Читать книгу The Constable De Bourbon - Ainsworth William Harrison - Страница 2

The magnificent gallery which we are now about to enter had only just been completed, and formed the principal ornament of the palace, though it was subsequently eclipsed by another and yet more magnificent gallery reared by Henri II. The gallery of François I., which still exists, though reft of some of its ancient splendour, was of great length, admirably proportioned, and possessed a superb plafond, painted by the best Italian masters, and supported by a grand gilt cornice. The walls were adorned with colossal figures of goddesses and nymphs carved in oak, and between these statues were introduced admirable paintings. On either side were lofty windows with deep embrasures, embellished like the walls with carvings and paintings. The windows on the left looked on an exquisite orange-garden, while those on the right commanded a spacious court, with a fountain, a chef-d’ouvre of art, in the midst of it.

At the upper end of the grand gallery a brilliant party was now assembled. Chief among them, not merely in point of rank, but for his lofty stature, majestic and graceful deportment, and splendid habiliments, was François I. At this period, the king, who was still under thirty, was in the full éclat of his manly beauty. So lofty was his stature, that he towered above the tallest of his courtiers, and his person was strongly but admirably proportioned. With his remarkable physiognomy, rendered familiar by the breathing portrait of Titian, all are acquainted. All can conjure up that countenance, so handsome, intellectual, refined, haughty, sarcastic, of which perhaps the sole fault was that the principal feature was too prominent – a peculiarity which caused the monarch to be popularly surnamed François le grand nez. The king’s eyes were dark and full of fire, and his clear skin was set off by a pointed beard. His brown locks were cut short, in consequence of a severe wound he had received on the head, and as a matter of course the fashion had been followed by his courtiers. His teeth were magnificent, and were constantly displayed, his countenance being rarely without a smile. His expression was jovial and good humoured, though somewhat proud and sarcastic; his deportment full of majesty, but he was so affable that he set all who approached him at ease. Familiarity, however, was never attempted with François, even by his greatest favourites. In a word, he fully merited the appellation to which he aspired, and which was universally bestowed upon him, of the First Gentleman in Europe.

François I. was not remarkable merely for his personal accomplishments and graces. His mental qualifications were of a very high order. If not erudite or profound, he was well read. He was fond of poetry, and was himself a poet. He delighted in romances of chivalry, “Lancelot du Lac,” “Garin le Lorrain,” and took for his model the peerless “Amadis de Gaule.” In consequence of his predilection for them, the favourite books with the gallants and dames of his court were “Gérard de Nevers,” “Pierre de Provence et la Belle Magueloune,” and “Petit Jehan de Saintré.” Not merely was François I. a lover of literature, and a patron of poets and men of learning, but he warmly encouraged the arts, and his court was frequented by the best painters, sculptors, and architects, whom he brought from Italy.

Endowed with some of the highest and noblest qualities, by nature frank, loyal, and chivalrous, though fiery and impetuous, passionately fond of war, and always thirsting for military renown, François was a perfect type of the nation over which he ruled, and next to Henri IV., who to a certain extent based himself upon him, is the best loved of the French monarchs. His splendid person and noble features, his kingly deportment, his accomplishments, his martial tastes, his courage, his address in the tilt-yard and in the management of arms of all kinds, pike, rapier, two-handed sword, his unequalled skill and grace in horsemanship, his jovial humour, his bonhomie, his devotion to the fair sex, are dwelt upon with satisfaction, and his faults overlooked or forgotten. The following poetical portrait of him is far too brightly coloured:

The faults of François I. were profligacy and prodigality More than once he exhausted his treasury by the immense sums he lavished upon his mistresses and his favourites. So completely did he yield to his love of pleasure, that the greater part of his life which was not occupied in the field was spent in sybaritic enjoyments. Though not tyrannical, he was capricious and vindictive, and not unfrequently strained the royal prerogative to the utmost.

On this occasion the splendid person of the king was displayed to the utmost advantage by his magnificent attire. His habiliments were of white and blue – the colours of the Comtesse de Châteaubriand. His doublet, of azure velvet slashed and puffed with white silk, glittered with diamonds, and his girdle was ornamented with rubies and emeralds. Over his doublet he wore a white brocade mantle, trimmed with minever, and so fashioned as to display the puffed sleeves of his jerkin. The handle and sheath of his poniard were studded with gems, as was also the guard of his long rapier. His sky-blue velvet toque was encircled by a white plume, and ornamented by diamonds. The perfect symmetry of his lower limbs was displayed by his white silk hose, and below the knee he wore the Garter, with which he had been invested by Henry VIII. prior to their meeting at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. His buskins, of blue velvet slashed with white satin, like his doublet, were ornamented with pearls. He was vain of his small feet and finely-formed hands, and his fingers were loaded with magnificent rings. Around his neck he wore the collar of the order of Saint Michael.

The court of François I., as we have intimated, was not only attended by the first nobles, but by the most beautiful women of the kingdom, and, though distinguished more than any other of the period for splendour, refinement, and chivalry, was not remarkable for strictness and decorum, though the fair fame of his neglected consort, Queen Claude, was never impeached. But this devout and discreet princess was queen only in name. The hands that really held the reins of government were those of the Duchess d’Angoulême, while the king’s affections were estranged by his mistresses.

