At once appalling and singular was the spectacle of all these elegant lords and handsome ladies like a procession painted by Goya, riding along in the midst of those blackened carcasses and gibbets, with their long lean arms.
The noisier the exultation of the spectators, the more strikingly it contrasted with the melancholy silence and cold insensibility of those corpses—objects of ridicule which made even the jesters shudder.
Many could scarcely endure this horrible spectacle, and by his pallor might be distinguished, in the centre of collected Huguenots, Henry, who, great as was his power of self-control and the degree of dissimulation conferred on him by Heaven, could no longer bear it.
He made as his excuse the strong stench which emanated from all those human remains, and going to Charles, who, with Catharine, had stopped in front of the admiral's dead body, he said:
"Sire, does not your Majesty find that this poor carcass smells so strong that it is impossible to remain near it any longer?"
"Do you find it so, Harry?" inquired the King, his eyes sparkling with ferocious joy.
"Yes, sire."
"Well, then, I am not of your opinion; a dead enemy's corpse always smells sweet."
"Faith, sire," said Tavannes, "since your Majesty knew that we were going to make a little call on the admiral, you should have invited Pierre Ronsard, your teacher of poetry; he would have extemporized an epitaph for the old Gaspard."
"There is no need of him for that," said Charles IX., after an instant's thought: