CHAPTER VI
DIANE DE CASTRO
Diane de Castro, whose acquaintance we made when she was yet a mere child, was now almost eighteen years old. Her beauty had fulfilled all its promise, and had developed in regularity and charm at the same time; the predominant expression of her sweet and lovely face was one of childlike openness and honesty. Diane de Castro in character and in mind was still the child whom we first knew. She was not yet thirteen when the Duc de Castro, whom she had never seen since the day she was married to him, had been killed at the siege of Hesdin. The king had sent the child-widow to pass her mourning period at the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris; and Diane had found such warm affection and such pleasant customs there that she had asked her father's permission to remain with the kind sisters and her companions until he should be ready to make some other disposition of her. One could but respect such a devout request; and Henri had not taken Diane from the convent until about a month before, when the Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the preponderance acquired by the Guises in the government, had solicited and obtained for his son the hand of the daughter of the king and his favorite.
During the mouth she had passed at court, Diane had not failed at once to attract universal respect and admiration. "For," says Brantôme, in his work on famous women, "she was very kind, and did nothing to offend anybody; and yet her spirit was very noble and high, and she was very obliging and discreet, and most virtuous." But her virtue, which shone forth so pure and lovely amid the general wickedness of the time, was entirely free from any touch of austerity or harshness. One day some man remarked in her hearing that a daughter of France ought to be valiant and strong, and that her shyness smacked somewhat of the cloister, whereupon she learned to ride in a very few days, and there was no cavalier who was so fearless and dashing a rider as she. After that she always went with the king to the chase; and Henri yielded more and more to her charming way of seeking, without the least pretence for any occasion, however trifling, of anticipating his wishes and making herself agreeable to him. So Diane was granted the privilege of entering her father's apartments whenever she chose, and she was always sure of a welcome. Her touching grace, her modest ways, and the odor of sweet maidenliness and innocence which one seemed to breathe when she was near, even to her smile, which was the least bit sad, combined to make her perhaps the most exquisite and ravishing figure of that whole court, which could boast of so many dazzling beauties.
"Well, my darling," said Henri, "now I am ready to hear what you have to tell me. There's eleven o'clock striking. The marriage ceremony at St. Germain l'Auxerrois is not to be performed till noon, so that I have half an hour to give you, and no more. These are the pleasant moments of my life that I pass with you."
"Sire, what a kind and indulgent father you are!"
"Oh, no, but I love you dearly, my precious child; and I desire with all my heart to do something that will gratify you, so long as I do not thereby prove false to the grave interests of state which a king must always consider before any natural ties. And now, Diane, to prove it to you, I will first of all give you my answer to the two requests you made of me. Good Sister Monique, who loved you and watched over you at your convent of the Filles-Dieu, has been appointed at your recommendation Lady Abbess of the convent of Origny at St. Quentin."
"Oh, how grateful I am, Sire!"
"As for brave Antoine, your favorite servant at Vimoutiers, he will draw a handsome pension from our treasury for life. I am very sorry, Diane, that Enguerrand is no longer alive. We should have liked to show our gratitude in kingly style to the worthy squire who brought up our dear daughter Diane so happily; but you lost him last year, I think, and he has not even left an heir."
"Sire, you are too generous and kind really."
"And more than that, Diane, here are the letters-patent which make you Duchesse d'Angoulême. And this is not a fourth part of what I should like to do for you; for I see that you are sometimes thoughtful and sad, and that is why I was in haste to talk with you, because I longed to comfort you, or to cure your sorrow. What is it, my dear? Aren't you happy?"
"Ah, Sire," replied Diane, "how can I help being happy, being thus surrounded by your love and your continual kindness? I only long for one thing, and that is that the present, so full of happiness, may continue. The future, fine and glorious as it may be, will never equal it."
"Diane," said Henri, in a grave voice, "you know that I took you from the convent to give your hand to François de Montmorency. It would be a grand match, Diane; and yet this alliance, which, I don't conceal from you, would have been of great advantage to the interests of my crown, seems to be very distasteful to you. You owe me at least your reasons for this refusal, which troubles me so, Diane."
"Surely I will not hide them from you, my Father. And in the first place," said Diane, with some embarrassment, "I have been told that François de Montmorency has already been secretly married to Mademoiselle de Fiennes, one of the queen's ladies."
"It is true," replied the king; "but this marriage, contracted clandestinely, without the constable's consent and mine, is rightfully void; and if the Pope decrees a divorce, you certainly, Diane, will not show yourself more exacting than his Holiness. So if this is your only reason—"
"But there is another, dear Father."
"And what is it, pray? How can an alliance which would be esteemed an honor by the highest-born and wealthiest heiresses in France work ill to you?"
"Why, Father, because—because I love some one else," cried Diane, throwing herself, confused and weeping, into her father's arms.
"You love some one, Diane?" repeated Henri, amazed; "and what might be the name of this favored individual?"
"Gabriel, Sire."
"Gabriel what?" asked the king, smiling at her.
"I have no idea, Father."
"How can that be, Diane? In Heaven's name, explain yourself!"
"I will tell you everything, Sire. It is an attachment of my childhood's days. I used to see Gabriel every day He was so courteous and obliging and gallant and handsome and clever and affectionate! He used to call me his little wife. Ah, Sire, do not laugh; it was a very serious and holy sentiment, and the first that ever made its impression on my heart. Other attachments may take their places beside it, but can never destroy it. And yet I allowed myself to be married to the Duc Farnèse, Sire, but it was because I knew not what I did; because I was forced into it, and obeyed blindly like the little girl that I was. Since then I have lived and learned, and have come to understand of what treachery I was guilty to Gabriel. Poor Gabriel! when he left me he didn't shed a tear, but what unutterable sadness there was in the look he gave me! All this has come back to me with the happy memories of my childhood during the lonely years that I passed at the convent. And thus I have lived each of the years that I was with Gabriel twice over,—in fact and in fancy, in reality and in my dreams. And since I have returned to court here, Sire, I have seen among the accomplished gentlemen who surround you like another crown not one who can compare with Gabriel; and François, the obsequious son of the haughty constable, will never make me forget the proud and gentle companion of my young days. And so, dear Father, now that I realize what I did and its effect, I shall remain true to Gabriel so long as you leave me free."
"Have you ever seen him since you left Vimoutiers, Diane?"
"Alas, no, Father!"
"But you must have heard from him at least?"
"Not a word. I simply know from Enguerrand that he left the province after my departure; he told Aloyse, his nurse, that he would never come back until he had made himself an honorable and dreaded name, and that she need not be anxious about him. And with that he left her, Sire."
"And have his family never heard aught of him?" asked the king.
"His family?" repeated Diane. "I never knew of his having any other family than Aloyse, Father; and I never saw any relatives of his when I went with Enguerrand to pay a visit at Montgommery."
"At Montgommery!" cried Henri, while the color fled from his face. "Diane, Diane, I trust he is not a Montgommery! Tell me, for Heaven's sake, that he is not a Montgommery!"
"Oh, no, indeed, Sire for if he had been, he surely would have lived at the château, whereas he lived with Aloyse, his nurse, in her modest dwelling. But what have the counts of Montgommery ever done to you, Sire, to move you to such an extent? Are they enemies of yours? In their province they are mentioned only with the deepest respect."
"Of course, that is true!" said the king, with a nervous, disdainful laugh; "and they have done nothing to me, nothing at all, Diane! What could a Montgommery do to a Valois, pray? But to return to this Gabriel of yours. Was it not Gabriel that you called him?"
"Yes."
"And he had no other name?"
"No other that I know of, Sire; he was an orphan like me, and no one ever mentioned his father in my presence."
"And you have no other objection to make, Diane, to this projected alliance with Montmorency, except your former affection for this young man? No other at all, have you?"
"That one is enough; so my heart tells me, Sire."
"Very true, Diane; and perhaps I should not undertake to overcome your scruples if your friend were on the spot, where we could know and appreciate him, and although he may be, I can guess, of uncertain parentage—"
"But is there not a bar on my escutcheon too, your Majesty?"
