there made a widow by the death of her husband, murdered like the rest,
was in such sorrow and despair thereat, that whenever she did set eyes
on a poor unoffending Catholic, even though he had not taken part in
the celebration at all, she would either faint away altogether, or
would gaze at him with as much horror and detestation as though he were
the plague. To enter Paris, nay! to look at it from anywhere in the
neighbourhood within two miles, was not to be thought of, for neither
eyes nor heart could bear the sight. To see it, say I?—why! she could
not bear so much as to hear it named. At the end of two years, however,
she did think better, and hies her away willingly enough to greet the
good town, and visit the same, and drive to the Palace in her coach.
Yet rather than pass by the Rue de la Huchette, where her husband had
been killed, she would have thrown herself headlong into fire and
destruction rather than into the said street,—being herein like the
serpent, which according to Pliny, doth so abhor the shade of the ash
as that ’twill rather adventure into the most blazing fire than under
this tree so hateful is it to the creature.
In fact, the late King, the then reigning King’s brother, was used
to declare he had never seen a woman so desperate and haggard at her
loss and grief as this lady, and that ’twould end by their having to
bring her down and hood her, as they do with haggard falcons. But after
some while he found she was prettily enough tamed of her own accord,
in such sort she would suffer herself to be hooded quite quietly and
privily, without any bringing down but her own will. Then after some
while more, what must she be at but embrace her Paris with open arms
and regard its pleasures with a very favourable eye, parading hither
and thither through its streets, traversing the city up and down, and
measuring its length and breadth this way and that, without ever a
thought of any vow to the contrary. Mighty surprised was I myself one
day, on returning from a journey, after an absence of eight months from
Court, when after making my bow to the King, I did suddenly behold this
same widow entering the great Hall of the Louvre, all tricked out and
bedecked, accompanied by her kinswomen and friends, and there appearing
before the King and Queen, the Royal personages and all the Court, and
there receiving the first orders of marriage, affiancing to wit, at the
hands of a Prelate, the Bishop of Digne, Grand Almoner of the Queen of
Navarre. Who so astonished as I? Yet by what she did tell me after, she
was even more astounded, whenas thinking me far away, she saw me among
the noble company present at her affiancing, standing there gazing at
her and challenging her with mine eyes. Neither of us could forget the
oaths and affirmations made betwixt us, for I had been her admirer and
suitor for her hand and indeed she thought I had come thither of set
purpose to appear on the appointed day to be witness against her and
judge of her faithlessness, and condemn her false behaviour. She told
me further, how that she would liever have given ten thousand crowns of
her wealth than that I should have appeared as I did, and so helped to
raise up her conscience against her.
I once knew a very great lady, a widowed Countess, of the highest
family, which did the like. For being a Huguenot of the most rigorous
sort, she did agree to a match with a very honourable Catholic
gentleman. But the sad thing was that before the completion of the
marriage, a pestilential fever that was epidemic at Paris did seize her
so sore as to bring her to her end. In her anguish, she did give way
to many and bitter regrets, crying: “Alas! can it be that in a great
city like Paris, where all learning doth abound, never a doctor can be
found to cure me! Nay! let him never stop for money; I will give him
enough and to spare. At any rate ’twere not so bitter, an if my death
had but come after my marriage, and my husband had learned first how
well I loved and honoured him!” (Sophonisba said differently, for she
did repent her of having wedded before drinking the poison.) Saying
these and other words of like tenour the poor Countess did turn her to
the other side of the bed, and so died. Truly this is the very fervour
of love, so to go about to remember, in midst of the Stygian passage to
oblivion, the pleasures and fruits of passion she would so fain have
tasted of, before quitting the garden!
I have heard speak of another lady, which being sick unto death,
overhearing one of her kinsfolk abusing another (yet are they very
worthy folk really), and upbraiding her with the enormous size of her
parts, she did start a-laughing and cried out, “You pair of fools,
you!” and so turning o’ the other side, she did pass away with the
laugh on her lips.
