Un portrait et image
Qui figure mon deuil
Et mon pasle visage,
De violettes teint,
Qui est l’amoureux teint.
Pour mon mal estranger
Je ne m’arreste en place;
Mais j’en ay beau changer,
Si ma douleur n’efface;
Car mon pis et mon mieux
Sont les plus deserts lieux.
Si en quelque séjour,
Soit en bois ou en prée.
Soit sur l’aube du jour,
On soit sur la vesprée,
Sans cesse mon cœur sent
Le regret d’un absent.
Si parfois vers les cieux
Viens à dresser ma veue,
Le doux traict de ses yeux
Je vois en une nue;
Ou bien je le vois en l’eau,
Comme dans un tombeau.
Si je suis en repos
Sommeillant sur ma couche,
J’oy qu’il me tient propos,
Je le sens qui me touche:
En labeur, en recoy
Tousjours est près de moy.
Je ne vois autre object,
Pour beau qu’il présente
A qui que soit subject,
Oncques mon cœur consente,
Exempt de perfection
A cette affection.
Mets, chanson, icy fin
A si triste complainte,
Dont sera le refrein:
Amour vraye et non feinte
Pour la separation
N’aura diminution.[9]
Such are the regrets which this sad queen went piteously singing, and
manifesting even more by her pale face; for, from the time she became a
widow, I never saw her colour return during the time I had the honour to
see her in France and in Scotland; whither at the end of eighteen months
she was forced to go, to her great regret, to pacify her kingdom, much
divided on account of religion. Alas! she had neither wish nor will to
go. I have often heard her say she dreaded that journey like death; and
preferred a hundredfold to stay in France a simple dowager, and would
content herself with Touraine and Poitou for her dowry, rather than go
to reign in her savage country; but messieurs her uncles, at least some
of them, but not all, advised her, indeed they urged her (I will not
tell the occasions), for which they have since repented sorely.
As to this, there is no doubt that if, at her departure King Charles,
her husband’s brother, had been of age to marry, and not so small and
young (though much in love with her, as I have seen), he would never
have let her go, but resolutely would have wedded her; for I have seen
him so in love that never did he look upon her portrait that his eyes
were not fixed and ravished, as though he could not take them from it
nor yet be satisfied. And often have I heard him call her the most
beauteous princess ever born into the world, and say how he thought the
king, his brother, too happy to have enjoyed the love of such a
princess, and that he ought in no wise to regret his death in the tomb
since he had possessed in this world such beauty and pleasure for the
little time he stayed here; and also that such happiness was worth a
kingdom. So that had she remained in France he would surely have wedded
her; he was resolved upon it, although she was his sister-in-law, but
the pope would never have refused the dispensation, seeing that he had
already in like case granted one to his own subject, M. de Lové, and
also to the Marquis d’Aguilar in Spain, and many others in that country,
where they make no difficulty in maintaining their estates and do not
waste and dissipate them, as we do in France.
Much discourse on this subject have I heard from him, and from many,
which I shall omit, not to wander from the topic of our queen, who was
at last persuaded, as I have said, to return to her kingdom of Scotland;
but her voyage being postponed till the spring she did so much to delay
it from month to month that she did not depart until the end of the
month of August. I must mention that this spring, in which she thought
to leave, came so tardily, and was so cold and grievous, that in the
month of April it gave no sign of donning its beautiful green robe or
its lovely flowers. On which the gallants of the Court augured and
proclaimed that the spring had changed its pleasant season for a hard
and grievous winter, and would not wear its beauteous colours or its
verdure because it mourned the departure of this sweet queen, who was
its lustre. M. de Maison-Fleur, a charming knight for letters and for
arms, made on that theme a most fine elegy.
