Alexandre Dumas, _père_ (to distinguish him from his son of
the same name), early became known as a talented writer, and
especially as a poet and dramatist. His first published work
appeared in 1823; then came volumes of poems in 1825, 1826,
and the drama of "Henry III." in 1828. In "Marguerite de
Valois," published in 1845, the first of the "Valois" series
of historical romances, Dumas takes us back from the days of
Richelieu and the "Three Musketeers" to the preceding century
and the early struggles of Catholic and Huguenot. It was a
stirring time in France, full of horrors and bloodshed, plots
and intrigues, when Marguerite de Valois married Henry of
Navarre, and Alexandre Dumas gives us, in his wonderfully,
vivid and attractive style, a great picture of the French
court in the time of Charles IX. Little affection existed
between Henry and his bride, but strong ties of interest and
ambition bound them together, and for a long time they both
adhered loyally to the treaty of political alliance they had
drawn up for their mutual advantage. Dumas died on December 5,
1870, after experiencing many changes of fortune. His son also
won considerable reputation as a dramatist and novelist.
_I.--Henry of Navarre and Marguerite_
On Monday, August 18, 1572, a great festival was held in the palace of
the Louvre. It was to celebrate the marriage of Henry of Navarre and
Marguerite de Valois, a marriage that perplexed a good many people, and
alarmed others.
For Henry de Bourbon, King of Navarre, was the leader of the Huguenot
party, and Marguerite was the daughter of Catherine de Medici, and the
sister of the king, Charles IX., and this alliance between a Protestant
and a Catholic, it seemed, was to end the strife that rent the nation.
The king, too, had set his heart on this marriage, and the Huguenots
were somewhat reassured by the king's declaration that Catholic and
Huguenot alike were now his subjects, and were equally beloved by him.
Still, there were many on both sides who feared and distrusted the
alliance.
At midnight, six days later, on August 24, the tocsin sounded, and the
massacre of St. Bartholomew began.
The marriage, indeed, was in no sense a love match; but Henry succeeded
at once in making Marguerite his friend, for he was alive to the dangers
that surrounded him.
"Madame," he said, presenting himself at Marguerite's rooms on the night
of the wedding festival, "whatever many persons may have said, I think
our marriage is a good marriage. I stand well with you--you stand well
with me. Therefore, we ought to act towards each other like good allies,
since to-day we have been allied in the sight of God! Don't you think
so?"
"Without question, sir!"
"I know, madame, that the ground at court is full of dangerous abysses;
and I know that, though I am young and have never injured any person, I
have many enemies. The king hates me, his brothers, the Duke of Anjou
and the Duke D'Alençon, hate me. Catherine de Medici hated my mother too
much not to hate me. Well, against these menaces, which must soon become
attacks, I can only defend myself by your aid, for you are beloved by
all those who hate me!"
"I?" said Marguerite.
"Yes, you!" replied Henry. "And if you will--I do not say love me--but
if you will be my ally I can brave anything; while, if you become my
enemy, I am lost."
"Your enemy! Never, sir!" exclaimed Marguerite.
"And my ally."
"Most decidedly!"
And Marguerite turned round and presented her hand to the king. "It is
agreed," she said.
"Political alliance, frank and loyal?" asked Henry.
"Frank and loyal," was the answer.
At the door Henry turned and said softly, "Thanks, Marguerite; thanks!
You are a true daughter of France. Lacking your love, your friendship
will not fail me. I rely on you, as you, for your part, may rely on me.
Adieu, madame."
He kissed his wife's hand; and then, with a quick step, the king went
down the corridor to his own apartment. "I have more need of fidelity in
politics than in love," he said to himself.
If on both sides there was little attempt at fidelity in love, there was
an honourable alliance, which was maintained unbroken and saved the life
of Henry of Navarre from his enemies on more than one occasion.
On the day of the St. Bartholomew massacre, while the Huguenots were
being murdered throughout Paris, Charles IX., instigated by his mother,
summoned Henry of Navarre to the royal armoury, and called upon him to
turn Catholic or die.
"Will you kill me, sire--me, your brother-in-law?" exclaimed Henry.
Charles IX. turned away to the open window. "I must kill someone," he
cried, and firing his arquebuse, struck a man who was passing.
Then, animated by a murderous fury, Charles loaded and fired his
arquebuse without stopping, shouting with joy when his aim was
successful.
"It's all over with me!" said Henry to himself. "When he sees no one
else to kill, he will kill me!"
