III.
“Everything must be sacrificed for the glory of France!” was no empty, echoing cry in a desert; it was the pleading and persistent cry of a devoted wife and a patriotic Queen. Into the ears of the King of France and into the ears of everybody who was even in the smallest degree likely to be able to do anything at all for her beloved country, the admirable Queen Marie poured her complaint. She stood for the expulsion of the English invaders of her native soil, and for the composure of the feuds and jealousies of the French Sovereigns and nobles. “God and reason,” she went on to exclaim, “are on my side; rouse you like men and fight!” Surely he is a coward or a simpleton in whose heart a woman’s voice and a woman’s taunts fail to enkindle enthusiasm. All France flocked to do homage to the “little Queen of Bourges,” to kiss her hand, and to lay their swords at the feet of the King. From Loches to Chinon and Tours, right down the river valley of the Rhone, and throughout Dauphiné, that voice went echoing. The new campaign was hers, hers the credit, hers the glory, for great deeds were done that shamed men’s apathy.
Alas! her enthusiasm found faint response in Charles. A skit of the time denounced him thus: “Nouvelle du Roy nullement; ne que se il fust à Romme oue Jherusalemme!”—“The King is of no use whatever; he might as well be at Rome or at Jerusalem!” Still, the Queen did not fail for loyal soldiers nor for consummate captains; first and foremost was her beloved brother René, now King of Sicily-Anjou.
But now enemies more terrible than the hated English, more insidious than the squabbling Princes, stalked the broad plains of suffering France—the three fell sisters, famine, flood, and fever. The price of foodstuffs rose portentously; wheat, butter, oil, and cheese, were a hundred times dearer than their usual cost. Men grovelled like pigs for offal, and women and children laid themselves down to die just where they were. Queen Marie’s tender heart grieved sorely for her people’s misery. She sold what jewellery she had left, and pawned her available property to minister to the prevailing want. And then a new terror seized the land—the rivers were in flood, and what stocks and crops the famine had left were washed away, and beggary stared the nation in the face. The Queen instituted pilgrimages of women to celebrated shrines, and she herself put on the deepest mourning and spent her time in prayer. All seemed to be of no avail to stay the afflicting hand of Heaven, for no sooner were the waters abated than the scourge of fever was let loose on the devoted land of France, and corpses were flung out of echoing doorways and left for chance burial, or to be the prey of scavaging dogs. Had the Day of Judgment dawned? men asked each other, whilst they promptly covered their mouths against the infection. Delirium would have seized all the remnants of the population had not the intrepid Queen ridden up and down, risking her own precious life and appealing to one and all to be courageous, bear all, and hope for better days.
Marie had happy days and proud to cancel days of gloom and penury. Toulouse was en fête; it was the month of May, 1435, best loved of all the children of Mary; and she made a stately entry into that ancient, loyal city with the King by her side. Oddly enough, she was mounted on pillion behind her young son, the Dauphin Louis, then a lad of twelve. Her vesture was superb—a blue brocaded satin robe, bordered heavily with royal ermine. She was décolletée, her bosom covered with jewels and chains of gold. Upon her head, rising out of a regal diadem of flashing gems, she wore a chaperon, a hood of fine white cambric shaped like a crescent, raised at the points, and lightly covered with a thin white gauze veil. Her hair was bunched over her ears, and carried in a golden jewelled net. Her feet were shod in white, gold-embroidered kid, and she wore, after her mother’s fashion, jewelled white kid gloves. Four Chamberlains, also mounted, held a state canopy of cloth of gold and white plumes over their royal mistress and her white charger.
A bright day dawned for Queen Marie. It was the Festival of the Forerunner, June 24, 1436, and the ancient and loyal city of Tours was decked for the royal nuptials of the Dauphin. The King and Queen of France with the good Queen Yolande and their suite awaited at the Château du Plessis-lès-Tours the arrival of the young bridal couple. Louis had gone to meet his bride at Saumur; he was but a boy of thirteen, small, ill-looking, and not too clever. Princess Margaret, daughter of James I. of Scotland, with a following of Scottish nobles and Maids of Honour, a tall, sprightly girl of twelve, vastly enjoyed her voyage, and clapped her hands delightedly at the flowers and fruits of Anjou. She embraced her little husband-to-be, and took him by the hand as they stepped on board the state barge in waiting at the river quay.
