Frances Elliot - Old Court Life in France, vol. 1

Even that witty heretic, Rabelais, found both an appreciative protector and intelligent friend in a sovereign superior to the prejudices of his age. With learning, poetry, wit, and intellect, come luxury and boundless extravagance. Brantôme speaks as with bated breath of the royal expenditure. These are the days of broad sombrero hats fringed with gold and looped up with priceless jewels and feathers; of embroidered cloaks in costly stuffs – heavy with gold or silver embroidery – hung over the shoulder; of slashed hose and richly chased rapiers; of garments of cloth-of-gold, embroidered with armorial bearings in jewels; of satin justaucorps covered with rivières of diamonds, emeralds, and oriental pearls; of torsades and collars wherein gold is but the foil to priceless gems. The ladies wear Eastern silks and golden tissues, with trimmings of rare furs; wide sleeves and Spanish fardingales, sparkling coifs and jewelled nets, with glittering veils. They ride in ponderous coaches covered with carving and gilding, or on horses whose pedigrees are as undoubted as their own, covered with velvet housings and with silken nets woven with jewels, their manes plaited with gold and precious stones. But these illustrious ladies consider gloves a royal luxury, and are weak in respect of stockings.

Foremost in every gorgeous mode is Francis. He wears rich Genoa velvets, and affects bright colours – rose and sky-blue. A Spanish hat is on his head, turned up with a white plume, fastened to an aigrette of rubies, with a golden salamander his device, signifying, “I am nourished and I die in fire” (“Je me nourris et je meurs dans le feu”).

How well we know his dissipated though distinguished features, as portrayed by Titian! His long nose, small eyes, broad cheeks, and cynical mouth. He moves with careless grace, as one who would say, “ Que m’importe? I am King of France; nought comes amiss to me.”

Now he walks up and down the council-room in the Louvre which looks towards the river. His step is quick and agitated, his face wears an unusual frown. He calls Bonnivet to him and addresses him in a low voice, while the other nobles stand back.

“Am I to believe that Bourbon has not merely rebelled against me, but that the traitor has fled into Spain and made terms with Charles?”

“Your Majesty’s information is precise.”

“What was the manner of his flight?”

“The Duke, Sire, waited at his fortress of Chantelle until the arrival of Monsieur de Pompérant from your Majesty’s Court at Chambord, feigning sickness and remaining shut up within his apartments. After Monsieur de Pompérant’s arrival, a litter was ordered to await his pleasure, and De Pompérant, dressed in the clothes of the Duke and with his face concealed by a hood, was carried into the litter, which started for Moulins, travelling slowly. Meanwhile Bourbon, accompanied by a band of gentlemen, was galloping on the road to the frontier. He was last seen at Saint-Jean de Luz, in the Pyrenees.”

“By our Lady!” exclaims Francis, “such treason is a blot upon knighthood. Bourbon, a man whom we had made as great as ourselves!”

“The Duke, Sire, left a message for your Majesty.”

“A message! Where? and who bore it?”

“De Pompérant, Sire, who has already been arrested at Moulins. The Duke begged your Majesty to take back the sword which you had given him, and prayed you to send for the badge which he left hanging at the head of his bed at Chantelle.”

“ Diable! does the villain dare to point his jests at his sovereign?” and Francis flushes to the roots of his hair with passion. “I wish I had him face to face in a fair field” – and he lays his hand on the hilt of his sword; – “but no,” he adds in a calmer voice, “a traitor’s blood would but soil my weapon. Let him carry his perfidy into Spain – ’twill suit the Emperor; I am well rid of him. Are there many accomplices, Bonnivet?”

“About two hundred, Sire.”

“Is it possible! Do we know them?”

“The Comte de Saint-Vallier, Sire, is the principal accomplice.”

“What! Saint-Vallier, the Captain of our Archers! That strikes us nearly. This conspiracy, my lords,” says Francis, advancing to where Guise, La Trémouille, Montmorenci, and the others stand somewhat apart during his conversation with Bonnivet, “is much more serious than I imagined. I must remain in France to wait the issue of events. You, Bonnivet, must take command of the Italian campaign.”

Bonnivet kneels and kisses the hand of Francis.

“I am sorry for Jean de Poitiers,” continues Francis, turning to Guise. “Are the proofs against him certain?”

“Sire, Saint-Vallier accompanied the Constable to the frontier.”

“I am sorry,” repeats the King, and he passes his hand thoughtfully over his brow and muses.

“Jean de Poitiers, my ci-devant Captain of the Guards, is the father of a charming lady; Madame Diane, the Seneschale of Normandy, is an angel, though her husband, De Brèzè – hum – why, he is a monster. Vulcan and Venus – the old story, eh, my lords?”

There is a general laugh.

A page enters and announces a lady humbly craving to speak with his Majesty. The King smiles, his wicked eyes glisten. “Who? what? Do I know her?”

“Sire, the lady is deeply veiled; she desires to speak with your Majesty alone.”

“But, by St. Denis – do I know her?”

“I think, Sire, it is the wife of the Grand Seneschal of Normandy – Madame Diane de Brèzè.”

There is a pause, some whispering, and a low laugh is heard. The King looks around displeased. “I am not surprised,” says he. “When I heard of the father’s danger I expected the daughter’s intercession. Let the lady enter.”

With a wave of his hand he dismisses the Court, and seats himself on a chair of state under a rich canopy embroidered in gold with the arms of France.

Diane enters. She is dressed in long black robes which sweep the floor. Her head is covered with a thick lace veil which she raises as she approaches the King. She weeps, but her tears do not mar her beauty, which is absolutely radiant. She is exquisitely fair and wonderfully fresh, with golden hair and dark eyebrows – a most winsome lady.

She throws herself at the King’s feet. She clasps her hands. Her sobs drown her voice.

“Pardon, Sire, pardon my father!” she at length falters. The King stoops forward, and raises her to the estrade on which he stands. He looks tenderly into her soft blue eyes, his hands are locked in hers.

“Your father, madame, my old and trusted servant, is guilty of treason.”

“Alas! Sire, I fear so; but he is old, too old for punishment. He has been hitherto a true subject of your Majesty.”

“He is blessed, madame, with a most surpassing daughter.” Francis pauses and looks steadfastly at her with eyes of ardent admiration. “But I fear I must confirm the sentence of my judges, madame; your father is certain to be found guilty of treason.”

“Oh! Sire, mercy, mercy! grant me my father’s life, I implore you”; and again Diane falls prostrate at the King’s feet, and looks supplicatingly into his face. Again the King raises her.

“Well, madame, you are aware that you desire the pardon of a traitor; on what ground do you ask for his life?”

“Sire, I ask it for the sake of mercy; mercy is the privilege of kings,” and her soft eyes seek those of Francis and rest upon them. “I have come so far, too, from Normandy, to invoke it – my poor father!” and she sobs again. “Your Majesty will not send me back refused, broken-hearted?” Still her eyes are fixed upon the King.

“Mercy, Madame Diane, is, doubtless, a royal prerogative. I am an anointed king,” and he lets go her hands, and draws himself up proudly, “and I may use it; but the prerogative of a woman is beauty. Beauty, Madame Diane,” adds Francis, with a glance at the lovely woman still kneeling at his feet, “is more potent than a king’s word.”