University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE FETE.

Brilliantly glittered the magnificent halls
of the Louvre, as high festival was held therein,
by the effeminate Henry III. of France, and his
voluptuous court. The long suite of gilded saloons,
festooned with flowers and adorned with
arabesques and golden fleur-de-lys, was redolent
with perfumes exhaled from a thousand aromatic
lamps and sweets breathed forth from fragrant
exotics, that would have vied with the odors of
the luxurious gardens of the Alhambra. Music
from invisible minstrels floated through the halls
—tall plumes waved to the cadences of the melody—little
elastic feet twinkled in the complicated
movements of the figure, as the liveliest and
most noble damsels of the land whirled in the
giddy bransle, or in the more graceful Spanish
pavanne, or in the majestic and dignified Italian
pazzameno. All the grace, wit, beauty and distinction
of a court that vied in the loveliness of
its dances, and the gallantry of its cavaliers with
that of the voluptuous Charles II. were assembled.

The fete was a masked one. The costumes
were of endless variety, suited to the taste of
the wearer and adapted to display the person to
the best advantage. Bright eyes peeped from
the little loop-holes of the favorite touret de nez,
a sort of mask, at that time in high vogue at
the French court. It gave additional piquancy
to the smoothly polished chin, and ripe, bewitching
lips of the wearer, and many were the
amours to which these little velvet vizards lent
mystery and interest.

Throughout the gorgeous rooms the noble
company dispersed, some listening to the exqulsite
melody of the royal musicians, others watching
with the interest of the gamesters themselves,
the tables where immense sums were staked at
tric-trac or primerd—while others reclined on
luxurious silken couches within the deep embrasures
of tapestried windows, listening to the impassioned
words of plumed gallants, and uttering
soft and faint responses. Innumerable lackeys,
and pages in sumptuous liveries, emblazoned
with the escutcheons of their lords, were in

attendance, and flitted about on tender errands.

In the grand saloon stood Henri Trois himself,
supported on the arm of his chief valet. He
was of slight figure, and his countenance wore
an habitual sneer. His features were not regular,
but his complexion was exceedingly fair,
and would have vied in delicacy and freshness
with that of many of the voluptuous demoiselles
who graced his princely court. Particularly did
he pride himself upon his hand, which was
small and beautiful, a grace of person which
was enjoyed in common by nearly all the Medicis
family. Around him were arrayed the chivalry
and gallantry of the capital. All his retinue
were unmasked but one cavalier, who wore a
dark vizard covering his entire face, and who
appeared studiously to keep in the background.
He was attired in a pourpoint exquisitely worked
and slashed with velvet, and over his shoulders
was carelessly cast a crimson mantle, edged
with silver lace and adorned with orders. Mingling
with the king's suite was Catharine de Medicis,
his mother, accompanied by a fair young
dame, whose features Praxitiles would have
sighed for as a model for his Venus. Her eyes
were of dark blue, swimming with chastened
tenderness. Above her mouth there was a charming
expression, partly scornful and partly voluptuous,—both
blended so harmoniously as to
give that feature peculiar piquancy and loveliness.
Her rich auburn hair was raised from her
smooth and polished brow, and gathered in
plaits at the top of her head. The alabaster
throat was encircled with a muslin collar edged
with pointed lace, and her form was closely fitted
by a boddice of Florence velvet, which rather
revealed than hid the splendid contour of the
waist and bosom. Such was Louise de L'Estoile,
the handsomest, most virtuous, and highly
accomplished of the petite bande des dames de la
cour, which attended the haughty Catharine de
Medicis, as maids of honor.

Henri was evidently paying his devoirs to the
splendid Louise, and judging from the lady's
manner his attentions, if not unpleasant, were, to
say the least, a matter of indifference to her.
Her beautiful face was bent in a fixed and earnest
gaze upon a pair of dancers who were bounding
down the grand hall in a graceful Navarroise
waltz. An expression of intense pain crossed
her features as the waltzers approached nearer,
and she observed the look of passionate tenderness
which the lady, careless of observation, bestowed
upon her partner.

“How glorious Marguerite dances to-night,”
observed the king.

“Venus must have smiled upon her partner's
nativity,” said the courtier of the mask and
slashed pourpoints, stepping forward; “observe,
sire, how he is basking in the sunshine of the
queen of Navarre's favors.”

Louise de L'Estoile grew deadly pale and
averted her face. Marguerite de Valois, Queen
of Navarre—for she was the fair dancer—as the
waltz was concluded, was led panting by her
partner to a lounge, amid the thundering vivats
and bravas of the illustrious host.

