Catherine de’ Medici was a woman devoid of every womanly instinct,
every womanly virtue, every womanly attribute. She was the very
incarnation of the terrible Medusa, petrifying all noble impulses,
destroying all virtuous aspirations, killing every kindly feeling in
the hearts of those around her.
She had been taught the doctrines of Machiavelli, whose ideal of
a prince was one who should work by force, fraud, cruelty, and
dissimulation to gain his desired ends; but even these dangerous
theories of that crafty, though brilliant-minded Florentine, were far
out-stripped in unprincipled chicanery by his ambitious follower,
Catherine de Medici; so that the term Machiavellian is far too weak a
word to apply to her diabolical villanies.
France ran red with blood. The terrible tocsin at midnight tolled forth
the death-doom of one hundred thousand lives. The wild shrieks of the
dying freighted the air of France with heart-curdling wailings from
centre to circumference. French soil was deluged with the blood of
her people. The blasphemous curses of the fiendish murderers polluted
the very air of heaven, until it seemed as though the furies of hell
were let loose upon this realm, to wreck upon the helpless people the
infernal hate of the arch-demon himself.
Who was the diabolical instigator of this atrocious work? Alas! a
woman! and that woman _Catherine de’ Medici_.
The innocent soul of a child, naturally moved by good impulses, was
tutored in every vice of which human nature is capable. His childish
lips were taught to pronounce the most terrible blasphemies, his kind
heart was mocked and sneered at, and tempted with every ensnaring
device of vile and polluting pleasures offered by the most dissolute
and alluring companions, until no wickedness seemed too great to be
undertaken, no degrading diversion too low to be indulged in. His
constitution was purposely weakened, his mind purposely dwarfed and
debased, that his life might be short, and that his will might be
broken; that another’s ambitious power might be increased even though
it cost the death of body and soul of the helpless victim. Who was
this fiend incarnate, who could thus toy with a human soul, hourly
dragging it nearer and nearer the yawning jaws of the bottomless pit of
perdition? That one was a woman, the _mother_ of her quivering victim;
this malevolent Gorgon was _Catherine de’ Medici_.
Even the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain pale before the horrors
of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Even the bloody “Demon of the
South,” as Philip II. was called, seems not such a revolting spectacle
of depraved humanity as Catherine de’ Medici; for Philip, at least,
fanatically imagined he was aiding the cause of religion, as he
believed the infamous Inquisition to be a righteous avenger in behalf
of the Catholic Church; whereas Catherine de’ Medici had no belief, no
religion, cared neither for Catholics nor Protestants, neither for the
Romish Church nor for the Reformed Faith.
She flattered each by turns as it best suited her nefarious schemes;
she was actuated by no motive beyond her personal ambition of holding
the reins of power; she cared not who or what was sacrificed, whether
the life and soul of her own child, or whether the result was the
downfall of every religious belief, the blood of her subjects, the ruin
of her provinces, and the desolation of the homes of her people.
Not even fanaticism can be offered as a poor excuse for her crimes; her
infamous deeds can be cloaked by no paltry plea of religious fervor.
Her crimes were instigated by her own diabolical soul, a willing ally
of the Prince of Darkness; and were it not for the strong menial
abilities she manifested, one would imagine her some grotesque monster
of an animal. But her crafty schemes betokened keen intellectual
powers, and made her seem some malignant demon in human shape sent
forth from the lowest depths of the Inferno to lure men and women to
destruction.
Catherine de’ Medici was a daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici, that ruler
of Florence for whom Machiavelli wrote the “Prince.” Having lost both
her parents in early childhood, Catherine was sent to a convent to be
educated. Her uncle, Pope Clement VII., arranged with Francis I. of
France a marriage between Catherine and the Duke of Orleans, afterwards
Henry II. of France. This marriage was celebrated in 1533, when
Catherine was fourteen years of age.
During the reign of Francis, Catherine exercised no influence in
France. She was a thick-set, plain, unprepossessing girl; and being so
young, and a foreigner, and a native of a state having no great weight
in the world of politics, she was thrown entirely into the shade by
more important and attractive personages, having not yet given any
proof of her after great but iniquitous ability.
The court life at the time of Francis I. was beginning to assume some
of the brilliancy and splendor for which it became so famous in the
reign of _le Grand Monarque_. The fall of Florence and the expulsion
of the French from Italy brought many Italians into France. Among
these were men of letters, poets, musicians, sculptors, painters, and
architects. Italian was generally understood at court, and became
a frequent medium of conversation. Many Italian words were thus
introduced into French phrases, and the French tongue became thereby
materially changed and softened in its pronunciation.
It was at this time that so many old feudal fortresses were torn down
to give place to the châteaux of the Renaissance. The king lived
familiarly with artists, men of letters and celebrities, and patronized
all who had made a name in art or literature.
Fontainebleau, which was originally a hunting-seat of Saint Louis IX.,
began to rise into a stately palace under the direction of Sebastian
Serlio and Rosso, a Florentine. This Italian artist, Rosso, or Battista
di Jacopo, was named by King Francis, “chief and superintendent over
all the buildings, paintings, and other decorations of the palace,”
with a large salary, for Rosso lived like _en grand seigneur_. As a
painter his industry was great, and he displayed much ability in his
designs for the decoration of the _Galerie de François I._, which he
constructed over the lower court. During the reign of Louis Philippe
some of Rosso’s paintings were discovered under a coating of whitewash,
and were restored by that king’s order.
But the _chef-d’œuvre_ of the Renaissance was the _Château de
Chambord_, which, though it was not half completed at the time of the
visit of the Emperor Charles V., so greatly excited his wonder and
admiration.
One of the marvels of this château was “its double spiral staircase of
two hundred and eighty-six steps, rising in the centre of the edifice
from its basement to its highest point,—the lantern, crowned by an
enormous _fleur-de-lys_. It was a sort of puzzle. Eight persons could
walk abreast up or down it, the ascending and descending parties never
meeting, yet seeing each other.”
[Illustration: FRANCIS I.