Catherine de Medici entered as the king fired his last shot. "Is it
done?" she said, anxiously.
"No," the king exclaimed, throwing his arquebuse on the floor. "No; the
obstinate blockhead will not consent!"
Catherine gave a glance at Henry which Charles understood perfectly, and
which said, "Why, then, is he alive?"
"He lives," said the king, "because he is my relative."
Henry felt that it was with Catherine he had to contend.
"Madame," he said, addressing her, "I can see quite clearly that all
this comes from you and not from brother-in-law Charles. It was you who
planned this massacre to ensnare me into a trap which was to destroy us
all. It was you who made your daughter the bait. It has been you who
have separated me now from my wife, that she might not see me killed
before her eyes!"
"Yes; but that shall not be!" cried another voice; and Marguerite,
breathless and impassioned, burst into the room.
"Sir," said Marguerite to Henry, "your last words were an accusation,
and were both right and wrong. They have made me the means for
attempting to destroy you, but I was ignorant that in marrying me you
were going to destruction. I myself owe my life to chance, for this very
night they all but killed me in seeking you. Directly I knew of your
danger I sought you. If you are exiled, sir, I will be exiled too; if
they imprison you they shall imprison me also; if they kill you, I will
also die!"
She gave her hand to her husband and he seized it eagerly.
"Brother," cried Marguerite to Charles IX., "remember, you made him my
husband!"
"Faith, Margot is right, and Henry is my brother-in-law," said the king.
_II.--The Boar Hunt_
As time went on, if Catherine's hatred of Henry of Navarre did not
diminish, Charles IX. certainly became more friendly.
Catherine was for ever intriguing and plotting for the fortune of her
sons and the downfall of her son-in-law, but Henry always managed to
evade the webs she wove. At a certain boar-hunt Charles was indebted to
Henry for his life.
It was at the time when the king's brother D'Anjou had accepted the
crown of Poland, and the second brother, D'Alençon, a weak-minded,
ambitious man, was secretly hoping for a crown somewhere, that Henry
paid his debt for the king's mercy to him on the night of St.
Bartholomew.
Charles was an intrepid hunter, but the boar had swerved as the king's
spear was aimed at him, and, maddened with rage, the animal had rushed
at him. Charles tried to draw his hunting-knife but the sheath was so
tight it was impossible.
"The boar! the boar!" shouted the king. "Help, D'Alençon, help!"
D'Alençon was ghastly white as he placed his arquebuse to his shoulder
and fired. The ball, instead of hitting the boar, felled the king's
horse.
"I think," D'Alençon murmured to himself, "that D'Anjou is King of
France, and I King of Poland."
The boar's tusk had indeed grazed the king's thigh when a hand in an
iron glove dashed itself against the mouth of the beast, and a knife was
plunged into its shoulder.
Charles rose with difficulty, and seemed for a moment as if about to
fall by the dead boar. Then he looked at Henry of Navarre, and for the
first time in four-and-twenty years his heart was touched.
"Thanks, Harry!" he said. "D'Alençon, for a first-rate marksman you made
a most curious shot."
On Marguerite coming up to congratulate the king and thank her husband,
Charles added, "Margot, you may well thank him. But for him Henry III.
would be King of France."
"Alas, madame," returned Henry, "M. D'Anjou, who is always my enemy,
will now hate me more than ever; but everyone has to do what he can."
Had Charles IX. been killed, the Duke d'Anjou would have been King of
France, and D'Alençon most probably King of Poland. Henry of Navarre
would have gained nothing by this change of affairs.
Instead of Charles IX. who tolerated him, he would have had the Duke
d'Anjou on the throne, who, being absolutely at one with his mother,
Catherine, had sworn his death, and would have kept his oath.
These ideas were in his brain when the wild boar rushed on Charles, and
like lightning he saw that his own existence was bound up with the life
of Charles IX. But the king knew nothing of the spring and motive of the
devotion which had saved his life, and on the following day he showed
his gratitude to Henry by carrying him off from his apartments, and out
of the Louvre. Catherine, in her fear lest Henry of Navarre should be
some day King of France, had arranged the assassination of her son-in-
law; and Charles, getting wind of this, warned him that the air of the
Louvre was not good for him that night, and kept him in his company.
Instead of Henry, it was one of his followers who was killed.
_III.--The Poisoned Book_
Once more Catherine resolved to destroy Henry. The Huguenots had plotted
with D'Alençon that he should be King of Navarre, since Henry not only
abjured Protestantism but remained in Paris, being kept there indeed by
the will of Charles IX.
