THE ChÂteau of Chenonceau, so greatly coveted by Catherine de’ Medici in her youth, still remains to us. It lies in a rural district of the Touraine, far from cities and the traffic of great thoroughfares. Spared, from its isolated position, by the First Revolution, this monument of the Renaissance, half palace half chÂteau, is as beautiful as ever—a picturesque mass of pointed turrets, glistening spires, perpendicular roofs, lofty pavilions, and pillared arches. It is partly built over the river Cher, at once its defence and its attraction.

Henry II., as also his father, Francis, who specially loved this sunny plaisance and often visited it in company with his daughter-in-law, Catherine, and his mistress, the Duchesse d’Étampes, had both lavished unknown sums on its embellishment.

Chenonceau is approached by a drawbridge over a moat fed by the river. On the southern side a stately bridge of five arches has been added by Diane de Poitiers in order to reach the opposite bank, where the high roofs and pointed turrets of the main building are seen to great advantage, rising out of scattered woods of oak and ash, which are divided into leafy avenues leading into fair water-meadows beside the Cher. By Catherine’s command this bridge has been recently covered and now forms a spacious wing of two stories, the first floor fitted as a banqueting hall, the walls broken by four embayed windows, opening on either side and looking up and down the stream.

A fresh-breathing air comes from the river and the forest, a scent of moss and flowers extremely delicious. The cooing of the cushat doves, the cry of the cuckoo, the flutter of the breeze among the trees, and the hum of insects dancing in the sunbeams are the voices of this sylvan solitude. The blue sky blends into the green woods, and the white clouds, sailing over the tree-tops, make the shadows come and go among the arches of the bridge and the turrets of the chÂteau.

A sudden flourish of trumpets breaks the silence. It is Catherine, in the early summer, coming, like Jezebel, to possess herself of her fair domain. She is habited in black and wears a velvet toque with an ostrich plume. A perfect horsewoman, she rides with a stately grace down the broad avenue leading from the high road, followed by her maids of honour—a bevy of some forty beauties, the escadron volant de la reine, who serve her political intrigues by fascinating alike Huguenots and Catholics.

To the right of the Queen-mother rides Madame Marguerite, her daughter—by-and-by to become infamous as Queen of Navarre, wife of Henry IV.—now a laughter-loving girl, who makes her brown jennet prance, out of pure high spirits. She is tall, like all the Valois, and finely formed. Her skin is very fair and her eyes full of expression; but there is a hard look on her delicately-featured face that belies her attractive appearance.

On the other side of the Queen-mother is her son, the young King, Charles IX. He has a weak though most engaging countenance. Naturally brave and witty and extremely frank and free, the artifices of his mother’s corrupt Court have made him what he now is—cruel, violent, and suspicious. Catherine has convinced him that he is deceived by all the world except herself, and leads him at her will. He is to marry shortly the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian. Beside him is the vicious and elegant Duc d’Anjou, his next brother, of whom Charles is extremely jealous. Already Henry has been victor at Jarnac, and almost rivals Henry of Navarre in the number of battles he fights. He is to be elected King of Poland during his brother’s life. Henry is handsomer than Charles, but baby-faced and effeminate. He wears rouge, and is as gay as a woman in his attire. Catherine’s youngest son, D’AlenÇon, long-nosed, ill-favoured, and sullen, rides beside his sister.

Behind the royal Princess, is Francis, Duc de Guise, a man, as we have seen, of indomitable will and unflinching purpose; fanatical in his devotion to the Catholic Church, and of unbounded ambition. He secretly cherishes the settled purpose of his house,—destruction to the race of Valois. Ere long he will be assassinated at OrlÉans, by Poltrot, a Huguenot, a creature of Coligni, who firmly believes he will ensure his salvation by this crime. Such is Christianity in the sixteenth century! There are also two cardinals mounted on mules. Lorraine, a true Guise, most haughty and unscrupulous of politicians and of churchmen; and D’Este, newly arrived from Ferrara, insinuating, treacherous, and artistic. He has brought in his train from Italy the great poet Tasso, who follows his patron, and wears a garbadine and cap of dark satin. Tasso looks sad and careworn, spite of the high favour shown him by his countrywoman, the Queen-mother. Ronsard, the court poet, is beside Tasso, and ChÂtelard, who, madly enamoured of the widowed Queen, Mary Stuart, is about to follow her to Scotland, and to die of his presumptuous love ere long at Holyrood.

As this brilliant procession passes down the broad avenue through pleasant lawns forming part of the park, at a fast trot, a rider is seen mounted on a powerful black horse, who neither entirely conceals himself nor attempts to join the Court. As he passes in and out among the underwood skirting the adjoining forest, many eyes are bent upon him. The Queen-mother specially, turns in her saddle the better to observe him, and then questions her sons as to whether they recognise this solitary cavalier, whose face and figure are completely hidden by a broad Spanish hat and heavy riding-cloak.

