CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAST RESORT OF A COQUETTE
Elaborated and perfected by the aid of contemporary memoirs and chronicles, the narrative of Aloyse, who had been informed by her husband, Perrot Travigny, squire and confidential servant of the Comte de Montgommery, of all the incidents of his master's life, so far as he knew them,—the narrative of Aloyse, we say, thus perfected, gave the following sad story of Jacques de Montgommery, Gabriel's father. His son knew the leading details of it; but the sinister dénouement, which brought it to a close, was a sealed book to him, as to everybody else.
Jacques de Montgommery, Seigneur de Lorges, was, as all his ancestors had been, daring and brave; and during the stormy reign of François I. he was always to be found in the front rank when fighting was going on. And so he became a colonel in the French infantry very early in life.
But among his many brilliant exploits there was one untoward incident to which Nostradamus had had reference.
It was in 1521, when the Comte de Montgommery was barely twenty years old, and only a captain. It was a severe winter; and the young men, young King François at their head, were indulging in a snowball fight,—a sport not unattended with danger, and much in vogue at the time. They were divided into two parties, one defending a certain house which the other assaulted with bullets of snow, Comte d'Enghien, Seigneur de Cérisoles, was killed in just such a game. Jacques de Montgommery was very near killing the king on this occasion. The battle over, they set about warming themselves; the fire had been allowed to go out, and the whole crowd of young madcaps rushed about to rekindle it. Jacques came running in, first of all, with a blazing stick in a pair of tongs; but on the war he encountered François, who had no chance to protect himself, and received a violent blow on the face from the red-hot brand. Fortunately nothing came of it but a wound, although a very severe one; and the ugly scar left by it was the cause of the fashion of wearing the beard long and the hair short, which was ordained by François at that time.
As the Comte de Montgommery atoned for this unfortunate casualty by a thousand brilliant exploits, the king bore him no ill-will for it, and interposed no obstacle to his rising to the first rank at court and in the army. In 1530 Jacques married Claudine de Boissière. It was a mere marriage de convenance; but he long mourned for his wife, who died in 1533, when Gabriel was born. Melancholy, moreover, was the most marked trait of his character, as is the case with all those who are predestined to some fatality. When he was left a widower and alone, he found relief only on the battlefield, and was driven into danger by sheer ennui. But in 1538, after the truce of Nice, when this man of war and of action had to conform to the etiquette of the court, and to walk up and down in the galleries of the Tournelles or the Louvre, with his parade-sword at his side, he was near dying of disgust.
A mad passion saved him, and was his ruin.
The regal Circe involved this overgrown boy, sturdy and ingenuous, in her toils. He fell in love with Diane de Poitiers.
Three months he revolved about her, gloomy and lowering, without ever addressing a single word to her; nor was there any need of a word for the grande sénéchale to understand that his heart belonged to her. She made a note of that passion in a corner of her memory as something that might possibly be of use to her on occasion.
The occasion came. François I. began to neglect his beautiful mistress for Madame d'Étampes, who was less beautiful in face, but had the great advantage of being attractive in other respects.
When the signs that she was being superseded were unmistakable, Diane, for the first time in her life, spoke to Jacques de Montgommery.
This took place at the Tournelles, at a fête given by the king to the new favorite.
"Monsieur de Montgommery," said Diane, calling him by name.
He drew near her, with heaving chest, and made an awkward salutation.
"How very sad you are, Monsieur de Montgommery!" she said.
"To the point of death, Madame."
"And why, in Heaven's name!"
"Madame, because I should like to kill myself."
"For some one, no doubt?"
"To kill myself for some one would be very sweet; but, ma foi, to do it for nothing would be sweeter yet."
"What a fearful state of melancholy!" said Diane; "and whence comes this black despair, pray?"
"Ah! can I say, Madame?"
"Well, then, I know, Monsieur de Montgommery. You are in love with me."
Jacques turned white as a sheet; and then, with a more tremendous struggle than it would have cost him to cast himself headlong and alone into the midst of a whole battalion of the enemy, he replied in a harsh and uncertain voice,—
"Well, then, Madame, you are right. I do love you. So much the worse for me!"
"So much the better, rather," replied Diane, laughing.
"What did you say, Madame?" Montgommery cried, with his heart thumping against his ribs. "Ah, Madame, take heed! this is no joke, but a deep and sincere passion, whether it be a possible or an impossible one to gratify."
"And why should it be impossible?" asked Diane.
"Madame," was Jacques's reply, "pardon my frankness, but I never learned to envelop facts with many words. Does not the king love you, Madame?"
