castle of Amboise to hunt in the forests on the banks of the river. For
a while he seemed, as usual, eager for the chase, then suddenly he let
it sweep past him, and, signing to two or three of his most constant
attendants, galloped down the road to Plessis-les-Tours, and was pealing
at the great bell before Jeanne had any time to think of her clothes.
'Oh, Sire, what happiness to see you!' she cried, throwing her arms
round his neck. 'And look, am I not tall? and a woman grown, though my
twelfth birthday is not long past!'
'A woman indeed, and beautiful withal! A woman ready for a husband! Is
it not so, Jeanne?' And as he spoke Francis gazed at her steadily, and
Jeanne dropped her eyes and blushed, though _why_ she did not know. The
story was soon told; the Duke of Clèves, rich, young, handsome,
accomplished, brother of the lately wedded Queen of England, was to be
the bridegroom of the heiress of Navarre, just half his age. There was
no time to be lost, and she must make ready to join her mother at
Alençon, where the contract was to be signed. The king expected some
astonishment, perhaps a little hesitation; but he certainly did not
expect the burst of tears which greeted his news, still less her 'humble
petition' to the king's grace that she might not be forced into the
marriage.
'Why, what do you mean? he is a cavalier in a thousand,' Francis
exclaimed angrily, and Jeanne could give no answer. The duke _sounded_
all that a maiden could dream of, but—she did not want him for a
husband. So her tears flowed afresh, and the king, finding her still
silent, bade her remember that he should expect to see her in Paris on
her way to Alençon in a week, and returned to Amboise in a very bad
temper.
Left to herself, Jeanne continued to cry for some time; then she dried
her eyes, and wondered why she so hated the thought of marrying the
duke. It was not any love she had for her cousin, though like her father
she felt a rush of indignation when she thought of the way she had been
used and thrown aside—no, it was something quite different. What could
it be? In a moment the answer came to her: Oh, no! no! she could never
leave France; 'France,' which was more to her than anything in the world
except her mother! And after all, she reflected, holding up her head,
they could not marry her against her will—her, the heiress of Navarre,
and a person of great importance. With that smiles came back to her
face, and she went quite cheerfully to give orders to her maids, not
knowing, poor little girl, that it was exactly _because_ she was 'a
person of great importance' that it was so difficult for her to be
happy.
Quite firm in her resolve, Jeanne rode out from Plessis two days after,
accompanied by Madame de Silly, and followed by the chief officers of
the household and a guard of soldiers. Her spirits rose as they left the
gloomy woods and gloomier towers behind them, and passed into the spring
sunshine, and the lovely gardens of the valley of the Loire. Much too
soon for Jeanne's wishes they reached Paris, and went straight to the
palace of the Louvre. After she had changed her riding dress for a
beautiful garment of blue velvet, with a chemisette and high collar of
fine lace, she was summoned to the king's apartments, where he stood
with the Duke of Clèves. If Jeanne had not been so determined to hate
him, she would have been forced to admit that he was very handsome and
manly, and that he moved and spoke with the ease and grace so highly
prized in the Court of France. As it was, she stared at him rudely, and
would scarcely answer any of his pretty speeches, and altogether (if she
could only have known it) behaved more like the naughty little girl she
_was_ than like the grown-up woman she thought herself to be. As was
natural, nothing came of this conduct, except that the king became
extremely angry with her, and Madame de Silly was obliged to give her a
scolding, and show her that she would not advance her cause with her
uncle, whose mind was set on the marriage, and only make her future
husband to despise and dislike her.
'I certainly fail to see what I am to gain by leaving France and my own
kingdom in order to marry a duke of Clèves,' Jeanne answered
contemptuously; and her governess, knowing that in this mood nothing was
to be done with her, left her to herself. Later in the day, Madame de
Silly was sent for by Francis, whom she found much enraged by Jeanne's
obstinacy.
