AFTER this meeting Don Juan soon contrived to return, and the lady, forgetful of her lover’s advice, received him. This was sufficient encouragement for so audacious a cavalier, and an intimacy sprang up between them ending in a confession of his being the King. Gabrielle was charmed, for she had always been his devoted partisan. What at first appeared bold and free in his manner she now ascribed to a proper sense of his own rank, born as he was to command and to be obeyed. Their romantic introduction and the disguise he had condescended to assume on that occasion captivated her imagination almost as much as his unbounded admiration of her person flattered her vanity. Henry, too, was a fit subject for devoted loyalty at that time, closely beset as he was by the troops of the League, unable to enter Paris, and only maintaining his ground by prodigies of valour and the most heroic perseverance.

Should she, then, be unkind, and repulse him, when he vowed to her, on his knees, that his only happy moments were spent in her society? The image of Bellegarde grew fainter and fainter; their meetings became colder and more unsatisfactory. He reproached her for her unbecoming encouragement of a libertine monarch; Gabrielle defended herself by declaring that her heart was her own, and that she might bestow it where she thought proper. As yet, however, there had been no formal rupture between them. Bellegarde loved the fascinating girl too fondly to renounce her lightly; and she herself, as yet undecided, hesitated before resigning a man whose attachment was honourable and legitimate, and whose birth and position were brilliant, to receive the dubious addresses of a married monarch. True, the shameful excesses of Marguerite de Valois, his Queen, excused and almost exonerated the King; Henry urged this circumstance with passionate eloquence, promising Gabrielle, spite of state reasons, to marry her as soon as, settled on the throne, he had leisure legally to prove the scandalous conduct of his wife and to obtain a papal divorce. This, to a vain and beautiful woman like Gabrielle, was a telling argument.

Still, Gabrielle had not broken with Bellegarde; she delighted to irritate the passion of the King by yet professing some love for her old admirer. At times she refused to see Henry at all, and actually went on a visit to her aunt, Madame de Sourdis, without even bidding him adieu. This coquetry made the King desperate. He was so overcome at her sudden departure, that he was ready, according to his habit, to promise anything she asked. The difficulty was how to reach her, for he must start from Mantes, at the gravest risk, passing through two outposts and seven leagues of open country occupied by the League. But now he was wrought up to such a pass that he was ready to sacrifice his Crown or his head to win her. As soon, therefore, as he ascertained that Gabrielle had returned to Coeuvres he swore a solemn oath to see her or die. The country was covered with troops; alone he dared not venture; with attendants he compromised his beloved. Such obstacles were maddening. At last he decided to set forth on horseback, accompanied only by a few devoted followers. With this escort he rode four leagues through the most dangerous part of the route, then left them at a certain spot to await his return. Towards Coeuvres he wandered on alone until he found a roadside house. There he offered a peasant some gold pieces to lend him a suit of clothes, in order, as he told the man, the more safely to deliver some letters of importance to the Seigneur of Coeuvres. The peasant readily consented to his proposal. In those boisterous days of internecine warfare nothing of this kind caused astonishment, spies, in every species of disguise, continually passing to and fro between the two armies. So Henry IV., in the garb of a peasant, pushed on alone.

The day was fast falling, deep shadows gathered in the forest and around the castle. Gabrielle sat within in the twilight embroidering a scarf. She was thinking over all the difficulties of her position, divided as she was between regard for the generous Bellegarde and her passion each day growing stronger for the King. Suddenly her maid Louise came into the room and begged her, as she had passed all day in the house, to take a little fresh air.

“Come, madame, while there is yet a little light; come, at least, to the balcony that looks out over the terrace, where the breeze is so pleasant, and see the sun set over the tree-tops.”

“No, no,” replied Gabrielle, shaking her head sadly. “Leave me alone. I have enough to think

about, and I want to finish my scarf, or it will not be done by the time I promised Bellegarde. Besides I do not fancy open balconies in the month of November; it is too cold.”

“Oh! but,” pleaded Louise, “the day has been so splendid—like summer in the forest. Pray come, madame.”

“Why do you plague me so? I never remember your great desire for open air before.” And Gabrielle rose. She was no sooner on the balcony, watching the last streaks of golden light glittering among the branches and lighting up the plain beyond in a ruddy mist, than all at once she heard a rustling noise, and on looking down saw, just under the balcony, on the grass-plot, a peasant on a horse, laden with a bundle of straw.

The peasant stopped and gazed at her for some time, then, throwing away the straw, he flung himself from his horse and fell on his knees before her, clasping his hands, as if about to worship at some shrine.

Juliette, Gabrielle’s sister, now joined her on the balcony. Readier-witted than she, Juliette whispered—

“Gabrielle, it is the King—he is disguised!”

Louise burst into a loud laugh at their surprise and ran away. It was now apparent why she was so anxious to make Gabrielle go on the balcony to see the sun set. Gabrielle had not dreamt of seeing the King, who was reported to be encamped at some distance. Her first feeling was one of anger for his utter want of dignity. To kneel on the wet grass, and in the dress of a peasant! Besides, this disguise was most unbecoming to him. He looked positively hideous.

Juliette retired, and Gabrielle was left standing alone on the balcony before the King. As yet she had not spoken.

“What! not a word to greet me?” cried Henry, rising. “Why, vrai Dieu, many a lady of our Court would have flung herself down headlong to welcome me, and never cared if she broke her neck! Come, belle des belles, look down graciously upon your devoted slave, whose only desire is to die at your feet.”

“Sire,” replied Gabrielle, “for heaven’s sake go away. Return to Mantes, and never let me see you again so vilely dressed. Always wear your white panache and your scarlet mantle when you come. Without it you are not Henre Quatre. Better stay away altogether, for you know well your enemies are prowling about in this neighbourhood. Besides, who can tell? Bellegarde may come. Pray, I entreat you, go away directly.”

“Ma foi!” replied the King, “let them come, Leaguers or Spaniards, Bellegarde or the devil, what care I, if La Belle Gabrielle looks kindly on me? Come down to me, Gabrielle.”

“Kind I will certainly not be if your Majesty do not at once depart. Kneeling in that manner is too ridiculous. I will not come down. I shall go away. I am no saint to be prayed to, heaven knows. If your Majesty won’t remount, I shall really go away.”

“You could not have the heart, Gabrielle,” replied Henry, “when I have run such risks to see you for a moment.”

His horse stood by cropping the grass. The King leaving the bundle of straw on the ground, sprang into the saddle without even touching the stirrup, and again addressed her. She was terrified at the idea of being surprised by any one, especially Bellegarde, who would have been so incensed, that he might have forgotten himself towards his Majesty.

For a moment Gabrielle was overcome. Tears came into her eyes out of sheer vexation and fear of consequences, both to him, who might fall into an ambuscade, and to herself. As she lifted up her hands to wipe the tears away, the scarf she had been embroidering, and which she still held, slipped out of her hand, and borne by the wind, after fluttering for a few moments, dropped on the King, who, catching it, exclaimed—

“Ventre Saint Gris! what have we here?”

“Oh, Sire!” cried Gabrielle, “it is my work—a scarf; it is all but finished, and now I have dropped it.”

“By all the rules of war, fair lady,” said Henry, “what falls from the walls of a besieged city belongs to the soldier; so, by your leave, dear Gabrielle, the scarf is mine; I will wear it.”

“Oh!” replied she, leaning over the balcony, “do give it me back; it is for Monsieur de Bellegarde, and he knows it. Should he see your Majesty with it, what will he think? He would never believe but that I gave it to you.”

“By the mass! it is too good for him; I will keep it without any remorse, and cover with a thousand kisses these stitches woven by your delicate fingers.”

“But, indeed, Sire, it is promised—Monsieur de Bellegarde will ask me for it; what am I to say?”

“Bellegarde shall never have it, I promise you. Tell him that, like Penelope, you undid in the night what you worked in the day. Come, come, now, Gabrielle, confess you are not in reality so much attached to Bellegarde as you pretend, and that if I can prove to you he is unworthy of your love and inconstant into the bargain, you will promise to give me his place in your heart. Besides, his position is unworthy of your beauty; there is but one ornament worthy of that snowy brow—Bellegarde cannot place it there; but I know another able and willing, when the cursed League is dispersed, to give that finishing touch to your loveliness.”

“Sire,” replied she, “I must not listen to what you say. I cannot believe anything against Bellegarde; I have known him all my life, and he has never deceived me. Nothing but the most positive evidence shall convince me that he is false.”

“How now? Saints et Saintes! you doubt my word—the word of a king! But, Gabrielle, I can give you proofs, be assured.”

“Oh, Sire, it is not for me to talk of proofs or to reproach him. Poor Bellegarde! my heart bleeds when I think of him.” Her head fell upon her bosom; again the tears gathered in her eyes. Then she looked up, and becoming aware all at once that it had grown quite dusk, she forgot every other feeling in fear for the King’s safety. “Sire, go away, I implore you, return to your quarters as fast as your horse can carry you. If I have been cold, remember what you are risking—your life and my good name! for you will be seen by some one.”