At the moment when the Queen-mother has turned her head to make these inquiries and is speaking earnestly to Francis of Guise, whom she has summoned to her side, the unknown rider crosses the path of the Princess Marguerite (who in frolicsome mood is making her horse leap over some ditches in the grass), and throws a rose before her. Marguerite looks up with a gleam of delight, their eyes meet for an instant; she raises her hand, kisses it, and waves it towards him. The stranger bows to the saddle-bow, bounds into the thicket, and is seen no more. The royal party cross the drawbridge through two lines of attendants, picquers, retainers, pages, and running footmen, and dismount at the arched entrance from which a long stone passage leads to the great gallery, the staircase, and the various apartments.

Leaving the young King and the Princes, his brothers, to the care of the chamberlains who conduct them to their various apartments, the Queen-mother turns to the left, followed by the Princess, who is somewhat alarmed lest her mother should have observed her recognition of the disguised cavalier. They pass through the guard-room—a lofty chamber, with raftered ceilings and walls hung with tapestry, on which cuirasses, swords, lances, casques, shields, and banners are suspended, fashioned into various devices.

Beyond is a saloon, and through a narrow door in a corner is a small writing-closet within a turret. Catherine, who knows the chÂteau well, has chosen this suite of rooms apart from the rest. She enters the closet alone, closes the door, seats herself beside the casement, and gazes at the broad river flowing beneath. Her eyes follow the current onwards to where the stream, by a graceful bend, loses itself among copses of willow and alder. She smiles a smile of triumph. All is now her own. Then she summons her chamberlain, and commands a masque on the river for the evening, to celebrate her arrival. None shall say that she, a Medici, neglects the splendid pageantry of courts. Besides, the hunting parties, banquets, and masques are too precious as political opportunities to be disregarded.

Having dismissed her chamberlain, who with his white wand of office bows low before her, she calls for writing materials, bidding the Princess and a single lady-in-waiting, Charlotte de Presney, her favourite attendant, remain without in the saloon.

This is a large apartment, used by Catherine as a sleeping-room, with a high vaulted ceiling of dark oak, heavily carved, the walls panelled with rare marbles, brought by the Queen’s command from Italy. Busts on sculptured pedestals, ponderous chairs, carved cabinets and inlaid tables, stand around. In one corner there is a bedstead of walnut-wood with heavy hangings of purple velvet which are gathered into a diadem with the embossed initials “C. M.,” and an antique silver

toilet-table, with a mirror in Venetian glass set in a shroud of lace. The polished floor has no carpet, and there is not a chair that can be moved without an effort. A window, looking south towards the river and the woods, is open. The summer breezes fill the room with fragrance. Under a ponderous mantelpiece of coloured marbles Marguerite seats herself on a narrow settee. Her large, sparkling eyes and animated face, her comely shape, and easy though stately bearing, invite, yet repel, approach. She still wears her riding-dress of emerald velvet laced with gold, and a plumed cap lies beside her. Her luxuriant hair, escaped from a golden net, covers her shoulders. She is a perfect picture of youth and beauty, and as fresh as her namesake, the daisy.

Charlotte de Presney, at least ten years older than the Princess, is an acknowledged belle. Her features are regular, her complexion brilliant, and her face full of intelligence; but there is a cunning expression about her dimpling mouth that greatly mars her beauty.

“Have you nothing for me, Charlotte?” whispers the Princess, stretching out her little hand glistening with precious stones. “I know you have. Give it me. His eyes told me so when he passed me in the avenue.”

“Your highness must not ask me. Suppose her Majesty opens that door and sees me in the act of giving you a letter?”

“Oh! mÉchante, why do you plague me? I know you have something hidden; give it me, or I will search you,” and she jumps up and casts her soft arms round the lady-in-waiting.

Charlotte disengages herself gently, and with her eyes fixed on the low door leading into the Queen’s closet sighs deeply, and takes a letter from her bosom, bound with blue silk, and sealed with the arms of Guise.

“Ah! my colours! Is he not charming, my lover?” mutters Marguerite, as her eager eyes devour the lines. “He says he has followed us, disguised, from Tours; not even his father knows he has come, but believes him to be in Paris, in case he should be questioned by the Queen-mother,—Charlotte, do you think her Majesty recognised him in the avenue? He was admirably disguised.”

“Your highness knows that nothing escapes the Queen’s eye. The sudden appearance of a stranger in this lonely spot must have created observation.”

“Ah! is he not adorable, Charlotte, to come like a real knight-errant to gaze at his lady-love? How grand he looked—my noble Guise, my warrior, my hero!” and Marguerite leans back pensively on the settee, as though calling up his image before her.

“Her Majesty will be very angry, madame, if she recognised him. I saw her questioning the Duke, his father, and pointing towards him as he disappeared into the wood,” answered Charlotte, with the slightest expression of bitterness in her well-modulated voice.

“Henry has discovered,” continues Marguerite, still so lost in reverie that she does not heed her remark, “that the Queen has a masque to-night on the river. He will be disguised, he tells me, as a Venetian nobleman, in a yellow brocaded robe, with a violet mantle, and a red mask. He will wear my colours—blue, heavenly blue, the symbol of hope and faith—on his shoulder-knot. Our watchword is to be ‘Eternal love.’”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaims Charlotte, with alarm, laying her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, “your highness will not dare to meet him?”