'You will both set out for Alençon to-morrow morning,' he said sternly,
'and you will inform the Queen of Navarre of what has happened. I will
see the princess no more till she has learned to obey me.' The news of
her daughter's behaviour and her brother's displeasure sorely grieved
Queen Marguérite. Giving Jeanne no time to rest after her long ride, she
went at once to her chamber, and begged the girl to tell her all that
had happened from the very beginning. The queen listened with anger and
surprise to her daughter's account of her first interview with the king,
whose lightest word had always been law to _her_; but Jeanne no more
feared her mother than she did her uncle, and could not be induced
either to express any regret for what she had done or to promise
obedience for the future. So, with a troubled countenance, the queen
left the room, and sat down to write to Francis.
To our eyes her letter seems rather slavish, and as if she possessed no
rights in her own child. She assures the king that Jeanne's parents 'had
no will but his,' and that her father was 'more indignant at his
daughter's conduct than he had ever been about anything.' This was
hardly the truth, as Marguérite could scarcely have forgotten her
husband's wrath when the marriage was first proposed, and even if he now
thought it wiser to change his tone so as not to irritate his
brother-in-law further, she was too clever a woman to be deceived in
this, and must have guessed that, strong-willed though Jeanne was, she
would not have dared to withstand them all if she had not been sure of
the approval of her father. The visit to Alençon must have been rather
unpleasant for everyone, for when the queen was not employed in trying
to persuade her daughter to comply with her uncle's desire, she was
engaged in teaching her some of the principles of the Reformed religion,
professed, as has been said, by the Duke of Clèves. As Jeanne was at
this time a devout Catholic, these lessons only served to exasperate her
further, and it was probably a relief to all three when the Bishop of
Séez, to whom the queen had entrusted the letter, returned with the
answer.
It was very short, merely stating that the Queen of Navarre was to
arrange without delay the ceremony of betrothal between her daughter and
the Duke of Clèves, and this being over they were to go at once to
Châtelherault, where the actual marriage would publicly take place. As
to Marguérite's assurances of grief and abasement, scant notice was
vouchsafed to _them_. Though Jeanne was her own daughter, and only
twelve years old, the queen felt very uncomfortable as she walked up the
narrow winding turret staircase which led to the girl's rooms. Jeanne
turned first red and then white as she glanced at the letter in her
mother's hand, but she listened without interruption while it was being
read out to her. The queen was a little surprised at this, and felt she
was getting on better than she expected; but when she had ended, and
raised her eyes to Jeanne's face, what she saw there froze her into
silence. In a moment more the storm broke, and such a torrent of
reproaches flowed from the princess—reproaches as to the sacrifice that
was to be made of her, of the misery to which they wished to condemn
her, and of her firm resolve never to utter the vows which would make
her the duke's wife—that for a while the queen felt quite stunned. It
was seldom indeed that a mother of those days listened to such words
from her daughter. At length she recovered her presence of mind.
'Cease, Jeanne,' she said, laying her hand on the child's shoulder, 'is
it thus you have learned your duty to me? Be quiet instantly, or I shall
have to whip you as if you were a little girl again.'
The outburst of fury had somewhat exhausted Jeanne, and she felt rather
ashamed of her anger. Not because, as she told herself eagerly, she
retracted anything—it was all quite true; but perhaps she had behaved
in an undignified way, and in a manner unbecoming a princess. So she
made no reply, but began to think out another plan, and the result was a
paper protesting at being forced against her will into this marriage. If
she really composed it—it is certainly written in her own hand—it is
surprisingly clever for a child of twelve; but it is possible that she
may have been helped by one of the three officials who were witnesses of
her signature. In any case, however, it was of no use, for the betrothal
took place as arranged, and the public marriage at Châtelherault
followed it. Outwardly, Jeanne had resolved to accept the fate which she
could not escape, but before leaving Alençon she wrote a second protest,
declaring that as her vows were only made under force and not freely,
they were null and void, and the marriage no marriage.