Among the bevy of fair maidens who welcomed the royal bride was Jehanne de Laval, who was attached to the suite of the Dauphiness. The grand hall of the castle and state-rooms were hung with tapestry and lengths of cloth of gold. There the Sovereigns were seated on a canopied daïs, wearing their crowns and robes of state. The little Princess entered the Presence somewhat nervously, still holding the hand of the young Dauphin, and chaperoned by her Scottish Mistress of the Robes. Making a graceful obeisance, Margaret advanced with childlike confidence, and Queen Marie, rising, went to greet her young daughter-in-law; she embraced her tenderly, and introduced her to the King and to Queen Yolande. The courtiers pressed forward to kiss the Princess’s hand, and many costly gifts were laid at her feet. Wearied at length with the ceremonies, Queen Marie conducted her interesting visitor to her own apartments, where dinner was served.
The bells of all the churches in Tours set up merry janglings at dawn next day, and the cathedral was crowded by a goodly company of wedding guests. The King and the two Queens were seated on their thrones. Charles wore a black velvet doublet and hose, his berretta was of red, and he bore round his neck a decoration sent from the King of Scotland. The Queen was arrayed in crimson velvet and ermine. She wore an abbreviated hennin with a fine lace fall; her hair was embroidered with gold. The young Prince was in blue and silver, his bride in bridal white. Everybody bore wedding favours—Scottish heather and French lilies entwined with white satin ribbons. The Archbishop of Reims performed the ceremony, accompanied by a number of Bishops and dignified clergy.
Margaret at once became a great favourite with the King and Queen. Her Northern vigour and sweet manners were good credentials; but, unhappily, the young bridegroom from the first took a dislike to his consort. She was never happy when he was present, and her furtive eyes searched in vain for tokens of affection and camaraderie. “There was no one,” wrote Philippe de Commines a few years later, “in all the world whom she dreaded more than the Dauphin.” Her life was indeed a sad one; neglected by her husband, misunderstood and disesteemed at Court, the poor young Dauphiness passed her time mostly with Queen Marie and in futile regrets for her dear, dear home in Scotland.
QUEENS AND JUDGES INSPECT KNIGHTS BEFORE THE “LISTS,” SAUMUR TOURNAMENT, 1446
Painted by King René. From “Le Livre des Tournois”
To face page 204
Her death came about most unexpectedly, for she was discovered poisoned,—rumour had it by her spouse,—in her boudoir at Sarry-le-Château, on August 16, 1444, an ill-used wife of no more than twenty years of age. Princess Margaret’s fate was as sad as sad could be—too young to die. Her last words,—the most pathetic ever uttered by an unhappy woman,—were addressed to her faithful chaperon: “A curse on life! don’t speak to me about it!” No child, perhaps happily, was born of that ill-starred marriage.
No one wept more bitterly at this mischance than tender-hearted Queen Marie. She loved her son to distraction, and he loved her as greatly in return; and she had learned to love Margaret too, but nothing that she could say moved Louis to love, honour, and comfort, his young wife. Calm, crafty, and selfish, like his father, and vindictive, Louis’s character may be succinctly stated as he himself wrote it: “The King knows not how to rule who knows not how to dissemble.… If my cap should know my thoughts, I would burn it!”
Queen Marie’s other son, Charles, Duc de Berry, the last of all her surviving children, born December 28, 1446, was a Prince of no strength of character. Easily led by others, he became involved in endless imbroglios, and aided and abetted his elder brother the Dauphin, in his unfilial conduct towards their father. Created Duke of Guienne and Duke of Normandy in 1469,—after the expulsion of the English,—he was a source of constant anxiety and trouble to his mother. The Queen of Sicily-Anjou, Isabelle de Lorraine, his godmother, with King René, took the young Prince in hand, but he did not well repay their solicitude. Immoral, dissipated, and in debt, Charles de Berry spent his time in debauches and intrigues; he was own grandson of Isabeau the Infamous. Among his many mistresses, Derouillée de Montereau, widow of Louis d’Amboise, exercised the greatest influence. She, too, was the cause of his death, for at lunch one day she placed a peach in his wineglass, and she challenged Charles to bite the fruit with her. Her half she swallowed, and she fell dead in a few minutes, whilst her royal paramour lingered in acute suffering for three whole days, and at last succumbed to the poison on May 28, 1472. Whether she caused the fruit to be poisoned we know not; most likely she knew all about it, and only followed in the steps of those whose immorality turns love to hate and sanctity to madness. This was a characteristic of society in the Renaissance, the cloven hoof of the old Adam showing beneath the sumptuous garments of the new man.
