YEARS have passed. The wars of the League are over, and Henry is undisputed master of France. He has proved himself a hero in a hundred battles, but has acquired nothing heroic in his appearance. Still in the prime of life, he has the keenest sense of enjoyment, the warmest heart, the old love of danger and contempt of consequences. His time is divided between hunting in the forest of Fontainebleau and the society of Gabrielle d’EstrÉes, and her little son CÆsar, created Duc de VendÔme.

Gabrielle has nominally been married to the Sieur de Liancourt, in accordance with court etiquette, which did not permit a single lady permanently to form part of a Court without a Queen. Henry has been severely commented on for this marriage mockery, for husband and wife parted at the church door. Gabrielle, who has been created Duchesse de Beaufort, is exceedingly unpopular. The divorce from “la reine Margot” is still incomplete, that obstinate princess objecting to conclude the needful formalities on the ground that Gabrielle is not of royal blood. Conquered by her prayers, her sweetness, and her devotion, Henry is still resolved to marry his lovely duchess. In vain he urges, threatens, and storms; the tyrant Queen will not consent. By Gabrielle’s advice he has become a Catholic. “Ma Gabrielle,” he writes from Paris, “I have yielded to your entreaties. I have spoken to the bishops; on Sunday I make the perilous leap. I kiss my angel’s hand.”

A strong political party opposed the marriage. Sully was dead against it. Gabrielle, it was argued, however fascinating and correct in conduct, was no match for Henry the Great. Besides, as being already the mother of two children by the King, a disputed succession would be certain. The Court of Rome had plans of its own, too, about the King’s marriage, and already the name of Marie de’ Medici had been mentioned as a fitting consort. The Pontiff himself favoured the match, and he alone could solve every difficulty with regard to the divorce. Sully looked askance at the excessive influence Gabrielle exercised over his master. The Florentine marriage was approved by him, and the negotiations had already begun. Marie de’ Medici fulfilled every requirement. She was young, beautiful, rich, and allied to the throne of France by her relative, Catherine de’ Medici. As long as Gabrielle lived there was no chance of inducing the King to consider seriously any other alliance. Must she die? Poor Gabrielle! there were not wanting foreign noblemen like MarÉchal d’Ornano, besides a host of low Italian usurers and Jews brought to France by Catherine de’ Medici—mere mushrooms who had acquired enormous wealth by pillaging the Court—who lent the King money and pandered to his desires, ready and willing to forward his marriage with a richly dowered princess, their countrywoman, even by a crime.

Gabrielle is at Fontainebleau. She expects the King, who is in Paris. An extraordinary depression, a foreboding of evil, overwhelms her. She knows but too well of the powerful party arrayed against her,—that Sully is her enemy, that the Pope is inflexible about granting the divorce, even if Marguerite de Valois should consent, which she will not whilst Gabrielle lives; she knows that all France is reluctant to receive her as its queen. But there is the King’s promise of marriage, repeated again and again with oaths of passionate fondness. Will he keep that promise of marriage? That is the question. She knows he loves her; but love is but an episode in the chequered life of a soldier-king. How many others has he not loved? How many promises of marriage has he not broken? True, she is always treated as his wife. She lodges in the apartments assigned to the Queen of France in the “Oval Court.” She is seated beside him on occasions of state; every favour she asks is granted, all who recommend themselves to her intercession are pardoned. The greatest ladies of the Court—the Duchesse de Guise and her witty daughter, the Duchesse de Retz, even the austere Duchesse de Sully—are proud to attend upon her. Bellegarde, the faithful Bellegarde, restored to favour, now her devoted servant, watches over her interests with ceaseless anxiety. Yet her very soul is heavy within her; her position is intolerable. After all, what is she but the mistress of the King? She shudders at the thought.

