Old Court Life in France, vol. 1. Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ a word, into her own apartments. The Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine also retire with gloomy looks. Not a single word do either of them address to Francis or to Mary. The young sovereigns enter the royal chambers, a stately suite of apartments, the lofty windows of which, reaching from ceiling to floor, overlook the river. Folding doors open into a gallery wainscoted with oak richly gilt, with a carved ceiling richly emblazoned with coats-of-arms. The walls are covered with crimson brocade set in heavy frames of carved gold; chandeliers of glittering pendants hang from open rafters formed of various-coloured wood arranged in mosaic patterns. Beyond is a retiring room, hung with choice tapestry of flowers and fruit on a violet ground, let into arabesque borders of white and gold. Inlaid tables of marble bear statues and tazzas of alabaster and enamel. Clustered candelabra of coloured Venetian glass hold perfumed candles, and the flowers of the spring are placed in cups and vases of rarest pottery.

      Mary, with a wave of her hand, dismisses her attendants. Francis sinks into a chair beside an open window, utterly exhausted. He sighs, leans back his head, and closes his eyes.

      “Mon amour,” says Mary, throwing her arms round him, and kissing his white lips, “you are very weary. Tell me – why is the Queen-mother so grave and silent? When I spoke she did not answer me. My uncles, too, frighten me with their black looks. Tell me, Francis, what have I done?”

      “Done, sweetest? – nothing,” answered Francis, unclosing his eyes, and looking at her. “Our mother is busied with affairs of state, as are also your uncles. There is much to disquiet them.” Francis draws her closer to him, laying his head upon her shoulder wearily, and again closing his eyes. “It is some conspiracy against her and your uncles – the Guises —mignonne,” added he, whispering into her ear.

      “Conspiracy! Holy Virgin, how dreadful! Why did you not tell me this before we left Blois?”

      “I feared to frighten you, dear love, ere we were safe within the thick walls of this old fortress.”

      Mary starts up and seizes his hand.

      “Tell me, tell me,” she says, in an unsteady voice, “what is this conspiracy?”

      “A plot of the Huguenots, in which Condé and the Coligni are concerned,” replies Francis, roused by her vehemence into attention. “Did you not mark how suddenly our uncle, Francis of Guise, appeared at Blois, and that he was closeted with her Majesty for hours?” Mary, her eyes extended to their utmost limit and fixed on his, bows her head in assent. “Did we not leave immediately after the interview for Amboise? Did not that make you suspicious?”

      “No, Francis; for you said that we came here to hold a joust and to hunt in the forest of Chanteloup. How could I doubt your word? Oh! this is horrible!”

      “We came to Amboise, ma mie, because it is a stronghold, and Blois is an open town.”

      “Do you know no more? or will you still deceive me?” asks Mary eagerly, looking at him with tearful eyes.

      “My mother told me that the Duc de Guise was informed by the Catholics of England (which tidings have been since confirmed), that the Huguenots are arming in force, that they are headed by Condé, that they are plotting to imprison the Queen-mother and your uncles, and to carry you and me to Paris by force.”

      “By force? Would they lay hands on us? Oh, Francis, are we safe in this castle?” exclaims Mary, clasping her hands. “Will our guards defend us? Are the walls manned? Is the town faithful? Are there plenty of troops to guard the bridges?”

      As she speaks, Mary trembles so violently that she has slid from her chair and sinks upon the ground, clinging to Francis in an agony of fear.

      “Courage, my reinette! rise up, and sit beside me,” and Francis raises her in his arms and replaces her on her chair. “Here we are safe. This conspiracy is not directed against us, Mary. The people say my mother and the Guises rule, not I, the anointed King. The Huguenots want to carry us off to Paris for our good. Pardieu! I know little of the plot myself as yet; my mother refused to tell me. Anyhow, we are secure here at Amboise from Turk, Jew, or Huguenot, so cheer up, my lovely queen!”

      As Mary looks up again further to question him, he stops her mouth with kisses.

      “Let us leave all to the Queen-mother. She is wise, and governs for us while we are young. She loves not to be questioned. Sweetest, I am weary, give me a cup of wine; let me lie in your closet, and you shall sing me to sleep with your lute.”

      “But, Francis,” still urges Mary, gently disengaging herself from his arms as he leads her away, “surely my uncles must be in great danger; a conspiracy perhaps means an assassination. I beseech you let me go and question them myself.”

      “Nenni,” answers Francis, drawing her to him. “You shall come with me. I will not part with you for a single instant. Ah! mignonne, if you knew how my head aches, you would ask me no more questions, or I shall faint.”

      Mary’s expressive face changes as the April sunshine. Her eyes fill with tears of tenderness as she leads Francis to a small closet in a turret exclusively her own, – a chinoiserie, quaint and bright as the plumage of a bird, – and seats him, supported by a pile of pillows, on a couch – luxurious for that period of stiff-backed chairs and wooden benches.

      “Talk to me,” says Francis, smoothing her abundant hair, which hung in dark masses on her shoulders as she knelt at his feet, “or, better still, sing to me, I love to hear your soft voice; only, no more politics – not a word of affairs of state, Mary. Sing to me those verses you showed to Ronsard, about the knight who leapt into a deep stream to pluck a flower for his love and was drowned by the spell of a jealous mermaid who watched him from among the flags.”

      Mary rises and fetches her lute. All expression of fear has left her face. Reassured by Francis and occupied alone by him, she forgets not only the Huguenots and the conspiracy, but the whole world, beside the boy-husband, who bends lovingly over her as she tries the strings of her instrument. So let us leave them as they sit, two happy children, side by side, bathed in the brief sunshine of a changeful day in March, now singing, now talking of country fêtes, especially of a carrousel to take place on the morrow in the courtyard of the castle, in which the Grand Prieur is to ride disguised as a gipsy woman and carry a monkey on his back for a child!

      CHAPTER XIII.

      A TRAITOR

      THE Queen-mother sits alone; a look of care overshadows her face; her prominent eyes are fixed and glassy. From her window she can gaze at an old familiar scene, the terrace and parterre bordered by lime walks, planted by Francis I., where she has romped in many a game of cache-cache with him.

      Presently she rises and summons an attendant from the antechamber.

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