Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 363, January, 1846
CHAPTER V
"O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye;
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair;
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by —
* * *
"All this thou see'st is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty."
* * *
"But now a king – now thus —
This was now a king, and now is clay."
Shakspeare.
The miserable king lay, indeed, upon his bed of death. He had refused to quit the room which he usually occupied, all encumbered as it was with his favourite hounds, his hunting accoutrements, and these horns, the winding of which had been his favourite amusement, and had contributed so powerfully to affect his lungs, and undermine his constitution. A sort of couch had been prepared for him of mattresses and cushions upon the floor; and upon that rude bed was the emaciated form of the dying monarch extended. To his customary attacks of blood-spitting, had succeeded a strange, and, until then, unknown symptom of malady, from which the very physicians recoiled with horror. Drops of red moisture, which bore all the appearance of blood, had burst, like perspiration, from the pores of the body; and there were moments when the wretched man writhed on his couch in the double anguish of body and mind, that, in spite of the efforts of the physicians to remove this extraordinary appearance, he might have been thought to be bathed in gore.
It was indeed an agony, and a bloody sweat!
The physicians had long since declared that there was no hope. In one of those fitful bursts of anger, in which Charles from time to time indulged, even in his state of exhaustion and in his dying moments, he had desired to be left by his doctors and attendants, and he slumbered his last slumber in this world, before closing his eyes for ever in the great sleep of death, to wake upon another. One person alone sat by the side of his couch; and that person was one, whom the incessant intriguing efforts of his mother would have taught him was his bitterest enemy.
That ivory paleness which had been so characteristic a trait of Charles, and had added at once to the melancholy and majesty of his face, was now of a yellow waxen colour, which might be said to increase from minute to minute in lividness of hue. His large nose stood frightfully prominent from those hollow sunken cheeks; his lips, in life, red almost to bleeding, were now ashy pale. Beneath his thin lids, the eyeballs, sunken into the deep cavities of his eyes, might be seen to roll and palpitate; whilst from his open and distorted mouth burst forth, even in his troubled sleep, moans, and then words of anguish.
The man who sat by his side, listened with varying feelings. Sometimes he started back with a movement of horror; sometimes he again bent forward in compassion, and with a kerchief lightly wiped away that fearful perspiration which burst from the hollow temples of the young man. The aspect of this personage was noble; his forehead was bold; his nose formed with that eagle curve which seems fashioned for command. The expression of his grey eyes denoted both resolution and wariness; whilst a general look of good temper and openness, which amounted almost to insouciance, pervaded the whole face. He was clothed in black. It was Henry of Navarre, the ill-used and betrayed victim of Catherine's policy.
During the whole reign of Charles IX., the Queen-mother had used every effort to instil into his mind suspicions of the loyalty of the man, who, were the Valois to die childless, would be heir to the throne of France; and whom the decrees of Providence finally led, through the wiles and plots set to snare his liberty and his life, and in the midst of the clashing of contending parties, to rule the destinies of the country, as Henry the Fourth. Henry of Navarre, whom the artifice and calumny of a Medicis had done their best to separate and estrange from his king and brother-in-law during life, was now the only attendant upon his last moments – the only friend to press his dying hand and close his eyes. By a last exercise of his authority, Charles had declared that it was his will that Henry of Navarre, and he alone, should be permitted to approach his couch, and receive his last instructions; and in spite of all the manœuvres of the crafty Catherine, who no longer ventured openly to oppose her son's commands, the two princes were united in this supreme and awful hour.
And now Henry of Navarre sat and watched his dying relation with oppressed and anxious heart, aware that, were the king to die without providing for his safety by a last exercise of his power, his liberty, and even his life, would be in danger from the manœuvres of the revengeful Catherine; that his only chance of escape was in flight before the death of the expiring king; and yet, too noble and generous to leave the man who, at such a time, had called him to his side, he sat and watched.
