Lives of Fair and Gallant Ladies. Vol 2.

by Pierre de Bourdeille Brantôme

I will tell yet another story of this massacre. Another lady which was there made a widow by the death of her husband, murdered like the rest, was in such sorrow and despair thereat, that whenever she did set eyes on a poor unoffending Catholic, even though he had not taken part in the celebration at all, she would either faint away altogether, or would gaze at him with as much horror and detestation as though he were the plague. To enter Paris, nay! to look at it from anywhere in the neighbourhood within two miles, was not to be thought of, for neither eyes nor heart could bear the sight. To see it, say I?—why! she could not bear so much as to hear it named. At the end of two years, however, she did think better, and hies her away willingly enough to greet the good town, and visit the same, and drive to the Palace in her coach. Yet rather than pass by the Rue de la Huchette, where her husband had been killed, she would have thrown herself headlong into fire and destruction rather than into the said street,—being herein like the serpent, which according to Pliny, doth so abhor the shade of the ash as that ’twill rather adventure into the most blazing fire than under this tree so hateful is it to the creature.

In fact, the late King, the then reigning King’s brother, was used to declare he had never seen a woman so desperate and haggard at her loss and grief as this lady, and that ’twould end by their having to bring her down and hood her, as they do with haggard falcons. But after some while he found she was prettily enough tamed of her own accord, in such sort she would suffer herself to be hooded quite quietly and privily, without any bringing down but her own will. Then after some while more, what must she be at but embrace her Paris with open arms and regard its pleasures with a very favourable eye, parading hither and thither through its streets, traversing the city up and down, and measuring its length and breadth this way and that, without ever a thought of any vow to the contrary. Mighty surprised was I myself one day, on returning from a journey, after an absence of eight months from Court, when after making my bow to the King, I did suddenly behold this same widow entering the great Hall of the Louvre, all tricked out and bedecked, accompanied by her kinswomen and friends, and there appearing before the King and Queen, the Royal personages and all the Court, and there receiving the first orders of marriage, affiancing to wit, at the hands of a Prelate, the Bishop of Digne, Grand Almoner of the Queen of Navarre. Who so astonished as I? Yet by what she did tell me after, she was even more astounded, whenas thinking me far away, she saw me among the noble company present at her affiancing, standing there gazing at her and challenging her with mine eyes. Neither of us could forget the oaths and affirmations made betwixt us, for I had been her admirer and suitor for her hand and indeed she thought I had come thither of set purpose to appear on the appointed day to be witness against her and judge of her faithlessness, and condemn her false behaviour. She told me further, how that she would liever have given ten thousand crowns of her wealth than that I should have appeared as I did, and so helped to raise up her conscience against her.

I once knew a very great lady, a widowed Countess, of the highest family, which did the like. For being a Huguenot of the most rigorous sort, she did agree to a match with a very honourable Catholic gentleman. But the sad thing was that before the completion of the marriage, a pestilential fever that was epidemic at Paris did seize her so sore as to bring her to her end. In her anguish, she did give way to many and bitter regrets, crying: “Alas! can it be that in a great city like Paris, where all learning doth abound, never a doctor can be found to cure me! Nay! let him never stop for money; I will give him enough and to spare. At any rate ’twere not so bitter, an if my death had but come after my marriage, and my husband had learned first how well I loved and honoured him!” (Sophonisba said differently, for she did repent her of having wedded before drinking the poison.) Saying these and other words of like tenour the poor Countess did turn her to the other side of the bed, and so died. Truly this is the very fervour of love, so to go about to remember, in midst of the Stygian passage to oblivion, the pleasures and fruits of passion she would so fain have tasted of, before quitting the garden!

I have heard speak of another lady, which being sick unto death, overhearing one of her kinsfolk abusing another (yet are they very worthy folk really), and upbraiding her with the enormous size of her parts, she did start a-laughing and cried out, “You pair of fools, you!” and so turning o’ the other side, she did pass away with the laugh on her lips.

