Catherine De Medici

VII

A DRAMA IN A SURCOAT

The young reformer intended to study Catherine’s face, all the while affecting a natural embarrassment at finding himself in such a place; but his proceedings were much hastened by the eagerness with which the younger queen darted to the cartons to see her surcoat.

“Madame,” said Christophe, addressing Catherine.

He turned his back on the other queen and on Dayelle, instantly profiting by the attention the two women were eager to bestow upon the furs to play a bold stroke.

“What do you want of me?” said Catherine giving him a searching look.

Christophe had put the treaty proposed by the Prince de Conde, the plan of the Reformers, and the detail of their forces in his bosom between his shirt and his cloth jacket, folding them, however, within the bill which Catherine owed to the furrier.

“Madame,” he said, “my father is in horrible need of money, and if you will deign to cast your eyes over your bill,” here he unfolded the paper and put the treaty on the top of it, “you will see that your Majesty owes him six thousand crowns.  Have the goodness to take pity on us.  See, madame!” and he held the treaty out to her.  “Read it; the account dates from the time the late king came to the throne.”

Catherine was bewildered by the preamble of the treaty which met her eye, but she did not lose her head.  She folded the paper quickly, admiring the audacity and presence of mind of the youth, and feeling sure that after performing such a masterly stroke he would not fail to understand her.  She therefore tapped him on the head with the folded paper, saying:—­

“It is very clumsy of you, my little friend, to present your bill before the furs.  Learn to know women.  You must never ask us to pay until the moment when we are satisfied.”

“Is that traditional?” said the young queen, turning to her mother-in-law, who made no reply.

“Ah, mesdames, pray excuse my father,” said Christophe.  “If he had not had such need of money you would not have had your furs at all.  The country is in arms, and there are so many dangers to run in getting here that nothing but our great distress would have brought me.  No one but me was willing to risk them.”

“The lad is new to his business,” said Mary Stuart, smiling.

It may not be useless, for the understanding of this trifling, but very important scene, to remark that a surcoat was, as the name implies (sur cotte), a species of close-fitting spencer which women wore over their bodies and down to their thighs, defining the figure.  This garment protected the back, chest, and throat from cold.  These surcoats were lined with fur, a band of which, wide or narrow as the case might be, bordered the outer material.  Mary Stuart, as she tried the garment on, looked at herself in a large Venetian mirror to see the effect behind, thus leaving her mother-in-law an opportunity to examine the papers, the bulk of which might have excited the young queen’s suspicions had she noticed it.

“Never tell women of the dangers you have run when you have come out of them safe and sound,” she said, turning to show herself to Christophe.

“Ah! madame, I have your bill, too,” he said, looking at her with well-played simplicity.

The young queen eyed him, but did not take the paper; and she noticed, though without at the moment drawing any conclusions, that he had taken her bill from his pocket, whereas he had carried Queen Catherine’s in his bosom.  Neither did she find in the lad’s eyes that glance of admiration which her presence invariably excited in all beholders.  But she was so engrossed by her surcoat that, for the moment, she did not ask herself the meaning of such indifference.

“Take the bill, Dayelle,” she said to her waiting-woman; “give it to Monsieur de Versailles (Lomenie) and tell him from me to pay it.”

“Oh! madame,” said Christophe, “if you do not ask the king or monseigneur the grand-master to sign me an order your gracious word will have no effect.”

“You are rather more eager than becomes a subject, my friend,” said Mary Stuart.  “Do you not believe my royal word?”

The king now appeared, in silk stockings and trunk-hose (the breeches of that period), but without his doublet and mantle; he had, however, a rich loose coat of velvet edged with minever.

“Who is the wretch who dares to doubt your word?” he said, overhearing, in spite of his distance, his wife’s last words.

The door of the dressing-room was hidden by the royal bed.  This room was afterwards called “the old cabinet,” to distinguish it from the fine cabinet of pictures which Henri III. constructed at the farther end of the same suite of rooms, next to the hall of the States-general.  It was in the old cabinet that Henri III. hid the murderers when he sent for the Duc de Guise, while he himself remained hidden in the new cabinet during the murder, only emerging in time to see the overbearing subject for whom there were no longer prisons, tribunals, judges, nor even laws, draw his last breath.  Were it not for these terrible circumstances the historian of to-day could hardly trace the former occupation of these cabinets, now filled with soldiers.  A quartermaster writes to his mistress on the very spot where the pensive Catherine once decided on her course between the parties.

“Come with me, my friend,” said the queen-mother, “and I will see that you are paid.  Commerce must live, and money is its backbone.”

“Go, my lad,” cried the young queen, laughing; “my august mother knows more than I do about commerce.”

Catherine was about to leave the room without replying to this last taunt; but she remembered that her indifference to it might provoke suspicion, and she answered hastily:—­

“But you, my dear, understand the business of love.”

Then she descended to her own apartments.