Presently the king rolled convulsively upon his couch; his parted lips quivered horribly; and with a mutter, which increased at last into a distinct and piercing scream, he let fall the words —
"Away – away – torment me not! Why do you haunt me thus? Fire – fire! Kill – kill! No – spare them – spare them, and spare me a hopeless misery. Ah! they fly – they bleed – they fall. And the poor old Admiral – his grey heirs are dabbled with blood. Away – away – it was not I – not I! Ah!" —
With a sudden start of horror, the king lifted his head from his pillow, and for a time gazed with staring and glassy eyes, as if the hideous vision which had tortured his sleep were still before him. Then with a bitter groan, he again fell back upon his couch. Again he raised his head, and, looking upon Henry, said, with a faint and plaintive voice, that contrasted strangely with these brusque and harsh tones which were natural to him,
"Why do they ever pursue me thus – those Huguenots, who perished with the Admiral? It was not I – it was my mother who was the cause of all. And yet, I myself, arquebuse in hand, I hunted them to the death. Oh! but my remorse has been long and bitter, Henry. What I have suffered none on earth can tell. Since that fatal night, I have never enjoyed a moment's peace of mind. Do kings ever enjoy peace of mind, Henry? Oh, be glad that thou art not a reigning king! Peace of mind is not for them. If there be a purgatory, Henry, in another world, I have already endured all its tortures on this earth. Is not remorse the worst purgatory? ay – the most damning hell. But why, then, do they pursue me thus in hideous visions still?"
The wretched king buried his head in his pillow.
"Strive to be calm," said Henry of Navarre, bending over him to lift up his head, and arrange his cushions. "Those visions will leave you."
"Yes! in the grave – perhaps!" replied Charles, again looking up with a shudder.
"Let us hope better things," continued Henry. "With more tranquillity of mind, you will regain your strength, and" —
"No – all is past," murmured the king. "I feel that I am dying. Know you not that there is one accused of practising sorcery upon me. Folly! madness! An evil deed has been practised upon me. Yes – the thought will not leave me. I would drive it away, but it still rankles in my heart. Evil has been done me, but not by sorcery. And yet the sorcerer must die. The world must believe that it was he who worked my death; but it was another. Come here, Henry; bend your ear to me, for I can no longer rise. Wouldst thou know who it was?"
A noise in the further part of the room startled the young King of Navarre at this moment, and he turned his head. The only living creature present was the favourite green ape of the king, that sat and grinned and moaned, as if in mockery of his dying master.
"Come nearer, Henry," pursued the king, "for I would speak that to thee, that not the very walls may hear. Know you what has caused my death – who has been my murderer?"
Henry bent his head over the dying man, more to satisfy a caprice of the sufferer, than in the expectation of any serious revelation; and, as Charles whispered in his ear, he started back in horror.
"Oh, sire, think not so! Drive away so miserable a suspicion!" he said. "It were too horrible. It is impossible!"
"Impossible!" repeated the king, with a faint ironical laugh. "To some hearts all things are possible."
"You had a mother once," continued Charles, after a painful pause. "But she was good and kind; and she is dead. Know you how she died? – Mine still lives – and now it is I who die."
"Speak not thus, I entreat you, sire!" interrupted Henry. "This is horrible!"
"Horrible! is it not?" repeated the wretched king with the same harrowing laugh. "Henry! trust not yourself to the tender mercies of my mother!"
Again the same strange noise struck upon the ear of Henry of Navarre.
"Nor shall my people, my poor suffering people, be trusted to her care," continued the king with more energy. "Henry, thou art the only one, in this my palace of the Louvre, who loves me. In spite of all that has been said and done, thou alone hast left me in repose, hast never troubled my last days by conspiracies against my crown, and against my life – ay, my life! Brother has been set against Brother in bitter hatred. Thou alone hast not hated me, Henry. Thou alone, in spite of all the wrongs I have done thee – thou hast loved me. To thee I commend my poor patient wife – to thee I commend my people!"
"But, sire, should it please Heaven to take you from us – and may you live long, I pray" – resumed Henry of Navarre, whilst the king shook his head – "it will be your mother who will claim the regency, until the return from Poland of your brother, Henry of Anjou. It will be hers probably to command!"