Catherine, aware of D'Alençon's scheme, assured her son that Henry was
suffering from an incurable disease, and must be taken away from Paris
when D'Alençon started for Navarre.
"Are you sure that Henry will die?" asked D'Alençon.
"The physician who gave me a certain book assured me of it."
"And where is this book? What is it?"
Catherine brought the book from her cabinet.
"Here it is. It is a treatise on the art of rearing and training falcons
by an Italian. Give it to Henry, who is going hawking with the king
to-day, and will not fail to read it."
"I dare not!" said D'Alençon, shuddering.
"Nonsense!" replied Catherine. "It is a book like any other, only the
leaves have a way of sticking together. Don't attempt to read it
yourself, for you will have to wet the finger in turning over each leaf,
which takes up so much time."
"Oh," said D'Alençon, "Henry is with the court! Give me the book, and
while he is away I will put it in his room."
D'Alençon's hand was trembling as he took the book from the
queen-mother, and with some hesitation and fear he entered Henry's
apartment and placed the volume, open at the title-page.
But it was not Henry, but Charles, seeking his brother-in-law, who found
the book and carried it off to his own room. D'Alençon found the king
reading.
"By heavens, this is an admirable book!" cried Charles. "Only it seems
as if they had stuck the leaves together on purpose to conceal the
wonders it contains."
D'Alençon's first thought was to snatch the book from his brother, but
he hesitated.
The king again moistened his finger and turned over a page. "Let me
finish this chapter," he said, "and then tell me what you please. I have
already read fifty pages."
"He must have tasted the poison five-and-twenty times," thought
D'Alençon. "He is a dead man!"
The poison did its deadly work. Charles was taken ill while out hunting,
and returned to find his dog dead, and in its mouth pieces of paper from
the precious book on falconry. The king turned pale. The book was
poisoned! Many things flashed across his memory, and he knew his life
was doomed.
Charles summoned Renè, a Florentine, the court perfumer to Catherine de
Medici, to his presence, and bade him examine the dog.
"Sire," said Renè, after a close investigation, "the dog has been
poisoned by arsenic."
"He has eaten a leaf of this book," said Charles; "and if you do not
tell me whose book it is I will have your flesh torn from your bones by
red-hot pincers."
"Sire," stammered the Florentine, "this book belongs to me!"
"And how did it leave your hands?"
"Her majesty the queen-mother took it from my house."
"Why did she do that?"
"I believe she intended sending it to the King of Navarre, who had asked
for a book on hawking."
"Ah," said Charles, "I understand it all! The book was in Harry's room.
It is destiny; I must yield to it. Tell me," he went on, turning to
Renè, "this poison does not always kill at once?"
"No, sire; but it kills surely. It is a matter of time."
"Is there no remedy?"
"None, sire, unless it be instantly administered."
Charles compelled the wretched man to write in the fatal volume, "This
book was given by me to the queen-mother, Catherine de Medici.--Renè,"
and then dismissed him.
Henry, at his own prayer and for his personal safety, was confined in
the prison of Vincennes by the king's order. Charles grew worse, and the
physicians discussed his malady without daring to guess at the truth.
Then Catherine came one day and explained to the king the cause of his
disease.
"Listen, my son; you believe in magic?"
"Oh, fully," said Charles, repressing his smile of incredulity.
"Well," continued Catherine, "all your sufferings proceed from magic. An
enemy afraid to attack you openly has done so in secret; a terrible
conspiracy has been directed against your majesty. You doubt it,
perhaps, but I know it for a certainty."
"I never doubt what you tell me," replied the king sarcastically. "I am
curious to know how they have sought to kill me."
"By magic. Look here." The queen drew from under her mantle a figure of
yellow wax about ten inches high, wearing a robe covered with golden
stars, and over this a royal mantle.
"See, it has on its head a crown," said Catherine, "and there is a
needle in its heart. Now do you recognise yourself?"
"Myself?"
"Yes, in your royal robes, with the crown on your head."
"And who made this figure?" asked-the king, weary of the wretched farce.
"The King of Navarre, of course!"
"No, sire; he did not actually make it, but it was found in the rooms of
M. de la Mole, who serves the King of Navarre."
"So, then, the person who seeks to kill me is M. de la Mole?" said
Charles.
"He is only the instrument, and behind the instrument is the hand that
directs it," replied Catherine.
"This, then, is the cause of my illness. And now what must I do--for I
know nothing of sorcery?"
