Where the gardens of the Louvre touch
upon the river is a lonely and secluded walk.
There upon the afternoon of the fourth day following
the masquerade I found myself in the shadow of a high,
ivy-covered wall, slowly pacing towards the round-tower
that forms the western outwork of the palace.
I had taken an opportunity the chance afforded to
inform the Queen of the bargain struck between the
favourite, Simon and De Mouchy, and she heard me in
a downcast silence. She seemed for the time
to be utterly overcome by the victorious progress of
Diane. Finally she thanked me listlessly, and
I withdrew, determined, however, if even at the cost
of my life, to checkmate the plotters.
Whilst tossing the matter over in
my mind the sudden rustling of leaves and a croaking
sound arrested my attention. Glancing up I saw
a small brown ape clinging to the ivy at the top of
the wall and mowing at a couple of peacocks preening
themselves on the level turf beneath him. Half
amused, despite my sombre thoughts, I stopped and watched,
until at last, after a stare at their tormentor, the
great birds stalked away like offended beauties.
“Pompon!” I called out.
In answer, the little ape turned his
ribald wit upon me; but now a head appeared above
the parapet, a hand seized Pompon and drew him back,
and Le Brusquet’s voice hailed me, bidding me
come up to him. This I did with the aid of a
friendly tree, and found him on the top of the wall,
stretched out like a lizard in the sun. As I
reached his side he rose to a sitting posture, and
made room for me beside him.
“I have got the ‘can’t-help-its,’”
he said, “and came here to let them work off.
I have much to say to you.”
“You have news, then?”
“Yes; and grave news.
Listen! This morning, as usual, I attended the
petit couvert, and found myself alone in the
breakfast-room, where covers were laid for two.
The soup was warming at a little stove, for the King
takes this, the first meal of the day, without attendance.
I said I was alone; but that is not exactly the case,
as Pompon was, of course, with me, and the ape had
one of his evil fits. He hopped in front of
me, mopping and mowing, and I cannot tell why perhaps
it was because some of Crequy’s red Joue I
supped with him over-night was still ringing
a chime in my head, but a sudden feeling of irritation
came upon me at his antics. I seized the little
beast by the scruff of his neck and dropped him out
of the window on to the balcony beneath, where he
remained, content enough with a plum that I took the
liberty of lifting from the table and flinging after
him. Then, leaning out of the window, I watched
the morning, wondering to myself what new jest I could
devise for the King’s amusement. But I
was in a morose humour, and could think of nothing.
All at once I heard the hissing rustle of silken
robes. I turned, and faced Madame Diane.
I tell you, Orrain, never was woman born so beautiful.
The rose of the morning was on her cheeks.
Her eyes they are blue-black, not black met
mine, with a laugh in them, as she said:
“’Well, Le Brusquet, have
you lost your ape, or has some jest failed you? you
look so sad.”
“‘Neither, madame,’
I answered; ‘but I have lost my heart.’
“‘Tell me,’ she
said, ’who is it? Is it La Beauce? or,
perhaps, Madame de Montal?’
“‘Neither, madame; it has strayed
much higher.’
“She laughed at my speech, and
was about to reply, but stopped, for at that moment
the curtain lifted, and the King entered the room.
He seemed in the best of spirits; nothing affects
him for long.
“‘Bon jour, Le
Brusquet!’ He gave me his hand to kiss.
’What news have you brought me this morning?’
“‘A bagful, sire, for I supped with Crequy
over-night.’
“‘Then you shall open
the bag whilst I breakfast, for I am famished.’
And, slipping his arm through Diane’s he led
her to the table. I settled myself on a stool
near the window, whilst Diane gave his soup to the
King, contenting herself with some fruit, which she
picked at like a bird. Through the heavy curtains
and the closed door we could hear the hum of voices
from the anterooms coming to us like the distant murmurs
of the sea. For some little time the King ate
in silence, whilst Diane and I exchanged a few laughing
words. Finally he finished his last sippet of
bread steeped in soup, pushed aside his plate, helped
himself to a plum, and looked around him.
“‘How!’ he exclaimed.
‘No roses in the room this morning!’
“‘You are in error, sire,’
I said. ’I have never seen finer roses
than I do now.’
“‘Where?’ he asked, looking around.
“But I only looked at La Valentinois,
and this time she was red enough. She can blush
at will, I believe. Strange that behind so fair
a face lies so twisted a soul! And as the King
followed my glance the blush on her cheek became deeper
and deeper.
“‘Ma petite,’
and he pinched her ear, ’I find I have a rival.
I shall have to send him to the Chatelet.’
Whereat every one laughed, and Pompon, hearing the
sounds, hopped in through the window, and helped himself
to another plum.
“‘Ah, bandit!’
And the King flung a sippet of toast after him as he
added: ‘I am hedged in with robbers.’
“‘That is true, sire,’ I said gravely.
“‘You heard that at Crequy’s
last night.’ And there was a sharp note
in Diane’s voice.
“‘Oh yes; and much worse.’
“‘Come, tell us!’ said the King.
“’Sire, you will remember
that Monsieur Joue and Monsieur d’Arbois
are inveterate gossips.’
“‘I will not forget. Well, what
did these gentlemen say?’
“’Amongst other things,
that your Majesty would totally cancel the edicts
you have suspended, and freely pardon all the Christaudins.’
“I had risked my shot, and now
awaited the result. It had hit its mark, I knew,
for the King began to hum and haw, and Diane gave me
a look from those blue-black eyes of hers. It
is wonderful how their expression can change.
They seemed to grow small, with a hard, pitiless
look in them, and little cobwebs of wrinkles gathered
near her temples.
“‘It would be madness! folly!’
And her foot kept tapping the carpet.
“‘Caraffa and Lorraine
are right; it would be a sin.’ And the
King crossed himself. ’No, no! I
will purge the land of its heresy. You have
proved their disloyalty to me, Diane. Scarce
three weeks have passed since the edicts were suspended,
and see what head these Huguenots make! But
I will let them see that I am King!’
“And Diane bent forward and kissed his cheek.
“As for me, I knew I was treading
on dangerous ground, and so, for the present, went
warily, and kept silence. And then La Valentinois
knelt by the side of the King, holding his hand in
hers, and looking into his eyes.
“‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I have
a boon to ask.’
“‘Ask, then.’ And Henri pushed
aside the curls from her forehead.
“‘It is that you reward the faithful whilst
you punish the guilty.’
“‘Let it be as you wish, ma petite.’
“‘Then sign this, sire.’
And, rising to her feet, she took a paper from her
dress and held it before the King, standing beside
him, with one white arm round his neck.
“Henri read, and his face fell
a little. ‘So,’ he said, ’you
want the goods of all heretics condemned in Paris
granted to our most faithful subjects Diane,
Duchess de Valentinois; Simon, Vidame d’Orrain;
and Antoine, Sire de Mouchy, Inquisitor of Faith!
Madame, this is a matter for the council.’
And, in his weak way, the King tried to put off the
matter.
“Diane removed her arm from
his neck. ‘As you please, sire,’
she said coldly; and then: ’But remember
the Chatillons are making head in the north, and tomorrow
they may break the peace with Spain. Remember
how full Paris is of these traitors to their King
and Holy Church! Never mind my request; but,
sire,’ and her voice sank to the tenderest note,
’think of those who love you and fear for you and let
the council to-day be firm.’
“‘Oh, it will be that. I will see
to that.’
“‘Thank Heaven!
And now, my King, my King! for the last time!’
And she knelt and kissed his hand, and there were
tears tears, Orrain! in her
eyes.
“Henri was much moved.
‘What does this mean, Diane?’ And he
raised her gently to her feet.
“’It means, sire’ her
eyes refused to meet his, and her voice shook ’that
the time has come for me to go. To-morrow I leave
Paris; but, wherever I go, my sorrow will be with
me, and my memory of ’ And
once more she kissed his hand.