It was at a period when the charms of the
beautiful queen were at their height, and she
never looked more lovely than when as at present
engaged in her favorite amusement. Her
eyes were dark and lustrous, and their moist,
full orbs could beam with the most voluptuous
tenderness, or flash fire and indignant fury, as
her passionate soul was moved by love, or roused
by resentment. Her features were faultlessly
regular, and while they were majestic, there
was yet a softness and grace about them which
made their expression irresistibly fascinating.
Her skin was dazzlingly fair, and her hair, which
when loose fell in magnificent raven tresses almost
to her feet, was now secured by ribands to
the back of her head, and adorned profusely with
pearls and brilliants. Her form was round and
faultless—the glowing bust swelling from a
throat and neck as white as alabaster, and the
waist small and slender—worthy of being spanned
by the cestus of Venus. Her hands were small
and white, and the little foot which peeped from
her splendid robe, could have worn Cinderilla's
slipper. Her attire was of the most magnificent
order. Far be it from us to attempt a description
of the velvet and brocade, the ruffs and laces,
the necklaces of cameos and diamonds, and an
infinite variety of other precious stones with
which she had adorned her unparalleled person.

The cavalier who sat by her side, and who
was now enjoying her capricious smiles, was
one worthy to be the companion of the royal
beauty. He wore no mask, and his features
were exposed in all their classic and beautiful
proportions. The forehead was ample and majestic,
and shaded by thick curls of dark, brown
hair, which having been displaced during the
whirling waltz, now flowed carelessly about a
face which would have formed a study for the
great Athenian seulptor. The nose was Grecian
and faultlessly regular—the nostrils thin

and haughty; the mouth was firm and full—
and its expression fraught with sensibility. He
wore a slight moustache curled upwards from
the chin, according to the prevailing fashion of
the period. The attire of the gallant was not
gaudy nor assumed for the purpose of masquerade.
It consisted of a pink satin doublet, slashed
with azure, and ornamented at the bottom
with golden lace. Upon his knee rested a toque
or cap, surmounted by a tuft of gaily colored
feathers. Had Vandyck been there, he would
have sighed to transfer the group to canvass.

“They look excessively lover like,” observed
the dark mask in the king's suite, coming up
behind Louise de L'Estoile, and uttering the remark
in a low tone, as if purposely for her ear
alone. The lady turned haughtily towards the
king, as if to indicate that, however unpleasant
his marked favors might be, they were infinitely
less so than the officious observations of the disguised
cavalier.

“Methinks our fair sister of Navarre is carrying
it rather too far with that handsome gallant,”
said Henri.

“See how their hands caress each other. By
Cupidon! See, he is about to kiss her,” said
the dark mask, interposing between Louise and
the king.

The expression of haughtiness entirely vanished
from the face of the lovely demoiselle, and
was succeeded by one of the deepest anguish.
She besought his majesty to conduct her away
to a seat.

As Marguerite's companion leaned over to
pick up her fan which had fallen—the act which
had been so maliciously misconstrued by the
masked courtier—he observed to the queen with
considerable interest:

“The chevalier of the purple vizard appears
to be annoying the demoiselle de L'Estoile. Do
you note the pained expression of her features?
Ha, I believe he has insulted her!”

Marguerite of Valois was as intensely jealous
in disposition, as she was transcendantly lovely
in person.

“You honor me, Chevalier Tremlet, by the
interest you exhibit in the other ladies of the
court!” said she, satirically, and fixing upon him
a searching look.

“I would not stand by and see your tire woman
gratuitously affronted by a man whose only
authority for the insult was a doublet glittering
with orders.”

“That is a rare sentiment to be heard at this
gay court, mon beau chevalier!” exclaimed
Marguerite, appeased, and fixing her beautiful
eyes fondly upon his face.

“Know you the purple mask?” inquired her
companion.

“He is Bussy D'Amboise, a rejected lover of
mine, and an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of
Louise de L'Estoile. He is brave, and was
handsome and generous; but frequent disappointment
has wrinkled his brow and soured
his temper.”

“I have heard of his feats at arms, and of his
prowess in the tournament. But the chagrin of
a rejected suitor would never warrant such discourtesies
as he has just evinced towards a noble
dame. It declares him void of chivalry and
true nobility.”

“Tremlet, hear me! If you would not rouse
my jealous nature, do not thus be ever evincing
your concern for the belle Louise. Passionately
as I love you, I could hate as fervently. If
I felt that I had a rival in your bosom, I would
spurn you. I might—but away the dreadful
thought! Come, mon chevalier!” continued the
passionate queen of Navarre, suddenly changing
her tone and manner; while all are looking on
us, as if we were cooing like foolish doves, we
were upon the point of a quarrel; but it was my
fault. Your pardon! I see they are about to
proceed to the banquet-hall. Let us follow.”

She offered him that small, white Medicis hand,
and its little taper fingers gave a soft pressure,
as they were received within the palm of the
handsome and graceful cavalier.

The grand banqueting saloon was separated
from the main hall by magnificent curtains of
crimson velvet, figured with fluer-de-lys of gold.
At the signal of the major-domo, the splendid
folds were withdrawn, and a scene was presented
that would have drawn tears from the eyes of
Epicurus.

