THE wars of the League rage fiercer than ever. By the death of the last Valois, Henry III., Henry IV., a Bourbon, is King of France.[19] But he is only acknowledged by his Protestant subjects. To the Catholics he is but a rebel, and still only King of Navarre. The Duc de Mayenne (a Guise, brother of the BalafrÉ), subsidised with money and troops by Spain, is the orthodox pretender to the

throne. The capital, Paris, is with him. The two Henries, reconciled after the death of Catherine de’ Medici, encamped with their respective forces at Saint-Cloud, were about to invest the city. But now Henry III. is dead. His successor, Henry of Navarre, weakened in influence, troops, and money, is forced to raise the siege and retire. Henry IV. had at this time but 3,000 troops, while the army of Mayenne numbered 32,000 men. Then came help from England. The victory of Ivry was gained, Henry again invested Paris and encamped on the heights of Montmartre. It was now he uttered that characteristic mot:—“I am like the true mother in the judgment of Solomon,—I would rather not have Paris at all than see it torn to pieces.”

At this time the fortune of war called the King in many places. He loved an adventurous life. Brave to a fault, he rode hither and thither like a knight-errant, regardless of his personal safety, accompanied only by a few attendants.

Although a warrior and a statesman, Henry was a true child of the mountains. Born under the shadows of the Pyrenees, he would as soon encamp under a hedge as lie on a bed of down; would rather eat dried ham spiced with garlic than dine sumptuously at Jarnet’s Palace, at the Marais or at “Le Petit More,” the polite traiteur of that day; would quaff the petit cru of his native grape with more relish than the costliest wines from the vineyards of Champagne or Bordeaux. Henry was not born upon the banks of the Garonne, but a more thorough Gascon never lived,—his hand upon his sword, his foot in the stirrup, his gun slung across his shoulder, the first in assault, the last in retreat, ready to slay the wild boar of his native forests, or lute in hand to twang a roundelay in honour of the first Dulcinea he encountered. Boastful, fearless, capricious; his versatility of accomplishments suited the changing aspects of the times. He was plain of speech, rough in manner—with a quaint jest alike for friend or foe; irregular in his habits, eating at no stated times, but when hungry voraciously devouring everything that pleased him, especially fruit and oysters; negligent, not to say dirty, in his person, and smelling strong of garlic. A man who called a spade a spade, swore like a trooper, and hated the parade of courts; was constant in friendship, fickle in love, promised everything freely, especially marriage, to any beauty who caught his eye; a boon companion among men, a libertine with women, a story-teller, cynical in his careless epicureanism, and so profound a believer in “the way of fate,” that reckless of the morrow he extracted all things from the passing hour.

He is now thirty-three years old, of middle height, broad-shouldered, and coarsely made. His swarthy skin is darkened by constant exposure; he looks battered, wrinkled, and dissipated. His long nose overhangs his grisly moustache, and a mocking expression lurks in the corners of his mouth. The fire of his eyes is unquenched, and the habit of command is stamped on every motion.

He is with his army at Mantes. It is evening; he is surrounded by a few friends, and from talk of war the conversation turns to women. The Duc de Bellegarde, captain of light horse, the close friend and constant companion of the King, sits beside him. He has a noble presence, is supple, graceful, gentle in speech and generous in nature.

Bellegarde speaks boastingly of the beauty of a certain lady whom he is engaged to marry, Gabrielle d’EstrÉes, daughter of the Marquis d’EstrÉes.

“Cap de Dieu!” exclaims Henry, after listening to Bellegarde in silence; “I have heard of the lady, one of the daughters of our brave general of artillery, Antoine d’EstrÉes; but I will back my bewitching Abbess of Montmartre, Marie de Beauvilliers, against your Gabrielle.”

“Not if your Majesty saw her, believe me,” replies Bellegarde, warmly.

“You are a boaster, Bellegarde. You dare not produce your paragon.”

“On the contrary, Sire, I only desire that Mademoiselle d’EstrÉes should be seen, for then alone she can be appreciated.”

“Say you so, Bellegarde? That is fair; will you bet a thousand crowns on Gabrielle against Marie?”

“I accept, Sire; but how can we decide!”

“You see the lady. It is easily managed. Do you visit her often?”

“Your Majesty seemingly forgets I am engaged to marry her.”

“I understand. Now, Bellegarde, I forbid you, as your sovereign and master, to see this fair lady, except in my company. Par Dieu! I will refuse you leave of absence.”

