Diana of Poitiers
Francis I. and his son Henry II. of France were both controlled, even in the most important affairs, by female influence, and by shallow-minded and incapable favorites. The mistress of the former was the Duchess d’Etampes, and that of the latter, Diana of Poitiers, widow of Louis de Brézé, grand seneschal of Normandy. Henry was the junior of Diana by nearly twenty years, but this difference did not prevent her, at the age of forty, from attaching herself to the dauphin. While Francis lived, the two favorites divided the court, but upon the accession of the dauphin as Henry II. Diana became virtual mistress of the kingdom, Henry being a man of dull understanding and feeble character, and her rival, d’Etampes, was sent into exile. The young queen, Catherine de Medici, was noted for her beauty and accomplishments, but both were unavailing against the complete ascendency of Diana. Her wonderful beauty and her fascination were such that the king gave her many public tokens of his infatuation, admitted her to his councils, and created her Duchess of Valentinois. She retained her power over the royal lover until his death, even at the age of sixty, ruling him with the double force of her beauty and her intellect.
Ninon de L’Enclos
This modern Aspasia, like her Greek prototype, was remarkable not only for her beauty and wit, but for her fondness for cultivated society. Both of them, though of easy virtue and devoted to pleasure to the end of life, held receptions which were frequented by the most intellectual men and women of the period in which they lived. Ninon had a constant succession of lovers, but at the same time her society was courted by Mme. de Lafayette, Mme. de Sully, Mme. Scarron (afterward De Maintenon), and Christina of Sweden, and among her most favored admirers were the great Condé, La Rochefoucauld, Villarceaux, and D’Estrées. She was regarded as a model of refinement and elegance in her manners. She lived to the age of ninety, yet preserved her beauty and fascination to the last. She had lovers for three generations in the family of Sévigné. She had two illegitimate sons, one of whom, in ignorance of his birth and relationship, was the victim of an unhallowed passion for his mother. He was then nineteen years of age, and Ninon was fifty-six. While urging his love, she found that the only way to check his importunity was to disclose her secret. Thereupon he blew out his brains, but the tragedy made little impression upon Ninon, as she was dead to the instincts of maternal tenderness.
Mary Stuart
Of all unsolved problems of history, says Lyman Abbott, there is none more perplexing, none more seemingly insoluble, than that afforded by the career and character of Mary Queen of Scots. Time has done nothing to detract from the peculiar witchery of her charms, or the romantic interest which attaches to her strange adventures. Her admirers are as enthusiastic three centuries removed from her as were those who fell beneath the peculiar spell of her presence—a spell which few were ever able wholly to resist. The controversy which waged about her while living continues as hot, and almost as bitter, over her grave. History can come no nearer a verdict than could her own contemporaries. Its only answer, like theirs, is, “We cannot agree.”
The difficulties which beset any attempt to tell correctly the story of her career, to analyze aright her character, are very great. The student of history finds no impartial witness; few in her own time who are not ready to tell and to believe about her the most barefaced lies which will promote their own party. During her life she was calumniated and eulogized with equal audacity. Since her death the same curiously contradictory estimates of her character have been vigorously maintained—by those, too, who have not their judgment impaired by the prejudices which environed her. On one hand, we are assured that she was “the most amiable of women;” “the upright queen, the noble and true woman, the faithful spouse, and affectionate mother;” “the poor martyred queen;” “the helpless victim of fraud and force;” an “illustrious victim of statecraft,” whose “kindly spirit in posterity and matchless heroism in misfortune” award her “the most prominent place in the annals of her sex.” On the other hand, we are assured by men equally competent to judge, that she was “a spoiled beauty;” “the heroine of an adulterous melodrame;” “the victim of a blind imperious passion;” an “apt scholar in the profound dissimulation of that school of which Catherine de Medici was the chief instructor;” “a bad woman disguised in the livery of a martyr,” having “a proud heart, a crafty wit, and indurate mind against God and his truth;” “a bold, unscrupulous, ambitious woman,” with “the panther’s nature—graceful, beautiful, malignant, untamable.”
Dr. Abbott thus summarizes a net-work of evidence: A wife learns to loathe her husband; utters her passionate hate in terms that are unmistakable; is reconciled to him for a purpose; casts him off when that purpose is accomplished; makes no secret of her desire for a divorce; listens with but cold rebuke to intimations of his assassination; dallies while he languishes upon a sick-bed so long as death is near; hastens to him only when he is convalescent; becomes, in seeming, reconciled to him; by her blandishments allays his terror and arrests his flight, which nothing else could arrest; brings him with her to the house chosen by the assassins for his tomb—a house which has absolutely nothing else to recommend it but its singular adaptation to the deed of cruelty to be wrought there; remains with him till within two hours of his murder; hears with unconcern the story of his tragic end, which thrills all other hearts with horror; makes no effort to bring the perpetrators of the crime to punishment; rewards the suspected with places and pensions, and the chief criminal (Bothwell) with her hand in marriage while the blood is still wet on his.
Before the murder of Darnley it was the misfortune of Mary’s life that stories against which a fair reputation should be a sufficient defence stick to her like burs to a shaggy coat; stories of unwomanly intimacy first with Chastelar, then with Rizzio, and then with Bothwell. She was certainly careless, if not criminal. At least, so thought John Knox and the straiter sect of the Covenanters.