one of the most adroit men of his Kingdom, came to employ this lady
for such an office, having so sorely injured her that she could have
had neither heart nor feeling if she had taken therein the very least
pains in the world; but there, she did simply make mock of him and his
instructions. Report said at the time this was the fine advice of the
Maréchal de Retz, who did give a like piece of counsel to King Charles,
namely to send M. de la Noue into the town of La Rochelle, for to
persuade the inhabitants to peace and their proper duty and allegiance.
The better to accredit him to them, he did permit him to play the
eager partisan on their side and on his own, to fight desperately for
them, and give them counsel and advice against the King,—but all under
this condition that when his services should be claimed by the King or
the King’s brother, which was his Lieutenant General, and he ordered
to leave the place, he would obey. This he did and all else, making
fierce enough war, and finally quitting the place; yet meanwhile he
did so confirm his folk and sharpen their spirit, and did give them
such excellent lessons and so greatly encouraged them, as that for that
time they did cut our beards to rights for us.[45*] Many would have it,
there was no subtlety in all this; but I did see it all with mine own
eyes, and I do hope to give full account of these doings elsewhere. At
any rate this was all the said Maréchal did avail his King and country;
one that ’twere more natural surely to hold a charlatan and swindler
than a good counsellor and a Marshal of France.
I will tell one other little word of the aforesaid Duchesse de Nemours.
I have heard it said that at the time they were framing the famous
League, and she would be examining the papers and the lists of the
towns which did join it, not yet seeing Paris figuring therein, she
would ever say to her son: “All this is naught, my son; we must have
Paris to boot. If you have not Paris, you have done naught; wherefore,
ho! for Paris city.” And never a word but Paris, Paris, was always in
her mouth; and the end of it all was the barricades that were seen
afterward.
8.
In this we see how a brave heart doth ever fly at the highest game.
And this doth again remind me of a little tale I have read in a
Spanish Romance called _la Conquista de Navarra_, “The Conquest of
Navarre.”[46] This Kingdom having been taken and usurped from King John
of Navarre by the King of Aragon, Louis XII. did send an army under M.
de la Palice to win it back. Our King did send word to the Queen, Donna
Catherine, by M. de la Palice which did bring her the news, that she
should come to the Court of France and there tarry with his Queen Anne,
while that the King, her husband, along with M. de la Palice was making
essay to recover the Kingdom. The Queen did make him this gallant
answer: “How now, Sir! I did suppose the King your master had sent
you hither for to carry me with you to my Kingdom and set me again at
Pampeluna, and for me to accompany you thither, as my mind was made up
to do and my preparations made. Yet now you bid me go stay at the Court
of France? Truly a poor hope and ill augury for me! I see plainly
I shall never set foot in mine own land again.” And even as she did
presage, the thing fell out.
It was told and commanded the Duchess de Valentinois, on the approach
of the death of King Henri II., when his health was now despaired of,
to retire to her mansion in Paris, and go no more into his chamber,—to
the end she might not disturb him in his pious meditations, and no less
on account of the hostility certain did bear her. Then when she had
so withdrawn, they did send to her again to demand sundry rings and
jewels, which did belong to the Crown and which she must give back.
At this she did on a sudden ask the worthy spokesman: “Why! is the
King dead then?”—“No! Madam,” replied the other, “but it can scarce
be long first.”—“As long as there is one breath of life left in his
body, I would have my enemies to know I fear them not a whit, and that
I will never obey them, so long as he shall be alive. My courage is
still invincible. But when he is dead, I care not to live on after him,
and all the vexations you could inflict on me would be but kindness
compared with the bitterness of my loss. So, whether my King be quick
or dead, I fear not mine enemies at all.”
Herein did this fair lady show great spirit, and a true heart. Yet she
did not die, ’twill be objected of some, as she did say she would.
True! yet did she not fail to experience some threatenings of death;
beside, she did better to choose rather to live than to die, for to
show her enemies she was no wise afeared of them. Having erst seen
them shake and tremble before her, she would fain escape doing the
same before them, and did wish to show so good a face and confident
look to them as that they never durst do her any displeasure. Nay!
more than this; within two years’ space they did seek to her more
than ever, and renewed their friendship with her, as I did myself see.