Far as the eye could reach was a maze of glittering
chandeliers, whose light reflected from
the golden cornices and arabesques, making the
walls and ceiling look as if besprent with brilliants.
Sunk in niches were hundreds of mirrors
which multiplied the objects of magnificence
around, and added indescribable splendor
to the scene. Wreaths of roses from Provence,
and vases of flowers from the royal conservatories,
were dispersed throughout the saloon, and
exhaled a fragrance almost suffocating.

In the middle and extending the whole length
of the banquet-hall, was the royal board. It was

raised several feet from the floor, and ascended
by low steps, thickly carpeted with a rich Turkish
fabric, so as to muffle a hundred foot-falls.
The mighty table itself groaned with viands.
Massive salvers, golden vases, crystal goblets,
urns and cups of the rare workmanship of Benevenuto
Cellini, were arrayed in long and glittering
lines upon a cloth of white damask, ornamented
with fanciful figures. Pyramids of confectionary,
piles of frosted cakes, and urns of
the rarest fruits were heaped upon the groaning
table. Around were stationed chamberlains
with their wands, and butlers bearing embossed
flagons, while countless valets and pages stood
ready to attend the slightest signal. At intervals,
down the whole length of the hall, on
either side, were massive side-boards with goblets
and urns steaming with the rich wines of
Cyprus and Syracuse, and loaded with coreens
containing piquant viands, ready to be brought
on in order.

About half way down the saloon was a magnificent
throne, raised several feet above the ordinary
seats of the table and formed of azure
silk, adorned, as was almost everything about
the Louvre, with golden fleur-de-lys, and powdered
with gems of price.

Amidst exhilarating strains of music, Henri
III., accompanied by Louise de L'Estoile, led
the way towards the gorgeous festive preparation.
Immediately behind them proceeded Catharine
de Medicis, accompanied by the purple mask, or,
as we shall denominate him in future, Bussy
D'Amboise—and they were in their turn followed
by Marguerite of Valeis and the Chevalier
Tremlet. Behind these came the whole of the
glittering train which comprised the court.

Henri proceeded to occupy the throne at the
middle of the saloon, and around him were disposed
the members of the royal family, those
nearest to his person and his peculiar favorites.
If the scene was grand at first, how inconceivably
more so was it when the splendors of that
brilliant throng were added to it? The servitors
began the attack upon the viands with their
huge knives, and soon the carouse was at its
height. Merry jests went round, and sometimes
pretty broad ones too, for that court was not
over-scrupulous—dark eyes flashed with unwonted
lustre under the influence of the generous
wines, and soft cheeks flushed, as tender speeches
were uttered by amorous gallants.

Around the king's throne, amid the royal refinue,
the laughter was loudest, the jests broad
est, and the gaiety highest, for Henri loved the
revel above all things, and was more captivated
by a merry song at the festive board, than by the
noblest deeds of chivalry, or the wildest adventures
of the chase. While the feast was at its
height and the grand saloon resounded with the
shouts of the wassailers, suddenly there arose
confusion amidst the royal company.

“Hold!” shouted the king, “drink not another
drop on peril of your lives! The wine in my
goblet is poisoned!” and holding up his cup,
foaming with the glorious grape of Syracuse, he
dipped into it a dark green bezoar set in gold,
which he had just removed from his finger, and
on taking it out the stone had become perfectly
white. The faces of all around who could see
the effect of the king's experiment became deadly
pale. Venetian glass was brought, and the
wine in the flagons was first tested, then that in
the goblets of several of the guests, and finally
that in the king's goblet was tried again. They
all bore the test until the glass was dipped into
Henri's cup, when the wine bubbled and shivered
it into fragments.

“I charge Louise de L'Estoile with drugging
thy wine, sire!” exclaimed Bussy D'Amboise,
rising and uttering the words with unparalleled
boldness and effrontery.

The Chevalier Tremlet bounded to his feet.

“The charge which that pusillanimous caitiff
brings against the noble lady is as false as his
heart, and that the tale is a malicious and wilful
fabrication, I will approve upon him by mortal
combat! There is my defiance!” he shouted,
hurling his glove at the feet of the insolent
D'Amboise; “as champion of the Lady Louise
de L'Estoile, I challenge you, Bussy D'Amboise,
to maintain your infamous assertion in deadly
combat!”

“I accept your challenge,” said the cavalier,
placing the glove which was handed him by a
page within his girdle. Tremlet's valet stepped
forward and receiving Bussy's gauntlet bore it
back to his master.

“These are strange proceedings in our presence!”
exclaimed Henri; “were not the charge
so evidently malicious and unprovoked, I would
bid you both give back the gloves until some
explanation were made, or at least until our
permission were asked for the duel. But as it
is, we give our sanction and approval, although
you have not had the courtesy to ask it of us.
Let the combat take place to-morrow in the lists;
we bid you break a lance together, and if the

contest be not fatal on the issue of the third
course, let it be renewed with swords!”

Having uttered this, amid the fanfares of
trumpets and the notes of hautboys, the monarch
withdrew from the supper hall, accompanied by
Catharine de Medicis and Marguerite of Valois,
with their immediate trains.