so quietly of waiting.”
For a while she tossed and twisted from side to side. People surged in
and out of the room; none of them believed that she was in any danger;
the doctor insisted that she was not, that in a while the pain would
pass, that the coldness of her hands and feet was only an ordinary
symptom of a chill.
Presently she called out that she would be moved; the bed had grown
hot and uncomfortable and intolerable. There was a little bed in her
dressing-room; they wrapped her in a blue silk mantle and Monsieur and
two of her ladies carried her there. She was slight–of the weight of a
child.
The clearer atmosphere of the dressing-room and the cool bed seemed to
relieve her; she lay still, swathed in her mantle, her auburn hair,
that was marvellously fine, in disorder on the pillow.
On the table by the bed stood a couple of candles, and by the light of
these they saw her face more clearly than when she was in the curtained
bed. And it startled them.
“Do the candles trouble you?” asked Monsieur, his voice unsteady.
“No, Monsieur,” she answered. “Nothing troubles me. To-morrow morning I
shall be dead.”
Why did not the King come?
As she had eaten nothing since dinner, they brought her some supper
on a silver tray; Monsieur showed some tenderness in holding it for
her and in insisting that she should take something which at first
she could not bring herself to; but at last she thanked him with a
look and drank some soup. All at once her agony became so terrible
that they thought she must die on the instant: she shook and stiffened
with torment, like one at the stake; her face turned an ashy hue and
glistened with moisture; the pupils of her eyes contracted and dilated.
“I am poisoned,” she said.
Some wept to see her cruel sufferings. Monsieur sat by her side and
held her hand.
There was a commotion in the ante-chamber–in the bedroom; the door
was flung open, and a gentleman in brown and gold, carrying his hat,
entered, behind him M. de Crequi.
“The King,” said Monsieur.
Louis came half-way across the dressing-room.
“The doctors wish to see you, Monsieur,” he said; he was very pale and
frowning.
All the light in the chamber was about the bed of Madame, where the
candles burnt in their silver sticks and shone full on her pillow.
All beauty had been wiped from her face like paint from a mask. Against
the blue of her robe and the glimmering hue of her hair her face was
like gray wax; the blood had come through the bandages on her arm in a
red stain–but he, to her vision was as godlike, as golden glorious as
ever.
As he came up to her she controlled her pain with an heroic effort.
“Sire, you lose one of your truest servants to-night,” she said.
He answered in great agitation–
“You are not dying; I will not believe it—”
He seemed afraid to come too near to her; she spoke calmly, with a
world of wild feeling in her eyes.
“You know I am not afraid of death–but I am afraid of losing your good
thoughts—”
“Talk of God, Madame,” he replied hoarsely.
“Louis–I am dying,” she said. “Come and speak to me–close.”
She made a little feeble movement with her hand, and the King came up
to her bed.
“I am poisoned,” she repeated; it seemed she wished to drive him to
accept the statement to accuse some one.
“You show great courage, Madame,” he said, and looked at her in a
terrified manner.
“I have never been afraid,” she repeated, “but I do not want to die.”
“I will see your doctors,” he said. “There must be some remedy.”
He turned away, seemed glad to go.
Madame clutched hold of Mme de la Fayette. “I am horrible. Give me a
mirror.”
She reached out and caught up a heavy glass from her dressing-table;
her frail strength could hardly lift it. She looked in it a second,
then dropped it on the quilt.
“Madame de la Fayette,” she said, “my nose has shrunk—”
The lady could only weep. It was true; her nose had sunk into her
face with a ghastly and corpse-like effect. She tossed herself about;
whether in bodily or mental agony it was impossible to tell.
Mme de Gamaches came to say that Mme de la Vallière and Mme de
Montespan had come together.
“Admit neither of them,” said Madame. She sent Mme de la Fayette out to
them.
The two would share the crown she had left. Why had they come now? They
must be glad she was dying–not la Vallière perhaps; she was a gentle
woman.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the doctors suddenly informed the King
that there was no hope; and those symptoms that two hours before they
had vowed meant nothing they now declared the certain signs of gangrene
and approaching death, and advised that Madame took the Holy Sacrament.
The King accused them of losing their heads. Monsieur fought his way
into the dressing-room where Madame lay and told her, in an agitated
manner, what they had said.
