He had just lost, a few months previously, the intimate and faithful adviser and friend of his whole life: Cardinal George d’Amboise, seized at Milan with a fit of the gout, during which Louis tended him with the assiduity and care of an affectionate brother, died at Lyons on the 25th of May, 1510, at fifty years of age. He was one not of the greatest, but of the most honest ministers who ever enjoyed a powerful monarch’s constant favor, and employed it we will not say with complete disinterestedness, but with a predominant anxiety for the public weal. In the matter of external policy the influence of Cardinal d’Amboise, was neither skilfully nor salutarily exercised: he, like his master, indulged in those views of distant, incoherent, and improvident conquests which caused the reign of Louis XII. to be wasted in ceaseless wars, with which the cardinal’s desire of becoming pope was not altogether unconnected, and which, after having resulted in nothing but reverses, were a heavy heritage for the succeeding reign. But at home, in his relations with his king and in his civil and religious administration, Cardinal d’Amboise was an earnest and effective friend of justice, of sound social order, and of regard for morality in the practice of power. It is said that, in his latter days, he, virtuously weary of the dignities of this world, said to the infirmary-brother who was attending him, “Ah! Brother John, why did I not always remain Brother John!” A pious regret the sincerity and modesty whereof are rare amongst men of high estate.
“At last, then, I am the only pope!” cried Julius II., when he heard that Cardinal d’Amboise was dead. But his joy was misplaced: the cardinal’s death was a great loss to him; between the king and the pope the cardinal had been an intelligent mediator, who understood the two positions and the two characters, and who, though most faithful and devoted to the king, had nevertheless a place in his heart for the papacy also, and labored earnestly on every occasion to bring about between the two rivals a policy of moderation and peace. “One thing you may be certain of,” said Louis’s finance-minister Robertet to the ambassador from Florence, “that the king’s character is not an easy one to deal with; he is not readily brought round to what is not his own opinion, which is not always a correct one; he is irritated against the pope; and the cardinal, to whom that causes great displeasure, does not always succeed, in spite of all influence, in getting him to do as he would like. If our Lord God were to remove the cardinal, either by death or in any other manner, from public life, there would arise in this court and in the fashion of conducting affairs such confusion that nothing equal to it would ever have been seen in our day.” [Negociations Diplomatiques de la France avec la Toscane, t. ii. pp. 428 and 460.] And the confusion did, in fact, arise; and war was rekindled, or, to speak more correctly, resumed its course after the cardinal’s death. Julius II. plunged into it in person, moving to every point where it was going on, living in the midst of camps, himself in military costume, besieging towns, having his guns pointed and assaults delivered under his own eyes. Men expressed astonishment, not unmixed with admiration, at the indomitable energy of this soldier-pope at seventy years of age. It was said that he had cast into the Tiber the keys of St. Peter to gird on the sword of St. Paul. His answer to everything was, “The barbarians must be driven from Italy.” Louis XII. became more and more irritated and undecided. “To reassure his people,” says Bossuet (to which we may add, ‘and to reassure himself’), “he assembled at Tours (in September, 1510), the prelates of his kingdom, to consult them as to what he could do at so disagreeable a crisis without wounding his conscience. Thereupon it was said that the pope, being unjustly the aggressor, and having even violated an agreement made with the king, ought to be treated as an enemy, and that the king might not only defend himself, but might even attack him without fear of excommunication. Not considering this quite strong enough yet, Louis resolved to assemble a council against the pope. The general council was the desire of the whole church since the election of Martin V. at the council of Constance (November 11, 1417); for, though that council had done great good by putting an end to the schism which had lasted for forty years, it had not accomplished what it had projected, which was a reformation of the Church in its head and in its members; but, for the doing of so holy a work, it had ordained, on separating, that there should be held a fresh council. . . . This one was opened at Pisa (November 1, 1511) with but little solemnity by the proxies of the cardinals who had caused its convocation. The pope had deposed them, and had placed under interdict the town of Pisa, where the council was to be held, and even Florence, because the Florentines had granted Pisa for the assemblage. Thereupon the religious brotherhoods were unwilling to put in an appearance at the opening of the council, and the priests of the Church refused the necessary paraphernalia. The people rose, and the cardinals, having arrived, did not consider their position safe; insomuch that after the first session they removed the council to Milan, where they met with no better reception. Gaston de Foix, nephew of Louis XII., who had just appointed him governor of Milaness, could certainly force the clergy to proceed and the people to be quiet, but he could not force them to have for the council the respect due to so great a name; there were not seen at it, according to usage, the legates of the Holy See; there were scarcely fifteen or sixteen French prelates there; the Emperor Maximilian had either not influence enough or no inclination to send to it a single one from Germany; and, in a word, there was not to be seen in this assembly anything that savored of the majesty of a general council, and it was understood to be held for political purposes.” [Bossuet, Abrege de l’Histoire de France pour l’Education du dauphin; OEuvres completes (1828), t. xvii. pp. 541, 545.] Bossuet had good grounds for speaking so. Louis XII. himself said, in 1511, to the ambassador of Spain, that “this pretended council was only a scarecrow which he had no idea of employing save for the purpose of bringing the pope to reason.” Amidst these vain attempts at ecclesiastical influence the war was continued with passionateness on the part of Julius II., with hesitation on the part of Louis XII., and with some disquietude on the part of the French commanders, although with their wonted bravery and loyalty. Chaumont d’Amboise, the cardinal’s nephew, held the command-in-chief in the king’s army. He fell ill: the pope had excommunicated him; and Chaumont sent to beg him, with instance, to give him absolution, which did not arrive until he was on his death-bed. “This is the worst,” says Bossuet, “of wars against the Church; they cause scruples not