Francis I.
During some of the last years of his life, his fine and chivalric spirit found a kindred soul in Francis I., who, it is remarkable, was the only French sovereign graced with any share of the character of chivalry. For, while the Plantagenets of England had shone as brilliantly by chivalric as by regal splendour, the Capetian princes of France could not present a king that displayed any powers beyond the ordinary qualities of royalty. The valiancy, the liberality, the fine, open, and manly countenance, and the lofty form of the King, were altogether those of one of Charlemagne’s paladins. His imagination was coloured with the gay and lively tints of romance, and so fondly did he dwell upon the fabulous glories of old, that in many a sportive moment he arrayed himself in the guise of the antique cavalier. But here our panegyric must cease; for no preux knight would, like Francis, have pledged his solemn word to observe a treaty, and immediately afterwards have violated it. However unkingly and unknightly Charles V. might have deported himself in treating Francis in prison with severity, and although the terms of the treaty of Madrid were such as no noble victor would have imposed, still the obligation of the pledge of Francis’s word should have been felt as sacred. A noble cavalier, a Chandos or Du Guesclin, would have disdained to obtain his liberty by signing a treaty which he intended to break as soon as he should leave his prison. “All is lost, Madam, except our honour,” as the French King wrote to his mother after the battle of Pavia: a generous, chivalric expression; and scarcely could it have been expected that he was the man who would have thrown away that honour.
The last faint gleam, however, of the sun of military chivalry in France fell upon Bayard and his sovereign, Francis; for after the battle of Marignan, in 1515, when they fought together against the Swiss, the King was, at his own request, knighted by the cavalier without fear and without reproach. After giving the accolade, Bayard addressed his sword, “Certainly, my good sword, you shall hereafter be honoured as a most precious relic, and never shall be drawn except against Turks, Moors, and Saracens.” He then twice leaped up for joy, and plunged his trusty weapon into its sheath.[168]
Soon after the days of Francis I. the title of knighthood became an empty name: it was preserved as the decoration of nobility and lawyers; and, from respect to the ancient glories of their nation, kings received it at their baptism.[169] Montluc, that man of blood, was the last French soldier who received it in the field of battle. The accolade was given to him by the Duke d’Anguien, after the engagement of Cérisolles, in 1544.
Abolition of tournaments.
Extinction of chivalry.
The amusements of chivalry were soon abolished. The accidental death of Henry II. in a tournament[170], in the year 1559, did much to indispose the minds of the people from chivalric sports; and when in the following year Prince Henry de Bourbon Montpensier was killed, in consequence of his horse falling under him, while careering round the lists, tournaments ceased for ever; and with their abolition, as Voltaire says, the ancient spirit of chivalry expired in France; for that country, after the death of Henry II., was plunged in fanaticism, and desolated by the wars of religion. The spirit did not survive the forms of chivalry; for the intercourse with Italy introduced into France new opinions and feelings. Machiavelian politics banished the open, manly demeanour of chivalry; and the most disgusting profligacy equally distinguished the ladies. It is amusing to observe that, long after the extinction of chivalry in France, the apparent homage and devotion of chivalric love still continued, although it was no longer sustained by virtue. Love, sublimed into idolatry, breathes in every page of the heroic romances which succeeded the romances of chivalry, and reflect the feelings of the nation; and so late as the reign of Louis XIV. a ruffled and well-powdered French General, whose soul was not illumined by a single gleam of the character of a preux chevalier, would fancy himself the very pink of sentiment, and sigh at the feet of his mistress,
“Pour meriter ton cœur, pour plaire a vos beaux yeux,
J’ai fait la guerre aux rois, je l’aurois fait aux dieux.”