The beginning of the autumn having come, the queen, after thus delaying,
was forced to abandon France; and having travelled by land to Calais,
accompanied by all her uncles, M. de Nemours, most of the great and
honourable of the Court, together with the ladies, like Mme. de Guise
and others, all regretting and weeping hot tears for the loss of such a
queen, she found in port two galleys: one that of M. de Mevillon, the
other that of Captain Albise, with two convoying vessels for sole
armament. After six days’ rest at Calais, having said her piteous
farewells all full of sighs to the great company about her, from the
greatest to the least, she embarked, having her uncles with her,
Messieurs d’Aumale, the grand prior, and d’Elbœuf, and M. d’Amville
(now M. le Connétable), together with many of us, all nobles, on board
the galley of M. de Mevillon, as being the best and handsomest.
As the vessel began to leave the port, the anchor being up, we saw, in
the open sea, a vessel sink before us and perish, and many of the
sailors drown for not having taken the channel rightly; on seeing which
the queen cried out incontinently: “Ah, my God! what an omen is this for
my journey!” The galley being now out of port and a fresh wind rising,
we began to make sail, and the convicts rested on their oars. The queen,
without thinking of other action, leaned her two arms on the poop of the
galley, beside the rudder, and burst into tears, casting her beauteous
eyes to the port and land she had left, saying ever these sad words:
“Adieu, France! adieu, France!”--repeating them again and again; and
this sad exercise she did for nearly five hours, until the night began
to fall, when they asked her if she would not come away from there and
take some supper. On that, her tears redoubling, she said these words:
“This is indeed the hour, my dear France, when I must lose you from
sight, because the gloomy night, envious of my content in seeing you as
long as I am able, hangs a black veil before mine eyes to rob me of that
joy. Adieu, then, my dear France; I shall see you nevermore!”
Then she retired, saying she had done the contrary of Dido, who looked
to the sea when Æneas left her, while she had looked to land. She
wished to lie down without eating more than a salad, and as she would
not descend into the cabin of the poop, they brought her bed and set it
up on the deck of the poop, where she rested a little, but did not cease
her sighs and tears. She commanded the steersman to wake her as soon as
it was day if he saw or could even just perceive the coasts of France,
and not to fear to call her. In this, fortune favoured her; for the wind
having ceased and the vessel having again had recourse to oars, but
little way was made during the night, so that when day appeared the
shores of France could still be seen; and the steersman not having
failed to obey her, she rose in her bed and gazed at France again, and
as long as she could see it. But the galley now receding, her
contentment receded too, and again she said those words: “Adieu, my
France; I think that I shall never see you more.”
Did she desire, this once, that an English armament (with which we were
threatened) should appear and constrain her to give up her voyage and
return to the port she had left? But if so, God in that would not favour
her wishes, for, without further hindrance of any kind we reached
Petit-Lict [Leith]. Of the voyage I must tell a little incident: the
first evening after we embarked, the Seigneur Chastellard (the same who
was afterwards executed for presumption, not for crime, as I shall
tell), being a charming cavalier, a man of good sword and good letters,
said this pretty thing when he saw them lighting the binnacle lamp:
“There is no need of that lamp or this torch to light us by sea, for the
eyes of our queen are dazzling enough to flash their fine fires along
the waves and illume them, if need be.”
I must note that the day before we arrived at Scotland, being a Sunday,
so great a fog arose that we could not see from the poop to the mast of
the galley; at which the pilot and the overseers of the galley-slaves
were much confounded,--so much so, that out of necessity we had to cast
anchor in open sea, and take soundings to know where we were. The fog
lasted all one day and all the night until eight o’clock on the
following morning, when we found ourselves surrounded by innumerable
reefs; so that had we gone forward, or even to one side, the ship would
have struck and we should have perished. On which the queen said that,
for her part, she should not have cared, wishing for nothing so much as
death; but that not for her whole kingdom of Scotland would she have
wished it or willed it for others. Having now sighted and seen (for the
fog had risen) the coast of Scotland, there were some among us who
augured and predicted upon the said fog, that it boded we were now to
land in a quarrelsome, mischief-making, unpleasant kingdom [_royaume
brouille, brouillon, et mal plaisant_].