"When I bid you not trust yourself to her tender mercies," replied Charles, "think not I spoke as a child. My life is ebbing fast, I know, but my mind is clear. Give me that paper!" He pointed to a paper laid upon a table close by his side. "This is my last and binding command, which I shall now sign with my own hand," he continued, as Henry brought him the desired paper, and laid it upon his couch. "This declares, that, by my last will, I appoint you as Regent of this realm until the return of the King of Poland. The name is still in blank; for I would not that those who drew it up should know my purpose, and bring my mother clamouring to my side, to thwart my last wish by her reproaches. Give me a pen, Henry. Now, support me – so – in your arms. Where is now the paper? My sight is troubled; but I shall find strength to see and strength to trace that name."
Raised up in the arms of the King of Navarre, Charles took the pen placed in his hand, and laid it on the paper.
"When you are regent, Henry," he paused to say, "remove my mother from your court. It is I who bid you do it. She would hate you with a mortal hatred; for power is her only aim in this world, and for that she would forfeit her salvation in the next. Not a moment would your life be in safety. She would poison you, as she has poisoned her miserable son."
"Sire! retract those words!" said a voice close by the dying king.
Before the couch of her son stood Catherine de Medicis. Her face was cold and passionless as ever, although her dark eyes gleamed with unusual fire, and her pallid face was still more pale.
"What would you have with me, madam?" said Charles, shuddering, as she approached. "Have I not desired to be alone with my good brother Henry upon affairs of state?"
"Retract those words, sire!" pursued his mother, unheeding him. "You have brought against me the most awful accusation that malice can lay to the charge of a human being. Would you leave this world, if so it please the saints above, with so hideous a lie upon your lips? Sire! retract those words!"
"Leave me, woman! Leave me to die in peace!" said Charles, with an effort of energy, struggling with his weakness and the violence of his emotions. "Be you guilty of this deed, or be you not, may Heaven forgive you your misdeeds, as I pray it may forgive me mine."
"My son! my son!" cried Catherine, kneeling down by his side, whilst the tears, which were ever ready at her command, and might now have been natural tears of rage, rolled down her cheeks, "I cannot leave you thus, a victim to the most horrible suspicion. I may have erred against you, but it has been unconsciously. I have ever sought your honour and your glory, perhaps by means you now condemn; but I have acted, like a weak, fallible mortal, for the best. No – no – you really cannot entertain thoughts so terrible. It cannot be. This is the suggestion of my enemies – and my enemies are yours, my son." And, as she said these words, Catherine darted a cold, sharp look of rage at Henry of Navarre, who had risen, and now remained an unwilling spectator of so terrible a scene – a scene of the most fearful passions of the human heart between mother and son, and upon the bed of death. "No – no – you will retract your words. You will say you did not entertain that frightful thought."
As the Queen-mother spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the paper, which was to consign the regency to Henry of Navarre; and, in spite of the animation with which she addressed her son, it was evident that upon that paper her chief thoughts were directed.
"Madam!" said Charles faintly, raising himself with difficulty on one elbow, and struggling with internal pain – "you have received my last words of pardon. Let my last moments be undisturbed."
"Charles, Charles!" exclaimed his mother, wringing her hands. "Let me remove these horrible ideas from your mind. What shall I say? What shall I do? Can a son think thus of a mother who has ever loved him? Oh, no! – it is impossible. Your mind wandered. You did not think it."
"Enough, madam! – enough!" replied the King. "It was the passing fancy of a wandering brain, if you will have it so. It is gone now. I think of it no more. Now leave me."
"But, my son," persisted Catherine, "I have such secrets to reveal to you, as you alone may hear. They are necessary to the safety of the state – necessary to the salvation of your soul hereafter. I cannot, must not, leave you. It is my bounded duty to remain."
"The time is past, madam," gasped her son, "when I can listen to such matters. My moments are counted – and I have that to do that can brook no delay."
Catherine sprung up with a feeling of despair, and turned away for a moment.
"It is near noon," she muttered to herself. "And it was to be at noon, said the astrologer. Oh! a few minutes – but a few minutes" —
"My son," she continued aloud, again approaching the bed of the king, and having recourse once more to that importunity, which, in the latter days of his reign, was the only weapon with which she could contrive to work upon the mind of Charles, "but I have that to reveal which deeply affects the honour of our family. Would you that other ears should listen to our shame?"
"Aye, ever shame – ever blood – ever remorse!" murmured Charles, turning his head upon his pillow.
"Would you refuse the last request of her who is, after all, your mother?" exclaimed Catherine, with the well acted accent of extreme despair.