“So I have their permission to die?” She gave a tragic smile and fixed
her eyes on her husband. “Where is the King?”
As she spoke he returned with the Queen and Mme de Soissons.
Madame lay silent; the King approached her bed; he railed against the
doctors: he seemed confused, bewildered.
“I am no physician,” he said, “but I could have suggested thirty
remedies they have not tried, and now they say there is no hope.”
He stood irresolute, looking at her; the candlelight could give no
colour to his fair face. She could not believe that he would not send
away the others and sit by her till the end; she waited for that. For
some tenderness on his part, some passion, some regret, she waited; he
came up to her bed, kissed her hands and bade her adieu.
“Adieu!” she echoed. She thought she saw tears in his eyes. “Do not
weep for me yet, Sire. The first news you hear in the morning will be
of my death; weep then.”
She turned her face away from him and he withdrew with Mme de Soissons.
Hearing him go, she moved sharply and opened her eyes.
Close to her stood the stooping figure of Maria Teresa.
Madame looked at her curiously; a few days ago she had seen another
Spanish Queen with the same look of grave suffering in her face, the
butt of her brother’s court. How often she had laughed at both of
them–but now–she suddenly stretched out her arms with an eager gesture.
The Queen’s face changed; she moved back.
“God forgive you, Madame la Duchesse,” she said in a voice torn and
broken. “God have mercy on you.” With that she burst into tears and
hurried from the room, the light running down her silver dress.
Madame was silent; she lay with her hand over her eyes until they came
to move her back into her own bed that had been re-made.
Then she asked for the King.
He had returned, she was told, to Versailles.
She never mentioned his name again. With his departure all hope and
desire of life had gone; he had fled, forsaken her. She almost wished
to die now, so that she might have respite from her pain.
The Mârechal de Granmont was brought to her bedside; she told him that
she was poisoned and bid him farewell.
She began to cough.
“It is the death cough,” she said. “Do you remember how my mother
coughed just before she died?” She then asked how long she had to live,
and expressed again her desire to confess.
The King had gone and the doctors had said there was no hope.
She thought no more of life; she made no complaint of her terrible
and sudden death, of her cruel agonies; she made no reflection on the
bitterness of dying in the midst of triumph, in the flower of her
youth; she tried to face the certainty of approaching Death with what
courage she might; she tried to realise a thing that till now she had
never thought of.
She confessed again to M. Feuillet; he was a stern priest, and exhorted
her in a severe fashion. When he had finished a Capuchin Father, her
usual confessor, began to speak to her.
His discourse wearied her; she was trying to realise God for herself.
The room was full of people; she saw them in a blur behind the figures
of the two priests: she heard their talking, their sobbing. She noted
the lines of her bed curtains, of her coverlet, and these things
troubled her.
Presently another figure came to her bedside. After a moment she knew
him–Lord Montagu, the English Ambassador. She thought of her brother.
“Tell him–that none loved him better than I—” Her voice failed.
My Lord answered her in English.
“Are you poisoned, Madame? I have heard it said. Is it true?”
“Yes. But in error–I accuse no one. Do not tell my brother; he might
wish to take vengeance—”
Here M. Feuillet interrupted; she had spoken in English, but he had
caught the word “poison.”
“Think of nothing but God, Madame–leaving these earthly matters.”
She held up her hand.
“My Lord–that diamond ring; take it to my brother.”
He drew it from her finger.
“Tell him I regret nothing so much as his grief. Tell the Duke of
York–that–also.”
As she said no more the Ambassador drew back into the crowded chamber.
Madame became weaker; an intense chillness had succeeded her heat; her
hands and feet were cold; it seemed to her that her heart had almost
stopped. With a sudden unutterable pang she remembered her keys.
Monsieur would get them; he would read her papers, her letters. If she
had only known last night—
Now he would see how she had lied to him—
She strove to put this thought from her; he was the master now and she
helpless.
The Capuchin continued his discourse; she prayed him, very sweetly, to
leave her in peace for a while.
She received the Holy Eucharist; to her it was a blur of gold vessels,
a murmur of words. She fainted three times while they administered it.
Another doctor arrived; he advised a bleeding in her foot.
“Then you must make haste,” she whispered.
Her head was whirling; she felt that the room had grown immense, that a
great multitude was about her–talking, whispering, sobbing.