only in weak minds, but even, at certain moments, in the very strongest.” Alphonso d’ Este, Duke of Ferrara, was almost the only great Italian lord who remained faithful to France. Julius II., who was besieging Ferrara, tried to win over the duke, who rejected all his offers, and, instead, won over the negotiator, who offered his services to poison the pope. Bayard, when informed of this proposal, indignantly declared that he would go and have the traitor hanged, and warning sent to the pope. “Why,” said the duke, “he would have been very glad to do as much for you and me.” “That is no odds to me,” said the knight; “he is God’s lieutenant on earth, and, as for having him put to death in such sort, I will never consent to it.” The duke shrugged his shoulders, and spitting on the ground, said, ‘Od’s body, Sir Bayard, I would like to get rid of all my enemies in that way; but, since you do not think it well, the matter shall stand over; whereof, unless God apply a remedy, both you and I will repent us.” Assuredly Bayard did not repent of his honest indignation; but, finding about the same time (January, 1511) an opportunity of surprising and carrying off the pope, he did not care to miss it; he placed himself in ambush before day-break, with a hundred picked men-at-arms, close to a village from which the pope was to issue. “The pope, who was pretty early, mounted his litter, so soon as he saw the dawn, and the clerics and officers of all kinds went before without a thought of anything. When the good knight heard them he sallied forth from his ambush, and went charging down upon the rustics, who, sore dismayed, turned back again, pricking along with loosened rein and shouting, Alarm! alarm! But all that would have been of no use but for an accident very lucky for the holy father, and very unfortunate for the good knight. When the pope had mounted his litter, he was not a stone’s throw gone when there fell from heaven the most sharp and violent shower that had been seen for a hundred years. ‘Holy father,’ said the Cardinal of Pavia to the pope, ‘it is not possible to go along this country so long as this lasts; meseems you must turn back again; ‘to which the pope agreed; but, just as he was arriving at St. Felix, and was barely entering within the castle, he heard the shouts of the fugitives whom the good knight was pursuing as hard as he could spur; whereupon he had such a fright, that, suddenly and without help, he leaped out of his litter, and himself did aid in hauling up the bridge; which was doing like a man of wits, for had he waited until one could say a Pater noster, he had been snapped up. Who was right down grieved, that was the good knight; never man turned back so melancholic as he was to have missed so fair a take; and the pope, from the good fright he had gotten, shook like a palsy the live-long day.” [Histoire du ben Chevalier Ballard, t. i. pp. 346-349.]
From 1510 to 1512 the war in Italy was thus proceeding, but with no great results, when Gaston de Foix, Duke of Nemours, came to take the command of the French army. He was scarcely twenty-three, and had hitherto only served under Trivulzio and La Palisse; but he had already a character for bravery and intelligence in war. Louis XII. loved this son of his sister, Mary of Orleans, and gladly elevated him to the highest rank. Gaston, from the very first, justified this favor. Instead of seeking for glory in the field only, he began by shutting himself up in Milan, which the Swiss were besieging. They made him an offer to take the road back to Switzerland, if he would give them a month’s pay; the sum was discussed; Gaston considered that they asked too much for their withdrawal; the Swiss broke off the negotiation; but “to the great astonishment of everybody,” says Guicciardini, “they raised the siege and returned to their own country.” The pope was besieging Bologna; Gaston arrived there suddenly with a body of troops whom he had marched out at night through a tempest of wind and snow; and he was safe inside the place whilst the besiegers were still ignorant of his movement. The siege of Bologna was raised. Gaston left it immediately to march on Brescia, which the Venetians had taken possession of for the Holy League. He retook the town by a vigorous assault, gave it up to pillage, punished with death Count Louis Avogaro and his two sons, who had excited the inhabitants against France, and gave a beating to the Venetian army before its walls. All these successes had been gained in a fortnight. “According to universal opinion,” says Guicciardini, “Italy for several centuries had seen nothing like these military operations.”
We are not proof against the pleasure of giving a place in this history to a deed of virtue and chivalrous kindness on Bayard’s part, the story of which has been told and retold many times in various works. It is honorable to human kind, and especially to the middle ages, that such men and such deeds are met with here and there, amidst the violence of war and the general barbarity of manners.
Bayard had been grievously wounded at the assault of Brescia; so grievously that he said to his neighbor, the lord of Molart, “‘Comrade, march your men forward; the town is ours; as for me, I cannot pull on farther, for I am a dead man.’ When the town was taken, two of his archers bare him to a house, the most conspicuous they saw thereabouts. It was the abode of a very rich gentleman; but he had fled away to a monastery, and his wife had remained at the abode under the care of Our Lord, together with two fair daughters she had, the which were hidden in a granary beneath some hay. When there came a knocking at her door, she saw the good knight who was being brought in thus wounded, the which had the door shut incontinently, and set at the entrance the two archers, to the which he said, ‘Take heed for your lives, that none enter herein unless it be any of my own folk; I am certified that, when it is known to be my quarters, none will try to force a way in; and if, by your aiding me, I be the cause that ye lose a chance of gaining somewhat, never ye mind; ye shall lose nought thereby.’
“The archers did as they were bid, and he was borne into a mighty fine chamber, into the which the lady of the house herself conducted him; and, throwing herself upon her knees before him, she spoke after this fashion, being interpreted, ‘Noble sir, I present unto you this house, and all that is therein, for well I know it is yours by right of war; but may it be your pleasure to spare me my honor and life, and those of two young daughters that I and my husband have, who are ready for marriage.’ The good knight, who never thought wickedness, replied to her, ‘Madam, I know not whether I can escape from the wound that I have; but, so long as I live, you and your daughters shall be done no displeasure, any more than to my own person. Only keep them in your chambers; let them not be seen; and I assure you that there is no man in the house who would take upon himself to enter any place against your will.’