The book of the ladies

After this, she retired to her oratory, having bid them adieu once more and kissed them, – giving them many particulars to tell the king, the queen, and her relations; not things that tended to vengeance, but the contrary. Then she took the sacrament by means of a consecrated wafer which the good Pope Pius V. had sent her to serve in some emergency, the which she had always most sacredly preserved and guarded.

Having said her prayers, which were very long, it now being fully morning she returned to her chamber, and sat beside the fire; still talking to her women and comforting them, instead of their comforting her; she said that the joys of the world were nothing; that she ought to serve as a warning to the greatest of the earth as well as to the smallest, for she, having been queen of the kingdoms of France and Scotland, one by nature, the other by fortune, after triumphing in the midst of all honours and grandeurs, was reduced to the hands of an executioner; innocent, however, which consoled her. She told them their best pattern was that she died in the Catholic religion, holy and good, which she would never abandon to her latest breath, having been baptized therein; and that she wanted no fame after her death, except that they would publish her firmness throughout all France when they returned there, as she begged of them; and further, though she knew they would have much heart-break to see her on the scaffold performing this tragedy, yet she wished them to witness her death; knowing well that none would be so faithful in making the report of what was now to happen.

As she ended these words some one knocked roughly on the door. Her women, knowing it was the hour they were coming to fetch her, wanted to make resistance; but she said to them: “My friends, it will do no good; open the door.”

First there entered a man with a white stick in his hand, who, without addressing any one, said twice over as he advanced: “I have come – I have come.” The queen, not doubting that he announced to her the moment of execution, took a little ivory cross in her hand.

Next came the above-named commissioners; and when they had entered, the queen said to them: “Well, messieurs, you have come to fetch me. I am ready and well resolved to die; and I think the queen, my good sister, does much for me; and you likewise who are seeking me. Let us go.” They, seeing such firmness accompanied by so extreme a beauty and great gentleness, were much astonished, for never had she seemed more beautiful, having a colour in her cheeks which embellished her.

Thus Boccaccio wrote of Sophonisba in her adversity, after the taking of her husband and the town, speaking to Massinissa: “You would have said,” he relates, “that her misfortune made her more beauteous; it assisted the sweetness of her face and made it more agreeable and desirable.”

The commissioners were greatly moved to some compassion. Still, as she left the room they would not let her women follow her, fearing that by their lamentations, sighs, and outcries they would disturb the execution. But the queen said to them: “What, gentlemen! would you treat me with such rigour as not to allow my women to accompany me to death? Grant me at least this favour.” Which they did, on her pledging her word she would impose silence upon them when the time came to admit them.

The place of execution was in the hall, where they had raised a broad scaffold, about twelve feet square and two high, covered with a shabby black cloth.

She entered this hall without any change of countenance but with majesty and grace, as though she were entering a ballroom, where in other days she had so excellently shone.

As she neared the scaffold she called to her maître d’hôtel and said, “Help me to mount; it is the last service I shall receive from you;” and she repeated to him what she had already told him in her chamber he was to tell her son. Then, being on the scaffold, she asked for her almoner, begging the officers who were there to permit him to come to her, which they flatly refused, – the Earl of Kent saying to her that he pitied her greatly for thus clinging to superstitions of a past age, and that she ought to bear the cross of Christ in her heart and not in her hand. To which she made answer that it was difficult to bear so beautiful an image in the hand without the heart being touched by emotion and memory; and that the most becoming thing in a Christian person was to carry a real sign of the redemption to the death before her. Then, seeing that she could not have her almoner, she asked that her women might come as they had promised her; which was done. One of them, on entering the hall, seeing her mistress on the scaffold among her executioners, could not keep from crying out and moaning and losing her control; but the queen instantly laying her finger on her lips, she restrained herself.

Her Majesty then began to make her protestations, namely: that never had she plotted against the State, nor against the life of the queen, her good sister, – except in trying to regain her liberty, as all captives may. But she saw plainly that the cause of her death was religion, and she esteemed herself very happy to finish her life for that cause. She begged the queen, her good sister, to have pity upon her poor servants whom she held captive, because of the affection they had shown in seeking the liberty of their mistress, inasmuch as she was now to die for all.

They then brought to her a minister to exhort her [the Dean of Peterborough], but she said to him in English, “Ah! my friend, give yourself patience;” declaring that she would not hold converse with him nor hear any talk of his sect, for she had prepared herself to die without counsel, and that persons like him could not give her consolation or contentment of mind.

Notwithstanding this, seeing that he continued his prayers in his jargon, she never ceased to say her own in Latin, raising her voice above that of the minister. After which she said again that she esteemed herself very happy to shed the last drop of her blood for her religion, rather than live longer and wait till nature had completed the full course of her life; and that she hoped in Him whose cross she held in her hand, before whose feet she was prostrate, that this temporal death, borne for Him, would be for her the passage, the entrance to, and the beginning of life eternal with the angels and the blessèd, who would receive her blood and present it before God, in abolition of her sins; and them she prayed to be her intercessors for the obtaining of pardon and mercy.