And this is the way with great lords and ladies, which have little
solid continuance in their friendships, and in their differences do
readily make it up again, like thieves at a fair, and the same with all
their loves and hatreds. This we smaller folks do never do; for either
we must needs fight, avenge and die, or else make up the quarrel by
way of punctilious, minutely ordered and carefully arranged terms of
agreement. So in this we do play the better part.
We cannot but admire this lady’s conduct and behaviour; and truly these
high-born dames which have to do with affairs of State, do commonly act
in a grander way than the ordinary run of women. And this is why our
late King Henri III., last deceased, and the Queen, his mother, did
by no means love such ladies of their Court as did much trouble their
wits with matters of State and put their nose therein and did concern
them to speak of other matters near touching the government of the
Kingdom. ’Twas as if, their Majesties were used to declare, they had
some great part therein and might be heirs of the same, or just as if
they had given the sweat of their bodies and force of their hands to
its management and maintenance, like men; whereas, for a mere pastime,
talking at the fireside, sitting comfortably in their chairs or lying
on their pillows, or their daybeds, they would discourse at their ease
of the world at large and the state of the Country, as if they did
arrange it all. On this point a certain great lady of fashion, whom I
will not name, did one time make a shrewd reply, who taking on her to
say out all her say on occasion of the first meeting of the Estates at
Blois, their Majesties did cause a slight reprimand to be given her,
telling her she should attend to the affairs of her own house and her
prayers to God. To this being something too free in her speech, she
did answer thus: “In days of yore when Princes, Kings and great Lords
did take the cross and hie them over-seas, to do so noble exploits in
the Holy Land, insooth ’twas allowed us women only to fast and pray,
make orisons and vows, that God might give them a successful journey
and a safe return. But nowadays that we do see them do naught better
than ourselves, ’tis surely allowed us to speak of all matters; for as
to praying God for them, why should we do so, seeing they do no more
heroic deeds than ourselves?”
This speech was for sure too bold and outspoken, and indeed it came
very nigh to costing her dear. She had all the difficulty in the world
to win pardon and excuse, which she had to ask for right humbly; and
had it not been for a certain private reason I could tell, and if I
would, she had received dire pains and penalties therefor, and very
signal punishment.
’Tis not always well to speak out a sharp saying such as this, when
it cometh to the lips. Myself have seen not a few folk which could in
no wise govern their wit in this sort, but were more untamed than a
Barbary charger. Finding a good shrewd gibe in their mouth, out they
must spit it, without sparing relations, friends or superiors. Many
such I have known at our own Court of France, where they were well
called _Marquis et Marquises de belle-bouche_, “Lords and Ladies of
Frank Speech;” but many and many a time did their frank speech bring
them in sore trouble.
9.
Having thus described the brave and gallant bearing of sundry ladies
on sundry noble occasions of their life, I am fain now to give some
examples of the like high qualities displayed at their death. Without
borrowing any instance of Antiquity, I will merely adduce that of the
late deceased Queen Regent[47] mother of our noble King Francis I. In
her day this Princess, as I have heard many of mine acquaintance say,
both men and women, was a very fair lady, and very gay and gallant to
boot, which she did continue to be even in her declining years. And for
this cause, when folk did talk to her of death, she did exceedingly
mislike such discourse, not excepting preachers which did hold forth
on this subject in their sermons. “As if,” she would cry, “we did not
all of us know well enough we must one day die. The fact is, these
preachers, whenas they can find naught further to say in their sermons,
and be at the end of their powers of invention, like other simple folk,
do take refuge in this theme of death.” The late Queen of Navarre, her
daughter, did no less than her mother detest these same harpings on
death and sermonizings on mortality.
Well, being now come near her fated end, and lying on her deathbed,
three days before that event, she did see her chamber at night all lit
up by a brilliant gleam shining in through the window. She did hereupon
chide her bedchamber women, which were sitting up with her, asking them
for why they did make so big and bright a fire. But they did answer,
that there was but a small fire burning, and that ’twas the moon which
did shine so bright and cause the illumination. “Why!” she did exclaim,
“there is no moon at this time of the month; it hath no business to be
shining now.” And of a sudden, bidding open her curtain, she did behold
a comet, which shone right on her bed. “Ah, look!” she cried, “yonder
is a sign which doth not appear for persons of common quality. God
doth show it forth only for us great lords and ladies. Shut the window
again; ’tis a comet, announcing my death; we must prepare therefor.” So
next morning, having sent to seek her confessor, she did perform all
the duty of a good Christian, albeit the physicians did assure her she
was not yet come to this. “Had I not seen the sign of my death,” she
said, “I should believe you, for indeed I do not feel me so far gone,”
and thereon did describe to them all the appearance of the comet.