The season is spring. The trees are green; their tender foliage but lightly shades the formal walks ranged round a fountain in a little garden (still remaining) that Henry has made for her under the palace walls. The fountain, in the centre of a parterre of grass and flowers, catches the rays of the April sun, glitters for an instant in a flood of rainbow tints, then falls back in showers of spray into a marble basin supported by statues.

Gabrielle is dressed in a white robe; the long folds trail upon the ground. Her auburn hair, drawn off her face, is gathered into a coronet of gold; rich lace covers her bosom, and a high ruff rises from her shoulders; on her neck is a string of pearls, to which is attached a miniature of the King. With the years that have passed the bloom of youth is gone; the joyous expression of early days has died out of those soft pleading eyes. Lovely she is still; her complexion is delicately fair, and the pensive look in her face is touching to the last degree. Graceful and gracious as ever, there is a sedate dignity, a tempered reserve, in her address, befitting the royal station which awaits her.

She stops, sighs, then listens for the sound of horses’ feet. There is not a breath stirring, save the hum of insects about the fountain and the murmur of the breeze among the trees. She takes from her bosom a letter. It is in the King’s handwriting and shows manifest signs of having been often handled. She kisses the signature, and reads these words:—

A dreamy smile comes over her face. Again she raises her head to listen, and again hears nothing. Wearily she paces round and round the fountain, holding the letter still in her hands. Then she enters the palace by an arcaded corridor, and mounting a flight of steps, seats herself in the vestibule to await the King’s arrival. At length he enters the court named “The White Horse.” Gabrielle is on the terrace to receive him.

“You are late, Sire.”

“Yes, sweetheart. I thought I should never get here. The Seine was swollen and we had a saucy ferryman. Come hither, Gabrielle, and I will tell you what he said, while he pulled us across the river. He was a funny rogue.”

“Did he not know you then, Sire?”

“No. How should he in this grey doublet and with only a single gentleman? He asked me if we were gallants for the Court. I said yes, we were bound to Fontainebleau to hunt with the King. ‘People say we have a hero for a King,’ he said; ‘but, morbleu! this hero taxes everything. Even the very boat your excellency sits in is taxed. We will pay for him nevertheless; he is an honest King. But it is his mistress, folks say, who wants the money to pay for her fine gauds and dresses. She is but a plain gentlewoman born, after all. If she were a princess now, why then I’d forgive her.’ So you see, Gabrielle, when you are a queen, the people will love you and pay the taxes willingly.” And

Henry laughs and looks at Gabrielle, who has changed colour; but the King does not observe it and continues his story. “‘Sirrah,’ I said to him, ‘you malign a charming lady.’ ‘Devil take her!’ replied the churlish ferrymen; ‘I wish she were in heaven.’ So I rode away without paying my toll. The fellow bellowed after me, and ran, but could not catch me. We will call this drÔle hither, and divert ourselves with him.”

As Henry proceeds with his story, Gabrielle’s look of pain has deepened.

“I pray your Majesty to do nothing of the kind,” she answers sharply; “I do not love coarse jokes.” Henry looks at her with surprise.

“I am wretched enough already, heaven knows, without being mocked by the ribaldry of a low bargeman, who, after all, has reason for what he says. Why did you tell me this story, Henry?” she adds in a plaintive tone, bursting into tears. “Am I not degraded enough already?”

“How, Gabrielle, this from you? when, spite of every obstacle, within a few weeks you will be crowned my queen?”

A knock is now heard at the door, and Sully enters. He looks hot and surly. He barely salutes the King, and scowls at Gabrielle, who instantly retreats to the farther corner of the room. Sully wears a threadbare doublet, his grey hair is uncombed over his forehead, and he carries some papers in his hand.

“Sire,” he says, addressing the King abruptly and unfolding these papers, “if you pass this document, you had better declare yourself at once the husband of her grace there, the Duchesse de Beaufort.” Sully points at Gabrielle, who cowers in the corner.

Poor Gabrielle is thunderstruck, and trembles at the certainty of a violent scene. She had often had to bear at different times roughness, and even rudeness, from Sully, but such language as this she had never heard. What does it mean?

