A QUATRAIN
On the evening of Jan. 12, 1558, Queen Catherine de Médicis was holding
at the Louvre one of the periodical receptions of which we have
previously spoken, at which all the princes and nobles of the realm were
wont to assemble.
This particular occasion was an exceptionally brilliant and lively one,
although a large part of the nobility were absent at the seat of war, in
the north, with the Duc de Guise's army.
Among the ladies present besides Catherine, the queen _de jure_, were
Madame Diane de Poitiers, the queen _de facto_, the young
queen-dauphine, Mary Stuart, and the melancholy Élisabeth, afterward
Queen of Spain, whose very beauty, already so admired, was fated to
cause her so much misery.
The distinguished assembly included the man who was at that time the
head of the House of Bourbon, Antoine, the titular king of Navarre,--a
weak and vacillating prince, who had been sent to the French court by
his virile-hearted wife, Jeanne d'Albret, to try and obtain by the
intervention of Henri II. the restitution of his kingdom of Navarre,
which had been confiscated by Spain.
But Antoine de Navarre was already inclining to the Calvinistic
doctrines, and was not looked upon with a very favorable eye at a court
which was in the habit of burning heretics at the stake.
His brother, Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, was likewise present.
His was a character to inspire more respect if not more affection. He
was, however, a more pronounced Calvinist than the King of Navarre, and
was generally considered to be the secret leader of the rebellious
spirits. He possessed the power to make himself a great favorite with
the people, being not only a bold rider but very skilful with the sword
and dagger, although in stature he was quite short, and had decidedly
disproportionate shoulders. Besides, he was a great gallant, very
clever, and passionately devoted to the ladies. A popular chanson of the
day spoke thus of him:--
"Ce petit homme tant joli,
Toujours cause et toujours rit,
Et toujours baise sa mignonne.
Dieu gard' de mal le petit homme."[2]
The gentlemen who, openly or secretly, advocated the principles of the
Reformed religion were naturally grouped around the King of Navarre and
the Prince de Condé,--among them being Admiral de Coligny, La Renaudie,
and the Baron de Castelnau, who, having but recently arrived from
Touraine, his native province, had been presented at court that day for
the first time.
The assemblage, despite the absence of many great seigneurs, was
numerous and distinguished; but amid all the confusion, excitement, and
enjoyment, two men remained absorbed by grave and apparently unpleasant
reflections.
These two men, whose abstraction was caused by widely different reasons,
were the king and the Constable de Montmorency.
Henri II. was at the Louvre corporeally, but his thoughts were all at
Calais.
During the three weeks since the departure of the Duc de Guise, he had
been thinking unceasingly, night and day, of that perilous expedition,
the object of which was to drive the English out of the kingdom forever,
but which was quite as likely to seriously endanger the welfare of
France.
Henri had more than once blamed himself for having allowed Monsieur de
Guise to attempt so hazardous a stroke.
If the undertaking should prove abortive, what a disgrace for France in
the eyes of all Europe! what superhuman efforts must be made to repair
such a failure! The disastrous day of St. Laurent would be a mere
bagatelle beside that. The constable had undergone defeat, but François
de Lorraine had actually gone in search of it.
The king, who had had no intelligence from the besieging army for three
days, was preoccupied with gloomy forebodings, and paid but little heed
to the encouraging assurances of the Cardinal de Lorraine, who, standing
near the king's couch, was vainly trying to restore his courage.
Diane de Poitiers was quick to remark the gloomy humor of her royal
lover; but as she observed Monsieur de Montmorency in another part of
the room, apparently in quite as great dejection as the king, she
directed her steps toward him.
It was the siege of Calais which was the cause of his downheartedness,
but, as we have said, for a very different reason.
The king was afraid of failure, while the constable dreaded success much
more.
For success in that enterprise would definitely establish the Duc de
Guise in the first rank, and relegate him to the second. The salvation
of France would be the ruin of the poor constable, and we must confess
that his selfishness had always taken precedence of his patriotism.
So he was very uncourteous to the beautiful favorite who advanced
smilingly toward him.
Our readers will remember the inexplicable and depraved passion which
the mistress of the most courtly and gallant king in Christendom
entertained for this brutal veteran.
"What is the trouble with my old soldier to-day?" she asked in her most
winning tones.
"Ah, so you mock me too, do you, Madame?" said Montmorency, sharply.
"I mock you, my friend! You don't realize what you are saying."
"I was thinking of what you said yourself," rejoined the constable, with
a muttered curse. "You called me your old soldier. Old? yes, that is
true; I am no longer a beau of twenty years. Soldier? no. You can see
plainly that I am no longer considered good for anything except to show
myself with my parade sword in the halls of the Louvre."
