte_, he will return, and you will meet again.”
“Oh, no,” replied Louise, again colouring under the scrutinising eye of
the mistress of the robes, “he will forget me long before that.”
“Nothing of the kind, Louise,” replied the Duchess, “the King never
forgets anything.”
“Dear Duchess, you really are talking nonsense. What on earth could make
the King care for me?” and she sighed deeply, and fell into a muse. “I
do pity him, though,” she added, speaking with great feeling; “I pity
him, I own. He is naturally good--brave--confiding,” and she paused
between each word.
“I am glad you find him so,” answered the Duchess drily.
“Yet he ill fulfils his glorious mission,” continued Louise, as if
speaking to herself. “He is conscious of it, and it pains him. I am sure
he suffers acutely.”
“Heal his wounds, then,” said the Duchess, with a cynical smile, but
speaking in so low a voice that Mademoiselle de Lafayette did not catch
the words.
“Ah! if he had but one true friend, he might emulate his great father!
Did you hear, Duchess, with what firmness he addressed the deputies
yesterday, who had refused to register the royal edicts for raising the
necessary funds for the army? ‘This money,’ he said, ‘is not for myself,
but for the nation, and to maintain the national honour. Those who
refuse it, injure France more than her enemies, the Spaniards. I will be
obeyed,’ he said. There was energy! Oh, it was noble!” and her eyes
glistened and cheeks glowed.
“I suppose the Cardinal had composed this neat little speech for him
beforehand,” replied the Duchess with a sneer, contemplating her cousin
with amused inquisitiveness. “You do not believe he ever spoke like that
himself? You do not know him as well as I do, else you would not be so
enthusiastic. However, it is all as it should be. I do not desire to
disenchant you, I am sure. _Au revoir_,” and the Duchess left the room.
The next morning, before his departure for the campaign, Louis went to
bid the Queen farewell. It was only a formal visit, and he stayed
scarcely a minute. The Queen did not affect to care what might become of
him. On leaving her audience-chamber he lingered in the anteroom in
which her attendants were assembled. Mademoiselle de Lafayette was
seated, with another maid, in a recess; she,--Mademoiselle de
Guerchy,--seeing the King’s anxious looks, at once rose and retired. He
immediately took her place, and signed to Louise to seat herself beside
him. Separated from her companion, and sitting apart with Louis, Louise
suddenly remembered that it was precisely thus the King had conversed
_tête-à-tête_ with Mademoiselle de Hautefort; she became greatly
embarrassed.
“I come,” said the King, turning towards her, and speaking in a
plaintive voice, “I come to bid you adieu.”
Louise bent her head, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Louis
started at seeing the big tears roll down her cheeks.
“I have enjoyed few moments of happiness in the course of my dreary
life,” continued he, pressing her hand, “but this is one.”
He broke off, overcome apparently by his feelings. Louise wiped the
tears from her eyes.
“Sire, believe me, I only feel the same emotion as thousands of your
faithful subjects at a moment when you are about to lead the campaign
against Spain. If you would condescend to inform yourself of general
opinion you would find it as I say.”
“It may be, mademoiselle; but I only wish now to know _your_ feelings.
If you will indeed be to me the devoted friend I have so long sought in
vain, my entire confidence shall be yours. I go to-morrow, but the most
tender recollections will cling to me.” As he spoke he took her hand in
his and kissed it with fervour. “Think of me, I implore you, with the
same interest you now display. Believe me, my heart echoes all you feel.
If I am spared, please God, your sympathy will be the consolation of my
life.”
At this moment the Duchesse de Sennécy opened the door, in order to
cross the anteroom. The King started up at the noise, and walked quickly
towards another door opposite. The Duchess stopped; looked first at
Mademoiselle de Lafayette seated alone, covered with blushes, then at
the retreating figure of the King. She took in the whole situation at a
glance. It was too tempting an opportunity to throw away. There was a
favour she specially desired to ask. This was the very moment. In his
present state of confusion the King, only to get rid of her, was sure to
grant it. She rushed after him, and before Louis could reach the door,
she had seized upon him and spoken.
When he had gone the Duchess ran up to Louise, who was now stitching at
some embroidery to hide her blushes, and burst out laughing.
“You are merry, Duchess,” said the maid of honour, glad that anything
should divert attention from herself.
