“The duke is growing older every day,” replied the French ambassador, “and in London there is a learned physician who declares that in two or three days he can remove all traces of the disease. The duke’s heart is full of love and admiration for your Majesty. If I might venture, but no——” and he thrust back into his pocket a paper that he had partly drawn forth.
“What is that?” demanded Elizabeth.
“Pardon, your Majesty, but it is a paper that I have no right to show. This is but the private letter of the duke, and was not meant to fall under the eyes of your Grace.” Finally he was prevailed upon to give her the paper, which proved to be a note—written expressly for the purpose—from Alençon to a friend in France. She read and reread.
“That is a fair penmanship,” said she. “That is marvelously well done.”
“And the matter of the letter,” asked the ambassador, “is not that, too, well done? It is but the outpourings of an honest heart and of its longings to win your Grace for himself.”
“It is very fairly written,” said Elizabeth, and she ended the audience, but she did not return the note.
The duke wrote many letters to the queen, and they do have an air of sincerity and earnestness that is different from the writings of some of Elizabeth’s suitors. Catherine sent word that the learned doctor from London was doing much to improve the appearance of her son’s face, but she wished to be sure that the medicines were harmless. “He can easily practise on a page,” she wrote, “and if it does well, he can use his remedies on my son.” The French ambassador hastened to tell the good news to Elizabeth, but this disappointing sovereign replied coolly, “I am really surprised that so loving a mother did not attempt sooner to remove so great a disfigurement.”
One June day a young man with two servants appeared at Elizabeth’s gates and demanded to see the queen. It was Alençon himself, and she was delighted. Of all her wooers not one before had ever dared to come to England and run the risk of a refusal, but “Monsieur,” as the English called him, had shown himself so bold that the queen was charmed. He was homely, there was no denying it, but he was brave and gallant, quick and sprightly, and one of the best flatterers that had ever been at the English court. His reception and entertainment were most cordial, and he went home in full expectation of marrying the queen.
Not long after this visit Elizabeth called her council to consider the marriage. Cecil in his usual methodical fashion drew up a paper with the advantages on the left and the disadvantages on the right. Finally the council reported to the sovereign that they would try to “conform themselves” to whatever she wished. Then the queen was angry, for she had expected them to urge her to marry. She cried and she stormed. She told her councilors that they cared nothing at all for her safety and the welfare of the kingdom. They bore her wrath with the utmost humility, but they did not change their report. Neither did the queen change her mind, and the marriage treaty was drawn up. The councilors did not despair even then, and one evening a well-arranged scene took place after the queen had retired to her chamber. Her ladies fell on their knees around her. They sobbed and groaned.
“Oh, your Majesty,” said one, “such a step cannot bring you happiness.”