We entered and cast anchor at Petit-Lict, where the principal persons of
that place and Islebourg [Edinburgh] were gathered to meet their queen;
and then, having sojourned at Petit-Lict only two hours, it was
necessary to continue our way to Islebourg, which was barely a league
farther. The queen went on horseback, and the ladies and seigneurs on
nags of the country, such as they were, and saddled and bridled the
same. On seeing which accoutrements the queen began to weep and say that
these were not the pomps, the dignities, the magnificences, nor yet the
superb horses of France, which she had enjoyed so long; but since she
must change her paradise for hell, she must needs take patience. And
what is worse was that when she went to bed, being lodged on the lower
floor of the abbey of Islebourg [Holyrood], which is certainly a noble
building and is not like the country, there came beneath her window some
five or six hundred scoundrels of the town, who gave her a serenade
with wretched violins and little rebecks (of which there is no lack in
Scotland), to which they chanted psalms so badly sung and so out of tune
that nothing could be worse. Ha! what music and what repose for her
first night!
The next morning they would have killed her chaplain in front of her
lodging; had he not escaped quickly into her chamber he was dead; they
would have done to him as they did later to her secretary David [Riccio]
whom, because he was clever, the queen liked for the management of her
affairs; but they killed him in her room, so close to her that the blood
spurted upon her gown and he fell dead at her feet. What an indignity!
But they did many other indignities to her; therefore must we not be
astonished if they spoke ill of her. On this attempt being made against
her chaplain she became so sad and vexed that she said: “This is a fine
beginning of obedience and welcome from my subjects! I know not what may
be the end, but I foresee it will be bad.” Thus the poor princess showed
herself a second Cassandra in prophecy as she was in beauty.
Being now there, she lived about three years very discreetly in her
widowhood, and would have continued to do so, but the Parliament of her
kingdom begged her and entreated her to marry, in order that she might
leave them a fine king conceived by her, like him of the present day
[James I]. There are some who say that, during the first wars, the King
of Navarre desired to marry her, repudiating the queen his wife, on
account of the Religion; but to this she would not consent, saying she
had a soul, and would not lose it for all the grandeurs of the
world,--making great scruple of espousing a married man.
At last she wedded a young English lord, of a great house, but not her
equal [Henry Darnley, Earl of Lennox, her cousin]. The marriage was not
happy for either the one or the other. I shall not here relate how the
king her husband, having made her a very fine child, who reigns to-day,
died, being killed by a _fougade_ [small mine] exploded where he lodged.
The history of that is written and printed, but not with truth as to the
accusations raised against the queen of consenting to the deed. They are
lies and insults; for never was that queen cruel; she was always kind
and very gentle. Never in France did she any cruelty, nor would she take
pleasure or have the heart to see poor criminals put to death by
justice, like many grandees whom I have known; and when she was in her
galley never would she allow a single convict to be beaten, were it ever
so little; she begged her uncle, the grand-prior, as to this, and
commanded it to the overseer herself, having great compassion for their
misery, so that her heart was sick for it.
To end this topic, never did cruelty lodge in the heart of such great
and tender beauty; they are liars who have said and written it; among
others M. Buchanan,[10] who ill returned the kindnesses the queen had
done him both in France and Scotland in saving his life and relieving
him from banishment. It would have been better had he employed his most
excellent knowledge in speaking better of her, and not about the amours
of Bothwell; even to transcribing sonnets she had made, which those who
knew her poesy and her learning have always said were never written by
her; nor did they judge less falsely that amour, for Bothwell was a most
ugly man, with as bad a grace as could be seen.
But if this one [Buchanan] said no good, others have written a noble
book upon her innocence, which I have seen, and which declared and
proved it so that the poorest minds took hold of it and even her enemies
paid heed; but they, wishing to ruin her, as they did in the end, were
obstinate, and never ceased to persecute her until she was put into a
strong castle, which they say is that of Saint-Andrew in Scotland.