Finally, three days later, leaving all concerns of this world, she did
pass away.
I cannot but believe but that great ladies, and such as be young,
beautiful and high-born, do feel greater and more sore regret to leave
this world than other women. Yet will I now name some such, which
have made light of death, and have met the same with a good heart,
though for the moment the announcement thereof was exceeding bitter
and hateful to them. The late Comtesse de La Rochefoucault,[48*] of
the house of Roye, in my opinion and that of many beside, one of the
fairest and most charming women in all France, when her minister (for
she was of the Reformed Faith, as everybody is aware) did warn her
she must think no more of worldly things, and that her hour was now
come, that she must presently away to God which was calling her, and
leave all worldly vanities, which were naught as compared with the
blessedness of heaven, she said to him thus: “This is all very well,
Sir Minister, to say to women which have no great contentment and
pleasure in this world, and which have one foot in the grave already;
but to me, that am no more than in the bloom of mine age and my delight
in this world and my beauty, your sentence is exceeding bitter. And
albeit I have more cause to hug myself in this world than in any other,
and much reason to regret dying, yet would I fain show you my high
courage herein, and do assure you I take my death with as good will
as the most common, abject, low, foul old crone that ever was in this
world.” So presently, she did set her to sing psalms with much pious
devotion, and so died.
Madame d’Espernon,[49*] of the house of Candale, was attacked of so
sudden and deadly a malady as that she was carried off in less than a
week. Before her death, she did essay all remedies which might cure
her, imploring the help of men and of God in most fervent prayers, as
well as of all her friends, and her retainers male and female, taking
it very hard that she was to die so young. But when they did reason
with her and inform her she must verily and indeed quit this world,
and that no remedy was of any avail: “Is it true?” she said; “leave me
alone then, I will make up my mind to bear it bravely.” These were the
exact words she used. Then lifting up her two soft, white arms, and
laying her two hands one against the other, with an open look and a
confident spirit, she made her ready to wait death with all patience,
and to leave this world, which she did proceed to abjure in very pious
and Christian terms. Thus did she die as a devout and good Christian
should, at the age of twenty-six, being one of the handsomest and most
charming women of her time.
’Tis not right, they say, to praise one’s own belongings; on the other
hand what is at once good and true should not be kept hid. This is why
I am fain in this place to commend Madame d’Aubeterre,[50] mine own
niece and daughter of my elder brother, who as all they that have seen
her at Court or elsewhere will go with me in saying, was one of the
fairest and most perfect ladies you could see, as well in body as in
mind. The former did plainly and externally show forth its excellence
in her handsome and charming face, her graceful figure, and all her
sweet mien and bearing; while for the mind, ’twas divinely gifted and
ignorant of naught it were meet to know. Her discourse was very fit,
simple and unadorned, and did flow right smoothly and agreeably from
her lips, whether in serious converse or in merry interchange of wit.
No woman have I ever seen which, in my opinion, did more resemble
our Queen Marguerite of France, as well in her general air as in her
special charms; and I did once hear the Queen Mother say the same. To
say this is by itself commendation enough, so I will add no more; none
which have ever seen her, will, I am well assured, give me the lie as
to this. Of a sudden it befell this lady to be attacked by a malady,
which the physicians did fail to recognize rightly, merely wasting
their Latin in the attempt. Herself, however, did believe she had been
poisoned; though I will not say in what quarter. Still God will avenge
all, and mayhap the guilty in this matter will yet be punished. She
did all she could in the way of remedies,—though not, she did declare,
because she was afeared of dying. For since her husband’s death, she
had lost all fear of this, albeit he was for sure in no wise her equal
in merit, nor deserving of her or of the tender tears her fair eyes did
shed after his death. Yet would she have been right glad to live on a
while longer for the love of her daughter, the which she was leaving a
tender slip of a girl. This last was a good and excellent reason, while
regrets for an husband that was both foolish and vexatious are surely
but vain and idle.