"Do not speak so," said the favorite, with an affectionate smile. "Are
you not still the _constable_?"
"What does a constable amount to, when there is a lieutenant-general of
the kingdom?"
"The latter title expires with the circumstances which called it into
existence, while yours, being attached, with no power of revocation, to
the highest military dignity in the kingdom, will last as long as your
life."
"But I am already dead and buried," said the constable, with a bitter
laugh.
"Why do you say that, my friend?" replied Madame de Poitiers. "You have
not ceased to be as powerful and as formidable to the nation's enemies
without as to your personal enemies within."
"Let us talk seriously, Diane, and not try to flatter or deceive each
other with empty words."
"If I deceive you, it is only because I myself am deceived," Diane
rejoined. "Give me proofs that I am wrong, and I will not only
acknowledge my error on the spot, but I will do all I can to rectify
it."
"Very well," said the constable; "in the first place, you speak of the
enemies without trembling before me. Those are very comforting words;
but, in reality, who is sent against these enemies?--a general who is
younger and doubtless more fortunate than myself, but who may some day
turn this good fortune of his to his own private advantage."
"What makes you think that the Duc de Guise will succeed?" asked Diane,
with most subtle flattery.
"His failure," replied the constable, hypocritically, "would be a
terrible misfortune for France, which I should bitterly deplore for my
country's sake; but his success would perhaps be an even more terrible
misfortune, which I should dread for the sake of my sovereign."
"Do you believe then," said Diane, "that the ambition of Monsieur de
Guise--"
"I have probed it, and it is very deep," replied the jealous courtier.
"If by any chance there should be a change of reign, have you considered
what that ambition, assisted by the influence of Mary Stuart, might be
able to effect upon the mind of a young and inexperienced king! My
devotion to your interests has completely alienated Queen Catherine from
me. The Guises will be more sovereign than the sovereign himself."
"Such a catastrophe is, thank God, very improbable and very far
distant," returned Diane, who could not avoid the reflection that her
friend of sixty years was rather free with his conjectures as to the
prospects of the early demise of a king who was but forty.
"There are other chances against us much nearer at hand and almost as
terrible," said Montmorency, shaking his head very gravely.
"What are they, my friend?"
"Have you lost your memory, Diane, or do you only pretend to forget who
went to Calais with the Duc de Guise; who, apparently, was the one who
first breathed a suggestion of this foolhardy enterprise into his ear,
and who will return in triumph with him, if he does triumph, and will no
doubt succeed in receiving credit for some share in the victory?"
"Are you speaking of Vicomte d'Exmès?" asked Diane.
"Of whom else, Madame? Even though you may have forgotten his
extravagant undertaking, he will remember it, never fear! And more than
that, fortune is so capricious that he is quite capable of having kept
his promise, and of loudly calling upon the king to redeem his."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Diane.
"What is it that seems impossible to you, Madame,--that Monsieur
d'Exmès should keep his word, or that the king should be true to his?"
"Either supposition is absurd and insane, and the second even more so
than the first."
"If, however, the first should be realized, it may very well be that the
second will follow; for the king is very weak on these questions of
honor, and he would be quite capable, Madame, of priding himself upon
his chivalrous loyalty, and of disclosing his secret and ours to a
common foe."
"Once more I say it is a wild, impossible dream," cried Diane, turning
pale, nevertheless.
"But, Diane, suppose you were to see this dream with your eyes, and
touch it with your hands, what would you do!"
"Indeed I do not know, my good constable," said Madame de Valentinois;
"we should have to consult and look around, and then act. Anything
rather than that extremity! If the king abandons us, why, then, we must
get along without him; and confidently anticipating that he will never
dare to disavow what we have done after the event, we must exercise our
own power and our personal influence and credit to the utmost."
"Ah, that is just what I expected you would say!" said the constable.
"Our power! our personal influence! Speak of your own, Madame; but as
for mine, it has sunk so low that in truth I look upon it as dead and
gone. My enemies within, for whom just now you expressed so much pity,
might have very pretty sport with me at this time. There is no gentleman
at this court who hasn't more power than this pitiful constable. You
can see yourself how I am avoided. It is very simple; for who would care
to pay his court to a fallen star! It will be much safer, therefore,
Madame, for you not to rely hereafter upon the support of a discredited,
disgraced old servant, friendless and without influence, yes, even
penniless."
"Penniless!" Diane echoed incredulously.