There, having lived nearly one year miserably captive, she was delivered
by means of a most honourable and brave gentleman of that land and of
good family, named M. de Beton, whom I knew and saw, and who related to
me the whole story, as we were crossing the river before the Louvre,
when he came to bring the news to the king. He was nephew to the Bishop
of Glasco, ambassador to France, one of the most worthy men and prelates
ever known, and who remained a faithful servant to his mistress to her
last breath, and is so still, after her death.
So then, the queen, being at liberty, did not stay idle; in less than no
time she gathered an army of those whom she thought her most faithful
adherents, leading it herself,--at its head, mounted on a good horse,
dressed in a simple petticoat of white taffetas, with a coif of crêpe on
her head; at which I have seen many persons wonder, even the
queen-mother, that so tender a princess, and so dainty as she was and
had been all her life, should accustom herself at once to the hardships
of war. But what would one not endure to reign absolutely and revenge
one’s self upon a rebellious people, and reduce it to obedience?
Behold this queen, therefore, beautiful and generous, like a second
Zenobia, at the head of her army, leading it on to face that of her
enemies and to give battle. But alas! what misfortune! Just as she
thought her side would engage the others, just as she was animating and
exhorting them with her noble and valorous words, which might have moved
the rocks, they raised their lances without fighting, and, first on one
side and then upon another, threw down their arms, embraced, and were
friends; and all, confederated and sworn together, plotted to seize the
queen, and make her prisoner and take her to England. M. Coste, the
steward of her household, a gentleman of Auvergne, related this to the
queen-mother, having come from there, and met her at Saint-Maur, where
he told it also to many of us.
After this she was taken to England, where she was lodged in a castle
and so closely confined in captivity that she never left it for eighteen
or twenty years until her death; to which she was sentenced too cruelly
for the reasons, such as they were, that were given on her trial; but
the principal, as I hold on good authority, was that the Queen of
England never liked her, but was always and for a long time jealous of
her beauty, which far surpassed her own. That is what jealousy is!--and
for religion too! So it was that this princess, after her long
imprisonment, was condemned to death and to have her head cut off; this
judgment was pronounced upon her two months before she was executed.
Some say that she knew nothing of it until they went to execute her.
Others declare that it was told to her two months earlier, as the
queen-mother, who was greatly distressed, was informed at Coignac, where
she then was; and she was even told of this particular: no sooner was
the judgment pronounced than Queen Marie’s chamber and bed were hung
with black. The queen-mother thereon praised the firmness of the Queen
of Scotland and said she had never seen or heard tell of any queen more
steadfast in adversity. I was present when she said this, but I never
thought the Queen of England would let her die,--not esteeming her so
cruel as all that. Of her own nature she was not (though she was in
this). I also thought that M. de Bellièvre, whom the king despatched to
save her life, would have worked out something good; nevertheless, he
gained nothing.
But to come to this pitiful death, which no one can describe without
great compassion. On the seventeenth of February of the year one
thousand five hundred and eighty-seven, there came to the place where
the queen was prisoner, a castle called Fodringhaye, the commissioners
of the Queen of England, sent by her (I shall not give their names, as
it would serve no end) about two or three o’clock in the afternoon; and
in presence of Paulet, her guardian or jailer, read aloud their
commission to the prisoner touching her execution, declaring to her that
the next morning they should proceed to it, and admonishing her to be
ready between seven and eight o’clock.