“Gabrielle, do you drive me away thus, when to leave you costs me such a pang! Heaven knows when this war will allow us again to meet! I never know from day to day but that some rebel of a Leaguer may finish me by a stray shot; much less do I know where or how I may be. The present is all I have—let me enjoy it.”

“Ah, Sire! only put down that atrocious League, and we will meet when you please. I shall offer up no end of prayers that it may be so.”

“Whatever comes out of those ruby lips will not fail of being heard; as to your slave Henry, the very knowledge that such a divinity stoops to interest herself in his fate will serve as a talisman to shield him from every danger.”

“Your Majesty speaks like a poet,” and a soft laugh was heard out of the darkness. “Now adieu, Sire! I wish you a safe journey wherever you go, and may you prevail against your foes. When you see Monsieur de Bellegarde, assure him of my love.”

“Ungrateful Gabrielle! thus to trifle with me. But I have proofs, vrai Dieu! I have proofs that shall cure you of that attachment.”

“Sire, why should you seek to make me unhappy? You know that for years I have been engaged to Bellegarde, and that I look forward to my marriage with the utmost delight. Why, then, endeavour to separate us?”

“Par exemple, ma belle, you give me credit for being vastly magnanimous, upon my word! What then, Gabrielle, would you have me resign you without a struggle?—nay, am I expected to bring about your marriage with a rival? That is a little too much, forsooth!”

“Nenni, Sire; I only ask you not to prevent it. Such artifice would be unworthy so generous a monarch to a faithful servant like poor Bellegarde, to whom I am—” and she could not help again laughing, so dismal was the look of the King—“to whom I am bound in all honour. Then there is your Majesty’s wife, the Queen of Navarre—for, Sire, you seem to forget that you have a wife.”

“Yes, as I have a Crown, which I am never to wear. That infernal Marguerite is keeping her state with a vengeance, and forgetting, par Dieu, she has a husband. The people of Usson, in Auvergne, call shame on her; they know what she is better than I do.”

“Sire, I beg of you to speak at least with respect of Madame Marguerite de France.”

“Why should I not be frank with you, ma belle, at least? Ah, Margot, la reine Margot, À la bonne heure! I only wish she were in her coffin at Saint-Denis along with her brothers. I shall be quit of a wife altogether until I enter Paris, and then we shall see—we shall see who will be crowned with me. But, mignonne, I must indeed bid you adieu. Morbleu! my people will think I am lost, and besiege the chÂteau. Adieu until I can next come. I will write to you in the meantime. Remember to forget Bellegarde, as you value the favour of your Sovereign.”

And kissing the scarf he had stolen from her, the King put spurs to his horse and galloped away into the darkness.

Gabrielle d’EstrÉes followed his pernicious counsel but too readily, as the sequel will show. Unable to resist the continued blandishments of the King, and silencing her conscience by a belief in his promise of marriage, she sacrificed her lover, the Duc de Bellegarde, sincerely and honourably attached to her for many years and whom she had once really loved, for the sake of the gallant but licentious Henry. She followed the King to Mantes, in company with her father, whom the King made General of Artillery and loaded with honours. After this Henry would not hear of her returning to the ChÂteau of Coeuvres, a place, he said, too remote and difficult of access. He finally prevailed on her to accompany him to the camp at Saint-Germain.

The Duc de Bellegarde was banished.

In the autumn she was still at Saint-Germain, where the King, in his brief intervals of leisure, showed more and more delight in her society.

One day he entered Gabrielle’s apartment, and dismissing his attendants sank into a chair without saying a word. He heaved a deep sigh. Gabrielle looked up at him, wondering at his silence—she perceived that he was weeping. Surprised at his emotion, she asked him, with an offended air, if the sight of her had caused those tears, for if such were the case she would go back to the Castle of Coeuvres, if it so pleased his Majesty.

“Mignonne,” replied Henry very gravely, taking her hand and kissing it, “it is indeed you who are partly the cause of my grief, but not because you are here. Seeing you makes me envy the happiness of the poorest peasant in my dominions, living on bread and garlic, who has the woman he loves beside him, and is his own master. I am no king, I am nothing but a miserable slave, jostled between Calvinists and Catholics, who both distrust me.”

“Come, come, Sire, dismiss these fancies, at least while you are with me,” answered she.

“On the contrary, Gabrielle, it is the sight of you that recalls them. You have escaped from the control of a father to live with me, while my chains press about me tighter than ever. I cannot, I dare not break them,—and be wholly yours. You gain and I lose—that is all.”

“Sire,” said she, sadly, “I am not sure of that. Women, I believe, are best in the chains you speak of. I shall see. If I have gained, you will keep your promise to me. I am not so certain of it; all I know is, whatever has been or is to be, that I love you,” and she turned her languishing blue eyes full upon him.

