I have heard one of her stewards say that every year she put away in a coffer a third of her revenue to give to poor Frenchmen who passed through Savoie. That is the good Frenchwoman that she was; and no one should complain of the wealth she took from France; and it was all her joy when she heard good news from there, and all her grief when it was bad.
When the first wars broke out she felt such woe she thought to die of it; and when peace was made and she came to Lyon to meet the king and the queen-mother, she could not rejoice enough, begging the queen to tell her all; and showing anger to several Huguenots, telling them and writing them that they stirred up strife, and urging them not to do so again; for they honoured her much and had faith in her, because she gave pleasure to many; indeed M. l’Amiral [Coligny] would not have enjoyed his estates in Savoie had it not been for her.
When the civil wars came on in Flanders she was the first to tell us on our arrival from Malta; and you may be sure she was not sorry for them; “for,” said she, “those Spaniards rejoiced and scoffed at us for our discords, but now that they have their share they will scoff no longer.”
She was so beloved in the lands and countries of her husband that when she died tears flowed from the eyes of all, both great and small, so that for long they did not dry nor cease. She spoke for every one to her husband when they were in trouble and adversity, in pain or in fault, requesting favour or pardon, which without her intercessions they would often not have had. Thus they called her their patron-saint.
In short, she was the blessing of the world; in all ways, as I have said, charitable, munificent, liberal, wise, virtuous, and so accessible and gentle as never was, principally to those of her nation; for when they went to do her reverence she received them with such welcome they were shamed; the most unimportant gentlemen she honoured in the same way, and often did not speak to them until they were covered. I know what I say, for, speaking with her on one occasion, she did me this honour, and urged and commanded me so much that I was constrained to say: “Madame, I think you do not take me for a Frenchman, but for one who is ignorant who you are and the rank you hold; but I must honour you as belongs to me.” She never spoke to any one sitting down herself, but always standing; unless they were principal personages, and those I saw speaking to her she obliged to sit beside her.
To conclude, one could never tell all the good of this princess as it was; it would need a worthier writer than I to represent her virtues. I shall be silent, therefore, till some future time, and begin to tell of the daughters of our King Henri [II. and Catherine de’ Medici], Mesdames Élisabeth, Claude, and Marguerite de France.
7. Mesdames Élisabeth, Claude, and Marguerite de France.
I begin by the eldest, Madame Élisabeth de France, or rather I ought to call her the beautiful Élisabeth of the world on account of her rare virtues and perfections, the Queen of Spain, beloved and honoured by her people in her lifetime, and deeply regretted and mourned by the same after death, as I have said already in the Discourse I made upon her. Therefore I shall content myself for the present in writing no more, but will speak of her sister, the second daughter of King Henri, Madame Claude de France (the name of her grandmother), Duchesse de Lorraine, who was a beautiful, wise, virtuous, good, and gentle princess. So that every one at Court said that she resembled her mother and aunt and was their real image. She had a certain gayety in her face which pleased all those who looked at her. In her beauty she resembled her mother, in her knowledge and kindness she resembled her aunt; and the people of Lorraine found her ever kind as long as she lived, as I myself have seen when I went to that country; and after her death they found much to say of her. In fact, by her death that land was filled with regrets, and M. de Lorraine mourned her so much that, though he was young when widowed of her, he would not marry again, saying he could never find her like, though could he do so he would remarry, not being disinclined.
She left a noble progeny and died in childbed, through the appetite of an old midwife of Paris, a drunkard, in whom she had more faith than in any other.
The news of her death reached Reims the day of the king’s coronation, and all the Court were in mourning and extreme sadness, for her kindness was shown to all when she came there. The last time she came, the king, her brother, made her a gift of the ransoms of Guyenne, which came from the confiscations that took place there; but the ransoms were made so heavy that often they exceeded the value of the confiscations.