Bellegarde’s heart misgave him. The King’s vehemence alarms him. He saw too late the mistake that he has made.

“Now, Bellegarde, don’t look like a doctor of the Sorbonne in a fix; Mademoiselle d’EstrÉes will not object if I go in your company?”

“Your Majesty must consider that I have no excuse for introducing you,” replies he, with some hesitation. “Besides, consider, Sire, the roads are unsafe and skirmishers are abroad.”

“Tut! tut! man; when did I ever care for that when a fair lady was in the way? I insist upon going, or you shall not either. Both or none. Listen how it shall be managed. I will disguise myself as—well, let me see—a Spaniard; no one will suspect me in that character. You shall introduce me as an Hidalgo, Don Juan, we will say”; and a wicked leer lights up his countenance. “Don Juan, your prisoner,—taken in a mÊlÉe, now on parole; and my poor Chicot[20] shall go with us, too, for company.”

Gabrielle was then living at the paternal Castle of Coeuvres, which stood on a wooded height between Soissons and Laon, with her father and her sisters. She was passionately attached to the seductive Bellegarde, and anticipated their speedy union with all imaginable happiness.

One evening, while she was indulging in those agreeable musings proper to the state called “being in love,” Bellegarde was abruptly announced. He was accompanied by two gentlemen: one, short in stature, with a comical expression of countenance, was introduced as Monsieur Chicot; the other, by name “Don Juan,” neither tall nor short, but with very broad shoulders, had greyish hair, highly coloured cheeks, a swarthy skin, and was remarkable for a prominent nose and exceedingly audacious eyes.

Gabrielle rose in haste and was about to fling her arms round Bellegarde, but, on seeing his two companions, she drew back, welcoming them all with a more formal courtesy.

Gabrielle was eighteen, tall, slim, and singularly graceful. The severity of her aquiline features was relieved by the bluest eyes and a most delicate pink and white complexion; webs of auburn hair flowed over her shoulders. She cast a curious glance at her lover’s singular companions; she was surprised and vexed that Bellegarde had not come alone, and to find him cold and reserved. However, any shortcomings on his part were amply made up by the cordial accolade of the Spanish Don, who extolled her beauty to her face, and, without asking permission, kissed her on the cheek.

Gabrielle’s delicacy was hurt at this freedom; she reproached herself for the frankness with which she had received strangers, believing them to be friends of her lover. Casting a helpless glance at him, she looked down, blushed and retreated to a distant part of the room, where she seated herself.

“Pray, madame, excuse our friend,” said Chicot, seeing the confusion of Gabrielle at such unexpected familiarity; “he is a Spaniard, only newly arrived in France; he is quite unacquainted with the usages of the country.”

“By the mass!” cried Bellegarde, evidently ill at ease, and placing himself in front of his love, “Spaniard, indeed! I, for my part, know no country in the world where gentlemen are permitted, thus uninvited, to salute the ladies—at least, in civilised latitudes. It is well Mademoiselle’s father was not present.”

His annoyance was, however, quite lost on the Don, who, his eyes fixed in bold admiration on Gabrielle, did not heed it.

“Bellegarde,” said Gabrielle, blushing to her forehead, seeing his deeply-offended look, “excuse this stranger, I entreat, for my sake; I am sure he meant no offence. Let not the joy I feel at seeing you be overcast by this little occurrence.” And she rose, advanced to where he stood, looked fondly at him, and took his hand in both of hers.

This appeal was enough. Bellegarde, though anxious, was no longer angry, and, upon Gabrielle’s invitation, the party seated themselves, Gabrielle placing herself beside Bellegarde.

“This gentleman, madame,” said Chicot, turning towards Gabrielle, “whose admiration of you has led him to offend, is our prisoner; he surrendered to us yesterday in the mÊlÉe at Marly, and, his ransom paid, to-morrow morning he will start to join the army of the Duke of Parma. Though somewhat hot-headed and wilful he is an excellent soldier; he knows how to behave in the battle-field, if his manners are otherwise too free,” and Chicot turned round his head and winked at Don Juan, who laughed.

“At least, gentlemen, now you are here,” said Gabrielle, “by whatever chance—and the chance must be good that brings you to me” (and her blue eyes turned towards Bellegarde)—“you will partake of some refreshment. I beg you to do so in the

name of Monsieur de Bellegarde, my affianced husband, my father being absent.”