The king uttered not a word.
"Leave us, sir," said the Queen-mother, with an imperious sign of her hand to Henry of Navarre, upon seeing these symptoms of the wavering resolution of her son.
The young prince remained unmoved, to await the will of the dying king.
"Leave us, Henry," said the Monarch; "you will return to me anon. This is her last request – these are her last words. When she is gone, let me see you instantly."
Henry of Navarre shook his head with a look of mournful resignation, and then bowed and left the apartment.
"Now speak, madam," said the king, "and quickly. What would you reveal to me?"
"That Henry of Navarre conspires against your throne," commenced Catherine, rapidly; "that he has been proved to be in connexion with that sorcerer who has aimed at your life; that the chiefs of the accursed Huguenot party are concealed in Paris, awaiting but your death to place the crown upon his brow; that he also looks to this event to abjure once more the true Catholic faith, and return into the bosom of heresy; that by giving power into his hands, you endanger the safety of the state; that by committing the rule of the country to a Heretic and a Seceder, you endanger the safety of your own soul; that, by such a step, the honour of our House will be eternally lost; that in all the countries of Catholic Christendom, we shall be pointed at with the finger of scorn and shame."
"Madam, you have deceived me with words of equivocation to gain my ear," replied the king, mustering all the strength that still remained to him, "and you deceive me now."
"I deceive you not, my son," pursued Catherine, eagerly. "Each word that I pronounce is God's own truth. Could you then confide into the power of a base and lying Heretic, one who seeks your death, but to grasp himself the Crown, the government of a Catholic and a Christian country? Hear you not already the anathema of our holy father, the Pope, that curses even in the tomb that soul lost by a step so rash? See you not already our blessed Virgin, and all the saints of Heaven, turn from you their glorious faces, and refuse to look on one who has despised them, and set them at nought by a deed so unholy? Feel you not already the torture of that punishment to which the Heretic, and the aider and abettor of the Heretic, are eternally condemned? Have I deceived you when I said that you endanger the welfare of your own immortal soul?"
"But you err, madam," said her miserable son, shuddering at the picture thus placed before him, to work upon his mind in these last moments. "Henry is become a good and fervent Catholic."
"All is ready for his abjuration at the moment of your death," continued the Queen-mother. "To resume a powerful party among the Huguenots, he will renounce our religion. My son – my son – pause, reflect, before you thus sacrifice your own salvation, and throw your unhappy country beneath the Papal ban."
"Heaven aid me!" cried the miserable Charles. "On all sides darkness and despair, in this world and the next."
"Heaven shall aid you, my son," pursued his wily mother, "if you but trust the guidance of your kingdom to such hands as shall maintain it in the true religion. The paper that resigns your country to the hands of a regent, lies, I see, before you. Can you hesitate? Can you a moment doubt? Whose name should fill that space, where but just now you would have written the traitorous name of Henry of Navarre?"
"God guide my unhappy France!" sighed the king, turning his face away and closing his eyes. "In His hands I leave it."
Catherine smiled with a look of scorn, and then picking up the pen, which had fallen by the bedside, calmly fetched some ink from the table, and attempted to place the pen in her son's hand.
Before her purpose could be fulfilled, a noise was heard in the outer room. The voice of a woman clamoured loudly for admittance. Charles heard that voice, opened his eyes, and attempted to raise his head.
"Ah, it is she!" he cried, with choking voice. "At last! – at last! Let her come in."
Catherine de Medicis rose, for the purpose, probably, of opposing the order of her son; but before she could reach the door, an old woman, simply attired, and of a strange appearance and expression, had entered the room.
"What means this intrusion, and at such a moment?" exclaimed the Queen-mother.
"Perrotte!" stammered Charles. "Ah! thou art come at last to console and to forgive me."
Catherine clenched her teeth tightly together with rage; but she no longer attempted to oppose the entrance of the old woman.
The old Huguenot nurse advanced with solemn step into the room, and with a stern and troubled brow; but, on a sudden, a host of recollections seemed to crowd upon her mind at the sight of that emaciated form, and, hurrying to the side of the king, she flung herself down upon the couch and sobbed bitterly.