Thus she, seeing now no remedy was of avail, and feeling her own pulse,
which she did herself try and find to be galloping fast (for she had
understanding of all such matters), two days before she died, did send
to summon her daughter,[51] and did make her a very good and pious
exhortation, such as no other mother mayhap that I know of could have
made a finer one or one better expressed,—at once instructing her how
to live in this world and how to win the grace of God in the next; this
ended, she did give her her blessing, bidding her no more trouble with
her tears the sweet easefulness and repose she was about to enjoy with
God. Presently she did ask for her mirror, and looking at herself very
fixedly therein, did exclaim, “Ah! traitor face, that doth in no wise
declare my sickness (for indeed ’twas as fair to look on as ever), thou
art yet unchanged; but very soon death, which is drawing nigh, will
have the better of thy beauty, which shall rot away and be devoured of
worms.” Moreover she had put the most part of her rings on her fingers;
and gazing on these, and her hand withal, which was very well shaped:
“Lo! a vanity I have much loved in days gone-by; yet now I do quit
the same willingly, to bedeck me in the other world with another much
fairer adornment.”
Then seeing her sisters weeping their eyes out at her bedside, she
did comfort them, exhorting them to take in good part, as she did,
what God was pleased to send her, and saying that as they had always
loved each other so well, they should not grieve at that which did
bring her only joy and contentment. She did further tell them that the
fond friendship she had ever borne them should be eternal, beseeching
them to return her the like, and above all to extend it to her child.
Presently seeing them but weep the harder at this, she said once more:
“Sisters mine, an if ye do love me, why do ye not rejoice with me over
the exchange I make of a wretched life for one most happy? My soul,
wearied of so many troubles, doth long to be free, and to be in blessed
rest with Jesus Christ my Saviour. Yet you would fain have it still
tied to this miserable body, which is but its prison, not its domicile.
I do beseech you, therefore, my sisters, torment yourselves no more.”
Many other the like words did she prefer, so pious and Christian as
that there is never a Divine, however great could have uttered better
or more blessed,—all which I do pass over. In especial she did often
ask to see Madame de Bourdeille, her mother, whom she had prayed her
sisters to send fetch, and kept saying to them: “Oh! sisters, is not
Madame de Bourdeille coming yet? Oh! how slow your couriers be! they be
really not fit to ride post and make special speed.” Her mother did at
last arrive, but never saw her alive, for she had died an hour before.
She did ask earnestly too for me, whom she ever spake of as her dear
uncle, and did send us her last farewell. She did beg them to have her
body opened after death, a thing she had always strongly abhorred, to
the end, as she said to her sisters, that the cause of her death being
more evidently discovered, this should enable them and her daughter
the better to take precautions and so preserve their lives. “For I must
admit,” she said, “a suspicion that I was poisoned five years agone
along with mine uncle de Brantôme and my sister the Comtesse de Durtal;
but I did get the biggest piece. Yet would I willingly charge no one
with such a crime, for fear it should prove a false accusation and my
soul be weighted with the guilt thereof,—my soul which I do earnestly
desire may be free of all blame, rancour, ill-will and sinfulness, that
it may fly straight to God its Creator.”
I should never have done, if I were to repeat all; for her discourse
was full and long, and such as did show no sign at all of an outwearied
body or a weak and failing spirit. As to this, there was a certain
gentleman, her neighbour, a witty talker and one she had loved to
converse and jest withal, who did present himself and to whom she said:
“Ha, ha! good friend! needs must give in this fall, tongue and sword
and all. So, fare you well!”
Her physician and her sisters did wish her to take some cordial
medicine or other; but she begged them not to give it her, “for these
would merely,” she said, “be helping to prolong my pain and put off
my final rest.” So she did ask them to leave her alone; and was again
and again heard to say: “Dear God! how gentle sweet is death! who had
ever dreamed it could be so?” Then, little by little, yielding up her
spirit very softly, she did close her eyes, without making any of those
hideous and fearsome signs that death doth show in many at the supreme
moment.