Francis I. was much relieved when he saw his niece ride up to the gate
of the castle. Powerful though he was, Jeanne's opposition had caused
him to feel uneasy as well as irritated; he could not have told _what_
he feared, but he was aware that a burden rolled off him as she
dismounted from her horse and walked towards the great door. He left the
windows at once, in order to welcome her, so he did not notice the
bridegroom hold out his hand to lead her up the steps, nor the air with
which the bride repulsed him. Poor bridegroom! he was having a very
unpleasant time, and it was well for him that he had a charming
mother-in-law to talk to, who more than made up for the loss of her
sulky daughter.
By the king's orders the marriage festivities were to be on the grandest
possible scale, and Marguérite had given special care to Jeanne's dress.
The jewels on her long robe of cloth of gold dazzled the eyes of the
spectators, and her velvet mantle was broidered with ermine. No wonder
that on a hot July day the weight of these clothes felt enormous, and
Jeanne had some show of reason on her side when she told her uncle, who
came forward to lead her to the altar, that she really could not move
from her chair. Francis was naturally very much provoked, but not
deigning to notice such childish behaviour, he turned to the constable,
M. de Montmorency, and bade him carry the bride into the chapel. The
constable fulfilled his orders, and set down Jeanne in her place by the
side of the duke, the royal family feeling truly thankful that she had
not kicked or struggled, as they fully expected her to do.
[Illustration: Jeanne's rudeness to the Duke of Clèves]
After the quiet life she had led at Plessis the splendid ceremonies of
her marriage, and particularly the banquet and ball that followed it,
interested Jeanne very much, though she would have died rather than
show it. She even contrived to keep all her eagerness out of her eyes,
and sat there, like a little wooden image, till the Queen of Navarre
would gladly have given her the whipping she deserved. When the ball
was over, and she was alone with her mother (in whose care she was
to spend the next two or three years) she was scolded severely for
her childishness, but all in vain. Not one smile could be detected on
her face as she occupied the place of honour at the tournaments that
were held during eight days and nights in the great meadow adjoining
the castle, or walked among the tents of twisted branches where dwelt
hermits clad in velvet, green as the trees, who undertook the charge
of any strange knights till they could fight in the tourney. All this
she enjoyed secretly, and better still did she like the fairies and
water sprites who peopled the woods and hovered on the banks of the
stream, though she resolutely kept silence, instead of speaking to
them graciously, as she knew quite well it was her duty to do. In fact
Jeanne was as tiresome and perverse as a little girl could be, but in
her own heart she thought herself very grand and dignified, and the
more she saw everyone put out by her conduct the better she was pleased.
At length it was all over; the bridegroom took his leave and returned to
fight against the emperor, and the king and queen of Navarre took theirs
also, and started for Béarn. For the first time in her life Marguérite
was thankful to part from her beloved brother. She had passed a
miserable fortnight, never feeling sure what her daughter might do next,
and generally being much ashamed of what she _did_. But when they had
left the Loire behind them, and were entering the country which 'Madame
la Duchesse de Clèves' had never visited since she was a tiny child,
Jeanne threw off her injured airs and became the eager, observant girl
she naturally was. Oh, how happy she felt to see Nérac again, and to
spend the autumn in the free wild country where the sun shone, and the
wind blew fresh from the mountains! She forgot at times (in spite of her
title) that such a being as the Duke of Clèves existed, and she behaved
so well, both at Nérac and at Pau, during the following winter, that
Marguérite used to wonder if those terrible festivities had _really_
only taken place a few months ago. During part of the day Jeanne was
taught many things by her mother, and learned all the quicker for having
the queen's maids of honour to share her lessons. In the evening she
talked with some of the members of the Reformed religion, to whom the
Court of Navarre was always open. Gradually she began to feel drawn to
their doctrines, and probably would have adopted them altogether but for
the fact that the Duke of Clèves had long ceased to be a Catholic.
So two years slipped happily by. Jeanne, without becoming less truthful,
had grown more gentle, and more humble also. She no longer dwelt with
pride on the thought of her behaviour on her wedding-day, but if she was
alone her cheeks even flushed red at the recollection of it. She was
kind and pleasant to everyone she met with, and would chatter to the
people in the curious _patois_ which they spoke. She felt as if she had
lived in Béarn for ever, and that Plessis and Alençon were a dream.