"Perrotte – my darling old Perrotte!" sobbed forth the dying king. "Art thou come then at last to thy poor nursling? Thou wast a mother to me, and yet thou couldst desert thy poor boy; but he deserved his lot. Perrotte! Perrotte! Thou knowest not what I have suffered since thou hast left me."
"My son," said Catherine, advancing, "is this a moment to bestow your tenderness upon a miserable woman like this? Greet her if you will, but bid her leave us."
"She was a mother to me – she" – continued Charles unheeding her, and, drawing forth his emaciated hand from beneath the coverlid, he held it forth towards the old woman, who lay stretched across his feet.
"Charlot," said the old woman, raising up her head with a haggard look, "they told me that thou wast dying; and I forgot all – all that thou hast done of evil – to see thee once more – to hear the words of repentance from thy own lips – to console and guide. They would have opposed my coming. They had placed guards about my door; but my Jocelyne, my grandchild, found means to lure them from their post, and I escaped them. I had promised her – what had I promised her? Oh, my poor Charlot! my brain wanders strangely at times. No matter. Here, in your palace of the Louvre, too, they would have shut the doors to me; but they knew you loved me, Charlot, and they dared not refuse my supplications. Oh my boy, my boy, that I should see you thus!"
"Perrotte! hast thou forgiven me?" said the king with a violent effort, for his breath was now fast failing him. His mother watched the scene with folded arms and haughty mien. Each ebbing of the breath brought her nearer to her much-desired power.
"Hast thou forgiven me?" sobbed the king.
"May God forgive the injuries thou hast done to others, as I now forgive thee on thy bed of suffering, those thou hast done to mine," said the old woman solemnly; and rising from her recumbent position, she advanced to the head of the couch, and took the dying man in her arms, as it were an infant she clasped to her bosom.
"And how can I repay thee, mother?" said Charles to his nurse; "speak quickly, for my moments are but few!"
"By thy repentance, my poor son," replied the Huguenot woman earnestly. "There is still time to repair thy errors. If thy remorse has reconciled thee to thy God, let thy last act reconcile thee to thy injured fellow-creatures. Ay! it is of that I would have spoken. That was my promise. Let thy last act of government as King, depute thy power into the hands of him who alone can pacify the unhappy religious discords of thy state, and thus thou mayst still save the life of the innocent and unjustly condemned."
"Woman! do you dare even in my presence?" said Catherine advancing.
"Silence, madam. I have heard you," interrupted her son: "let me now hear her who has been my real mother."
"My son, can you listen to the vile insinuations of an accursed heretic? Think on your soul," cried Catherine.
"Yea, think on thy soul, my son," said Perrotte solemnly, "and earn its salvation by thy repentance."
"Let that woman be dragged from our presence, who thus dares to utter treason and blasphemy in our face," exclaimed the Queen-mother, forgetting her forbearance in her wrath.
"My son, my son! Let peace and pardon await thee," urged the old Huguenot nurse, her face growing more wild with the excitement of the moment.
"Madam," said Charles faintly to the Queen-mother, "would you shorten the few moments still accorded to me of life? Perrotte, give me that pen, guide my hand to that paper. Quickly, as thou lovedst me, woman!"
"Never," exclaimed Catherine, violently grasping the arm of her dying son, as it approached the paper.
Charles raised his head to speak to her; but his emotions were too violent for his feeble frame. His lips quivered; the blood rose to his mouth, and choked his utterance. He fell back on his pillow, whilst a hollow rattling sounded in his throat; the pen remained between his powerless fingers.
"Ah! he is no more! he is dead!" screamed the nurse in despair, and she flung herself upon the bed.
"No – no," said the Queen-mother to herself. "There is still life. My son! Son," she continued aloud, "give me thy hand. If thou wilt sign that paper – be it signed." And grasping his hand, she conducted it to the place of signature on the paper. Mechanically the fingers followed the impulse she bestowed upon them. But four letters only of the name of Charles had been traced, when Catherine uttered a fearful scream. A rough hand had grasped her own, and lacerated its skin. The first thought of her superstitious mind was, that the arch-fiend himself had risen up in bodily form before her. On to the bed had sprung the ape; with a movement of detestation to the Queen-mother, which the animal had always evinced, when she approached its master; it bit the hand that held that of the dying king.