Madame de Bourdeille, her mother, was not long in following her. For
the melancholy she did conceive at the death of this her noble daughter
did carry her off in eighteen months, after a sickness lasting seven
months, at one time giving cause for good hope of recovery, at another
seeming desperate. But from the very first, herself did declare she
would never get the better of it, in no wise fearing death, and never
praying God to grant her life and health, but only patience in her
sufferings and above that He would send her a peaceful death, and one
neither painful nor long drawn out. And so it befell; for while we
deemed her only fainted, she did give up her soul so gently as that she
was never seen to move either foot or arm or limb, nor give any fearful
and hideous look; but casting a glance around with eyes that were as
fair as ever, she passed away, remaining as beautiful in death as she
had been when alive and in the plenitude of her charms.
A sore pity, verily, of her and of all fair ladies that die so in the
bloom of their years! Only I do believe this, that Heaven, not content
with those fair lights which from the creation of the world do adorn
its vault, is fain, beside these, to have yet other new stars to still
illumine us, as erst they did when alive, with their beauteous eyes.
Another example, and then an end:
You have seen in these last days the case of Madame de Balagny,[52*]
true sister in all ways of the gallant Bussy. When Cambrai was
besieged, she did all ever she could, of her brave and noble heart, to
prevent its being taken; but after having in vain exhausted herself in
every sort of defensive means she could contrive, and seeing now ’twas
all over and the town already in the enemy’s power, and the citadel
soon to go the same road, unable to endure the smart and heart’s pang
of evacuating her Principality (for her husband and herself had gotten
themselves to be called Prince and Princess of Cambrai and Cambrésis,—a
title sundry nations did find odious and much too presumptuous, seeing
their rank was but that of plain gentlefolk), did die of grief and so
perished at the post of honour. Some say she did die by her own hand,
an act deemed however more Pagan than Christian. Be this as it may, she
deserveth but praise for her gallantry and bravery in all this, and for
the rebuke she did administer her husband at the time of her death,
when she thus said to him: “How can you endure, Balagny, to live on
after your most dismal fall of Fortune, to be a spectacle and laughing
stock to all the world, which will point the finger of scorn at you,
thus falling from great glory whereto you had been elevated to the low
place I see awaiting you, and if you follow not my example? Learn then
of me to die nobly, and not survive your misfortunes and disgrace.”
’Tis a grand thing thus to see a woman teaching us how to live,—and
how to die. Yet would he neither obey nor believe her; but at the end
of seven or eight months, quick forgetting the memory of this gallant
lady, he did re-wed with the sister of Madame de Monceaux,[53] no doubt
a fair and honourable damosel,—manifesting to all and sundry how that
to keep alive was his one thing needful, be it on what terms it may.
Of a surety life is good and sweet; natheless is a noble death greatly
to be commended, such as was this lady’s, who dying as she did of
grief, doth appear of a contrary complexion to that of some women,
which are said to be of an opposite nature to men, for that they do die
of joy and in joy.
10.
Of this sort of death I will allege only the instance of Mlle. de
Limueil, the elder, which did die at Court, being one of the Queen’s
maids of honour. All through her sickness, whereof she died, her tongue
did never leave off wagging, but she did talk continuously; for she
was a very great chatterbox, a sayer of very witty and telling scoffs,
and a very fine woman withal. When the hour of her death was come, she
did summon her chamber valet to her; for each maid of honour hath her
own. He was called Julian, and did play excellently on the violin.
“Julian,” saith she to him, “come take your violin and go on playing
me the _Défaite des Suisses_ (Switzers’ Rout)[54] till I be dead, and
play it as well as ever you can; and when you come to the words, _Tout
est perdu_ (“All is lost”), play the passage over four or five times as
pathetically as you may.” This the other did, while she joined in with
her voice; and when ’twas come to _Tout est perdue_, she did repeat it
over twice. Then turning to the other side of the bed, she cried to her
friends: “Yes! all is lost this bout, and for good and all,” and so
died. Truly a death we may call gay and pleasant! This tale I have of
two of her companions, persons of credit, who saw the mystery played
out.
If then there be women which do die of joy and in joyous wise, no less
are men to be found which have done the like. Thus we read of that
great Pope, Leo X., how he did die of joy and delight, when he beheld
us Frenchmen driven out altogether from the State of Milan; so sore a
hate he bare us!