The two great mistresses had each her darling poet: the Duchesse d'Étampes had chosen Clement Marot, who could turn so gracefully the Psalms of David into verse; La Grande Sénéschale, always supreme in taste, patronised Pierre Ronsard—and this was why Pierre sometimes found that when he "talked fine to King Francis," the King would yawn in his face, or whistle and move off to some better amusement.
That was what Francis did one day after the Peace of Cambray had been signed by France and Spain. He had grown weary of leisure:
"Here we've got peace, and aghast I'm
Caught thinking war the true pastime.
Is there a reason in metre?
Give us your speech, master Peter!"
Peter obediently began, but he had hardly spoken half a dozen words before the King whistled aloud: "Let's go and look at our lions!"
They went to the courtyard, and as they went, the throng of courtiers mustered—lords and ladies came as thick as coloured clouds at sunset. Foremost among them (relates Ronsard in Browning's poem) were De Lorge and the lady he was "adoring."
"Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside"
—for they were now all sitting above the arena round which the lions' dens were placed. The black Arab keeper was told to stir up the great beast, Bluebeard. A firework was accordingly dropped into the den, whose door had been opened . . . they all waited breathless, with beating hearts . . .
"Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute! . . .
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes nor waxing nor waning."
And the poet, watching him, thought how perhaps in that eruption of noise and light, the lion had dreamed that his shackles were shivered, and he was free again.