“I am laughing, Louise, at the admirable presence of mind I have just
shown. As you are only a _débutante_, I will explain what I mean for
your special instruction. His Majesty does not exactly hate me, but
something very like it. No love is lost between us. He dreads my making
capital of all I see and hear to the Queen. He dreads my turning him
into ridicule--which is so easy. Of all the persons about Court whom he
would least have liked to have surprise him in the tender conversation
he was holding with you, I am the one. He tried to reach the door. I saw
my advantage, and pursued him. I knew he wanted to shake me off, so I
seized the opportunity to ask a favour--of great importance to me. It is
granted! Is not this clever? I am grateful, and will not repeat one word
of this little adventure to her Majesty.”
Louise shook her head, and affected not to understand her. “You are
altogether mistaken, Duchess. His Majesty simply honours me with such
friendship as he might feel towards any loyal subject devoted to his
interests. It is because the Court affects to despise him that I appear
singular in estimating him at his true value; nothing else.”
“You are a prude,” exclaimed the Duchess, bluntly. “I hate affectation,
especially of that kind.” Louise hung her head down, and played with
some pearls with which the grey silk dress she wore was trimmed.
“Besides, my little cousin, you must not sacrifice the interest of your
friends, who have a right to look to you for favour and patronage.”
“Oh, Duchess, what a vile thought!” cried Louise; reddening. “Do you
think I would make his Majesty’s friendship a matter of barter!”
“Oh, bah!” replied the Duchess, growing angry. “Louise, you are not so
simple as you pretend. If you ask me the question, I reply, certainly
your friends have a right to look to you--especially myself, who never
let the Queen rest until she appointed you her maid of honour. She had
almost made a vow never to fill up the place of her dear Mademoiselle de
Hautefort.” Louise stared at the Duchess with a troubled look.
Worldliness and meanness was a new and unpleasant experience--a fresh
page in the history of the Court--that pained and revolted her.
“When the King returns,” continued Madame de Sennécy, not condescending
to notice her disapprobation, “I shall expect you to give me all your
confidence. You shall have excellent advice in return. If you follow it,
in six months’ time you will revolutionise the Court, and banish
Cardinal Richelieu. You will by that one act secure the King’s
friendship and her Majesty’s favour. Eh, Louise? a brilliant position
for a little _provinciale_ like you! You must mind what you are about,
or the Queen will grow jealous. I will take care, on the first
opportunity, to assure her you are only acting in her interests.”
“Jealous of me! Impossible!” cried Louise. “Such a great Queen! so
beautiful, so fascinating! Oh, Duchess, you are joking.”
“Nothing of the kind. I warn you not to imagine that there is any joking
at Court, or you will find yourself mistaken. Now I shall leave you,
Louise. Think over what I have said. Remember what you owe to those
friends whose influence has placed you in your present high position.”
* * * * *
As soon as the Duchess left her, Mademoiselle de Lafayette hastened to
her room, locked the door and sat down to reflect calmly upon all that
had passed. She was disgusted with the coarse selfishness of the
Duchess, whom she determined for the future to avoid. Then her heart
melted within her as she recalled the King’s tender farewell. How
eagerly his eyes had, sought hers! How melodious was his tremulous
voice! How tenderly he had pressed her hand! He had spoken out: he
wanted a friend; he had made choice of her; he had promised her all his
confidence! Delicious thought!
No one had ever dreamed of attaching the slightest blame to his intimacy
with Mademoiselle de Hautefort. It would be therefore absurd to reject
his advances. She was safe, she felt, entirely safe in his high
principles, his delicacy, and his honour. If she could only teach him to
be as firm as he was winning, release him from the bondage of
favourites, emancipate him from the tyranny of Richelieu, and deserve
his gratitude--perhaps his affection! With what energy she would address
him on his return, and remonstrate with him on his indolence, his
indifference! With his courage, his powers of mind (in which she
sincerely believed), his sensibility and gentleness, guided by her
devoted far-seeing friendship, might he not equal his father as a
sovereign--surpass him, perhaps, as much as he now does in morals, as a
man? All these vague ideas floated through the brain of the
simple-minded girl as she sat musing within the solitude of her
chamber.
NOTES TO VOLUME I.
NOTE 1, p. 4.
Francis I., born at Cognac, was the only son of Charles d’Orléans, Duc
d’Angoulême. After the death of two sons, born to Louis XII. by his
wife, Anne de Bretagne, he created his relative, Francis, Duc de Valois,
married him to his daughter, Claude, and selected him as his successor
to the throne.
NOTE 2, p. 20.
Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, one of the oldest churches in France,
dedicated to St. Germain, Bishop of Paris, by Chilperic. Saint-Germain
l’Auxerrois, Saint-Etienne du Mont, the Hôtel de Clugny, and the Hôtel
de Sens, all dating from a very early period, still remain.
NOTE 3, p. 21.
Gentille Agnès plus de loy tu mérite,
La cause était de France recouvrir;
Que ce que peut dedans un cloître ouvrir,
Close nonnaine? ou bien dévot hermite?
NOTE 4, p. 30.
The Duc d’Alençon, husband of Marguerite de Valois, sister of Francis,
who commanded the left wing of the French army, was the only man who
showed himself a coward at Pavia. He turned and fled, with his whole
division.
NOTE 5, p. 45.
Triboulet had been court fool to Louis XII., who first discerned his
good qualities, and rescued him from a most forlorn position.
Triboulet’s sayings are almost a chronicle of the time, so much was he
mixed up with the life of the two sovereigns he served. Brusquet, who
compiled the “fool’s Calendar,” succeeded him in the office of jester to
Francis.
NOTE 6, p. 54.
Francis’s exact words, according to Du Bellay, were--“Les Guises
mettront mes enfans en pourpoint et mon pauvre peuple en chemise.” This
prophecy was poetised into the following verse:--
“François premier prédit ce mot,
Que ceux de la maison de Guise,
Mettraient ses enfans en pourpoint,
Et son pauvre peuple en chemise.”
NOTE 7, p. 58.
The Palace des Tournelles (so named from its many towers) stood in the
Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite the Hôtel de Saint-Paul, upon the site of
the Place Royal. Charles VI. was confined here when insane, by his wife,
Isabeau de Bavière. The Duke of Bedford, Regent of France for Henry VI.,
a minor, lodged here. After the expulsion of the English from Paris,
Charles VII. made it his residence. Louis XI. and Louis XII. inhabited
it. The latter monarch died here.
NOTE 8, p. 64.
Another contemporary says that the Queen of Navarre was invited to
Marcel’s, the Prévôt of Paris, where, having eaten some _confitures_,
she fell sick, and died five days afterwards.
NOTE 9, p. 68.
Charles de Guise, Cardinal de Lorraine, was Minister under Francis II.
and Charles IX. He endeavoured, without success, to introduce the
Inquisition into France.
NOTE 10, p. 95.
No sooner had Catherine de’ Medici built the Tuileries, than she left it
to inhabit the Hôtel de Soissons (then called Hôtel de la Reine), in the
parish of Saint-Eustache, in consequence of a prediction that she would
die at Saint-Germain. The Hôtel de Soissons, as well as the Hôtel de
Nesle, is now amalgamated into the Halle aux Blés. At the Hôtel de
Soissons, Catherine lived for some years before her death.
NOTE 11, p. 124.
Coligni was prosecuted as accessory to the murder of Francis, Duc de
Guise, by his widow, Anna di Ferrara, but no sentence was pronounced.
NOTE 12, p. 126.
Henri de Navarre then went to _le prêche_, Marguerite to mass.
NOTE 13, p. 128.
_Memoirs and Letters of Marguerite de Valois_ published by the Société
de l’Histoire de France, by M. Guessand, 1842.
NOTE 14, p. 144.
Coligni’s head was cut off, embalmed, and sent to Rome as a trophy. His
remains were collected and buried by his friend, Montmorenci, at
Chantilly. Before their removal from Montfaucon, Charles and all his
court rode to see them. One of the courtiers observed “that the body
smelt foul.” “Nay,” replied Charles, “the body of an enemy always smells
sweet.”
NOTE 15, p. 135.
SULLY’S ACCOUNT OF THE MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
“I felt myself awakened at three hours after midnight by the loud
ringing of all the bells, and the confused cries of the populace. My
governor, Saint-Just and my valet went out. I never heard any more of
them. I continued alone in my chamber, dressing myself, when in a few
moments I saw my landlord enter, pale and astonished. He was of the
reformed religion. He came to persuade me to go with him to mass. I did
not think proper to follow him, but resolved to try if I could gain the
College of Burgundy, where I studied, notwithstanding the distance it
was from the house where I lodged, which made the attempt very perilous.