Well! an if these Huguenot dames have made such matches, I have
likewise known plenty of Catholic ladies that have done the same,
and wedded Huguenot husbands, and that after using every hang-dog
expression of them and their religion. If I were to put them all
down, I should never have done. And this is why your widow should
always be prudent, and not make so much noise at the first beginning
of her widowhood, screaming and crying, making storms of thunder and
lightning, with tears for rain, only afterward to give up her shield
of defence and get well laughed at for her pains. Better far it were
to say less, and do more. But themselves do say to this: “Nay! nay! at
the first beginning we must needs steel our hearts like a murderer, and
put on a bold front, resolved to swallow every shame. This doth last a
while, but only a while; then presently, after being chief dish on the
table and most observed of all, we be left alone and another takes our
place.”
I have read in a little Spanish work how Vittoria Colonna, daughter of
the great Fabrice Colonna, and wife to the great and famous Marquis de
Pescaïre, the nonpareil of his time, after losing her husband,—and God
alone knoweth how good an one he was,—did fall into such despair and
grief ’twas impossible to give or afford her any consolation whatever.
When any did offer any form of comfort, old or new, she would answer
them: “For what would you give me consolation?—for my husband that is
dead? Nay! you deceive yourselves; he is not dead. He is yet alive,
I tell you, and stirring within mine heart. I do feel him, every day
and every night, come to life and move and be born again in me.” Very
noble words indeed these had been, if only after some while, having
taken farewell of him and sent him on his way over Acheron, she had
not married again with the Abbé de Farfe,—an ill match to the noble
Pescaïre. I mean not in family, for he was of the noble house of
the Des Ursins, the which is as good, and eke as ancient, as that
of Avalos,—or more so. But the merits of the one did far outweight
those of the other, for truly those of Pescaïre were inestimable, and
his valour beyond compare, while the said Abbé, albeit he gave much
proof of his bravery, and did work very faithfully and doughtily in
the service of King Francis, was yet employed only in small, obscure
and light emprises, far different from those of the other, which had
wrought great and conspicuous deeds, and won right famous victories.
Moreover the profession of arms followed by the Marquis, begun and
regularly pursued from his youth up, could not but be finer far than
that of a churchman, which had but late in life taken up the hardier
calling.
Saying this, I mean not to imply thereby think ill of any which after
being vowed to God and the service of his Church, have broke the vow
and left the profession of religion for to set hands to weapons of war;
else should I be wronging many and many a great Captain that hath been
a priest first and gone through this experience.
8.
Cæsar Borgia,[120*] Duc de Valentinois, was he not first of all
a Cardinal, the same which afterward was so great a Captain that
Machiavelli, the venerable instructor of Princes and great folk, doth
set him down for example and mirror to all his fellows, to follow after
and mould them on him? Then we have had the famous Maréchal de Foix,
which was first a Churchman and known as the Protonotary de Foix, but
afterward became a great Captain. The Maréchal Strozzi likewise was
first vowed to holy Church; but for a red hat which was refused him,
did quit the cassock and take to arms. M. de Salvoison, of whom I have
spoke before (which did follow close at the former’s heels, and was as
fit as he to bear the title of great Captain,—and indeed would have
marched side by side with him, an if he had been of as great a house,
and kinsman of the Queen), was, by original profession, a wearer of the
long robe; yet what a soldier was he! Truly he would have been beyond
compare, if only he had lived longer. Then the Maréchal de Bellegarde,
did he not carry the lawyer cap, being long named the Provost of Ours?
The late M. d’Enghien, the same that fell at the battle of St. Quentin,
had been a Bishop; the Chevalier de Bonnivet the same. Likewise that
gallant soldier M. de Martigues had been of the Church; and, in brief,
an host of others, whose names I cannot spare paper to fill in. I must
say a word too of mine own people, and not without good cause. Captain
Bourdeille, mine own brother, erst the Rodomont of Piedmont in
all ways, was first dedicate to the Church. But not finding that to be
his natural bent, he did change his cassock for a soldier’s jacket, and
in a turn of the hand did make him one of the best and most valiant
captains in all Piedmont. He would for sure have become a great and
famous man, had he not died, alas! at only five and twenty years of age.
