Whenever he rode into a city, he would ask himself, amid all the haranguing, as he passed beneath the triumphal arches, if that was the city where he was to be imprisoned; then he would murmur beneath his breath, "Not this or any other city, but all France, is my dungeon; all these assiduous courtiers are my jailers." And each hour as it passed added something to the apprehension of this tiger, who believed himself to be in a cage, and saw bars on all sides.
One day, as they were riding along, Charles d'Orléans, a fascinating, frolicsome child,—who was in great haste to be amiable and gallant, as a son of France, before dying of the plague like any peasant,—leaped lightly to the saddle behind the Emperor and threw his arms about his waist, crying gleefully, "Now you are my prisoner!" Charles became pale as death, and nearly fainted.
At Châtellerault, the poor imaginary captive was met by François, who welcomed him fraternally, and on the following day presented the whole court to him,—the valorous, magnificent nobility, the glory of the country, and the artists and men of letters, the glory of the king. The fêtes and merry-makings began in good earnest. The Emperor wore a brave face everywhere, but in his heart he was afraid, and constantly reproached himself for his imprudence. From time to time, as if to test his liberty, he would go out at daybreak from the château where he had lain at night, and he was delighted to see that his movements were not interfered with outside of the honors paid him. But could he be sure that he was not watched from a distance? Sometimes, as if from mere caprice, he changed the itinerary arranged for his journey, to the despair of François I., because part of the ceremonial prescribed by him went for naught as a consequence.
When he was within two day's ride of Paris he remembered with terror the French king's sojourn at Madrid. For an emperor the capital would seem to be the most honorable place of detention, and at the same time the surest. He therefore begged the king to escort him at once to Fontainebleau, of which he had heard so much. This overturned all of François's plans, but he was too hospitable to allow his disappointment to appear, and at once sent word to the queen and all the ladies to repair to Fontainebleau.
The presence of his sister Eleanora, and her confidence in her husband's good faith, allayed the Emperor's anxiety to some extent. But, although reassured for the moment, Charles V. was never able to feel at his ease while he was within the dominions of the King of France. François was the mirror of the past, Charles the type of the future. The sovereign of modern times never rightly understood the hero of the Middle Ages; it was impossible that there should be any real sympathy between the last of the chevaliers and the first of the diplomatists.
It is true Louis XI. might, strictly speaking, lay claim to this latter title, but in our opinion Louis XI. was not so much the scheming diplomatist as the grasping miser.
On the day of the Emperor's arrival there was a hunting party in the forest of Fontainebleau. Hunting was a favorite pastime of François I. It was not much better than a terrible bore to Charles V. Nevertheless he seized with avidity this further opportunity to see if he was not a prisoner; he let the hunt pass, took a by-road, and rode about at random until he was lost. But when he found that he was entirely alone in the middle of the forest, as free as the air that blew through the branches, or as the birds that flew through the air, he was almost wholly reassured, and began to recover his good humor in some measure. And yet the anxious expression returned to his faee when, upon his making his appearance at the rendezvous, François came to him, flushed with the excitement of the chase, and still holding in his hand the bleeding boar-spear. The warrior of Marignano and Pavia was much in evidence in the king's pleasures.
"Come, my dear brother, let us enjoy ourselves!" said François, passing his arm through Charles's in a friendly way, when they had both alighted at the palace gate, and, leading him to the Galerie de Diane, resplendent with the paintings of Rosso and Primaticcio. "Vrai Dieu! you are as thoughtful as I was at Madrid. But you will agree, my dear brother, that I had some reason for being so, for I was your prisoner, while you are my guest; you are free, you are on the eve of a triumph. Rejoice therefore with us, if not because of the fêtes, which are doubtless beneath the notice of a great politician like yourself, at least in the thought that you are on your way to humble all those beer-drinking Flemings, who presume to talk of renewing the Communes. Or, better still, forget the rebels, and think only of enjoying yourself with friends. Does not my court impress you pleasantly?"
"It is superb, my brother," said Charles, "and I envy you. I too have a court—you have seen it—but a stern, joyless court, a gloomy assemblage of statesmen and generals like Lannoy, Peschiara, and Antonio de Leyra. But you have, beside your warriors and statesmen, beside your Montmorencys and Dubellays, beside your scholars, beside Budée, Duchâtel, and Lascaris,—beside all these you have your poets and your artists, Marot, Jean Goujon, Primaticcio, Benvenuto; and, above all, your adorable women,—Marguerite de Navarre, Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, and so many others; and verily I begin to believe, my dear brother, that I would willingly exchange my gold mines for your flower-strewn fields."
"Ah! but you have not yet seen the fairest of all these lovely flowers," said François naïvely to Eleanora's brother.