"The death of the conspirator destroys the charm. Its power ends with
his life. You are convinced now, are you not, of the cause of your
illness?"
"Oh, certainly," Charles answered ironically. "And I am to punish M. de
la Mole, as you say he is the guilty party?"
"I say he is the instrument, and," muttered Catherine, "we have
infallible means for making him confess the name of his principal."
Catherine left hurriedly without understanding the sardonic laughter of
the king, and as she went out Marguerite appeared.
"Oh, sire--sire," cried Marguerite, "you know what _she_ says is false.
It is terrible to accuse anyone's own mother, but she only lives to
persecute the man who is devoted to you, Henry--your Henry--and I swear
to you that what she says is false!"
"I think so, too, Margot. But Henry is safe. Safer in disgrace in
Vincennes than in favour at the Louvre."
"Oh, thanks, thanks! But there is another person in whose welfare I am
interested, whom I hardly dare mention to my brother, much less to my
king."
"M. de la Mole, is it not? But do you know that a figure dressed in
royal robes and pierced to the heart was found in his rooms?"
"I know it; but it was the figure of a woman, not of a man."
"And the needle?"
"Was a charm not to kill a man, but to make a woman love him."
"What was the name of this woman?"
"Marguerite!" cried the queen, throwing herself down and bathing the
king's hand in her tears.
"Margot, what if I know the real author of the crime? For a crime has
been committed, and I have not three months to live. I am poisoned, but
it must be thought I die by magic."
"You know who is guilty?"
"Yes; but it must be kept from the world, and so it must be believed I
die of magic, and by the agency of him they accuse."
"But it is monstrous!" exclaimed Marguerite. "You know he is innocent.
Pardon him--pardon him!"
"I know it, but the world must believe him guilty. Let your friend die.
His death alone can save the honour of our family. I am dying that the
secret may be preserved."
M. de la Mole, after enduring excruciating tortures at the hand of
Catherine, without making any admissions, died on the scaffold.
_IV--"The Bourbon Shall Not Reign_!"
Before he died Charles showed Catherine the poisoned book, which he had
kept under lock and key.
"And now burn it, madame. I read this book too much, so fond was I of
the chase. And the world must not know the weaknesses of kings. When it
is burnt, please summon my brother Henry. I wish to speak to him about
the regency."
Catherine brought Henry of Navarre to the king, and warned him that if
he accepted the regency he was a dead man.
Charles, however, though on his death-bed, declared Henry should be
regent.
"Madame," he said, addressing his mother, "if I had a son he would be
king, and you would be regent. In your stead, did you decline, the King
of Poland would be regent; and in his stead, D'Alençon. But I have no
son, and therefore the throne belongs to D'Anjou, who is absent. To make
D'Alençon regent is to invite civil war. I have therefore chosen the
fittest person for regent Salute him, madame; salute him, D'Alençon. It
is the King of Navarre!"
"Never," cried Catherine, "shall my race yield to a foreign one! Never
shall a Bourbon reign while a Valois lives!"
She left the room, followed by D'Alençon.
"Henry," said Charles, "after my death you will be great and powerful.
D'Anjou will not leave Poland--they will not let him. D'Alençon is a
traitor. You alone are capable of governing. It is not the regency only,
but the throne I give you."
A stream of blood choked his speech.
"The fatal moment is come," said Henry. "Am I to reign, or to live?"
"Live, sire!" a voice answered, and Renè appeared. "The queen has sent
me to ruin you, but I have faith in your star. It is foretold that you
shall be king. Do you know that the King of Poland will be here very
soon? He has been summoned by the queen. A messenger has come from
Warsaw. You shall be king, but not yet."
"What shall I do, then?"
"Fly instantly to where your friends wait for you."
Henry stooped and kissed his brother's forehead, then disappeared down a
secret passage, passed through the postern, and, springing on his horse,
galloped off.
"He flies! The King of Navarre flies!" cried the sentinels.
"Fire on him! Fire!" said the queen.
The sentinels levelled their pieces, but the king was out of reach.
"He flies!" muttered D'Alençon. "I am king, then!"
At the same moment the drawbridge was hastily lowered, and Henry d'Anjou
galloped into the court, followed by four knights, crying, "France!
France!"
"My son!" cried Catherine joyfully.
"Am I too late?" said D'Anjou.
"No. You are just in time. Listen!"
The captain of the king's guards appeared at the balcony of the king's
apartment. He broke the wand he held in two places, and holding a piece
in either hand, called out three times, "King Charles the Ninth is
dead!"