She never asked for her children and no one thought to speak of them or
bring them; but they sent for M. de Condom.
She felt her foot bared and the prick of the lancet; as they bathed it
they cried out she was dying. Very little blood came.
They gave her extreme unction.
She felt herself now in a soft darkness, striving for the light; she
thought that this light would either blast or comfort her–and that it
was God.
She called out for her husband; he came instantly.
“Will you leave the room now, Monsieur?” she asked. “Have you my keys?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Be merciful,” she whispered piteously. “Adieu, Monsieur.”
He embraced her silently and went away, leaving her to her darkness.
The clock struck two. M. de Condom arrived; she saw him, heard that
he was speaking to her but she did not know what he said. The lapping
darkness was wrapping her; she saw through it glimmering points of
candles and weeping faces; she saw, too, Exeter towers, very plainly,
and the laughing eyes of M. de Guiche.
Then the mists cleared, and she beheld everything in a bright, strong
light. She turned to a woman who bent over her pillow and said in
English–
“When I am dead give M. de Condom the emerald ring I am having made for
him.”
Her natural courtesy spared his thanks by speaking in a language he did
not understand. Her agonies were suddenly ceased; she turned on her
side with a soft sigh.
“I think I could sleep,” she said to M. de Condom. “May I, for a
little–sleep?”
He said “Yes,” and that he would go and pray for her. He descended the
steps of her bed; he had hardly crossed the room before she called to
him in a sweet voice–
“It has come. I am dying.”
He returned to her bedside and held out the crucifix. She half raised
herself; her pale, lovely hair hung about her blue wrap. She took the
crucifix in her hands and clasped it to her bosom. The darkness was
lifting–behind Exeter towers; she saw the Thames as she had seen it
from the windows of Whitehall; she heard the priest’s voice reciting
the prayers for the dying. Her lips were on the crucifix; she gave the
responses, but her thoughts were not in the words. The light brightened
into a dazzle that blotted everything out. She let the crucifix fall
and sank back on her pillow. The clock chimed the half hour. She moved
her lips convulsively and died–after nine hours of agony.
The King was asleep at Versailles and Monsieur was in her private
cabinet, weeping furiously and tearing up the multitude of her
love-letters by the light of a trembling candle flame.
M. de Condom, preaching her funeral sermon, displayed her as a
Christian Princess, entirely virtuous.
THE BURNING OF THE VANITIES
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST DAY OF CARNIVAL AND THE VISION OF GIROLAMO
SAVONAROLA IN THE CITY OF FLORENCE, 1497
“Behold, the sky shall be darkened! Behold, it shall rain fire and
flame, stones and rocks; it shall be wild weather. I have placed ye
between four winds,” saith the Lord–namely, prelates, princes, priests
and bad citizens.
“Fly from their vices; gather ye together in charity. Fly from Rome,
O Florence, and come to repentance! The Lord saith: ‘I will debase
the princes of Italy and trample on the pride of Rome; then, O Italy,
trouble after trouble shall befall thee, trouble from this side and
from that–rumours from the east, rumours from the west, from all sides
rumour after rumour.’
“Then men shall yearn for the visions of the prophets, and shall have
them not, for the Lord saith, ‘Now do I prophesy in my turn.’”
So ended the sermon of Frà Girolamo, preached from a temporary pulpit
erected in front of the church of Santa Maria del Fiore, the last day
of the Carnival of the year fourteen hundred and ninety-seven, the
third year since the expulsion of the Medici, the third year of the
Friar’s rule in Florence.
The monks of St. Mark’s were gathered about the pulpit, and round them
the Piangoni, the active supporters of the Friar; beyond them the crowd
filled the Piazza from end to end, a crowd reverent, silent, excited.
It was a windless spring; the odours of the flowers in the fields
without hung in the breezeless air and filled the city streets with
perfume. Above the fine straight lines of the houses and the majestic
shape of the church the sky hung pure of cloud and deeply blue as an
early violet.
Frà Girolamo paused, gripping the smooth edge of the pulpit, and looked
across the gathered multitude.