Catherine drew back with another cry, but after a moment she again advanced her hand to grasp that of her son. When she took it within her own it was utterly motionless; but, nothing daunted in her purpose, she again fixed the pen between the dead fingers, and thus guiding them, contrived to trace the three remaining letters, regardless of the stream of blood, which, trickling from her wounded hand, besmeared that fatal signature. Then letting fall the dead man's hand, she wrote her own name firmly into the blank space.
The Huguenot woman, aroused by her scream, had gazed upon the daring deed with horror.
For a moment not a sound was heard.
On one side of the corpse knelt the nurse, who had loved so well that erring man. On the other stood the Queen-mother, trembling in spite of her cold and dauntless nature. At the bed's head sat the hideous ape, grinning a fearful grin, as it were the evil spirit that had arisen to claim the lost soul of him who had thus passed away.
"Charles the King is dead," exclaimed the Queen-mother, "and Catherine de Medicis is Regent of the Realm!"
"It is false! That signature is a forgery," cried Perrotte, starting up, her eyes staring before her with all the expression of the deranged in mind. "I saw it done. To the world I will proclaim that – that Catherine de Medicis is a false Queen, and a usurping Regent."
Catherine smiled a smile of scorn; and advancing to the door of the outer room, she flung it open with the words.
"The King is dead!"
"The King, is dead!" was repeated along the corridors of the Louvre.
A pause ensued.
"The King is dead! Long live the King, Henry the Third of France!" again said Catherine.
"Long live the King!" was once more shouted from mouth to mouth.
"Gentlemen, his Majesty has been pleased, before his death, to sign a warrant appointing his mother Regent of France," announced Catherine once more to those assembled without.
"Long live the Queen Regent," was the cry which announced to many an anxious heart of the various parties in the State, that the reign of the dreaded Queen-mother had commenced.
"Let some of those without advance and seize that woman!" was the first order of the Regent. "Heed not her words! She is mad!"
Catherine of Medicis spoke with greater truth than she herself believed. The shock of that scene of death, and strife, and evil passions, had again turned the old woman's brain.
Conclusion
One of the first acts of the Regency of Catherine de Medicis, was to give directions for the hastening the trial of La Mole, upon the charge of sorcery against the life of the late King. Although, with the Regency in her power, and in daily expectation of the return from Poland of her favourite son, whose weak and pliant mind she was aware she could bend to her own will in every thing, and thus have the whole power of the government within her own grasp, yet she still pursued her vengeance against the man who, in conspiring to place another of her sons upon the throne, had thwarted her designs. The wax figure formed by Ruggieri, who himself was fully screened by the Queen-mother, was made to form a prominent feature in this celebrated trial; and it is well known that the unfortunate La Mole fell a victim to an ambition, which, in the confused and distracted state of affairs at the time, could scarcely have been looked upon as a crime.
Among those who thronged to witness his execution was one, whose thread of life was nearly torn asunder by the blow of that axe which severed the beloved head from the trunk. Poor Jocelyne only recovered from the state of insensibility into which she fell, to linger on a few months of a wretched existence, during which she never spoke. Her heart was broken. The King's nurse was conveyed by the order of the Queen Regent to a place of security; but as soon as it was known that her senses were really lost, she was allowed to be taken back to her own home. Jocelyne's only thought for the living before her own death, was concentrated in her grandmother; when her bright spirit fled, it was Alayn who performed the mournful task of care for the welfare of the miserable old woman.
Henry of Anjou returned from Poland to claim his Crown; and, as Henry the Third of France, he filled the country with the scandals of that folly, licentiousness, and weakness of mind, which were fostered by his mother, Catherine de Medicis, in order to retain the power she coveted, completely within her own grasp.
Upon the assumption of the Regency, Henry of Navarre contrived to fly, in spite of the plans laid to entrap him by the Queen-mother, to his own country; his wife Margaret accompanied him to his solitude; and paid the penalty of her lightness of conduct at the court of France, in sorrow and ennui.
Despised and rejected by all parties, the weak Duke of Alençon, after a vain and abortive attempt to raise himself into a position of greater distinction, as the husband of Elizabeth of England, in whose eyes he found no grace or favour, died early, unlamented, and speedily forgotten.