“‘Diane!’
“She made no answer except to
sob, and he put his arm round her, and tried to comfort
her, but she gently withdrew herself.
“’Sire, let me go!
I had forgotten that with a woman love lasts for
ever, but beauty fades. I have to-day learned
my lesson.’ And, sitting herself down,
she buried her face in her hands.
“Henri looked helplessly around,
and then, rising hurriedly, paced the room.
Once he came up to me, where I stood near the window,
and stared at me, or rather stared across me, as though
he did not see me. He was yielding, I knew,
and another sob from Diane broke him.
“He took up the paper, and it
rustled in his trembling hand. One more glance
at the bowed figure beside him, and he called out:
“‘Le Brusquet, give me a pen.’
“I made no answer, but stood
as if I had not heard. I swear to you, Orrain,
that I would rather have let my right hand wither than
do his bidding. Twice he repeated his order;
but I stood like a stone. Diane made no movement.
His face flushed, and with a sudden effort he walked
towards a cabinet, and the next moment the accursed
paper was signed. He brought it back with him,
and stood humbly beside Diane, but she did not appear
to see. At last he took her hands from her face
and placed the deed within them.
“‘There, little one!
Speak no more of broken hearts.’ And he
kissed her. She rose, and let her head fall
on his shoulder, standing there with closed eyes,
but with fingers that held the paper with a clutch
like the talons of a hawk. After a little she
drew back; there was a lovely smile on her lips, and
the blue-black eyes were sparkling.
“‘Sire,’ she said,
‘I thank you.’ Then, with a glance
behind her at the curtains that covered the door leading
to the ante-rooms: ’It grows late, and
messieurs there are waiting.’ So saying,
she bowed low to the King, and ran from the room into
the inner apartments, carrying her paper with her.
“The King stood gazing after
her, and I stood leaning out of the open window.
After a little he came up behind me, and with studied
unconcern in his voice said:
“‘An obol for your thoughts, King of Folly.’
“‘I was but watching those
birds, sire.’ And I pointed at a shoal
of swallows that darted hither and thither in the
sunlight snapping up the flies.
“‘Ah! The swallows! What of
them?’
“‘They are lovely birds,
sire; but, you see, they spare nothing.’
And even as I spoke there was the flash of a bronze-green
wing, and a wretched moth that was fluttering in the
air was borne away.
“The King took my meaning, and laughed uneasily.
“‘You mean I have done wrong.’
“‘The Duchess is a lovely
woman, sire.’ And I saw him flush with
shame and anger the anger of a weak man.
He controlled himself with an effort, however, and
said coldly:
“‘Monsieur de Besme, have the goodness
to strike that gong.’
“I did so, and in a moment the
doors were flung open, showing the glittering throng
without. The King kept his back turned towards
me, and, taking the hint, I picked up the ape and
withdrew. So, you see, my news is of the gravest,
and Diane has won the rubber.”
“You think so?”
“It is all over. The council
to-day will revoke the suspension of the edicts, and
once more the hell-fires will be lit on the parvis
of every church in Paris. I am off to grow pears
at Besme. My office is for sale; but I will
give it to you, with my cap and bells and baton, as
a free gift if within two days you do not place a
certain fair lady on a pillion behind you and ride
for the Swiss cantons.”
For a little there was a silence, and then I rose
to my feet.
“I am going,” I said. “What
has to be done must be done quickly.”
He nodded assent. “I shall
come with you part of the way,” he said, and
called to his ape.
With this we descended from the wall, and walked back
together to the
Ladies’ Terrace.
The gardens were full, for the perfect
day had tempted all within the palace who could do
so to come forth. Scattered here and there in
the walks, or resting on the seats, were knots of
people, the bright colours of their dresses all the
brighter in the mellow sunshine. As we were
passing the fountain called the Three Graces we were
stopped by a little man with a round face and bulging
eyes. He was quite young, not more than four
or five and twenty, but, young as he was, Monsieur
de Brantome had already acquired the reputation of
being an inveterate gossip, and was feared more than
the plague. I had but a passing acquaintance,
two days’ old, with him, but he seized Le Brusquet.