He wore the habit of the Friars of St. Mark, a loose coarse brown robe
and a hood and shoulder-piece in one that fitted closely round his face
and neck. He was of the middle height, stooping a little and gaunt;
his features were harsh and rudely modelled, his complexion dark and
sickly, cheeks and forehead fined with deep furrows, his nose a heavy
aquiline, his eyes large, expressive and of a sparkling grey tint; his
thick but mobile lips were at that moment compressed in a firmness that
had the sweetness of true strength. Truly that expression of noble
gentleness illumined the whole ungainly countenance, softened the
unlovely lines and gave divine dignity to the common features.
As he stood so, motionless, the monks began to sing psalms and the
crowd went to their knees on the paving stones of the great Piazza,
their coloured garments shifting and changing in light and shade as
they moved. When the men’s voices sank on the last pulse of the holy
music that rose like incense on the clear thin air, Frà Girolamo
took the Host, and raising it with his right hand lifted the left in
blessing of the kneeling press of worshippers.
The great and stately door of the church was a fitting background for
the frail figure holding the Host of God which gleamed in the lucid
rays of the sun that struck straight from heaven on it, like a mystical
jewel fed with inner light.
Frà Girolamo flashed his eyes over the crowd, among whom he could
distinguish several of the Compagnacci, adherents of the vanished
Medici, and many of the Arrabbiati, his bitter foes who had threatened
to revive the old orgies of the Medicean rule, the pagan and splendid
carnival of Lorenzo, called the Magnificent, now for years since dead
in sin.
A strong excitement shook the slender frame of the Friar; his
countenance became blanched with the intense emotion that inspired him.
In a trembling but powerful voice he cried–
“O Lord, if my deeds be not sincere, if my words be not inspired by
Thee, strike me dead on the instant.”
The Host was lowered and the people rose from their knees; but the
Friar remained in the wooden pulpit.
Now the crowd drew back and made way for a strange procession that was
wending across the Piazza.
It was headed by four fair-headed youths attired in white, who bore
between them a marble figure of the Infant Christ, pointing with one
hand to a wreath of thorns and raising the other in benediction; this
was the work of Donato di Bardi, a famous sculptor. After came a
company also in white and carrying in their hands red crosses, singing
the lauds and hymns of Girolamo Benivieni in sweet and eager voices.
Behind them followed men and women soberly dressed who collected from
the crowd, holding out on silver trays the alms they received; they
were begging on behalf of the Monte di Pietà, and had already amassed
more gold than had been given in charity in Florence during a year of
the old Medicean order.
Next there came a vast number of children decently and quietly dressed,
some singing, some repeating prayers, all carrying, dragging or
supporting between them a strange and varied number of objects–books,
dresses, pictures, statues, masks, false hair, boxes and cases of
perfume, lutes, viols, mirrors, ornaments, gauds, manuscripts, cards,
dice, cosmetics, chess-boards, cups and balls of gold, and all manner
of rich, precious trifles and beautiful gorgeous examples of art.
These were the vanities that had been collected during the Carnival by
the very children who, under the rule of Lorenzo, had sung and danced,
fought and played profane games in the streets they now traversed in
orderly procession; then with the Carnival verses of the Medici on
their lips, now with holy hymns.
From every house in Florence they had demanded all vanities to be given
to them, and when they received the offerings they sang a devotional
work composed by Frà Girolamo. Now laden with these relics of the old
pagan rule, they were making their way to the Piazza dei Signori, there
to complete the purging of Florence by publicly burning the vanities
that had been so long her temptation and her curse.
The Friar descended from the pulpit and joined the procession in
company with his personal supporters; chanting and rejoicing, the
children made their joyful way, dragging with them the trophies of
luxury and wantonness, whose perfume of musk, ambergris and nard gave a
heaviness to the air as they passed.
Frà Girolamo held himself, as was his habit, modestly, and kept his eye
low in real humility; but in his great heart was a wild exultation that
this city of his love had responded to the agonies of his exhortation
and was turning from the wickedness of Borgia and Medici to the strong
face of God.
Beneath his rough and long robe beat a spirit so lofty and enthusiastic
that had it not been hampered and held down to earth by the poor
enfeebled body it had walked on the heads of all of them and conversed
with Angels.
But since He who made the soul of this Friar directed these things for
His own ends, Frà Girolamo, who bore in his bosom a burning light of
truth that might have served to redeem the world, worked in the wicked,
lovely city of Florence and spent his strength to redeem this little
circle of beloved sinners.
