“You never heard,” he says, “such approbation of a king by his people as was given that day to our good Prince whenever he showed himself. Seeing it, a lord who was close to his Majesty, said to him, ‘Remark, sir, how happy are all your subjects at the sight of you.’ Shaking his head, the King replied, ‘That is the people all over. And if my greatest enemy was where I am now, and they saw him go by, they would do as much for him as for me, and shout even louder than they are doing now.’”
No, there were no rose-coloured curtains between Henry of Navarre and this transitory life. He did not even pretend to approve of himself; and if he was ashamed, as it seems he was, of his amorous entanglements with the young Princesse de Condé, it is certain that they shocked L’Estoile to the heart. When it comes to apologies there, there was no spirit left in the respectable man. For this diarist was as moral as our John Evelyn, and so far as I can find out on as good a foundation. He could express himself on such matters with point. For instance:
“Sunday the 12th February, which was Dimanche des Brandons, Madame had a splendid ballet at the Louvre, where nothing was forgotten that could possibly be remembered—except God.”
A sharper saying than Evelyn would have allowed himself. But it is the fact, as I have said, that good King Henry was not found so good living as dead. Afterwards—under Richelieu, under Mazarin, during the Fronde, under the Edict of Nantes—by comparison he shone. During his lifetime he had many more enemies and far fewer friends than was supposed. The Maréchal D’Ornano, in 1609, told him in so many words that he was not beloved by his people, and that a very little more on the taxes would bring back the civil war. The King said that he knew all that, and was ready for it. D’Ornano then said that he could not advise rough measures. “I shall freely tell you, sir, that the late King had more of the noblesse for him than you have for yourself, and more of the people too than you will have if there be trouble. For all that, he was obliged to leave Paris and his own house to rebels and mutineers, and the rest of us thought ourselves lucky to get off with our heads on our shoulders.” L’Estoile had that from “a brave and trustworthy gentleman” who was close by at the time. The gentleman said that the King was at first moved to anger by D’Ornano’s plain speaking, but thanked him for it afterwards.
Bad stories of King Henry are to be had for the asking; perhaps the worst in L’Estoile is told in a poem which he picked up, and reports. A Madame Esther had been the King’s mistress in La Rochelle, and had borne him a son. The child died, the King tired, and forsook her. She came to see him at Saint-Denis when he was busy, distracted, seeking other game: he refused to see her or hear what she had to say. She was ill, and died in the town where he actually was, and being of the religion, a grave was denied her. What became of her body is not known, but “they raised to her memory,” L’Estoile says, “the following Tombeau (epitaph), which was rehearsed at Saint-Denis and everywhere:
“Tombeau de Madame Esther
“Here Esther lies, who from Rochelle,
Called by the King, her master, came,
Risking the life of her fair fame