Then, one morning, the Cardinal du Bellay rode into Pau, and craved an
audience of Madame la Duchesse de Clèves. When admitted to her presence
he delivered a letter from the King of France bidding Jeanne set out at
once under the Cardinal's escort, and join him at Luxembourg, from which
he would take her to Aix, where the Duke of Clèves then was. A frantic
burst of tears was the only answer the cardinal received; but at last
Jeanne found words, and declared that she would die if she was dragged
away from her beloved Pau. Her mother, whom she hastily summoned, as
usual took the side of the king; but her father wept with her, and
assured her that if she was forced to go on this journey he would go
with her. Henri was powerless to deliver her, as Jeanne well knew; still
his presence was a comfort, and in two days the sad little procession
took the northern road.
Meanwhile events across the Rhine had marched rapidly, and, unknown to
Francis, the Duke of Clèves had done homage to the emperor, who had
invaded his duchy. It was not until the treaty was actually signed by
the duke that notice was sent to Francis of the matter, and with it went
a letter requesting that the princess Jeanne might be sent immediately
to Aix to take up her position as Duchesse of Clèves. The terms of the
letter were of course dictated by the emperor, and were not intended to
soothe Francis. The king's first act was to despatch a messenger to
Soissons, to meet Jeanne, who was to rest there for a day or two, after
her long journey. At midnight she was awakened from a sound sleep by a
clatter in the courtyard beneath her windows, and a few minutes later
one of her maids brought a message that the cardinal would feel greatly
honoured if the princess would see him for a few minutes. Wearily Jeanne
suffered her ladies to dress her, and dropping into a chair, waited to
hear what the cardinal had to say. Nothing pleasant it _could_ be, for
did not every hour bring closer her farewell to France, and her life
among people that she hated. Bowing low, the cardinal entered, bearing
the despatch, which he presented to Jeanne.
'Read it,' she said, in a tired voice, waving her hand; and the cardinal
read it. As he went on her fatigue suddenly disappeared; she leaned
eagerly forward, her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing. 'What is it you
say? That the king will see that my marriage—my _hateful_
marriage—shall be set aside, and that I am to go at once to Queen
Eleanor at Fontainebleau? Oh, what joy! what a deliverance!' Jeanne's
rapture was shared by her father, and next day they travelled, with very
different feelings, over the road they had just come.
[Illustration: The Cardinal reads the King's letter to Jeanne]
To judge by her letters, Queen Marguérite seems to have been more angry
at the way in which her daughter—and her brother—had been treated than
relieved at the princess's escape from a husband whom she detested.
Steps were at once taken, not only by the King of France, but by the
Duke of Clèves, to implore from the Pope a dispensation setting aside
the marriage contracted on July 15, 1540. And as the reason given for
the appeal was the fact that the marriage had been forced on the bride
against her will, the 'protests' were produced as evidence, and Jeanne
felt with pride they had not been drawn up for nothing. Indeed, she was
bidden by Francis to write a third one, which was sent straight to Pope
Paul III. But royal marriages are neither made nor marred in a day, and
a year and a half dragged by before Jeanne was a free woman again. After
some months spent with her mother at Alençon, she returned to Plessis,
with Madame de Silly, to await alone the decision of the Pope. Here in
the chapel, on Easter Day, Jeanne addressed the bishops and nobles
assembled to hear High Mass, and read to them a short statement of the
events relating to her marriage five years before, begging that the
Cardinal de Tournon might be sent to Rome without delay. This time Pope
Paul III. paid more attention to the matter than he had done before, and
by Whitsuntide the contract was annulled, and Jeanne and her bridegroom
henceforth were strangers.