As might very well have been expected at a Court of self-seekers and sycophants, the integrity and unselfishness of the Queen were goads to slander and aids to hypocrisy. She was assailed on account of her absolute faithfulness to the marriage bond and for her want of personal ambition. Roués could not understand her; mondaines would not tolerate her; the King’s favourites and mistresses,—not Agnes Sorel, be it said,—strove all they could to poison his mind against his consort. The names of many prominent Princes and courtiers were linked scandalously with the Queen’s. Arthur de Richemont, son of Duke Jehan VI. of Brittany, the Constable of France; Pierre de Giac de la Trémouille, Captain of the King’s Guards; Étienne Louvet, President of the Privy Council; and the Count of Dunois, better known as the “Bastard of Orléans,” were all said to have shared the Queen’s confidences and her favours. The latter was thrown, indeed, very much with Her Majesty, and ranked among the Princes of the Royal House. Son of the assassinated Duke of Orléans by an unknown mother, the Duchess brought him up along with her own children, and she hoped he would live to avenge his father’s death. The “Bastard” was the playmate of the children of King Louis II. of Sicily-Anjou and Queen Yolande, and he and the Princess Marie were much drawn to one another.
The two young people were one day in the gardens of the Hôtel de St. Pol along with the Comte de Ponthieu,—Charles VII.,—and the Princes and Princesses of Sicily-Anjou, when the Count, wearied of his forced attentions to the Princess Marie, sauntered away by himself. Xaintrailles followed him and remonstrated with him for his coolness to his fiancée. Charles replied that they were not fully betrothed, and that he did not admire and did not love Marie. Xaintrailles told Dunois what the Count had said, and Dunois, with a scornful laugh, exclaimed: “One must be dull and blind indeed not to be smitten by her eyes—the most beautiful eyes in the whole world, and quite incapable of seeing the faults of others.” Dunois was very much in love with the Princess, and did not conceal his passion, so much so that when he kissed her hand, as he often did, he also lifted the hem of her skirt and implanted a kiss there, as a lover’s token of humility.
Dunois contrived têtes-à-tête as often as he could with his sweetheart, as he called Marie d’Anjou. One day, it is said, Charles passed down a sheltered path in the gardens, and his companion pointed out to him a couple love-making in a secluded arbour. They chided him with the feebleness of his suit, and told him it would serve him right if Marie married Dunois. He said he did not care a bit if she did or if she did not. They were all mere children—the Count sixteen, Marie fifteen, and Dunois of a like age. The intimacy between the Princess and her lover became embarrassing to the whole Court, but time went on, and developments were awaited by the curious and intriguing. A summer’s day came when some ladies of the Court went wandering about searching for shady shelters. Right away from the palace, near a springing fountain, they came upon a crossing in the path, and there in the sandy dust they read, written by a stick or something:
“Destin qui va m’unir d’une éternelle chaîne
A l’object de ma haîne—
Cruel destin, arrache de mon cœur
Une trop vive ardeur.”
“Fate which would rivet me with a perpetual chain
To the object of my deep disdain—
O, cruel fate! which would snatch from my poor worn heart
A passion full of ardour on my part.”
Puzzling over the meaning of this strange verse, the ladies beheld the Princess hastening to where they stood. With heightened colour she asked them: “What are you doing here? Why are you not with the Queen of Sicily?” Then effacing the writing with her foot, she added: “I cannot think why I did not efface those words; I have committed an indiscretion. But take note I did not name the unhappy person who wrote them.” The romance went on unchecked. Dunois, still under age, very adroitly contrived to remove the suspicions his conduct had aroused in the mind of Queen Yolande, and Marie took dutifully and silently the maternal reproofs. Then came the death of Charles VI., and Princess Marie was proclaimed Queen of France. With more than a sigh,—almost a broken heart,—she set herself to play her part as a virtuous woman and as a loyal spouse. Dunois did not renounce his devotion to the Queen, and she never forgot the love she had borne him—a Prince the very antithesis of her husband, remarkable for personal beauty and mental accomplishment, just the sort of man all women love. Daily she poured out her soul before the altar of her private chapel for strength to be true and faithful, and victory was hers; but it cost her dear.
“Car en vertueuse souffrance,
Au temps du commun desarroy,
Elle a monstre plus de vaillance
Que sage prince ou fier roy.”
“In point of virtuous suffering,
At times of deep alarms,
She exhibited more daring
Than wise prince or king in arms.”