I put on my scholar’s robe, and taking a large prayer-book under my arm,
I went out. Upon entering the street, I was seized with horror at the
sight of the furies who rushed from all parts, and burst open the
houses, bawling out ‘Slaughter, slaughter--massacre the Huguenots!’ the
blood which I saw shed before my eyes redoubled my terror. I fell into
the midst of a body of guards; they stopped me, questioned me, and were
beginning to use me ill, when, happily for me, the book that I carried
was perceived, and served me as a passport. At last I arrived at the
College of Burgundy, when a danger far greater than any I had yet met
with awaited me. The porter having twice refused me entrance, I remained
in the midst of the street, at the mercy of the Catholic furies, whose
numbers increased every moment, and who were evidently in quest of their
prey, when I bethought myself of calling for the principal of the
college, La Faye, a good man, who loved me tenderly. The porter, gained
by some small pieces of money which I put into his hand, did not fail to
make him come at once. This honest man led me into his chamber. Here two
inhuman priests, whom I heard make mention of the Sicilian Vespers,
wanted to force me from him, that they might cut me in pieces, saying:
‘The order was to kill to the very infants at the breast!’ All that La
Faye could do was to conduct me secretly to a remote closet, where he
locked me up. I was there confined three days, uncertain of my destiny,
receiving succour only from a domestic belonging to this charitable man,
who brought me from time to time something to preserve my life.”
NOTE 16, p. 138.
According to Dufresnay, _Tables Chronologiques_, vol. ii., seventy
thousand Huguenots perished in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, which
lasted seven days and seven nights. One man boasted that he had killed
four hundred with his own hand.
NOTE 17, p. 139.
It was the renown of these victories that gained for Henry the crown of
Poland.
NOTE 18, p. 149.
Comte d’Auvergne, son of Charles IX. by Marie Touchet, illegitimate
nephew of Henry III. and half-brother of Henrietta d’Entragues.
NOTE 19, p. 158.
Henry IV. was the son of Antoine de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme, and of
Jeanne d’Albret, only daughter of Henri d’Albret, King of Navarre,
married to Marguerite Alençon, sister of Francis I., the widow of the
Duc d’Alençon.
NOTE 20, p. 162.
Chicot was a Gascon, jester to Henry IV. His _specialité_ was intense
hatred to the Duc de Mayenne, whom he constantly attempted to attack.
During an engagement at Bures, he made prisoner the Comte de Chaligny,
and carried him into Henry’s presence. “_Tiens!_” said he, “this is my
prisoner.” Chaligny was so enraged at having been captured by a buffoon,
that he poniarded Chicot on the spot.
NOTE 21, p. 253.
Marie de’ Medici died in poverty at Cologne, aged sixty-nine.
NOTE 22, p. 255.
The Duchesse de Montbazon died suddenly at Paris of measles. De Rancé
was in the country at the time; no one dared tell him what had happened.
On his return to Paris he ran up the stairs into her rooms, expecting to
find her. There he found an open coffin, containing the corpse of Madame
de Montbazon. The head was severed from the body (the coffin having been
made too short), and lay outside on the winding sheet. Such is the story
according to the _Véritable Motifs de la Conversion de l’Abbé de la
Trappe_. Other authorities contradict these details.
NOTE 23, p. 283.
Now the military hospital of the Val de Grâce, 277, Rue Saint-Jacques.
Anne of Austria having been married twenty-two years without issue,
vowed that she would build a new church within the convent, if she bore
an heir to the throne. After the death of her husband, Louis XIII., she
fulfilled her vow. The first stone of the present church was laid in
1645, by her son, Louis XIV.
END OF VOLUME I.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Note 1.
[2] See Note 2.
[3] See Note 3.
[4] See Note 4.
[5] See Note 5.
[6] See Note 6.
[7] See Note 7.
[8] See Note 8.
[9] See Note 9.
[10] See Note 10.
[11] See Note 11.
[12] See Note 12.
[13] See Note 13.
[14] See Note 14.
[15] See Note 15.
[16] See Note 16.
[17] See Note 17.
[18] See Note 18.
[19] See Note 19.
[20] See Note 20.
[21] Words used by Marie de’ Medici to Louis XIII.
[22] Richelieu used these precise words in speaking of Marie de’
Medici.
[23] See Note 21. o
[24] See Note 22.
[25] See Note 23.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Under him Cardidinal=> Under him Cardinal {pg vii}
he lays his land=> he lays his hand {pg 24}
these significent lines=> these significant lines {pg 51}
This marriage is indipensable=> This marriage is indispensable {pg 117}
It is indespensable=> It is indispensable {pg 240}
twiching nervously=> twitching nervously {pg 276}
Annie of Austria=> Anne of Austria {pg 253}
of the preset church=> of the present church {pg 321}