Well! an if these Huguenot dames have made such matches, I have likewise known plenty of Catholic ladies that have done the same, and wedded Huguenot husbands, and that after using every hang-dog expression of them and their religion. If I were to put them all down, I should never have done. And this is why your widow should always be prudent, and not make so much noise at the first beginning of her widowhood, screaming and crying, making storms of thunder and lightning, with tears for rain, only afterward to give up her shield of defence and get well laughed at for her pains. Better far it were to say less, and do more. But themselves do say to this: “Nay! nay! at the first beginning we must needs steel our hearts like a murderer, and put on a bold front, resolved to swallow every shame. This doth last a while, but only a while; then presently, after being chief dish on the table and most observed of all, we be left alone and another takes our place.”

I have read in a little Spanish work how Vittoria Colonna, daughter of the great Fabrice Colonna, and wife to the great and famous Marquis de Pescaïre, the nonpareil of his time, after losing her husband,—and God alone knoweth how good an one he was,—did fall into such despair and grief ’twas impossible to give or afford her any consolation whatever. When any did offer any form of comfort, old or new, she would answer them: “For what would you give me consolation?—for my husband that is dead? Nay! you deceive yourselves; he is not dead. He is yet alive, I tell you, and stirring within mine heart. I do feel him, every day and every night, come to life and move and be born again in me.” Very noble words indeed these had been, if only after some while, having taken farewell of him and sent him on his way over Acheron, she had not married again with the Abbé de Farfe,—an ill match to the noble Pescaïre. I mean not in family, for he was of the noble house of the Des Ursins, the which is as good, and eke as ancient, as that of Avalos,—or more so. But the merits of the one did far outweight those of the other, for truly those of Pescaïre were inestimable, and his valour beyond compare, while the said Abbé, albeit he gave much proof of his bravery, and did work very faithfully and doughtily in the service of King Francis, was yet employed only in small, obscure and light emprises, far different from those of the other, which had wrought great and conspicuous deeds, and won right famous victories. Moreover the profession of arms followed by the Marquis, begun and regularly pursued from his youth up, could not but be finer far than that of a churchman, which had but late in life taken up the hardier calling.

Saying this, I mean not to imply thereby think ill of any which after being vowed to God and the service of his Church, have broke the vow and left the profession of religion for to set hands to weapons of war; else should I be wronging many and many a great Captain that hath been a priest first and gone through this experience.

8.

Cæsar Borgia,[120*] Duc de Valentinois, was he not first of all a Cardinal, the same which afterward was so great a Captain that Machiavelli, the venerable instructor of Princes and great folk, doth set him down for example and mirror to all his fellows, to follow after and mould them on him? Then we have had the famous Maréchal de Foix, which was first a Churchman and known as the Protonotary de Foix, but afterward became a great Captain. The Maréchal Strozzi likewise was first vowed to holy Church; but for a red hat which was refused him, did quit the cassock and take to arms. M. de Salvoison, of whom I have spoke before (which did follow close at the former’s heels, and was as fit as he to bear the title of great Captain,—and indeed would have marched side by side with him, an if he had been of as great a house, and kinsman of the Queen), was, by original profession, a wearer of the long robe; yet what a soldier was he! Truly he would have been beyond compare, if only he had lived longer. Then the Maréchal de Bellegarde, did he not carry the lawyer cap, being long named the Provost of Ours? The late M. d’Enghien, the same that fell at the battle of St. Quentin, had been a Bishop; the Chevalier de Bonnivet the same. Likewise that gallant soldier M. de Martigues had been of the Church; and, in brief, an host of others, whose names I cannot spare paper to fill in. I must say a word too of mine own people, and not without good cause. Captain Bourdeille, mine own brother, erst the Rodomont of Piedmont in all ways, was first dedicate to the Church. But not finding that to be his natural bent, he did change his cassock for a soldier’s jacket, and in a turn of the hand did make him one of the best and most valiant captains in all Piedmont. He would for sure have become a great and famous man, had he not died, alas! at only five and twenty years of age.

In our own day and at our own Court of France, we have seen many such, and above all our little friend, the noble Clermont-Tallard, whom I had seen as Abbé of Bon-Port, but who afterward leaving his Abbey, was seen in our army and at Court, one of the bravest, most valiant and worthy men of the time. This he did show right well by his glorious death at La Rochelle, the very first time we did enter the fosse of that fortress. I could name a thousand such, only I should never have done. M. de Soleillas,[121] known as the young Oraison, had been Bishop of Riez and after had a regiment, serving his King right faithfully and valiantly in Guienne, under the Maréchal de Matignon.