"Yes, but at least you have an escutcheon, Madame; and you will be good enough to bear in mind that the Montmorencys no less than the Castros consider it an honor to receive into their family a legitimatized daughter of mine. Your Gabriel, on the other hand—but then, that is not the question now. The important fact in my mind is that he has not turned up in six years, and that he has probably forgotten you, Diane, and has, it is more than likely, given his heart to another."
"Sire, you do not know Gabriel: his is an untutored and faithful heart, which will burn itself out in love for me."
"Very well, Diane. To you no doubt it seems improbable that he would be unfaithful to you; and you are quite right to deny it. But everything leads you to suppose that this young man went to the wars. And if so, is it not probable that he has died there? I afflict you, my dear child, for your fair brow has grown pale, and your eyes are swimming in tears. Yes, I can see that your feeling for him is a very deeply rooted one; and although it has seldom been my lot to meet with such, and I have got into the habit of being incredulous about these great passions, I have no inclination to laugh at this of yours, but I respect it. But just see, my darling, in what an embarrassing position you place me by your refusal, and all on account of a childish attachment whose object is nothing more than a mere memory and a shadow. The constable, if I insult him by withdrawing my pledged word, will be angry, and not unjustly, my child, and will very probably leave my service; and then it will be no longer I, but the Duc de Guise, who will be king. Think for a moment, Diane, of the six brothers of that family: the Duc de Guise has at his command the whole military power of France; the cardinal all the finances; a third controls my Marseilles fleet; a fourth commands in Scotland; and a fifth is about to take Brissac's place in Piedmont. So that from one extremity of my realm to the other, I, the king, cannot dispose of a soldier or a crown without their assent. I speak gently to you, Diane, and explain these matters to you; I stoop to implore where I might command. But I think it much better to let you judge for yourself, and that it should be the father and not the king who obtains his daughter's consent to his plans. And I shall obtain it, for you are a good and obedient child. This marriage will be my salvation, my dear child; it will give to the Montmorencys that measure of influence which it will withdraw from the Guises. It will equalize the two arms of the balance of which my royal power is the beam. Guise will become less overbearing, and Montmorency more at my devotion. What! you do not answer, dear. Do you remain deaf to the prayer of your father, who does not storm at you or use harsh words, but who, on the contrary, enters into all your thoughts, and asks of you only that you will not deny him the first service which you can do him in return for what he has done, and all that he wishes still to do for your happiness and honor? Come, Diane, my dear daughter, you will consent, won't you?"
"Sire," replied Diane, "you are a thousand times more powerful when your voice sues for something that it might command. I am ready to sacrifice myself to your interests, but only on one condition, Sire."
"And what is that, you spoiled child?"
"That this marriage shall not take place for three months, and meanwhile I will send to Aloyse for news of Gabriel, and will resort to every other possible source of information, so that if he is no more, I may know it; and if he is still living, I may at least ask him to return me my plighted word."
"Granted with all my heart," said Henri, overjoyed beyond measure; "and I will say in addition that wiser words never fell from a child's lips. So you shall search for your Gabriel, and I will help you as you have need of me; and in three months you shall marry François, whatever be the result of our investigations, and whether your young friend be living or dead."
"And now," said Diane, sadly shaking her head, "I don't know whether I ought to pray most earnestly for his death or his life."
The king opened his lips, and was on the point of giving utterance to a suggestion not very paternal in character, and of rather doubtful consoling power. But he had only to look at Diane's frank expression and lovely face, to stop the words before they came; and he betrayed his thought only by a smile.
"For good or for ill, she will conform to the customs of the court," he said to himself.
And then aloud,—
"The time has come to go to the Church, Diane; allow me to escort you to the great gallery, Madame, and then I will see you again at the tilting, and at the games in the afternoon. And if you are not too much incensed with me for my tyrannical conduct, perhaps you will condescend to applaud my strokes with the lance, and my passades, my fair umpire.”