The King takes the papers in his hand.

“What are these, Sully?” he says, looking grave. “Bills for the entertainment given by the Duchesse de Beaufort for the baptism of my second son, Alexandria, son of France, eight thousand francs! Impossible! Baptismal fees for a son of France? There is no son of France. I wish to God there were! What does all this mean, Sully?”

“It means, Sire, that if you sign that paper, I shall leave the Court.”

“Come, come, my good Rosny, you forget that the Duchess is present”; and he glances at Gabrielle, who lay back on the arm-chair, weeping bitterly.

“No, Sire; I mean what I say. My advice is disregarded; I am superseded by a council of women”; and he turns fiercely towards the Duchesse. “The nation groans under heavy taxes. Complaints reach me from every quarter. What am I to do, if the revenues are squandered like this?”

Gabrielle’s sobs had now become audible. Henry, still holding the paper, looks greatly perplexed.

“The amount is certainly enormous. Some enemy of her grace must have done this. Tell me, Gabrielle, you cannot have sanctioned it? There are no ‘sons of France.’ Say to me, Gabrielle, that you were ignorant of all this.”

Gabrielle neither speaks nor moves, save that she shakes with sobs. Sully gazes at her with a cynical air as of a man who would not be deceived.

“You see, Rosny,” whispers the King into his ear, “that she does not govern me, much as I love her. You do me wrong to say so.” Sully shrugged his shoulders. “No, she shall not control you, who only live for my service. I must make her feel that I am displeased. Speak, Gabrielle,” he continues aloud, in a voice which he endeavours to make severe, “speak.” Receiving no answer he turns away with affected unconcern. Yet in spite of his words, he glances over his shoulder to watch her. Had Sully not been present, he would have flown to her on the spot and yielded. This Sully well knew; so he did not stir.

There is an awkward pause. Horrible suspicions rush into Gabrielle’s mind. That strange story of the ferryman and the taxes; Sully’s audacious language; the King’s coldness: it could only mean one thing, and as this conviction comes over her, her heart dies within her.

“Sire,” she answers at last, suppressing her sobs as she best could and approaching where Henry stood, affecting not to notice her, “I see that you have permitted the Duc de Sully to come here in order to insult me. You want to abandon me, Sire. Say so frankly; it is more worthy of you. But remember that I am not here by my own wish, save for the love I bear you.” As she utters these words her voice nearly failed her; but by a strong effort she continues, “No one can feel more forlorn than I do. Your Majesty has promised me marriage against the advice of your ministers. This scene is arranged between you to justify you in breaking your sacred word, else you could never allow the lady whom you design for so high an honour to be thus treated in your very presence.”

Henry, placed between Sully and Gabrielle, is both angry and embarrassed. Her bitter words have stung him to the quick. He knows that she has no cause to doubt his loyalty.

“Pardieu, madame, you have made me a fine speech. You talk all this nonsense to make me dismiss Rosny. If I must choose between you, let me tell you, Duchesse, I can part with you better than with him.” Gabrielle turns very pale, and clings to a chair for support. “Come, Rosny, we will have a ride in the forest, and leave the Duchesse to recover her usually sweet temper”; and without one look at her, Henry strode towards the door.

These bitter words are more than his gentle mistress can bear. With a wild scream she rushes forward, and falls flat upon the floor at the King’s feet. Henry, greatly moved, gathers her up tenderly in his arms. Even the stern Sully relents. He looks at her sorrowfully, shakes his head, collects his papers, and departs.

The Holy-week is at hand. Gabrielle, who is to be crowned within a month, is to communicate and keep her Easter publicly at Paris, while the King remains at Fontainebleau. An unaccountable terror of Paris and a longing desire not to leave the King overwhelm her. Again and again she alters the hour of her departure. She takes Henry’s hand and wanders with him to the Orangery, to the lake where the carp are fed, to the fountain garden, and to the Salle de Diane, which he is building. She cannot tear herself from him. She speaks much to him of their children, and commends them again and again to his love. She adjures him not to forget her during her absence.