In our own day and at our own Court of France, we have seen many such,
and above all our little friend, the noble Clermont-Tallard, whom I
had seen as Abbé of Bon-Port, but who afterward leaving his Abbey, was
seen in our army and at Court, one of the bravest, most valiant and
worthy men of the time. This he did show right well by his glorious
death at La Rochelle, the very first time we did enter the fosse of
that fortress. I could name a thousand such, only I should never have
done. M. de Soleillas,[121] known as the young Oraison, had been Bishop
of Riez and after had a regiment, serving his King right faithfully and
valiantly in Guienne, under the Maréchal de Matignon.
In short I should never have done, an if I were for enumerating all
such cases. Wherefore I do stop, both for brevity’s sake, and also for
fear I be reproached for that I indulge overmuch in digressions. Yet is
this one not inopportune I have made, when speaking of Vittoria Colonna
which did marry the Abbé. An if she had not married again with him, she
had better deserved her name and title of Vittoria, by being victorious
over herself. Seeing she could not find a second husband to match the
first, she should have refrained her altogether.
I have known many ladies which have copied her however. One I knew
did marry one of mine uncles, the most brave, valiant and perfect
gentleman of his time. After his death, she did marry another as much
like him as an ass to a Spanish charger; but ’twas mine uncle was the
Spanish steed. Another lady I knew once, which had wedded a Marshal of
France,[122*] a handsome, honourable gentleman and a valiant; in second
wedlock she did take one in every way his opposite, and one that had
been a Churchman too. What was yet more blameworthy in her was this,
that on going to Court, where she had not appeared for twenty years,
not indeed since her second marriage, she did re-adopt the name and
title of her first husband. This is a matter our courts of law and
parliament should look into and legislate against; for I have seen an
host of others which have done the like, herein unduly scorning their
later husbands, and showing them unwilling to bear their name after
their death. For having committed the fault, why! they should drink the
cup to the dregs and feel themselves bound by what they have done.
Another widow I once knew, on her husband’s dying, did make such sore
lamentation and so despairing by the space of a whole year, that ’twas
hourly expected to see her dead right off. At the end of a year, when
she was to leave off her heavy mourning and take to the lighter, she
said to one of her women: “Prithee, pull me in that crêpe becomingly;
for mayhap I may make another conquest.” But immediately she did
interrupt herself: “Nay! what am I talking about? I am dreaming. Better
die than have anything more to do with such follies.” Yet after her
mourning was complete, she did marry again to a husband very unequal
to the first. “But,”—and this is what these women always say,—“he was
of as good family as the other.” Yes! I admit it; but then, what of
virtue and worth? are not these more worth counting than all else?
The best I find in it all is this, that the match once made, their
joy therein is far from long; for God doth allow them to be properly
ill-treated of their new lords and bullied. Soon you will see them all
repentance,—when it is too late.
These dames which do thus re-marry have some opinion or fancy in their
heads we wot not of. So have I heard speak of a Spanish lady, which
desiring to marry again, when they did remonstrate with her, asking
what was to become of the fond love her husband had borne her, did
make answer: _La muerte del marido y nuevo casamiento no han de romper
el amor d’una casta muger_,—“The death of husband and a new marriage
should in no wise break up the love of a good woman.” Well! so much
shall be granted, an if you please. Another Spanish dame said better,
when they were for marrying her again: _Si hallo un marido bueno,
no quiero tener el temor de perderlo; y si malo, que necessidad he
del_,—“An if I find a good husband, I wish not to be exposed to the
fear of losing him; but if a bad, what need to have one at all?”
