columns. The beautiful outside stone staircase is the most remarkable feature of this wing.
On the first floor are the rooms of Catherine de Medici, containing the bedroom where she died in 1589 and the Tour des Oubliettes—the ruined tower where the Cardinal de Guise (brother of Henri, Duc de Guise) and the Archbishop of Lyons were imprisoned. The Cardinal was assassinated the day after his brother just in the entry. The Archbishop was sent into exile.
On the second floor are the rooms of Henri III., including the King’s bedroom, where the Duke died; the oratory, where monks were praying for the success of the enterprise, not knowing what it was; and the Salle du Conseil, where Guise stood and warmed himself by the fire on the morning when he was assassinated—December 23, 1588. The Cabinet Vieux, where Henri waited during the murder, has been pulled down.
Henri III., owing to his vacillating policy, found himself in 1588 completely dominated by his powerful subject, Henri, Duc de Guise, who had founded the league to re-establish the Catholic religion and to extirpate all heresy. The King had been forced to proclaim Guise Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and to pledge himself to suppress heresy, but, though outwardly reconciled, Henri was determined on vengeance. Miss Edith Sichel gives the following account of the murder in her brilliant work on Catherine de Medici.
‘The Duc de Guise and the Cardinal had been asked to attend the Council early; but, although the rest had long been there, there was as yet no sign of the Duke. The winter’s day was dark and covered—it rained that Friday from morning till night—and no one dared wake him till nearly eight. He rose and attired himself carefully in a new grey satin suit, “too light for the season.”... Outside the rough cobbles of the courtyard were shining and wet; the stone passages through which he passed indoors were dank and struck ominously chill. That very morning he had received nine more letters bidding him beware. “This is the ninth to-day,” he had said aloud, as he put it in his pocket.... As he neared the short flight of steps leading down into the big hall, the Captain of the Guards approached him, and bowing low, but with studied insolence, “in a fashion very different from usual,” he held out the bill, as had been arranged. Guise courteously stopped to hear him, and, promising payment, moved on. The Captain and his train followed him, their hats in their hands, and made it easier to blind him to the fact that none of his own men were near him; they had been cut off at the entrance, as had been planned. But the door of the Council-hall once shut behind him, everything was changed. The Guards cleared the stairs of pages and valets, and made all safe. Crillon locked the outer doors of the Palace. As Guise seated himself and looked round, he read dismay on all the faces about him. The Council had got wind of what was on foot; there was doom in the air. For the first time Guise showed signs of perturbation; he changed colour; the eye next his scar began to water, as it did whenever he was stirred, and he bled at the nose. He sent for a handkerchief. “Monsieur,” he said to a gentleman near him, “will you go to the staircase door? See if one of my pages or anyone else is there, and ask him to bring me a handkerchief.” The gentleman delivered his message, but was not allowed to go back to the hall. The page meanwhile fetched the handkerchief from the Duke’s secretary. Even at this eleventh hour there was an attempt to save him. The secretary tied up a note in a corner of the handkerchief. “Sauvez-vous, ou vous êtes mort,” it ran, but it did not reach him.... Guise had seated himself in the Council. He suddenly turned faint; his face assumed a deathly pallor. “I am cold; light the fire!” he said; and, after a pause: “My heart is failing.” But he quickly pulled himself together, and asked for “any trifle to revive him—conserve of roses, or Damascus grapes from the King’s cupboard.”... Nothing could be found but Brignoles plums. They were brought, and he put some in the little sweetmeat-box that he carried; it was gilt, and in the shape of a shell. The business of the court proceeded.
‘Meanwhile, the King was waiting in his closet in the greatest agitation. “Révol,” he said to one standing by, “go and tell Monsieur de Guise to come and speak to me in my vieux cabinet.” Révol obeyed, but was stopped by an usher in the antechamber. He returned trembling. “Mon Dieu, Révol!” cried the King; “what is the matter? How pale you are! You will spoil all—you will spoil all for me! Rub your cheeks—rub your cheeks hard, Révol!” His Majesty then gave orders that Révol was to be allowed to pass and to return with Guise. When Révol entered the Council Chamber, a député was speaking upon the Gabelle; Guise was eating Brignoles plums. “Monsieur,” began Révol, “the King requests your presence; he is in his vieux cabinet.”... Guise was leisurely. He put a few plums back into his box, and threw the rest upon the ground. “Messieurs,” he asked, “would anybody like some?” Then, rolling up his cloak, and taking it, with his long gloves and his sweet-box, under his left arm, he prepared to follow Révol. “Adieu, messieurs,” he said, as he went off the stage. He knocked at the King’s door; the usher opened it....
‘As Guise entered, one of the Guards tried to give him a last chance, and trod upon his foot. Guise understood, but he knew escape was impossible. The usher had come out from the King’s closet, and had shut the door on the inside. Guise made two steps, then took hold of his beard with his right hand, and half turned to see who was following him. The Sieur de Montsérine, who was standing by the mantel-piece, advanced and stabbed him swiftly in the left breast. “Traitor, you will die of this!” he called out, as he dealed the thrust. The Duke hit out with his sweet-box, the only weapon in his hand. Three other men, concealed behind the tapestry, fell on him at once. “Eh, mes amis!” he cried. When one among the rest, called Periac, pierced him, his voice grew louder with a prayer for pity. In his struggle his sword had got entangled in his cloak, and his legs had been seized. But, with an almost superhuman effort, he dragged himself from one end of the room to another, and along the passage to Henri’s bedroom, leaving bloodstains in his track. “My God, I am dead! Have mercy on me!” he groaned. The words were his last; they were heard distinctly in the Council-hall, and his brother, the Cardinal de Guise, was the first to catch them.
‘Before the breath was out of his body, the courtiers were plundering it. One took the diamond heart from his ring, another his purse full of gold coins.’
The west wing, dating from 1635, was built for Gaston d’Orléans by François Mansard. It contains the public library.