This fascinating story of the loves of Count Dunois d’Orléans and Princess Marie d’Anjou was worked up by fanatics into a culpable liaison of the Queen. It grew in vile misrepresentation, and swelled in garbled facts until it became abhorrent in the ears of all decent-minded people. Some of Charles’s legitimate children were said to have been fathered by the Count. The Queen very wisely refrained from making replies to the evil stories, the only sensible way of dealing with them. “Exempt,” as wrote Varillas, “not only from the faults of the Court, but still more from suspicion that she had any part therein, she had all the same to suffer from the poison of calumny.” On the other hand, Marie suffered in patience the disdain and unfaithfulness of the King, and returned his evil with her good. Her entire life was a scene of sacrifice and an arena of benevolence.
Marie, in her quiet, unobtrusive way, did very much for the correction of morals in Court and country. Due to her representation, Charles at Toul abolished the obscene Fête des Fous, which was observed through his dominions. It was a scandalous exhibition, an indecent orgy, shared in alike by laity and clergy. The latter chose a local Pope or Bishop, to whom for the time the actual Bishop of the diocese rendered up the attributes of his office. The mock prelate was enthroned in the cathedral, and then a wild scene of profanity was witnessed. Men and women dressed as buffoons, many exposing their nakedness without shame, joined in licentious dances and blasphemous songs, and gorged themselves with roast pork and other coarse viands and intoxicating beverages served upon the altars. In the holy censers were burnt common corks and bits of leather; the holy-water stoups were used for nameless indecencies; and promiscuous prostitution made each sacred edifice a brothel and a Gehenna.
Early in the year 1457 Ambassadors from Duke Ladislaus of Austria came to France to ask from Charles VII. the hand of his youngest daughter, Madeleine, a girl of fourteen, and dowered with beauty if not with wealth. Passing through Lorraine and Bar, King René greeted them, entertained them handsomely, and accompanied them to Tours. The King and Queen of France were at the castle with their three daughters,—Jeanne; Yolande, the wife of Amadeo IX., Duke of Savoy; and Madeleine,—and a numerous and distinguished suite. In the Grand Salle twelve long tables were placed, each seating seven guests. At the first were the two Kings and the Queens with the three Princesses and the Duke of Savoy. The Masters of Ceremonies were the Counts Gaston de Foix, Dunois, and de la Marche, with the Grand Seneschal of France. It was a typical entertainment—lavish, long, and laborious. The first course consisted of white hypocras and “rosties”—hors d’œuvres(?)—served in crystal vessels. The second course offered grands pâtes de chapons à haute grasse, with boars’ tongues, and accompanied by seven kinds of soup—all served on plates of silver. The third course presented all kinds of game-birds with venison and boars’ heads served on silver dishes. The fourth course was des petites oyseaux on toast and spit, with prunes and salads, set forth on dishes of silver gilt. The fifth course consisted of tarts, orange trifles, candied lemons, and many sorts of sweetmeats, beautifully arranged on plates and stands of coloured jewelled glass. The sixth and last course was hypocras again, but red, served with oublies—perhaps macaroons and wafers.
The wines which accompanied this regal menu, unhappily, are not mentioned by the chronicler, but the name of Tours in connection with delicacies of the palate has always been a cachet of excellence; its cuisine and its cellars are still unsurpassed in France. The banquet was accompanied by minstrelsy and masque. King René himself arranged the musical programme; indeed, he brought with him some of his famous troubadours. After dinner the august company disposed themselves, some to the merry dance, some to the quiet têtes-à-tête, and some to cards—then so fashionable and so much beloved by the King and Queen of France. A very famous pack was used, the Queens of the suit being Isabeau for “Hearts,” Marie for “Clubs,” Agnes Sorel for “Diamonds,” and Jeanne d’Arc for “Spades,” Kinged respectively by Charles VI., Louis III., Charles VII., and René; and the Knaves, Xaintrailles, La Hire, Dunois, and Barbazan—a quaint conceit!