“Eh bien, Le Brusquet!
I hear that you were with the King and madame
early this morning, and that high words passed.
Is it true that you leave the Court?”
“I promise to leave it, monsieur,
if you will but take my office.”
“Your office!” said Brantome in surprise.
“Yes; I have always felt myself
unworthy of it since I had the honour to meet you.”
“Not at all, my friend,”
grinned Brantome; “you do yourself injustice.
The man who quarrels with madame has unequalled
claims. You have no rival. Au revoir!”
And, chuckling to himself, the little
abbe went on, leaving Le Brusquet biting his lip.
Brantome stopped the next person he met to tell him
of the passage-at-arms, and turning the walk we found
ourselves in front of the Ladies’ Terrace.
Somewhat apart from the gay groups
that crowded together in the centre of the Terrace
was a solitary figure standing near the pedestal of
a bronze satyr, cast for the late King by Messer Benvenuto
the Florentine. It was mademoiselle herself,
and with a word to Le Brusquet I left him and walked
straight up to her.
“I was wondering to myself if
I should see you here,” she said as she greeted
me.
“And I came specially to see
you, so that Fate has been kind for once.”
She smiled, and was about to make
some answer, when there was a burst of laughter and
the sound of many voices, and turning we saw Diane
de Poitiers on the stairway leading down to the Terrace,
surrounded, as usual, by a heedless and ever-laughing
crowd. She stood for a moment, her Court around
her, whilst the people on the other parts of the Terrace
broke up their talk and came towards us. Then
La Valentinois, who was robed in crimson, began to
descend the marble steps slowly, and as she reached
the Terrace all those assembled there bowed to her
as though she were the Queen. All except myself
and mademoiselle, who stood plucking at the ivy leaves
on the pedestal of the statue beside her, apparently
unconscious of La Valentinois’ presence.
Whether the Duchess noticed me or not I do not know,
but I saw her eyes fixed on mademoiselle, and she
stopped full, about two paces from her. Mademoiselle,
however, maintained her attitude of total unconcern;
but after a moment she looked up and the glances of
the two crossed each other. Mademoiselle stared
past the favourite as though she did not see her,
and Diane’s face became like ivory, and her dark
eyes frosted with an icy hate a hate cold
and pitiless as everlasting snow. All eyes were
fixed on them now, and there was a dead silence as
the two the woman and the girl faced
each other. But it was mademoiselle who was
winning. Far away as her look was there was that
in it that brought the colour back to Diane’s
cheeks, to make it go again. Her bosom rose
and fell, she played nervously with her fan, and at
last she spoke, with a voice that shook in spite of
her efforts to restrain it:
“I hear, mademoiselle, that
you do not find the Court to your liking.”
And the reply was a simple bow.
The Duchess was all red and white
now. The insult was open and patent; but worse
was to follow, for she made a mistake, and went on,
with a sneer:
“It is a pity they do not care
more for the education of girls in Poitou; but I think
you are right, mademoiselle. The Court is not
suited to you. You should take the veil and the
black robe.”
“I should prefer the black robe
to a crimson one, madame. The latter reminds
one too much, amongst other things, of the blood of
the martyrs.”
It was a crushing retort, and one
to which there was no answer, for the affair of the
tailor of St. Antoine’s was fresh in all minds.
Something like a murmur went up from those around.
The Duchess gave a little gasp; but, preserving her
composure with an effort, turned and walked away,
her head in the air, but wounded to the quick.
The crowd followed her, but one figure remained a
man with a white, drawn face and dark circles under
his eyes. Thrice he made a movement as if to
step up to us and say something, but each time his
courage failed him; and then, turning, he too hastily
followed the others. And from my soul I pitied
De Ganache.