Such were her prayers, being on her knees on the scaffold, which she made with a fervent heart; adding others for the pope, the kings of France, and even for the Queen of England, praying God to illuminate her with his Holy Spirit; praying also for her son and for the islands of Britain and Scotland that they might be converted.

That done, she called her women to help her to remove her black veil, her headdress, and other ornaments; and as the executioner tried to touch her she said, “Ah! my friend, do not touch me!” But she could not prevent his doing so, for after they had lowered her robe to the waist, that villain pulled her roughly by the arm and took off her doublet [pourpoint] and the body of her petticoat [corps de cotte] with its low collar, so that her neck and her beautiful bosom, more white than alabaster, were bare and uncovered.

She arranged herself as quickly as she could, saying she was not accustomed to strip before others, especially so large a company (it is said there were four or five hundred persons present), nor to employ the services of such a valet.

The executioner then knelt down and asked her pardon; on which she said that she pardoned him, and all who were the authors of her death with as much good-will as she prayed that God would show in forgiving her sins.

Then she told her woman to whom she had given the handkerchief to bring it to her.

She wore a cross of gold, in which was a piece of the true cross, with the image of Our Saviour upon it; this she wished to give to one of her ladies, but the executioner prevented her, although Her Majesty begged him, saying that the lady would pay him three times its value.

Then, all being ready, she kissed her ladies, and bade them retire with her benediction, making the sign of the cross upon them. And seeing that one of them could not restrain her sobs she imposed silence, saying she was bound by a promise that they would cause no trouble by their tears and moans; and she commanded them to withdraw quietly, and pray to God for her, and bear faithful testimony to her death in the ancient and sacred Catholic religion.

One of the women having bandaged her eyes with the handkerchief, she threw herself instantly on her knees with great courage and without the slightest demonstration or sign that she feared death.

Her firmness was such that all present, even her enemies, were moved; there were not four persons present who could keep from weeping; they thought the sight amazing, and condemned themselves in their consciences for such injustice.

And because the minister of Satan importuned her, trying to kill her soul as well as her body, and troubling her prayers, she raised her voice to surmount his, and said in Latin the psalm: In te, Domine, speravi; non confundar in æternum; which she recited throughout. Having ended it, she laid her head upon the block, and, as she repeated once more the words, In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum, the executioner struck her a strong blow with the axe, that drove her headgear into her head, which did not fall until the third blow, – to make her martyrdom the greater and more glorious, though it is not the pain but the cause that makes the martyr.

This done, he took the head in his hand, and showing it to all present said: “God save the queen, Elizabeth! Thus perish the enemies of the gospel!” So saying, he uncoifed her in derision to show her hair, now white; which, however, she had never shrunk from showing, twisting and curling it as when her hair was beautiful, so fair and golden; for it was not age had changed it at thirty-five years old (being now but forty); it was the griefs, the woes, the sadness she had borne in her kingdom and in her prison.

This hapless tragedy ended, her poor ladies, anxious for the honour of their mistress, addressed themselves to Paulet, her jailer, begging him that the executioner should not touch the body, but that they might be allowed to disrobe it after all the spectators had withdrawn, so that no indignity might be done to it, promising to return all the clothing, and whatever else he might ask or claim; but that cursèd man sent them roughly away and ordered them to leave the hall.

Then the executioner unclothed her and handled her at his discretion, and when he had done what he wished the body was carried to a chamber adjoining that of her serving-men, and carefully locked in, for fear they should enter and endeavour to perform any good and pious office. And to their grief and distress was added this: that they could see her through a hole, half covered by a piece of green drugget torn from her billiard table. What brutal indifference! What animosity and indignity! – not even to have bought her a black cloth a little more worthy of her!

The poor body was left there long in that state until it began to corrupt so that they were forced to salt and embalm it, – but slightly, to save cost; after which they put it in a leaden coffin, where it was kept for seven months and then carried to profane ground around the temple of Petersbrouch [Peterborough Cathedral]. True it is that this church is dedicated to the name of Saint Peter, and that Queen Catherine of Spain is buried there as a Catholic; but the place is now profane, as are all the churches in England in these days.

There are some who have said and written, even the English who have made a book on this death and its causes, that the spoils of the late queen were taken from the executioner by paying him the value in money of her clothes and her royal ornaments. The cloth with which the scaffold was covered, even the boards of it were partly burned and partly washed, for fear that in times to come they might serve superstition; that is to say, for fear that any careful Catholic might some day buy and preserve them with respect, honour, and reverence (a fear which may possibly serve as a prophecy and augury), as the ancient Fathers had a practice of keeping relics and of taking care with devotion of the monuments of martyrs. In these days heretics do nothing of the kind. Quia omnia quæ martyrum erant, cremabant, as Eusebius says, et cineres in Rhodanum spargebant, ut cum corporibus interiret eorum quoque memoria. Nevertheless, the memory of this queen, in spite of all things, will live forever in glory and in triumph.