The Comtesse de Châteaubriand, who at this time held absolute sway over the fickle heart of the amorous monarch, was in sooth a most lovely and fascinating creature. Françoise de Foix, daughter of Jean de Foix, Vicomte de Lautrec, and first cousin of the heroic Gaston de Foix, surnamed “le Foudre d’Italie” was early united to the Comte Laval de Chateaubriand, whose jealousy of her beauty induced him to immure her in a solitary chateau in Brittany. His precautions, however, were unavailing. François having heard of the incomparable charms of the countess, compelled her jealous spouse to bring her to court, and at once became passionately enamoured of her. The nature of Françoise de Foix was unambitious, and she might not have exercised the influence she possessed over the king beneficially but for her brothers, the elder of whom, Odet de Foix, Seigneur de Lautrec – a brave but not a successful leader – she made a marshal of France; while the Comte de Lesparre, the younger, also owed his advancement to her.

Françoise de Foix was tall, slender, and exquisitely proportioned. Her features were of extreme delicacy, her eyes large and of a tender blue, her eyebrows beautifully pencilled, her locks blonde, and her complexion ravishingly fair. Her attire was of white brocade, her long stomacher being covered with gems, while the girdle that encircled her narrow waist was studded with precious stones. Over her gown she wore a surcoat of azure satin embroidered with gold, and having loose hanging sleeves. A magnificent head-dress of goldsmith’s work confined her blonde tresses, and set off her lovely countenance. Françoise de Foix was as fascinating in manner as she was charming in person, and her royal lover seemed spellbound by her attractions. She was not, however, more faithful to him than she had been to her husband, but she had the art to conceal her infidelities, and never incurred his suspicions. Unable to brook his dishonour, the Comte de Châteaubriand had withdrawn wholly from court, and secluded himself in his lonely château in Brittany, where he meditated a terrible revenge, which he afterwards consummated. The end of the lovely countess was very tragical.

From the contemplation of the bewitching Françoise de Foix we must turn to another lovely woman, who formed part of the assemblage in the gallery. This was the king’s sister, Marguerite de Valois, Duchess d’Alençon – La Marguerite des Marguerites, as she was styled by her royal brother, who tenderly loved her. Graceful of person, beautiful of feature, amiable in disposition, a model of virtue in a depraved court, united to a husband she could not respect, and who was incapable of appreciating her merits, yet to whom she was faithful, highly accomplished, learned, and witty, the Duchess d’Alençon was the chief ornament of the court of François I.

About two years subsequent to the period of our history Marguerite was liberated from her husband by death, and espoused in her second nuptials Henri d’Albret, King of Navarre – a consort in all respects better suited to her. As Queen of Navarre, her court was thronged by poets, savants, and men of letters. Clement Marot thus eulogises her:

Ronsard, then a handsome page, thus addresses her:

By some she was styled the Tenth Muse and the Fourth Grace. Her Nouvelles, which obtained a wonderful celebrity in her own day, may be classed with the Decameron of Boccaccio.

Marguerite was dressed in crimson velvet, richly embroidered, and her head-dress was of goldsmith’s work, like that of the Comtesse de Châteaubriand. If she was not so fascinating as the latter syren, she possessed infinitely more dignity, and her features had an expression which nothing but purity can impart.

Many other beautiful and high-born dames and demoiselles were present, but we do not think it necessary to describe them, neither can we do more than allude to the brilliant collection of young seigneurs, all magnificently arrayed, by whom the king was attended.

“So you are resolved to go to Italy, sire,” observed the Comtesse de Châteaubriand to the king, who was standing near an open window, gazing into the orange-garden. “Nothing that I can say will detain you.”

“I must win back the duchy of Milan, which your brother, the Maréchal de Lautrec, has suffered Prospero Colonna and Pescara to wrest from me,” rejoined François. “Had I been there, this would not have happened. I have been idle far too long, and must conduct the war in person.”

“I trust it will be a brief campaign,” sighed the countess.

“Doubt it not, ma mie,” replied the king. “The duchy shall soon again be mine. During the winter I will hold my court at Milan, and you shall come thither, if you list.”

“I would I might accompany you during the campaign, sire! Let me go with you, I entreat you!”

“No, that cannot be. You could not cross the Alps with the army. But you shall follow speedily. Nay, content you, mignonne. You shall go with me as far as Lyons.”

At this moment, Bonnivet, who had come quickly down the gallery, approached them.

“You have some news for us?” said the king, looking inquiringly at him. “Any tidings from Bayonne, or from the Milanese?”

“None, sire,” replied the Admiral. “I merely come to announce to you a most unexpected visitor. Not to keep you a moment in suspense, I will add that the Prince Mal-endurant has just arrived at the palace.”

“The Constable de Bourbon arrived here!” exclaimed the countess.

“His arrival is not unexpected,” replied the king, smiling. “In fact, I sent for him.”