Valeria, a Roman lady, having lost her husband, whenas some of her
companions were condoling with her on his loss and death, said thus to
them: “’Tis too true he is dead for you all, but he liveth in me for
ever.” The fair Marquise I have spoke of a little above, had borrowed a
like phrase from her. These expressions of these noble ladies do differ
much from what a Spanish ill-wisher of the sex declared, to wit: _que
la jornada de la biudez d’ una muger es d’un dia_,—“that the day of a
woman’s widowhood is one day long.” A lady I must now tell of did much
worse. This was Madame de Moneins, whose husband was King’s lieutenant,
and was massacred at Bordeaux, by the common folk in a salt-excise
riot. So soon as ever news was brought her that her husband had been
killed and had met the fate he did, she did straight cry out: “Alas!
my diamond, what hath become of it?” This she had given him by way of
marriage present, being worth ten to twelve hundred crowns of the money
of the day, and he was used to wear it always on his finger. By this
exclamation she did let folk plainly see which grief she did bear the
more hardly, the loss of her husband or that of the diamond.
Madame d’Estampes was a high favourite with King Francis, and for that
cause little loved of her husband. Once when some widow or other came
to her asking her pity for her widowed state, “Why! dear heart,” said
she, “you are only too happy in your condition, for I tell you, one
cannot be a widow by wishing for’t,”—as if implying she would love to
be one. Some women be so situate, others not.
But what are we to say of widows which do keep their marriage hid, and
will not have it published? One such I knew, which did keep hers under
press for more than seven or eight years, without ever consenting to
get it printed and put in circulation. ’Twas said she did so out of
terror of her son,[123*] as yet only a youth, but afterward one of the
bravest and most honourable men in all the world, lest he should play
the deuce with her and her man, albeit he was of very high rank. But
so soon as ever her son fell in a warlike engagement, dying so as to
win a crown of glory, she did at once have her marriage printed off and
published abroad.
I have heard of another widow, a great lady, which was married to a
very great nobleman and Prince, more than fifteen years agone. Yet doth
the world know nor hear aught thereof, so secret and discreet is it
kept. Report saith the Prince was afeared of his mother-in-law, which
was very imperious with him, and was most unwilling he should marry
again because of his young children.
I knew another very great lady, which died but a short while agone,
having been married to a simple gentleman for more than twenty years,
without its being known at all, except by mere gossip and hearsay. Ho!
but there be some queer cases of the sort!
I have heard it stated by a lady of a great and ancient house, how
that the late Cardinal du Bellay was wedded, being then Bishop and
Cardinal, to Madame de Chastillon, and did die a married man. This she
did declare in a conversation she held with M. de Mane, a Provençal,
of the house of Senjal and Bishop of Fréjus, which had served the said
Cardinal for fifteen years at the Court of Rome, and had been one of
his privy protonotaries. Well! happening to speak of the Cardinal, she
did ask M. de Mane if he had ever told him or confessed to him that he
was married. Who so astounded as M. de Mane at such a question? He is
yet alive and can contradict me, if I lie; for I was present. He made
answer he had never heard him speak of it, either to him or to others.
“Well, then! I am the first to tell you,” she replied; “for nothing is
more true than that he was so married; and he died actually the husband
of the said Madame de Chastillon, before a widow.” I can assure you I
had a fine laugh, seeing the astonished face of poor M. de Mane, who
was a very careful and religious man, and thought he knew every secret
of his late master; but he was out of court for this one. And indeed
’twas a scandalous license on the Cardinal’s part, considering the
sacred office he held.
This Madame de Chastillon was the widow of the late M. de Chastillon,
the same which was said to chiefly govern the young King Charles VIII.
along with Bourdillon, Galiot and Bonneval, the guardians of the blood
royal. He died at Ferrara, having been wounded at the siege of Ravenna,
and carried thither to be healed. She became a widow when very young,
being both fair and also wise and virtuous,—albeit but in appearance,
as witness this marriage of hers,—and so was chosen maid of honour to
the late Queen of Navarre. She it was that did tender the excellent
advice to this noble lady and great Princess, which is writ in the
_Cent Nouvelles_ of the said Queen. The tale is of her and a certain
gentleman which had slipped by night into her bed by a little trap-door
in the wainscot beside her bed, and was fain to enjoy the reward of
his address; yet did win naught but some fine scratches on his pretty
face. The Queen being purposed to make complaint of the matter to her
brother, he did remonstrate with her very judiciously, as may be read
in the _Nouvelle_ or Tale in question, and did give her the excellent
advice referred to, as good and judicious and as well adapted to avoid
scandal as could possibly be devised. Indeed it might have been a First
President of the Parliament of Paris that gave the advice, which did
show plainly, however, the lady to be no less skilled and experienced
in such mysteries than wise and judicious; wherefore there can be
little doubt she did keep her affair with the Cardinal right well
hidden.