She, without in any way being surprised, thanked them for their good
news, saying that nothing could be better for her than to come to the
end of her misery; and that for long, ever since her detention in
England, she had resolved and prepared herself to die; entreating,
nevertheless, the commissioners to grant her a little time and leisure
to make her will and put her affairs in order,--inasmuch as all depended
upon their will, as their commission said. To which the Comte de
Cherusbery [Earl of Shrewsbury] replied rather roughly: “No, no, madame,
you must die. Hold yourself ready between seven and eight to-morrow
morning. We shall not prolong the delay by a moment.” There was one,
more courteous it seemed to her, who wished to use some demonstrations
that might give her more firmness to endure such death. She answered him
that she had no need of consolation, at least not as coming from him;
but that if he wished to do a good office to her conscience he would
send for her almoner to confess her; which would be an obligation that
surpassed all others. As for her body, she said she did not think they
would be so inhuman as to deny her the right of sepulture. To this he
replied that she must not expect it; so that she was forced to write
her confession, which was as follows:--
“I have to-day been combated for my religion and to make me receive the
consolation of heretics. You will hear from Bourgoing and others that I
have faithfully made protestation of my faith, in which I choose to die.
I requested to have you here, to make my confession and to receive my
sacrament; this has been cruelly refused to me, also the removal of my
body, and the power to freely make my will, or to write aught, except
through their hands. In default of that, I confess the grievousness of
my sins in general, as I had expected to make to you in particulars;
entreating you, in God’s name, to watch and pray with me this night for
the forgiveness of my sins, and to send me absolution and pardon for all
the offences which I have committed. I shall endeavour to see you in
their presence, as they have granted me; and if it is permitted I shall
ask pardon of you before them all. Advise me of the proper prayers to
use this night and to-morrow morning, for the time is short and I have
no leisure to write; I shall recommend you like the rest, and especially
that your benefices may be preserved and secured to you, and I shall
commend you to the king. I have no more leisure; advise me in writing of
all you think good for my salvation.”
That done, and having thus provided for the salvation of her soul before
all things else, she lost no time, though little remained to her (yet
long enough to have shaken the firmest constancy, but in her they saw no
fear of death, only much content to leave these earthly miseries), in
writing to our king, to the queen-mother, whom she honoured much, to
Monsieur and Madame de Guise, and other private persons, letters truly
very piteous, but all aiming to let them know that to her latest hour
she had not lost memory of friends; and also the contentment she
received in seeing herself delivered from so many woes by which for one
and twenty years she had been crushed; also she sent presents to all, of
a value and price in keeping with a poor, unfortunate, and captive
queen.
After this, she summoned her household, from the highest to the lowest,
and opened her coffers to see how much money remained to her; this she
divided to each according to the service she had had from them; and to
her women she gave what remained to her of rings, arrows, headgear, and
accoutrements; telling them that it was with much regret she had no more
with which to reward them, but assuring them that her son would make up
for her deficiency; and she begged her _maître d’hôtel_ to say this to
her said son; to whom she sent her blessing, praying him not to avenge
her death, leaving all to God to order according to His holy will. Then
she bade them farewell without a tear; on the contrary she consoled
them, saying they must not weep to see her on the point of blessedness
in exchange for all the sorrows she had had. After which she sent them
from her chamber, except her women.
It now being night, she retired to her oratory, where she prayed to God
two hours on her bare knees upon the ground, for her women saw them;
then she returned to her room and said to them: “I think it would be
best, my friends, if I ate something and went to bed, so that to-morrow
I may do nothing unworthy of me, and that my heart may not fail me.”
What generosity and what courage! She did as she said; and taking only
some toast with wine she went to bed, where she slept little, but spent
the night chiefly in prayers and orisons.
She rose about two hours before dawn and dressed herself as properly as
she could, and better than usual; taking a gown of black velvet, which
she had reserved from her other accoutrements, saying to her women: “My
friends, I would rather have left you this attire than that of
yesterday, but I think I ought to go to death a little honourably and
have upon me something more than common. Here is a handkerchief, which I
also reserved, to bind my eyes when I go there; I give it to you, _ma
mie_ (speaking to one of her women), for I wish to receive that last
office from you.”
After this, she retired to her oratory, having bid them adieu once more
and kissed them,--giving them many particulars to tell the king, the
queen, and her relations; not things that tended to vengeance, but the
contrary. Then she took the sacrament by means of a consecrated wafer
which the good Pope Pius V. had sent her to serve in some emergency, the
which she had always most sacredly preserved and guarded.