“You sent for him, sire!” exclaimed Bonnivet, surprised, and exchanging a glance with the countess. “I did not suppose you would adopt such a course. If I had been aware of it, I would have counselled you against it.”

“And so would I,” added the countess.

“For that very reason, I did not mention my design,” remarked François. “What will you say, ma mie, if I should be reconciled to the Constable?” he added to the countess.

“I shall say that your majesty is not true to yourself,” she replied, unable to conceal her vexation.

“Reconciliation with Bourbon is impossible, unless the Duchess d’Angoulême will forego her claim – and she will never do that!” cried Bonnivet.

“Hum!” exclaimed François. “One cannot tell what may happen. I always pay the greatest deference to my mother’s wishes, and, as she has expressed a desire to see the Constable, I have sent for him.”

“It is strange I should hear nothing of this before, sire,” remarked Françoise de Foix, in a tone of pique.

“Not so strange as you think, mignonne,” replied the king. “The duchess bound me to secresy.”

“What can be the meaning of this?” thought Bonnivet. “The duchess hates Bourbon too deeply to make terms with him.”

“I see it!” mentally ejaculated the countess, instinctively arriving at the truth. “Her love for Bourbon has been suddenly revived. But will he accept her terms? If I know him, he will not.”

“Here comes the Constable,” remarked François, as the tall and majestic figure of Bourbon was seen moving slowly down the gallery. He was preceded by the chamberlain, and followed by Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne.

“He has not lost his insolent deportment,” remarked the Admiral. “I ought to have informed your majesty that he has brought with him an escort of three hundred gentlemen.”

The observations told, and a frown of displeasure passed over the king’s brow. But it fled before Bourbon came up, and gave way to a gracious smile.

“Welcome, cousin,” he cried, in a voice that bespoke cordiality. “I am right glad to see you again at Fontainebleau.”

At the same time he advanced towards the Constable, and embraced him affectionately.

“Sire, your kindness overwhelms me,” said Bourbon, moved by the warmth of the reception.

“You have been absent from court far too long, cousin – far too long,” pursued the king. “Our sister the Duchess d’Alençon, and the Comtesse de Chateaubriand, will tell you how much we have missed you.”

“It is not my fault that I have been absent, sire,” replied Bourbon. “Your majesty will own that I had good reasons for keeping away.”

“I wish you had come, notwithstanding, cousin,” rejoined François. “A few words of personal explanation would have helped to set matters right. But you shall not depart till we have settled our differences.”

“Then I must tarry long, sire,” observed Bourbon, smiling sternly. “Your majesty, I hear, has been pleased to style me le Prince Mal-endurant, and I own that the appellation is merited, but I am not altogether as patient as you imagine.”

“I do not wonder at it, cousin. Heaven knows, you have had good cause for anger! And if you have exhibited a patience worthy of the long-enduring patriarch himself, I admire you the more for it. But if I inflict injuries, I know how to repair them, and your wrongs shall be redressed.”

“You own I have been wronged, sire?” exclaimed Bourbon. “That is something.”

“Foi de gentilhomme! I will make you amends, cousin,” cried the king. “You shall be abundantly satisfied.”

Bourbon’s sternness could not fail to give way before these and many other equally gracious expressions. It was evident that François desired to conciliate his offended visitor, and as he employed his irresistible fascination of manner to that end, he succeeded. The king next addressed himself to Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne, greeting them both with marked condescension and kindness, and, while he was thus engaged, Bourbon paid his devoirs to the Duchess d’Alençon and the Comtesse de Châteaubriand. By the latter he was coldly received, but Marguerite de Valois accorded him a welcome as gracious as that of her royal brother. A haughty salutation passed between the Constable and Bonnivet.

“I must have a few words with you in private, cousin,” said the king, turning to Bourbon, as soon as he had concluded his brief discourse with Saint-Vallier. “Come with me, I pray you.”

The Constable bowed, and he and the king quitted the gallery, and entering a corridor on the left, proceeded to a suite of magnificent apartments which François himself had recently constructed. The most friendly understanding seemed already re-established between them. François treated the Constable like a brother, and placed his arm affectionately upon his shoulder.

“I will now avow the truth to you, cousin,” he said. “This process has been a great pain to me, but there is only one way of settling it. Methinks you can readily guess that mode.”

“No, sire, I confess I am completely puzzled,” replied Bourbon.

“You are duller than I thought,” said the king. “The matter rests with the Duchess d’Angoulême. You must talk it over with her.”

“With the duchess, sire!” exclaimed Bourbon. “Impossible! You must hold me excused.”

“Nay, I insist, cousin,” rejoined François.

“The interview will be productive of no good, sire, and will rather aggravate existing difficulties. Again, I pray you to excuse me.”

“Nay, I am resolved, cousin. I know what is for your good. Come with me to my mother’s private cabinet. She expects you.”

“Expects me!” cried Bourbon. “Then this is a preconcerted scheme. I warn your majesty it will fail.”

“I will listen to no more objections,” said François. “You will thank me for my firmness anon.”