Her punishment—poor soul—endured
for close upon forty years, but the most terrible
part of it was not that which lay within the prescription
of King Philip, but that which arose from her own
broken and humiliated spirit. She had been uplifted
a moment by a glorious hope, to be cast down again
into the blackest despair, to which a shame unspeakable
and a tortured pride were added.
Than hers, as I have said, there is in history no
sadder story.
The Assassination of Henry IV
In the year 1609 died the last Duke of Cleves, and
King Henry IV. of France and Navarre fell in love
with Charlotte de Montmorency.
In their conjunction these two events were to influence
the destinies of Europe. In themselves they were
trivial enough, since it was as much a commonplace
that an old gentleman should die as that Henry of
Bearn should fall in love. Love had been the
main relaxation of his otherwise strenuous life, and
neither the advancing years—he was fifty-six
at this date—nor the recriminations of
Maria de’ Medici, his long-suffering Florentine
wife, sufficed to curb his zest.
Possibly there may have been a husband more unfaithful
than King Henry; probably there was not. His
gallantries were outrageous, his taste in women catholic,
and his illegitimate progeny outnumbered that of his
grandson, the English sultan Charles II. He differs,
however, from the latter in that he was not quite as
Oriental in the manner of his self-indulgence.
Charles, by comparison, was a mere dullard who turned
Whitehall into a seraglio. Henry preferred the
romantic manner, the high adventure, and knew how
to be gallant in two senses.
This gallantry of his is not, perhaps, seen to best
advantage in the affair of Charlotte de Montmorency
To begin with he was, as I have said, in his fifty-sixth
year, an age at which it is difficult, without being
ridiculous, to unbridle a passion for a girl of twenty.
Unfortunately for him, Charlotte does not appear to
have found him so. On the contrary, her lovely,
empty head was so turned by the flattery of his addresses,
that she came to reciprocate the passion she inspired.
Her family had proposed to marry her to the gay and
witty Marshal de Bassompierre; and although his heart
was not at all engaged, the marshal found the match
extremely suitable, and was willing enough, until
the King declared himself. Henry used the most
impudent frankness.
“Bassompierre, I will speak to you as a friend,”
said he. “I am in love, and desperately
in love, with Mademoiselle de Montmorency. If
you should marry her I should hate you. If she
should love me you would hate me. A breach of
our friendship would desolate me, for I love you with
sincere affection.”
That was enough for Bassompierre. He had no mind
to go further with a marriage of convenience which
in the sequel would most probably give him to choose
between assuming the ridiculous role of a complacent
husband and being involved in a feud with his prince.
He said as much, and thanked the King for his frankness,
whereupon Henry, liking him more than ever for his
good sense, further opened his mind to him.