"Yes," sighed Diane; "he loves me."
"And don't you see, then, that it is not for me to declare my unworthy love, though I cannot help loving you?"
"Unworthy of you, it is true," said the duchess.
"Oh, no, not of me!" cried the count; "and if the day should ever come—"
But Diane interrupted him with an air of grave melancholy and well assumed dignity,—
"Enough, Monsieur de Montgommery; let us put an end to this interview, I beg."
She bowed coldly, and turned away, leaving the poor count a prey to a whirl of conflicting emotions,—jealousy, love, hatred, grief, and joy. So Diane saw the adoration which made him bow down before her. But perhaps he had wounded her! He must have seemed unjust, ungrateful, cruel to her! He repeated to himself over and over again all the sublime nonsense of love.
The next day Diane de Poitiers said to François I., "You didn't know, did you, Sire, that Monsieur de Montgommery was in love with me?"
"What's that?" said François, laughing. "The Montgommerys are of an ancient family, and almost as nobly born, upon my word, as I; and what's more they are almost as brave, and now it seems that they are almost as good at love-making."
"And is that all the reply that your Majesty has to make to me?" Diane asked him.
"And what do you want me to say, my dear?" replied the king. "Do you really think that I ought to take it ill of the Comte de Montgommery that he has as good taste and as good eyes as I have?"
"If Madame d'Étampes were in question," muttered Diane, wounded to the quick, "you would not say so."
She pursued the conversation no further, but resolved to go on with the experiment. When she next saw Jacques some days later, she began to question him again,—
"How is this, Monsieur de Montgommery? Still more melancholy than usual?"
"I am indeed, Madame," said the count, humbly; "for I shudder to think that I have offended you."
"Not offended, Monsieur," said the duchess, "but grieved sorely."
"Oh, Madame," cried Montgomery, "I, who would give all my blood to spare you a tear,—how can it be that I have caused you the least grief?"
"Did you not tell me that because I was the king's favorite I had no right to aspire to the affection of a simple gentleman?"
"Ah, I had no such idea as that, Madame," said the count; "indeed, I could have no such idea, for I, a simple gentleman, love you with a passion as sincere as it is profound. I only meant to say to you that you could not love me, since the king loves you and you love him."
"The king does not love me, nor do I love the king," replied Diane.
"God in heaven! Then you may come to love me!" cried Montgommery.
"I may love you," replied Diane, calmly; "but I can never tell you that I love you."
"And why not, Madame?"
"To save my father's life," said Diane, "I consented to become the mistress of the King of France; but the way to restore my honor is not to become the mistress of the Comte de Montgommery."
She accompanied this half-refusal with so passionate and so languishing a glance that the count could not restrain himself.
"Ah, Madame," said he to the coquettish duchess, "if you love me as I love you—"
"Well, what then?"
"What then! Why, what matters the world, or the prejudices of family or of honor? For me you are the universe. For three months I have seen nothing but your face. I love you with all the blind devotion and all the ardor of a first passion. Your sovereign beauty intoxicates me and distracts me. If you love me as I love you, be Comtesse de Montgommery,—be my wife."
"Thanks, Count," said Diane, triumphantly. "I will remember these noble and generous words. Meanwhile you know that green and white are my colors."
Jacques in a transport of delight kissed Diane's hand, prouder and happier than if the crown of the whole world had been on his head.
And when François I., the following day, called Diane's attention to the fact that her new adorer had begun to wear her colors in public,—
"Has he not a right to, Sire?" said she, fixing her keen glance upon the king. "And may I not allow him to wear my colors when he offers to let me wear his name?"
"Is it possible?" the king asked.
"There is no doubt about it, Sire," the duchess replied, with confidence, thinking for a moment that her plan had succeeded, and that the jealousy of her unfaithful lord would reawaken his love.
But after a moment of silence, the king, rising to put an end to the interview, said to Diane, gayly,—
"If that is so, Madame, we will give the office of grand sénéchal—which has been vacant since the death of Monsieur de Brézé, your first husband—to Monsieur de Montgommery as a wedding present."
"And Monsieur de Montgommery will accept it," was Diane's proud reply; "for I will be a faithful and loyal wife to him, and I would not be false to my troth to him for all the kings in Christendom."
The king bowed and smiled, without making any reply, and left the room.
Unquestionably Madame d'Étampes's star was in the ascendant.
The same day Diane the ambitious, with bitter anger at her heart, said to the enraptured Jacques,—
"My gallant Count, my noble Montgommery, I love you with all my heart.”