“Fair lady,” said the Spaniard, breaking silence for the first time, and speaking in excellent French, “I never before rejoiced so much in being able to understand the French tongue as spoken by your dulcet voice; this is the happiest moment of my life, for it has introduced me to the fairest of your sex. I repeat it deliberately—the fairest of your sex;” and he looked significantly at Bellegarde. “I accept your invitation, readily. Were I fortunate enough to be your prisoner instead of the Captain’s, my ransom would never be paid, I warrant.”

“Cap de Dieu!” exclaimed Chicot, grinning from ear to ear, “the Spanish Dons well merit their reputation for gallantry, but our friend here, Don Juan, outdoes them all, and, indeed, every one of his nation.”

“Madame,” broke in the Spaniard, very red in the face and speaking with great vehemence, not appearing to hear this remark, and still addressing Gabrielle, on whom his eyes were riveted, “I declare if any one, be he noble or villein, knight or king, dare to say that any woman under God’s sun surpasses you in beauty or grace, I declare him to be false and disloyal, and with fitting opportunity I will prove, in more than words, that he lies to the teeth.”

“Come, come, my good friend,” interrupted Bellegarde, much discomposed, “do not, I beseech you, go into these heroics; you will alarm this lady. If you heat yourself in this way, the night air will give you cold. Besides, remember, SeÑor, this lady, Mademoiselle d’EstrÉes, is my affianced bride, and that certain conditions were made between us before I introduced you, which conditions you swore to observe”; and Bellegarde looked reproachfully at him.

Don Juan felt the implied reproof, and, for the first time since he had entered, moved his eyes to some other object than the smiling face of Gabrielle.

Her sisters now joined them. Although they much resembled her, and would have been comely in any other company, Gabrielle so far exceeded them as to throw them altogether into the shade. They were both immediately saluted with nearly equal warmth by the Spanish Don, who evidently would not reform his manners in this particular. Like Gabrielle, they were quite abashed and retreated to the farther side of the room.

“Let me tell you, ladies,” said Chicot, advancing towards them, “if you were to see our friend, Don Juan, in a justaucorps of satin and glittering with gold and precious stones, with a white panache in his velvet cap, you would not think he looked so much amiss. But are you going to give us nothing to eat? What has the Don done that he is to be starved? Though he be a Spaniard, and serves against Henry of Navarre, he is a Christian, and has a stomach like any other.”

On this hint the whole party adjourned to the eating-room. Gabrielle carefully avoided the Don and kept close to Bellegarde, who looked the picture of misery. Her sisters clung to her, Chicot was bursting with ill-suppressed laughter, and the Don was fully occupied in endeavouring to place himself beside Gabrielle, on whom his eyes were again intently fixed. At table, spite of Bellegarde’s manoeuvres, he contrived to place himself beside her. He eat and drank voraciously; perpetually proposed toasts in Gabrielle’s honour, and confused her to such a degree, that she heartily repented having invited him to remain, particularly as the annoyance of Bellegarde did not escape her. In this state of general misunderstanding, the merry Chicot again came to the rescue.

“Let us drink to the health of the King of France and Navarre!” cried he. “Come, Don Juan, forget your politics and join us: here’s prosperity and success to our gallant Henry—long may he live!”

“This is a toast we must drink standing and in chorus,” said Bellegarde, rising.

The Spaniard smiled.

“But why,” observed Gabrielle, “does Don Juan bear arms against the King of France if he is his partisan?”

“Fair lady, your remark is just,” replied the Don, “but the fortune of war drives a soldier into many accidents; however, I only wish all France was as much the King’s friend as I am.”

Chicot now took up a lute which lay near, tried the strings, and in a somewhat cracked voice sang the following song, wagging his head and winking at the Spaniard as he did so:—

“Long live the King! Vive Henri Quatre!” was drunk, with all the honours, in a chorus of applause. The Spaniard wiped a tear from his eye, and sat down without speaking.

“Cap de Dieu!” cried Chicot, “the right cause will triumph at last.”

“Yes,” replied Bellegarde, “sooner or later we shall see our brave King enter Paris and his noble palace of the Louvre in state; but meanwhile he must not fool away his time in follies and amours while the League is in strength.”

“There you speak truth,” said Chicot; “he is too much given to such games; he’s a very Sardanapalus: and,” continued he, squinting at the Don with a most comical expression, “if report speak true, at this very moment his Majesty is off on some adventure touching the rival beauty of certain ladies, to the manifest neglect of his Crown and the ruin of his affairs.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “if some second Agnes Sorel would but appear, and, making like her a noble use of the King’s love and her influence, incite him to conquer himself, to forsake all follies, and to devote his great talents in fighting heart and soul against the rebels and the League!”