Strange to say, even after she was set free, Jeanne appears to have
spent a considerable time at Plessis—which, as we know, she hated
nearly as much as she did the Duke of Clèves—for she was still there
when she heard of the death of Francis I. in the spring of 1547. She at
once joined her father, but does not seem to have tried to console her
mother, who was broken-hearted, and henceforth gave up the life and
studies, in which she had so much delighted, for the service of the
poor. Many years previously Francis had married his son Henri to the
young Catherine de Medici, who now sat on the throne of France, where
the King of Navarre had thought to have placed his daughter. Henri was a
very different man from Francis: he was shy and gloomy, and he had not
the gay and pleasant manners of his father, and his affections were
given to a wholly different set of friends. But on hearing of the fresh
advances made by the Emperor Charles to the King of Navarre for a union
between Jeanne and the young widower, Philip of Spain, Henri bethought
him of the danger from Spain which was so prominently before the eyes of
his father, and summoned Jeanne, then nearly twenty, to Fontainebleau.
So seldom had the princess been at Court that she was almost a stranger,
but her high spirits and quick tongue made her a favourite with most
people. Queen Catherine, however, did not like her; she could not
understand Jeanne, or the bold way in which she set forth her views.
Speech, according to Catherine, was given you to hide your thoughts, and
not to display them; while Jeanne thought the queen's elaborate
compliments and constant reserve very tiresome, and avoided her as much
as possible. 'How cold Catherine was, and how stingy,' said Jeanne to
herself. 'She did not seem to care for anybody, even her own children,
while as for gratitude'—and, with her head held high, Jeanne sat down
to write a letter respecting the care of her old nurse.
Of course, no sooner did the handsome young heiress appear at Court than
suitors for her hand appeared also. The king favoured the claims of
François, duke of Guise, afterwards the captor of Calais; but Jeanne
declared that her husband must be of royal blood, and asked Henri how
she could suffer the Duchesse d'Aumale, who now thought it an honour to
bear her train, to walk beside her as her sister-in-law? Perhaps, being
a man, the case might not have seemed as impossible to Henri as it did
to Jeanne; but one thing was quite clear to him, and that was that he
could never obtain the consent of the lady, so he wisely let the matter
drop. The other suitor was Antoine de Bourbon, eldest son of the Duc de
Vendôme, and nephew, by her first husband, of Marguérite. Antoine was
now about thirty, a tall, handsome man, and a leader of fashion; but,
had she known it, Jeanne would have been much happier as the wife of
Francois de Guise. For the Duc de Vendôme, though brave and fascinating,
was absolutely untrustworthy. His word was lightly given, and lightly
broken; his friends were always changing, and only his love of pleasure
and love of ease remained the same. As to the king and queen of Navarre,
_their_ opinions were, as usual, divided. Henri d'Albret did not like
his proposed son-in-law—he was too thoughtless, and too extravagant;
while Marguérite, on the contrary, was prepared to overlook everything,
seeing he was the first prince of the blood, and, like his brother
Condé, an advocate of the Reformed religion. She did not pause to ask
herself how far his life gave evidence of any religion at all! However,
also as usual, the wishes of the King of Navarre were once more
thwarted, and Jeanne, her mother, and Henri II. proved too much for him.
The marriage took place at the town of Moulins, at the end of October
1548, when the bride was nearly twenty-one, the King and Queen of France
being present at the ceremony. The King of Navarre did all he could to
prevent his daughter's dowry from being wasted by declaring that it
should only be paid in instalments, while the queen stipulated in the
contract that Jeanne should have absolute control over the bringing up
of her children till they were eighteen years of age.
The future life of Jeanne, married to a man like the Duc de Vendôme, was
certain to be unhappy, and the state of France, with its perpetual
religious wars, could only increase that unhappiness. As far as possible
she stayed in her own kingdom, and kept her son, afterwards Henri IV.,
living a free, hardy life among the mountains. But there were times when
policy forced her to visit the Court of Catherine, whom she hated and
mistrusted, and, what was infinitely worse, to leave her son there. His
tutors were men of the Reformed religion, but Henri had too much of his
father in him for any faith to take root, and when he had to decide
between Calvinism and a crown, it was easy to tell what his choice would
be. But Jeanne was spared the knowledge of that, and of much else that
would have grieved her sorely, for she died in Paris, whither she had
gone to attend the marriage of Henri and the Princess Margot, a few days
before the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.
_HACON THE KING_