As for Madame de Nemours, her mother, who was thrown into prison after the murder of her noble son’s children, there can be little doubt of the despair and desolation she was left in by so intolerable a loss; and albeit till that day she had ever shown herself of a gentle and cold humour, and one that did need good and sufficient cause to rouse her, she did now spew forth a thousand insults against the King, and cast in his teeth a thousand curses and execrations, going so far (for verily what deed or word could ever match the vehemence of such a loss and bitter sorrow?) as always to speak of him by no other name but this, that Tyrant. Later, being come somewhat to herself, she would say: “Alas! what say I,—Tyrant? Nay! nay! I will not call him so, but a most good and clement King, if only he will kill me as he hath killed my children, to take me out of the wretchedness wherein I am, and remove me to the blessedness of God’s heaven!” Later again, softening still further her words and bitter cries, and finding some surcease of sorrow, she would say naught else but only, “Ah! my children! my poor children!”—repeating these same words over and over again with floods of tears, that ’twould have melted an heart of stone. Alas! she might well lament and deplore them so sore, being so good and great hearted, so virtuous and so valorous, as they were, but above all the noble Duc de Guise, a worthy eldest son and true paragon of all valour and true-heartedness. Moreover she did love her children so fondly, that one day as I was discoursing with a noble lady of the Court of the said Madame de Nemours, she told me how that Princess was the happiest in all the world, for sundry reasons which she did give me,—except only in one thing, which was that she did love her children over much; for that she did love them with such excess of fondness as that the common anxiety she had of their safety and the fear some ill should happen them, did cloud all her happiness, making her to live always in inquietude and alarm for their sake. I leave you then, reader, to imagine how grievous was the sorrow, bitterness and pain she did feel at the death of these twain, and how lively the terror for the other,[42*] which was away in the neighbourhood of Lyons, as well as for the Duke her husband, then a prisoner. For of his imprisonment she had never a suspicion, as herself did declare, nor of his death neither, as I have said above.
When she was removed from the Castle of Blois to be conveyed to that of Amboise for straiter confinement therein, just as she had passed the gate, she did turn her round and lifted her head toward the figure of King Louis XII., her grandfather, which is there carven in stone above the door, on horseback and with a very noble mien and warlike bearing. So she, tarrying there a little space and gazing thereon, said in a loud voice before a great number of folk which had come together, with a fine bold look which did never desert her: “An if he which is there pourtrayed were alive, he would never suffer his granddaughter thus to be carried away prisoner, and treated as she is this day.” Then with these words, she did go on her way, without further remonstrance. Understand this, that in her heart she was invoking and making appeal to the manes of that her great-hearted ancestor, to avenge her of the injustice of her imprisonment. Herein she acted precisely as did certain of the conspirators for Cæsar’s death, which as they were about to strike their blow, did turn them toward the statue of Pompey, and did inwardly invoke and make appeal to the shade of his valiant arm, so puissant of old, to conduct the emprise they were set on to a successful issue. It may well be the invocation of this Princess may have something aided and advanced the death of the King which had so outraged her. A lady of high heart and spirit which doth thus brood over vengeance to come is no little to be dreaded.
I do remember me how, when her late husband, the Duc de Guise, did get the stroke whereof he died, she was at the time in his camp, having come thither some days previously to visit the same. So soon as ever he did come into his quarters wounded, she did advance to meet him as far as the door of his lodging all tearful and despairing, and after saluting him, did suddenly cry out: “Can it be that the wretch which hath struck this blow and he that hath set him on (signifying her suspicion of the Admiral de Coligny) should go unpunished? Oh God! an if thou art just, as thou must needs be, avenge this deed; or else ...,” but stopping at this word, she did not end her sentence, for that her noble husband did interrupt her, saying: “Nay! dear heart, defy not God. An if ’tis He which hath sent me this for my sins, His will be done, and we should glorify him therefor. But an if it come from other, seeing vengeance is His alone, He will surely exact the penalty without you.” Natheless, when he was dead, did she so fiercely follow up her revenge, as that the murderer was torn to pieces of four horses,[43*] while the supposed author of the crime was assassinated after the lapse of some years, as I will tell in its proper place. This was due to the instruction she did give her son, as myself have seen, and the counsel and persuasion she did feed him withal from his tenderest years, till at the last final and complete vengeance was accomplished.
7.