"Why yes, Madame,--penniless, by the Mass!" said the constable a second
time, and angrily. "That is perhaps the most grievous part of it, at my
age, and after all the services I have rendered. The last war ruined me;
for my ransom and those of several of my people exhausted my last
pecuniary resources. Those who abandon me know it very well. I shall be
reduced one of these days to going about the streets asking for alms,
like Belisarius, the Carthaginian general, I think it was, whom I have
heard my nephew, the admiral, speak of."
"What! have your friends all left you, my constable?" asked Diane,
smiling at her old lover's erudition, as well as at his covetousness.
"Yes," said the constable: "I have no friends, I tell you." He added,
most pathetically,--"The unfortunate never have friends."
"I propose to prove you in the wrong," said Diane. "I can clearly see
now the source of this sullen humor which has gained control of you. But
why did you not tell me in the first place? Do you lack confidence in
me, pray? It is sad, indeed, if you do. But no matter! I only intend to
be revenged in a friendly way. Tell me, did not the king impose a new
tax last week?"
"Yes, dear Diane," replied the constable, who had grown much calmer
under the influence of Diane's words; "a very just tax, too, and heavy
enough to defray all the expenses of the war."
"That will do very well," said Diane; "and I will show you that even a
woman may be able to do more than repair fortune's cruel blows to such
men as you. Henri seems to me to be in a very ill-humor to-day. But
never mind! I will speak with him forthwith; and you will soon be forced
to agree that I am a kind friend and faithful ally."
"Ah, Diane, you are as kind and good as you are beautiful! That I will
always maintain," said Montmorency, gallantly.
"But when I have replenished the springs from which your influence and
your favor flow, you will not abandon me, will you, my old lion? And you
will not talk any more to your devoted friend of your powerlessness
against her enemies and yours?"
"Why, my dear Diane, are not all that I am and all that I have at your
service?" said the constable; "and if I sometimes grieve at the loss of
my influence, is it not because I fear thereby to be less powerful to
serve my beautiful sovereign mistress?"
"Very good!" said Diane, with her most seductive smile. She gave her
lovely white hand to her superannuated lover, who imprinted upon it a
tender kiss with his bearded lips; then, with a last encouraging glance,
she moved away from him toward the king.
The Cardinal de Lorraine was still at Henri's side, watching over the
interests of his absent brother, and doing his utmost to remove the
king's fears as to the issue of the ill-considered expedition against
Calais.
But Henri was paying more attention to his unquiet thoughts than to the
cardinal's consoling words.
It was at this moment that Madame Diane approached them.
"I'll undertake to say, Messire," she began, addressing the cardinal
with much warmth, "that your Eminence is saying to the king something
unkind about poor Monsieur de Montmorency."
"Oh, Madame," retorted Charles de Lorraine, bewildered by this
unexpected attack, "I venture to ask his Majesty to bear me witness that
the name of Monsieur le Connétable has not been once uttered during our
interview."
"That is true," said the king, carelessly.
"That is merely another way of doing him a disservice."
"But if I can neither speak nor keep silent about him, what am I to do,
Madame, I beg?"
"You should say pleasant things about him," replied Diane.
"Very well, then," retorted the wily cardinal; "if I must do that, I
will say (for the commands of beauty have never found me lacking in
dutiful submission) that Monsieur de Montmorency is a great commander;
that he won the battle of St. Laurent, and retrieved the fortunes of
France; and that just at this time, to put the finishing touch to his
work, he has assumed the offensive against our enemies, and is now
engaged in attempting a memorable and glorious achievement under the
walls of Calais."
"Calais! Calais!--ah, who will bring me news of Calais?" murmured the
king, who had heard only that name in this war of words between the
minister and the favorite.
"You have an admirable and Christian-like manner of awarding praise,
Monsieur le Cardinal," Diane rejoined; "and I congratulate you upon your
mastery of ironical compliment."
"Well, Madame," said Charles de Lorraine, "in truth, I do not see how
else I could award praise to this poor Monsieur de Montmorency, as you
called him just now."
"You are not honest in your search, Messire," replied Diane. "Might you
not, for instance, do more justice to the zeal with which the constable
organized means of defence at Paris, and brought the few troops who were
left here to a state of efficiency, while others were jeopardizing and
compromising the vital forces of the kingdom in rash and foolhardy
enterprises?"
"Oh-ho!" exclaimed the cardinal.
"Alas!" sighed the king, who heard nothing except what bore directly
upon the subject of his solicitude.
"Might we not say, further," added Diane, "that although chance has not
been friendly to Monsieur de Montmorency's magnificent efforts, and
fortune has declared against him, he is at least entirely without
personal ambition; he recognizes no other interest save that of his
country, in whose cause he has sacrificed everything,--his life, which
he was among the first to put in jeopardy; his liberty, of which he was
so long deprived; and his property, which is all gone."