When the procession reached the Piazza there was found to be a great
eight-sided pyramid there, built up in the centre of the square and
reaching near as high as the Palace of the Signori; there were seven
stages to this, one for each of the deadly sins. On the apex stood two
grotesque and glittering figures, robed in gemmed satin and wearing
high-coloured crowns; one was King Carnival, the old monarch of the
wanton Medicean orgies; and in his monstrous, under-jawed face and
princely garb, in his straight heavy locks and the velvet cap under the
circlet of sovereignty, might be traced a malicious likeness to the
magnificent Lorenzo, purposely contrived by the artificer as an affront
to the banished House.
The other figure was Lucifer, horned, black, and hideous, bearing in
the lap of his scarlet robes seven little images representing the seven
mortal sins.
The procession paused; the men and women arranging themselves under the
Loggia de’ Lanzi and along the Pinghiera, while the children advanced
two at a time, and deposited their loads on the various platforms,
where the soldiers of the Signori arranged them in piles from the
bottom to the base of the pyramid.
So much had been collected, so many and various were the costly
offerings, that several hours passed before the final vanity was cast
on to the heap and the children retired to a great circle round the
Piazza; but all this while there had been no sign of weariness or
impatience on the part of the people, who continued with great spirit
and gladness to sing their lauds and hymns, mingled with denunciations
of the Carnival.
Frà Girolamo stood back from the pile with his hands folded in the
sleeves of his robe; his face was largely concealed by the shadow of
his hood, which he had partially drawn forward, and he conveyed neither
by word nor gesture fanatic rejoicing or common triumph. Rather was his
mien sad and grave, as if he weighed what was being done and pondered
on that far greater cleansing of Florence of which this was but a
symbol–the cleansing of the hearts of her citizens.
Truly when the last child cast down his burden and withdrew, it was a
marvellous sight of worldly splendour to behold; all these gauds and
glories cast together in this heap under the calm spring sky, half in
the shadow of the palace and other noble buildings and half sparkling
and glittering in the clear gold of the early sunshine, fainting in the
approach of afternoon. Rich and valuable were these vanities, worth
many thousands of ducats; a merchant of Venice had offered to buy them
for the vast sum of twenty thousand crowns, and the portrait of this
man was flung on top of the other baubles.
Carnival costumes were there of satin, silk and tinsel; chaplets and
garlands of false flowers; locks and wigs of artificial hair, masks
painted and gilt; necklets, bracelets and brocade shoes, girdles,
ribbons and playing cards; chess-men in ivory, silver and ebony; fans
in feathers dyed bright colours; books of profane poems with pictures
tinted and gilt; lutes, viols and pipes painted and carved; boxes,
bottles and caskets of cosmetics, powders, philtres and charms; statues
and busts of pagan gods and goddesses, white marble, veined marble, and
time-stained alabaster; mirrors set in copper, gold and silver; toy
daggers for ladies with handles of jade, sardonyx and emerald; watches
of crystal, of filigree, of enamel; caskets of perfumes; paintings of
wanton figures, of beautiful women, of heathen scenes; velvet purses
embroidered with armorial bearings; gauntlets stitched thickly with
silver thread and pearl; mantles edged with vair and sable; sword-hilts
fringed with knotted silk and gold; pins for the hair set with rubies
and sapphires; false faces and gaudy finery for the carnival; statues
in bronze, in gilt, in silver; enamel cups and drinking-horns bound
with a rim of precious stones; cushions of brocade and down; boxes of
ointment, of unguents; phials of rare perfumes; caskets of sweetmeats,
bags of confetti, dice, parti-coloured playing balls, and many trifling
things composed the pile. And with the glimmer of the gems, the shining
of the gold and silver, the soft gleam of the rich stuffs, the flash
of glass and crystal, the strange fantastic look of mask and carnival
garment, it seemed as if the ransom of some monarch of the east, a
pasha of Turkey or some potentate of Rhodes or Candy Isle was gathered
there.
Now an excited and trembling silence of expectancy fell upon the crowd;
four of the soldiers of the Signori stepped forward with flaming
torches that showed pale and smoky in the daylight, and as Frà Girolamo
raised his hand they lit the four corners of the pile, the interior of
which was filled with combustibles.
As the flames hesitated, crouched, then seized hold and caught their
prey, the trumpeters of Florence blew a blast of triumph, the bells
broke out from the palace and the people gave free vent to their wild
enthusiasm.