The counsel and appeal of great-hearted wives and loving mothers be of no small avail in such matters. As to this, I do remember me how, when King Charles IX. was making his Royal progress about his Kingdom, and was now at Bordeaux, the Baron de Bournazel was put in prison, a very brave and honourable gentleman of Gascony, for having slain another gentleman of his own neighbourhood, named La Tour,—and, so ’twas said, by dint of much traitorous subtlety. The widow did so eagerly press for his punishment, as that care was taken the news should reach the King’s and Queen’s chambers, that they were about to cut off the said Baron’s head. Hereon did the gentlemen and ladies of the Court of a sudden bestir themselves, and much effort was made to save his life. Twice over were the King and Queen besought to grant his pardon. The High Chancellor did set him strongly against this, saying justice must needs be done; whereas the King was much in favour of mercy, for that he was a young man, and asked for naught better than to save his life, as he was one of the gallants frequenting the Court, and M. de Cipierre[44] was keen in urging the same course. Yet was the hour of execution now drawing nigh, without aught being done,—to the astonishment of everybody.
Hereupon did M. de Nemours intervene, which loved the unhappy Baron, who had followed him gallantly on sundry fields of battle. The Duke went and threw himself at the Queen’s feet, and did earnestly beseech her to give the poor gentleman his life, begging and praying so hard and pressing her so with his words as that the favour was e’en given him at the last. Then on the instant was sent a Captain of the Guard, which went and sought the man out and took him from the prison, just as he was being led forth to his doom. Thus was he saved, but in such fearful circumstances that a look of terror did remain ever after imprinted on his features, and he could never thereafter regain his colour, as myself have seen. I have heard tell how the same thing did happen to M. de Saint-Vallier, which did have a fine escape by the interest of M. de Bourbon.
Meantime however the widow was not idle, but did come next day to intercept the King as he was going to Mass, and did throw herself at his feet. She did present him her son, which might be three or four years old, saying thus: “At the least, Sire, as you have given pardon to this child’s murderer, I do beseech you grant the same to him now at this moment, for the time when he shall be grown up and shall have taken his vengeance and slain that wretch.” And from that time onward, by what I have heard said, the mother would come every morning to awake her child; and showing him the bloody shirt his father had on when he was killed, would repeat to him three times over: “Mark this token, well, and bear well in mind, when you be grown up, to avenge this wrong; else do I disinherit you.” A bitter spirit of revenge truly!
Myself when I was in Spain, did hear the tale how Antonio Roques, one of the most brave and valiant, cunning, cautious and skilful, famous and withal most courteous, bandits ever was in all Spain (’tis a matter of common knowledge), did in his early years desire to enter religion and be ordained priest. But the day being now come when he was to sing his first mass, just as he was coming forth from the vestry and was stepping with great ceremony toward the High Altar of his parish Church duly robed and accoutred to do his office, and chalice in hand, he did hear his mother saying to him as he passed her: Ah! vellaco, vellaco, mejor seria de vengar la muerte de tu padre, que de cantar misa,—“Ah! wretch and miscreant that you are! ’twere better far to avenge your father’s death than to be singing Mass.” This word did so touch him at heart, as that he doth coldly turn him about in mid progress, and back to the vestry, where he doth unrobe him, pretending his heart had failed him from indisposition, and that it should be for another time. Then off to the mountains to join the brigands, among whom he doth presently win such esteem and renown that he was chose their chief; there he doth many crimes and thefts, and avengeth his father’s death, which had been killed, some said, of a comrade, though others declared him a victim of the King’s justice. This tale was told me by one that was a bandit himself, and had been under his orders in former days. This man did bepraise him to the third heaven; and true it is the Emperor Charles could never do him any hurt.
But to return once more to Madame de Nemours, the King did keep her in prison scarce any time, whereof was M. d’Escars in part the cause. He did soon release her, for to send her on a mission to the Ducs du Maine and de Nemours, and other Princes members of the League, bearing to all words of peace and oblivion of all past grievances:—dead men were dead, and there an end; best be good friends as aforetime. In fact, the King did take an oath of her, that she would faithfully perform this said embassy. Accordingly on her arrival, at first accost ’twas naught but tears and lamentations and regrets for all their losses; then anon did she make report of her instructions, whereto M. du Maine did reply, asking her if this were her own advice. She answered simply: “I have not come hither, my son, to advise you, but only to repeat to you the message I am charged withal and bidden give you. ’Tis for you to think whether you have sufficient cause to do so, and if your duty points that way. As to what I tell you, your heart and your conscience should give you the best advice. For myself, I do but discharge a commission I have promised to fulfil.” Natheless, under the rose, she knew well enough how to stir the fire, which did long burn so fierce.