After he had passed down the great gallery, Gabrielle rushed to one of the windows overlooking the entrance, to catch the last sight of him. She saw him vault on horseback, and ride down the hill with a brilliant retinue; that excellent creature, Chicot the jester, as faithful as Achates, but whom he had the misfortune soon after to lose, close at his side.
CHAPTER XXV.
ITALIAN ART.
YEARS have passed. The wars of the League are over, and Henry is undisputed master of France. He has proved himself a hero in a hundred battles, but has acquired nothing heroic in his appearance. Still in the prime of life, he has the keenest sense of enjoyment, the warmest heart, the old love of danger and contempt of consequences. His time is divided between hunting in the forest of Fontainebleau and the society of Gabrielle d’Estrées, and her little son Cæsar, created Duc de Vendôme.
Gabrielle has nominally been married to the Sieur de Liancourt, in accordance with court etiquette, which did not permit a single lady permanently to form part of a Court without a Queen. Henry has been severely commented on for this marriage mockery, for husband and wife parted at the church door. Gabrielle, who has been created Duchesse de Beaufort, is exceedingly unpopular. The divorce from “la reine Margot” is still incomplete, that obstinate princess objecting to conclude the needful formalities on the ground that Gabrielle is not of royal blood. Conquered by her prayers, her sweetness, and her devotion, Henry is still resolved to marry his lovely duchess. In vain he urges, threatens, and storms; the tyrant Queen will not consent. By Gabrielle’s advice he has become a Catholic. “Ma Gabrielle,” he writes from Paris, “I have yielded to your entreaties. I have spoken to the bishops; on Sunday I make the perilous leap. I kiss my angel’s hand.”
A strong political party opposed the marriage. Sully was dead against it. Gabrielle, it was argued, however fascinating and correct in conduct, was no match for Henry the Great. Besides, as being already the mother of two children by the King, a disputed succession would be certain. The Court of Rome had plans of its own, too, about the King’s marriage, and already the name of Marie de’ Medici had been mentioned as a fitting consort. The Pontiff himself favoured the match, and he alone could solve every difficulty with regard to the divorce. Sully looked askance at the excessive influence Gabrielle exercised over his master. The Florentine marriage was approved by him, and the negotiations had already begun. Marie de’ Medici fulfilled every requirement. She was young, beautiful, rich, and allied to the throne of France by her relative, Catherine de’ Medici. As long as Gabrielle lived there was no chance of inducing the King to consider seriously any other alliance. Must she die? Poor Gabrielle! there were not wanting foreign noblemen like Maréchal d’Ornano, besides a host of low Italian usurers and Jews brought to France by Catherine de’ Medici—mere mushrooms who had acquired enormous wealth by pillaging the Court—who lent the King money and pandered to his desires, ready and willing to forward his marriage with a richly dowered princess, their countrywoman, even by a crime.
Gabrielle is at Fontainebleau. She expects the King, who is in Paris. An extraordinary depression, a foreboding of evil, overwhelms her. She knows but too well of the powerful party arrayed against her,—that Sully is her enemy, that the Pope is inflexible about granting the divorce, even if Marguerite de Valois should consent, which she will not whilst Gabrielle lives; she knows that all France is reluctant to receive her as its queen. But there is the King’s promise of marriage, repeated again and again with oaths of passionate fondness. Will he keep that promise of marriage? That is the question. She knows he loves her; but love is but an episode in the chequered life of a soldier-king. How many others has he not loved? How many promises of marriage has he not broken? True, she is always treated as his wife. She lodges in the apartments assigned to the Queen of France in the “Oval Court.” She is seated beside him on occasions of state; every favour she asks is granted, all who recommend themselves to her intercession are pardoned. The greatest ladies of the Court—the Duchesse de Guise and her witty daughter, the Duchesse de Retz, even the austere Duchesse de Sully—are proud to attend upon her. Bellegarde, the faithful Bellegarde, restored to favour, now her devoted servant, watches over her interests with ceaseless anxiety. Yet her very soul is heavy within her; her position is intolerable. After all, what is she but the mistress of the King? She shudders at the thought.
The season is spring. The trees are green; their tender foliage but lightly shades the formal walks ranged round a fountain in a little garden (still remaining) that Henry has made for her under the palace walls. The fountain, in the centre of a parterre of grass and flowers, catches the rays of the April sun, glitters for an instant in a flood of rainbow tints, then falls back in showers of spray into a marble basin supported by statues.
Gabrielle is dressed in a white robe; the long folds trail upon the ground. Her auburn hair, drawn off her face, is gathered into a coronet of gold; rich lace covers her bosom, and a high ruff rises from her shoulders; on her neck is a string of pearls, to which is attached a miniature of the King. With the years that have passed the bloom of youth is gone; the joyous expression of early days has died out of those soft pleading eyes. Lovely she is still; her complexion is delicately fair, and the pensive look in her face is touching to the last degree. Graceful and gracious as ever, there is a sedate dignity, a tempered reserve, in her address, befitting the royal station which awaits her.
She stops, sighs, then listens for the sound of horses’ feet. There is not a breath stirring, save the hum of insects about the fountain and the murmur of the breeze among the trees. She takes from her bosom a letter. It is in the King’s handwriting and shows manifest signs of having been often handled. She kisses the signature, and reads these words:—
“You conjured me to take with me as much love for you as I know I leave with you for me. Now in two hours after you receive this you shall behold a knight who adores you. People call him King of France and of Navarre, but he calls himself your subject and your slave. No woman can compare to you in judgment or in beauty. I cherish and honour you beyond all earthly things.”