“Gabrielle, I swear I will keep my promise. Does not every act of my life prove my devotion?”

“Well then, Sire, succeed in putting down that odious League, march on to Paris, and I shall be happy. To see you crowned and anointed at Rheims I would give my life!”

“Never fear, sweet; this will come about shortly. I am certain. There, are, however, more difficulties than you are aware of. If I become a Catholic, as all my nobles wish me to do—and beautiful France is well worth a mass—then the Calvinists will at once reorganise this cursed League; and, if I persist in my faith, which my poor mother reared me up to love sincerely—why then I shall be forsaken by all the Catholics; a fact they take care to remind me of every day of my life. Vrai Dieu! I only wish I were once again Prince of Navarre, free and joyous, fighting and hunting, dancing and jousting, without an acre of land, as I was formerly.”

“Sire, all will be well; be more sanguine, I entreat you. If my poor words have any power over you,” she added, encouragingly, “dismiss such gloomy thoughts. Believe me, the future has much in store for you and for me.”

“Ah! dear Gabrielle, when I am far away over mountains and valleys, separated from those lovely eyes that now beam so brightly on me, I feel all the torments of jealousy. Away from you, happiness is impossible.”

“Well, Sire, if it is only my presence you want, I will follow you to the end of the world—I will go anywhere;” Gabrielle spoke with impassioned ardour.

“Ma mie! it is this love alone that enables me to bear all the anxieties and troubles that surround me on every side. I value it more than the Crown of France; but this very love of yours, entire as I believe it to be, is the one principal cause of my misery.”

“How can that be?” answered she caressingly; “I love you—I will ever be constant, I swear it solemnly, Henry.”

“Yes,” replied he thoughtfully, “but I have promised you marriage—you must sit beside me as Queen of France. Do you forget that I have the honour of being the husband of a queen—the sister of three defunct monarchs—the most abandoned, the most disgraceful, the most odious——”

“Sire, you need not think about her; you are not obliged to be a witness of her disorders. Let her enjoy all her gallantries at the Castle of Usson. You can easily divorce her when you please——and then nothing can part us.”

“Ventre Saint Gris! cursed be the demon who dishonours me by calling herself my wife! that wretch who prevents my marrying the angel whom I love so entirely—your own sweet self!”

“Henry, my heart at least is yours.”

“Yes, dearest; but not more mine than I am yours eternally—and I would recompense your love as it deserves. But know, Gabrielle, that Marguerite de Valois absolutely refuses to consent to a divorce that I may marry you. She declares she acts in my interests; but I believe her odious pride is offended at being succeeded by a gentlewoman of honest and ancient lineage, a thousand times better than all the Valois that ever lived, a race born of the Devil, I verily believe. I have threatened her with a state trial; the proofs against her are flagrant. She knows that she would in that case be either beheaded or imprisoned for life. Not even that shakes her resolve, so inveterate is she against our union.”

“Alas! poor lady—did she ever love you?”

“Not a whit; she was false from the beginning. Let us speak of her no more,” said the King, rising and walking up and down the room. Then stopping opposite Gabrielle, who, dismayed at what she heard, sat with her face buried in her hands, he asked her, “How about Bellegarde?”

Gabrielle shrank back, then looked up at him.

“Are you sure he is entirely banished from your remembrance?”

“As much as if I had never known him,” replied she promptly.

“I depend upon your pledge of meeting him no more, because, good-natured as I am—and I am good natured, Par Dieu!—I am somewhat choleric and hot (God pardon me), and if by chance I ever surprised you together, why, vrai Dieu, if I had my sword I might be sorry for the consequences.”

“Sire, there is no danger; you may wear your sword for me. If such a thing ever occurred, it is I who would deserve to die.”

“Well, ma mie, I must draw the trenches nearer the walls of Paris. In my absence remain at Mantes,” said Henry. “Then I must advance upon Rouen. I expect a vigorous resistance, and God only knows how it will end. I leave all in your care, and invest you, fair Gabrielle, with the same power as if you were really queen. Would to heaven you were—confound that devil of a Margot! I will return to you as often as I can, and write constantly. Now I must say that sad word, adieu. Adieu! adieu! ma mie.”

Gabrielle consoled the King as best she could, and after much ado he took his departure, always repeating, “adieu, ma mie.”

After he had passed down the great gallery, Gabrielle rushed to one of the windows overlooking the entrance, to catch the last sight of him. She saw him vault on horseback, and ride down the hill with a brilliant retinue; that excellent creature, Chicot the jester, as faithful as Achates, but whom he had the misfortune soon after to lose, close at his side.