“Be silent, petite sotte,” breaks in the Princess. “We are to meet on the southern bank of the river. Charlotte, you must help me; I shall be sure to be watched, but I must escape from the Queen by some device. Change my dress, and then—and then——” and she turns her laughing eyes on the alarmed face of Charlotte, “under the shady woods, by the parterre near the grotto, I shall meet him—and, alone.”

“And what on earth am I to say to the Queen if she asks for your highness?” replies Charlotte, turning away her face that the Princess might not see the tears that bedew her cheeks.

“Anything, my good Charlotte; you have a ready wit, or my mother would not favour you. I trust to your invention, it has been often exercised,” and she looked archly at her. “Tell the Queen that I am fatigued, and have retired into the chÂteau until the banquet, when I will rejoin her Majesty. There is no fear, ma mie, especially as the Comte de Clermont is at Chenonceau. Her Majesty, stern and silent though she be, unbends to him and greatly affects his company,” and she laughs softly and points towards the closed door.

“I trust there is, indeed, no fear of discovery, Princess,” returns Charlotte; “for her Majesty would never forgive me.” At which Marguerite laughs again.

“Princess,” says Charlotte, looking very grave, and seating herself on a stool at her feet, “tell me, truly, do you love the Duc de Guise?” Charlotte’s fine eyes are fixed intently on Marguerite as she asks this question.

“Peste! you know I do. He is as great a hero as Rinaldo in the Italian poet’s romance of Orlando. Somewhat sedate, perhaps, for me, but so handsome, spite of that scar. I even love that scar, Charlotte.”

“Does the Duke love you?” again asks Charlotte, with a trembling voice.

“Par exemple! do you think the man lives who would not return my love?” and the young Princess colours, and tosses the masses of waving brown curls back from her brow, staring at her companion in unfeigned astonishment.

“I was thinking,” continues Charlotte, avoiding her gaze, and speaking in a peculiar voice, “I was thinking of that poor La Molle, left alone in Paris. How jealous he was! You loved him well, madame, a week ago.”

“Bah! that is ancient history—we are at Chenonceau now. When I return to Paris it is possible I may console him. Poor La Molle! one cannot be always constant. Charlotte,” said the Princess, after a pause, looking inquisitively at her, “I believe you are in love with the BalafrÉ yourself.”

Charlotte colours, and, not daring to trust her voice in reply, shakes her head and bends her eyes on the ground.

Marguerite, too much occupied with her own thoughts to take much heed of her friend’s emotion, pats her fondly on the cheek, and proceeds—

“You are dull, ma mie; amuse yourself like me, now with one, then with another. Be constant to none. Regard your own interest and inclination only. But leave Guise alone; he is my passion. His proud reserve pleases me. His stately devotion touches me. He is a king among men. I love to torment the hero of Jarnac and Moncontour. He is jealous, too—jealous of the very air I breathe; but in time, that may become wearisome. I never thought of that,” adds she, musing.

“Your highness will marry soon,” says Charlotte, rising and facing the Princess, “and then Guise must console himself——”

“With you, par exemple, belle des belles? You need not blush so, Charlotte, I read your secret. But, ma mie, I mean to marry Henri de Guise myself, even if my mother and the King, my brother, refuse their consent. They may beat me—imprison me—or banish me; I will still marry Henri de Guise.”

“Her Majesty will never consent to this alliance, madame.”

“You are jealous, Charlotte, or you would not say so. Why should I not marry him, when my sister-in-law, the young Queen of Scots, is of the House of Lorraine?”

“Yes, madame, but the case is altogether different; she is a Queen-regnant. The house of Lorraine is already too powerful.”

“Ah!” exclaims the volatile Marguerite, starting up, “I love freedom; freedom in life, freedom in love. Charlotte, you say truly, I shall never be constant.”

“Then, alas, for your husband! He must love you, and you will break his heart.”

“Husband! I will have no husband but Henri de Guise. Guise or a convent. I should make an enchanting nun!” And she laughs a low merry laugh, springs to her feet, and turns a pirouette on the floor. “I think the dress would suit me. I would write Latin elegies on all my old lovers.”

“You will hear somewhat of that, madame, later from the Queen,” Charlotte replies, with a triumphant air. “A husband is chosen for you already.”

“Who? Who is he?”

“You will learn from her Majesty very shortly.”

“Charlotte, if you do not tell me this instant, I will never forgive you;” and Marguerite suddenly becomes grave and reseats herself. “Next time you want my help I won’t move a finger.”

“I dare not tell you, madame.”

“Then I will tell Guise to-night you are in love with him,” cries she, reddening with anger.

“Oh, Princess,” exclaims Charlotte, sinking at her feet, and seizing her hand; “you would not be so cruel!”

“But I will, unless you tell me.”

At this moment, when Marguerite was dragging her friend beside her on the sofa, determined to obtain an avowal from her almost by force, the low door opens, and Catherine stands before them.