“Put away these furs, Dayelle, and let us go to the Council, monsieur,” said Mary to the young king, enchanted with the opportunity of deciding in the absence of the queen-mother so important a question as the lieutenant-generalship of the kingdom.

Mary Stuart took the king’s arm.  Dayelle went out before them, whispering to the pages; one of whom (it was young Teligny, who afterwards perished so miserably during the Saint-Bartholomew) cried out:—­

“The king!”

Hearing the words, the two soldiers of the guard presented arms, and the two pages went forward to the door of the Council-room through the lane of courtiers and that of the maids of honor of the two queens.  All the members of the Council then grouped themselves about the door of their chamber, which was not very far from the door to the staircase.  The grand-master, the cardinal, and the chancellor advanced to meet the young sovereign, who smiled to several of the maids of honor and replied to the remarks of a few courtiers more privileged than the rest.  But the queen, evidently impatient, drew Francois II. as quickly as possible toward the Council-chamber.  When the sound of arquebuses, dropping heavily on the floor, had announced the entrance of the couple, the pages replaced their caps upon their heads, and the private talk among the courtiers on the gravity of the matters now about to be discussed began again.

“They sent Chiverni to fetch the Connetable, but he has not come,” said one.

“There is not a single prince of the blood present,” said another.

“The chancellor and Monsieur de Tournon looked anxious,” remarked a third.

“The grand-master sent word to the keeper of the seals to be sure not to miss this Council; therefore you may be certain they will issue letters-patent.”

“Why does the queen-mother stay in her own apartments at such a time?”

“They’ll cut out plenty of work for us,” remarked Groslot to Cardinal de Chatillon.

In short, everybody had a word to say.  Some went and came, in and out of the great hall; others hovered about the maids of honor of both queens, as if it might be possible to catch a few words through a wall three feet thick or through the double doors draped on each side with heavy curtains.

Seated at the upper end of a long table covered with blue velvet, which stood in the middle of the room, the king, near to whom the young queen was seated in an arm-chair, waited for his mother.  Robertet, the secretary, was mending pens.  The two cardinals, the grand-master, the chancellor, the keeper of the seals, and all the rest of the council looked at the little king, wondering why he did not give them the usual order to sit down.

The two Lorrain princes attributed the queen-mother’s absence to some trick of their niece.  Incited presently by a significant glance, the audacious cardinal said to his Majesty:—­

“Is it the king’s good pleasure to begin the council without waiting for Madame la reine-mere?”

Francois II., without daring to answer directly, said:  “Messieurs, be seated.”

The cardinal then explained succinctly the dangers of the situation.  This great political character, who showed extraordinary ability under these pressing circumstances, led up to the question of the lieutenancy of the kingdom in the midst of the deepest silence.  The young king doubtless felt the tyranny that was being exercised over him; he knew that his mother had a deep sense of the rights of the Crown and was fully aware of the danger that threatened his power; he therefore replied to a positive question addressed to him by the cardinal by saying:—­

“We will wait for the queen, my mother.”

Suddenly enlightened by the queen-mother’s delay, Mary Stuart recalled, in a flash of thought, three circumstances which now struck her vividly; first, the bulk of the papers presented to her mother-in-law, which she had noticed, absorbed as she was,—­for a woman who seems to see nothing is often a lynx; next, the place where Christophe had carried them to keep them separate from hers:  “Why so?” she thought to herself; and thirdly, she remembered the cold, indifferent glance of the young man, which she suddenly attributed to the hatred of the Reformers to a niece of the Guises.  A voice cried to her, “He may have been an emissary of the Huguenots!” Obeying, like all excitable natures, her first impulse, she exclaimed:—­

“I will go and fetch my mother myself!”

Then she left the room hurriedly, ran down the staircase, to the amazement of the courtiers and the ladies of honor, entered her mother-in-law’s apartments, crossed the guard-room, opened the door of the chamber with the caution of a thief, glided like a shadow over the carpet, saw no one, and bethought her that she should surely surprise the queen-mother in that magnificent dressing-room which comes between the bedroom and the oratory.  The arrangement of this oratory, to which the manners of that period gave a role in private life like that of the boudoirs of our day, can still be traced.

By an almost inexplicable chance, when we consider the state of dilapidation into which the Crown has allowed the chateau of Blois to fall, the admirable woodwork of Catherine’s cabinet still exists; and in those delicately carved panels, persons interested in such things may still see traces of Italian splendor, and discover the secret hiding-places employed by the queen-mother.  An exact description of these curious arrangements is necessary in order to give a clear understanding of what was now to happen.  The woodwork of the oratory then consisted of about a hundred and eighty oblong panels, one hundred of which still exist, all presenting arabesques of different designs, evidently suggested by the most beautiful arabesques of Italy.  The wood is live-oak.  The red tones, seen through the layer of whitewash put on to avert cholera (useless precaution!), shows very plainly that the ground of the panels was formerly gilt.  Certain portions of the design, visible where the wash has fallen away, seem to show that they once detached themselves from the gilded ground in colors, either blue, or red, or green.  The multitude of these panels shows an evident intention to foil a search; but even if this could be doubted, the concierge of the chateau, while devoting the memory of Catherine to the execration of the humanity of our day, shows at the base of these panels and close to the floor a rather heavy foot-board, which can be lifted, and beneath which still remain the ingenious springs which move the panels.  By pressing a knob thus hidden, the queen was able to open certain panels known to her alone, behind which, sunk in the wall, were hiding-places, oblong like the panels, and more or less deep.  It is difficult, even in these days of dilapidation, for the best-trained eye to detect which of those panels is thus hinged; but when the eye was distracted by colors and gilding, cleverly used to conceal the joints, we can readily conceive that to find one or two such panels among two hundred was almost an impossible thing.