“Alas!” sighed Don Juan, “those were the early ages; such love as that is not to be found now—it is a dream, a fantasy. Henry will find no Agnes Sorel in these later days.”

“Say not so, noble Don,” replied Gabrielle; “I for my part adore the King—I long to know him.”

The Spaniard’s eyes flashed, and Bellegarde started visibly.

“Love,” continued Gabrielle, flushing with excitement, “love is of all times and of all seasons. True love is immortal. But I allow that it is rare, though not impossible, to excite such a passion.”

“If it is a science to be learnt, will you teach me, fair lady?” asked the Spaniard tenderly.

At this turn in the conversation Bellegarde again became painfully agitated, and the subject dropped. The Don now addressed his conversation to the sisters of Gabrielle, and at their request took up the lute and sang an improvised song with considerable taste, in a fine manly voice, which gained for him loud applauses all around. The words were these:

Gabrielle looked, perhaps, a trifle too much pleased at the somewhat free admiration expressed in these verses, and spite of Bellegarde, approached the Don to thank him after he had finished.

“Lady, did my song please you?” said he softly, trying to kiss her hand. “If it had any merit you inspired me.”

“Yes,” replied she musingly. “You wished just now you were my prisoner. Had you been, I should long ago have freed you if you had sung to me like that, I am sure.”

“And why?” asked he.

“Because you have something in your voice I should have feared to hear too often,” said she in a low voice, lest Bellegarde should hear her.

“Then in that case I would always have remained your voluntary captive, ma belle.”

How long this conversation might have continued authorities do not state; but Bellegarde, now really displeased, approached the whispering pair, giving an indignant glance at Gabrielle and a look full of reproach at the Don.

“Come, come, Don Juan!” said he. “It is time to go. Where are our horses? The day wears on, we shall scarce reach the camp ere sundown.”

“Ventre Saint Gris!” said the Spaniard, starting, “there is surely no need for such haste.”

“Your promise,” muttered Bellegarde in his ear.

“Confound you, Bellegarde! You have introduced me into paradise, and now you drag me away just when the breath of heaven is warming me.” Don Juan looked broken-hearted at being obliged to leave, and cast the most loving glances towards Gabrielle and her handsome sisters.

“I opine we ought never to have come at all,” said Chicot, winking violently and looking at Gabrielle, who with downcast eyes evidently regretted the necessity of the Don’s departure.

“MÈre de Dieu!” muttered the latter to Bellegarde, “you are too hard thus to bind me to my cursed promise.”

“Gabrielle,” said Bellegarde, drawing her aside, and speaking in a low voice, “one kiss ere I go. You are my beloved—my other self, the soul of my soul. Adieu! This has been a miserable meeting. You have grieved me, love; but perhaps it is my own fault. I ought to have come alone. That Spaniard is disgusting”—Gabrielle turned her head away—“But I will soon return. In the meantime, a caution in your ear. If this same Don Juan comes again during my absence to pay you a second visit, send him off I charge you, by the love I know you bear me. Give him his congÉ without ceremony; hold no parley, I entreat you; he is a sad good-for-nothing, and would come with no good intentions. I could tell you more. He is——, but next time you shall hear all. Till then, adieu!”

“I will obey you, Bellegarde,” replied Gabrielle somewhat coldly; “but the Spaniard seems to me an honest gentleman, and looks born to command.”

The whole party then proceeded to the courtyard, where the three horses were waiting.

“Adieu, most adorable Gabrielle!” cried the Spaniard, vaulting first into the saddle. “Would to heaven I had never set eyes on you, or that, having seen you, I might gaze to eternity on that heavenly face.”

“Well,” said Bellegarde gaily, for his spirits rose as he saw the Spaniard ready to depart, “you need only wait until peace be made, and then I will present you at Court, Don Juan, where Madame la Duchesse de Bellegarde, otherwise La Belle Gabrielle, will shine fairest of the fair.”

“You are not married yet, Duke, however,” rejoined the Spaniard, looking back, “and remember, you must first have his Majesty’s leave and licence—not always to be got. Ha, ha, my friend, I have you there!” laughed the Don. “Adieu, then, once more, most beautiful ladies, adieu to you all! Bellegarde, you have gained your bet.”