"Indeed!" said Charles de Lorraine, with an air of amazement.
"Yes, your Eminence," Diane repeated; "there is no doubt about
that,--Monsieur de Montmorency is ruined."
"Ruined! Do you mean it?" said the cardinal.
"He is so entirely without means," continued the unblushing favorite,
"that I was just on the point of appealing to his Majesty to aid this
loyal servant in his distress."
The king made no reply, so absorbed was he.
"Yes, Sire," Diane said, addressing him directly in order to attract his
attention, "I most earnestly beg you to come to the assistance of your
faithful constable, whose pecuniary resources have been exhausted to the
last sou by the price of his ransom and the great expense of the war
contracted in your Majesty's service. Sire, are you listening to me?"
"Excuse me, Madame," said Henri; "I seem hardly able this evening to fix
my attention upon any subject. The thought of a possible disaster at
Calais occupies my mind entirely, as you can well understand."
"That is just the reason," Diane replied, "why your Majesty, in my
opinion, ought to treat gently and befriend the man who has done his
best beforehand to minimize the effects of this calamity, if it must
befall."
"But we are as much in need of money ourselves as the constable," said
the king.
"How about this new tax which has been levied?" asked Diane.
"The funds produced by that," said the cardinal, "are to be appropriated
to the payment and maintenance of the troops."
"In that event," was Diane's rejoinder, "the better part of them should
go to the leader of the troops."
"Very well, the leader is at Calais?" replied the cardinal.
"No, indeed, he is here in Paris, at the Louvre," retorted Diane.
"Pray, Madame, do you desire that failure and defeat should be
rewarded?"
"That would be much better, Monsieur le Cardinal, than that mad
recklessness should be encouraged."
"Enough of this!" the king interposed; "do you not see that your
quarrelling tires and annoys me? Do you know, Madame, and Monsieur de
Lorraine, the quatrain which I came across recently in my book of
Hours?"
"A quatrain?" Diane and Charles de Lorraine repeated with one breath.
"If my memory serves me," said Henri, "it was this:--"
"Sire, si vous laissez, comme Charles desire,
Comme Diane fait, par trop vous gouverner,
Fondre, pétrir, mollir, refondre et retourner,
Sire, vous n'êtes plus, vous n'êtes plus que cire.'"[3]
Diane did not lose her self-possession in the least.
"A pretty piece of foolery," said she; "but it credits me with much more
influence over his Majesty's mind than I possess, alas!"
"Ah, Madame," rejoined the king, "you ought not to make a bad use of
that influence just because you know that you possess it."
"But do I really possess it, Sire?" said Diane, in her most winning
tones. "If it be so, your Majesty will grant what I ask in behalf of the
constable."
"Very well," said the king, impatiently; "now I trust you will leave me
to my gloomy forebodings and my anxiety."
The cardinal, in the face of such weakness, could only raise his eyes
imploringly to heaven. Diane darted a triumphant glance at him.
"Thanks, your Majesty," she said to the king. "I obey you and withdraw;
but pray dismiss your anxiety and dread, Sire, for victory loves the
generous-hearted, and I firmly believe that you will be victorious."
"Ah, I accept the augury, Diane," replied Henri. "With what transports
of joy would I receive information to that effect! For a long time I
have not slept; I have hardly existed. _Mon Dieu_, how slight after all
is the power of kings! To think that I have at this moment no means of
knowing what is transpiring at Calais! You may well say, Monsieur le
Cardinal, that your brother's silence is most alarming. Ah, for news
from Calais! Who will bring it to me? In God's name, who?"
An usher entered, and bowing low before the king as the last word fell
from his lips, announced in a loud voice,--
"A messenger from Monsieur de Guise has arrived from Calais, and
solicits the honor of an audience of his Majesty."
"A messenger from Calais!" echoed the king, rising to his feet, with
gleaming eye, and almost beside himself.
"At last!" said the cardinal, trembling between joy and fear.
"Introduce Monsieur de Guise's messenger; introduce him at once," added
the king, eagerly.
It need not be said that every voice was hushed, every heart beating
high, and that all eyes were turned toward the door.
Gabriel entered amid a profound silence.
[Footnote 2: "He's such a bewitching little man.
And he's talking and laughing the livelong day,
And kissing his sweetheart whene'er he can.
God keep little Louis from all harm's way!"]
[Footnote 3: "Oh, Sire, be careful; for if you allow,
As Charles ever longs to, and Diane does now,
The one or the other, or both, to derange you,
To shape you and work you, remodel and change you,
By yielding too freely to all their demands,
Soon you'll be like the softest of wax in their hands."]