At the moment when Mary Stuart laid her hand on the somewhat complicated lock of the door of this oratory, the queen-mother, who had just become convinced of the greatness of the Prince de Conde’s plans, had touched the spring hidden beneath the foot-board, and one of the mysterious panels had turned over on its hinges.  Catherine was in the act of lifting the papers from the table to hide them, intending after that to secure the safety of the devoted messenger who had brought them to her, when, hearing the sudden opening of the door, she at once knew that none but Queen Mary herself would dare thus to enter without announcement.

“You are lost!” she said to Christophe, perceiving that she could no longer put away the papers, nor close with sufficient rapidity the open panel, the secret of which was now betrayed.

Christophe answered her with a glance that was sublime.

“Povero mio!” said Catherine, before she looked at her daughter-in-law.  “Treason, madame!  I hold the traitors at last,” she cried.  “Send for the duke and the cardinal; and see that that man,” pointing to Christophe, “does not escape.”

In an instant the able woman had seen the necessity of sacrificing the poor youth.  She could not hide him; it was impossible to save him.  Eight days earlier it might have been done; but the Guises now knew of the plot; they must already possess the lists she held in her hand, and were evidently drawing the Reformers into a trap.  Thus, rejoiced to find in these adversaries the very spirit she desired them to have, her policy now led her to make a merit of the discovery of their plot.  These horrible calculations were made during the rapid moment while the young queen was opening the door.  Mary Stuart stood dumb for an instant; the gay look left her eyes, which took on the acuteness that suspicion gives to the eyes of all, and which, in hers, became terrible from the suddenness of the change.  She glanced from Christophe to the queen-mother and from the queen-mother back to Christophe,—­her face expressing malignant doubt.  Then she seized a bell, at the sound of which one of the queen-mother’s maids of honor came running in.

“Mademoiselle du Rouet, send for the captain of the guard,” said Mary Stuart to the maid of honor, contrary to all etiquette, which was necessarily violated under the circumstances.

While the young queen gave this order, Catherine looked intently at Christophe, as if saying to him, “Courage!”

The Reformer understood, and replied by another glance, which seemed to say, “Sacrifice me, as they have sacrificed me!”

“Rely on me,” said Catherine by a gesture.  Then she absorbed herself in the documents as her daughter-in-law turned to him.

“You belong to the Reformed religion?” inquired Mary Stuart of Christophe.

“Yes, madame,” he answered.

“I was not mistaken,” she murmured as she again noticed in the eyes of the young Reformer the same cold glance in which dislike was hidden beneath an expression of humility.

Pardaillan suddenly appeared, sent by the two Lorrain princes and by the king to escort the queens.  The captain of the guard called for by Mary Stuart followed the young officer, who was devoted to the Guises.

“Go and tell the king and the grand-master and the cardinal, from me, to come here at once, and say that I should not take the liberty of sending for them if something of the utmost importance had not occurred.  Go, Pardaillan.—­As for you, Lewiston, keep guard over that traitor of a Reformer,” she said to the Scotchman in his mother-tongue, pointing to Christophe.

The young queen and queen-mother maintained a total silence until the arrival of the king and princes.  The moments that elapsed were terrible.

Mary Stuart had betrayed to her mother-in-law, in its fullest extent, the part her uncles were inducing her to play; her constant and habitual distrust and espionage were now revealed, and her young conscience told her how dishonoring to a great queen was the work that she was doing.  Catherine, on the other hand, had yielded out of fear; she was still afraid of being rightly understood, and she trembled for her future.  Both women, one ashamed and angry, the other filled with hatred and yet calm, went to the embrasure of the window and leaned against the casing, one to right, the other to left, silent; but their feelings were expressed in such speaking glances that they averted their eyes and, with mutual artfulness, gazed through the window at the sky.  These two great and superior women had, at this crisis, no greater art of behavior than the vulgarest of their sex.  Perhaps it is always thus when circumstances arise which overwhelm the human being.  There is, inevitably, a moment when genius itself feels its littleness in presence of great catastrophes.

As for Christophe, he was like a man in the act of rolling down a precipice.  Lewiston, the Scotch captain, listened to this silence, watching the son of the furrier and the two queens with soldierly curiosity.  The entrance of the king and Mary Stuart’s two uncles put an end to the painful situation.