My grandmother, the Séneschale de Poitou, had her place after her
death, by choice of King Francis himself, which did name and elect her
to the post, sending all the way to her home to summon her. Then he
did give her over with his own hand to the Queen his sister, forasmuch
as he knew her to be a very prudent and very virtuous lady,—indeed
he was used to call her _my knight without reproach_,—albeit not so
experienced, adroit and cunning in suchlike matters as her predecessor,
nor one that had contracted a second marriage under the rose. But an if
you would know who are intended in the Tale, ’twas writ of the Queen of
Navarre herself and the Admiral de Bonnivet, as I have been assured by
my grandmother. Yet doth it appear to me the Queen need never have been
at pains to conceal her name, seeing the other could get no hold over
her virtue, but did leave her all in confusion. Indeed she was only too
wishful to make the facts public, had it not been for the good and wise
advice given her by that same maid of honour, Madame de Chastillon.
Anyone that hath read the Tale will find it as I have represented
it. And I do believe that the Cardinal, her husband as aforesaid,
which was one of the cleverest and wisest, most eloquent, learned and
well-advised men of his day, had instilled this discreetness in her
mind, to make her speak so well and give such excellent counsel. The
tale might mayhap be thought somewhat over scandalous by some in view
of the sacred and priestly profession of the Cardinal; but, an if any
be fain to repeat the same, well! he must e’en suppress the name.
Well! if this marriage was kept secret, ’twas by no means so with that
of the last Cardinal de Chastillon.[124*] For indeed he did divulge
and make it public quite enough himself, without need to borrow any
trumpet; and did die a married man, without ever having quitted his
gown and red hat. On the one hand he did excuse himself by alleging the
reformed faith, whereof he was a firm adherent; on the other by the
contention that he was desirous of still retaining his rank and not
giving up the same (a thing he would most surely never have done in any
case), so as he might continue of the council, whereof being a member
he could well serve his faith and party. For ’tis very true he was a
most able, influential and very powerful personage.
I do imagine the aforenamed noble Cardinal du Bellay may have done
the like for like reasons. For at that time he was no little inclined
to the faith and doctrine of Luther, and indeed the Court of France
generally was somewhat affected by the taint. The fact is, all
novelties be pleasing at first, and beside, the said doctrine did open
an agreeable license to all men, and especially to ecclesiastics, to
enter the married state.
9.
However let us say no more of these dignified folk, in view of the deep
respect we do owe their order and holy rank. We must now something put
through their paces those old widows we wot of that have not six teeth
left in their chops, and yet do marry again. ’Tis no long while agone
that a lady of Guienne, already widowed of three husbands, did marry
for a fourth a gentleman of some position in that province, she being
then eighty. I know not why she did it, seeing she was very rich and
had crowns in plenty,—indeed ’twas for this the gentleman did run after
her,—unless it were that she was fain not to surrender just yet, but to
win more amorous laurels to add to her old ones, as Mademoiselle Sevin,
the Queen of Navarre’s jester, was used to say.
Another great lady I knew, which did remarry at the age of seventy-six,
wedding a gentleman of a lower rank than her previous husband, and did
live to an hundred. Yet did she continue beautiful to the last, having
been one of the finest women of her time, and one that had gotten every
sort of delight out of her young body, both as wife and widow, so ’twas
said.
Truly a formidable pair of women, and of a right hot complexion! And
indeed I have heard experienced bakers declare how that an old oven is
far easier to heat than a new one, and when once heated, doth better
keep its heat and make better bread.