“Why! ma belle des belles!” exclaims the King, “one would think you were going round the world; remember, in ten days I shall join you in Paris, and then my Gabrielle shall return to Fontainebleau as Queen of France. I have ordered that bon diable Zametti, to receive you at Paris as though you were already crowned.”

Now Zametti was an Italian Jew from Genoa, who had originally come to France in the household of Catherine de’ Medici, as her shoemaker. He had served her and all her sons in that capacity, until Henry III., amused by his jests, and perceiving him to be a man of no mean talents, gave him a place in the Customs. Zametti’s fortune was made, and he became henceforth usurer and money-lender in chief to the reigning monarch.

“I love not Zametti,” replies Gabrielle, shuddering. “I wish I were going to my aunt, Madame de Sourdis, she always gives me good advice. Cannot your Majesty arrange that it should be so still?”

“It is too late, sweetheart. I do not like Madame de Sourdis; she is not a fitting companion for my Gabrielle. Zametti has, by my orders, already prepared his house for your reception, and certain parures for your approval; besides, what objection can you have to Zametti, the most courteous and amusing of men?”

“Alas! Henry, I cannot tell; but I dread him. I would I were back again. I feel as though I were entering a tomb. I am haunted by the most dismal fancies.”

She drives through the forest accompanied by the King, who rides beside her litter, attended by the Ducs de Retz, Roquelaure, Montbazon, and the MarÉchal d’Ornano, to MÉlun, where a royal barge awaits her, attended by a flotilla of boats decorated with flags and streamers in the Venetian style. Here they take a tender farewell; again and again Gabrielle throws herself upon the King’s neck and whispers through her tears that they will never meet again. Henry laughs, but, seeing her agitation, would have accompanied her and have braved the religious prejudices of the Parisians, had it not been for the entreaties of D’Ornano. Almost by force is he restrained. Gabrielle embarks; he stands watching her as the barge is towed rapidly through the stream; one more longing, lingering look she casts upon him, then disappears from his sight. Downcast and sorrowful the King rides back to Fontainebleau.

All night long Gabrielle is towed up the river. She arrives at Paris in the morning. Zametti, the Italian usurer and jeweller, with a numerous suite of nobles and attendants, is waiting on the quay to receive her. She is carried to Zametti’s house, or rather palace, for it was a princely abode, near the Arsenal, in the new quarter of Paris then called the Marais.

Here unusual luxuries await her, such as were common only in Italy and among Italian princes: magnificent furniture, embroidered stuffs, delicious perfumes, rich dishes. She rests through the day (the evening having been passed in the company of the Duchesse de Guise and her daughter), and the first night she sleeps well. Next day she rises early and goes to church. Before she leaves the house, Zametti presents her with a highly decorated filigree bottle, containing a strong perfume.

Before the service is over she faints. She is carried back and placed, by her own desire, in Zametti’s garden, under a tuft of trees. She calls for refreshments. Again in the garden she sinks back insensible. This time it is very difficult to revive her. When she recovers, she is undressed and orders a litter to be instantly prepared to bear her to her aunt’s house, which is situated near Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, close to the Louvre.

In the meantime her head aches violently, but she is carried to her aunt’s, where she is put to bed. Here she lies with her sweet eyes wide open and turned upward, her beautiful face livid, and her mouth distorted. In her anguish she calls incessantly for the King. He cannot come, for it is Holy-week, which he must pass out of her company. She tries to write to him, to tell him of her condition. The pen drops from her hand. A letter from him is given her; she cannot read it. Convulsions come on, and she expires insensible.

That she died poisoned is certain. Poisoned either by the subtle perfume in the filigree bottle, or by some highly flavoured dish of Zametti’s Italian cuisine.