Upon the death of Louis III., his sister, Queen Marie, came in for a considerable fortune—renounced, be it said, by that most loving of all brothers, René, in her behalf. It was said that the new Duke assigned the whole of his revenues from Anjou to the use of his sister. He settled certain estates upon her which she very quickly and cleverly turned to good account. In person the Queen visited her new properties, dressed plainly in black and without ceremony, inquired into the condition of the labourers and the promise of the harvest, and then, calling to her assistance the well-known financier of Bourges, Jacques Cœur, opened out business relations with England. The vineyards of Anjou—at least, those bordering the Loire—were among the most fruitful in France. These the Ministers of the Queen exploited, and opened out a very profitable export trade from the port of La Rochelle. The sweet white vinous brandies of Annis became established favourites of English palates. Anjou cheese, too, was excellent; it still is made from milk of Anjou cows and goats. Crême de Blois was famous long before Roquefort, Cantal, or Brie, came into request, and with fresh butter was exported largely to Southampton, much to the profit of Queen Marie’s exchequer.
These homely touches introduce the student of “La Vie Privée des Français” to a charming hobby of the good Queen Marie—her love of animals and birds. In the Comptes de Roy René is a letter to the Agents of the Audit; it is dated July 16, 1458, and is as follows:
“By Command of the Queen.
“Well-beloved and Right Trusty,
“We have noted that our brother the King of Sicily (René) has in his house at Rivetes, of which you, Guillaume Bernart, have the superintendence, some cocks and hens of good strain, and that they are very fine, as we have seen. If you are well disposed, then, the messenger can bring us a cock and a hen, with a broody hen and her chicks. You will see that they are in good condition. Do not be at all fearful of displeasing our royal brother, for we shall make him both pleased and happy.
“Dearly beloved, may Our Lord protect you. Written at our Castle of Chinon, XVI. day of July, 1458.
“Marie.”
King René had a farm at Rivetes, and from an inventory dated November 12, 1458, we learn that he had—“69 chés d’animaille (heads of stock), 1 jument (mare), 1 poulain (colt), 42 chés de pourceaux (pigs), and much poultry.” Rivetes, with its forest of chestnuts, was situated between the rivers Loire and Anthion, at no great distance from Angers. René had also wild beasts and birds—a vast menagerie at Rivetes and Reculée. His keeper of lions and leopards in 1476 was Benoist Bagonet, and of his eagles and peacocks, Vissuel Gosmes. He had also at Reculée a Court fool, Triboullet. They were all very pleasant fellows, and helped to amuse the King and Queen and their guests.
King Charles VII. died at his favourite castle of Mehun-sur-Yèvre, July 22, 1461. He had suffered for a considerable time from an incurable ulcer in his mouth, which denied him the pleasure and necessity of eating. In his last illness Marie was at Chinon; he cried piteously for her to come to him: “Marie, ma Marie!” She hastened to Mehun, and was in time to hold his hand and moisten his heated brow, and quietly he died in her arms—the arms of the truest of wives and noblest of queens. Charles was buried in the royal vaults at St. Denis, and Louis XI., his son, reigned in his stead. Devoted to his mother, her widowhood was lightened by his affectionate regard. His father’s death made no difference in her royal state; the King placed his mother before his wife—Charlotte of Savoy.
Queen Marie bore her consort twelve children; six died in infancy. Her two sons were Louis and Charles; her daughters, who survived, Catherine, Jeanne, Yolande, and Madeleine. She survived Charles but two short years. Enguerrand de Monstrelet speaks thus of her death, which occurred near Poitiers, November 23, 1463: “There passed away from this world Marie of Anjou and France.… She bore all through her life the character of a good and devout woman, ever generous and patient.” Her death was not unexpected, for through trouble, sorrow, and fasting, her frame had become emaciated and her pulse beat slow; she died actually from prostration. Her end was very peaceful in the silent cloisters of the Abbey of Chastilliers in Poitou. She had but just returned from a pilgrimage to the Gallician shrine of Santiago da Compostella. Her body was embalmed and translated in solemn guise to St. Denis, and laid beside that of her husband. Her devotion to him had not ceased at his death, for she had endowed twelve altars in the chief cities of France proper for the offering of Masses for the repose of his soul. Every month she made the practice of visiting the royal tomb at St. Denis to hear Mass and pray for him. At Bourges, of sad and chastened memory, the widowed Queen founded in honour of her consort three considerable benevolent institutions—a hospital for the sick poor, a refuge for poor pilgrims, and an orphanage for illegitimate children.
Queen Marie’s transparent faithfulness and absolute unselfishness is outlined in a famous saying of hers with respect to her relations with King Charles: “He is my lord and master; he has entire power over all my actions, and I have none over his.” Her whole-hearted devotion and her heroic courage have raised Marie d’Anjou far above the ordinary level of her sex, and have elevated her to the very highest throne among the Queens of France.