Here, then, is the tale of her death, which I hold from the report of two damoiselles there present, very honourable certainly, very faithful to their mistress, and obedient to her commands in thus bearing testimony to her firmness and to her religion. They returned to France after losing her, for they were French; one was a daughter of Mme. de Raré, whom I knew in France as one of the ladies of the late queen. I think that these two honourable damoiselles would have caused the most barbarous of men to weep at hearing so piteous a tale; which they made the more lamentable by tears, and by their tender, doleful, and noble language.

I also learned much from a book which has been published, entitled “The Martyrdom of the Queen of Scotland, Dowager of France.” Alas! that being our queen did her no service. It seems to me that being such they ought to have feared our vengeance for putting her to death; and they would have thought a hundred times before they came to it, if our king had chosen to take the initiative. But, because he hated the Messieurs de Guise, his cousins, he took no pains except as formal duty. Alas! what could that poor innocent do? This is what many asked.

Others say that he made many formal appeals. It is true that he sent to the Queen of England M. de Bellièvre, one of the greatest and wisest senators of France and the ablest, who did not fail to offer all his arguments, with the king’s prayers and threats, and do all else that he could; and among other things he declared that it did not belong to one king or sovereign to put to death another king or sovereign, over whom he had no power either from God or man.

I have never known a generous person who did not say that the Queen of England would have won immortal glory had she used mercy to the Scottish queen; and also she would be exempt from the risk of vengeance, however tardy, which awaits her for the shedding of innocent blood that cries aloud for it. It is said that the English queen was well advised of this; but not only did she pass over the advice of many of her kingdom, but also that of many great Protestant princes and lords both in France and Germany, – such as the Prince de Condé and Casimir, since dead, and the Prince of Orange and others, who had subscribed to this violent death while not expecting it, but afterwards felt their conscience burdened, inasmuch as it did not concern them and brought them no advantage, and they did it only to please the queen; but, in truth, it did them inestimable detriment.

They say, too, that Queen Elizabeth, when she sent to notify that poor Queen Marie of this melancholy sentence, assured her that it was done with great and sad regret on her part, under constraint of Parliament which urged it on her. To which Queen Marie answered: “She has much more power than that to make them obedient to her will when it pleases her; for she is the princess, or more truly the prince, who has made herself the most feared and reverenced.”

Now, I rely on the truth of all things, which time will reveal. Queen Marie will live glorious in this world and in the other; and the time will come in a few years when some good pope will canonize her in memory of the martyrdom she suffered for the honour of God and of his Law.

It is not to be doubted that if that great, valiant, and generous prince, the late M. de Guise, the last [Henri, le Balafré, assassinated at Blois], was not dead, vengeance for so noble a queen and cousin thus murdered would not still be unborn. I have said enough on so pitiful a subject, which I end thus: —

This queen, of a beauty so incomparable,
Was, with too great injustice, put to death:
To sustain that heart of faith inviolable
Can it be there are none to avenge the wrong?

One there is who has written her epitaph in Latin verses, the substance of which is as follows: “Nature had produced this queen to be seen of all the world: with great admiration was she seen for her beauty and virtues so long as she lived: but England, envious, placed her on a scaffold to be seen in derision: yet was well deceived; for the sight turned praise and admiration to her, and glory and thanksgiving to God.”

I must, before I finish, say a word here in reply to those whom I have heard speak ill of her for the death of Chastellard, whom the queen condemned to death in Scotland, – laying upon her that she had justly suffered for making others suffer. Upon that count there is no justice, and it should never have been made. Those who know the history will never blame our queen; and, for that reason, I shall here relate it for her justification.

Chastellard was a gentleman of Dauphiné, of good family and condition, for he was great-nephew on his mother’s side of that brave M. de Bayard, whom they say he resembled in figure, which in him was medium, very beautiful and slender, as they say M. de Bayard had also. He was very adroit at arms, and inclined in all ways to honourable exercises, such as firing at a mark, playing at tennis, leaping, and dancing. In short, he was a most accomplished gentleman; and as for his soul, it was also very noble; he spoke well, and wrote of the best, even in rhyme, as well as any gentleman in France, using a most sweet and lovely poesy, like a knight.

He followed M. d’Amville, so-called then, now M. le Connétable; but when we were with M. le Grand Prieur, of the house of Lorraine, who conducted the queen [to Scotland] the said Chastellard was with us, and, in this company became known to the queen for his charming actions, above all for his rhymes; among which he made some to please her in translation from Italian (which he spoke and knew well), beginning, Che giova posseder città e regni; which is a very well made sonnet, the substance of which is as follows: “What serves her to possess so many kingdoms, cities, towns, and provinces, to command so many peoples, and be respected, feared, admired of all, if still to sleep a widow, lone and cold as ice?”

He made also other rhymes, most beautiful, which I have seen written by his hand, for they never were imprinted, that I know.

The queen, therefore, who loved letters, and principally poems, for sometimes she made dainty ones herself, was pleased in seeing those of Chastellard, and even made response, and, for that reason, gave him good cheer and entertained him often. But he, in secrecy, was kindled by a flame too high, the which its object could not hinder, for who can shield herself from love? In times gone by the most chaste goddesses and dames were loved, and still are loved; indeed we love their marble statues; but for that no lady has been blamed unless she yielded to it. Therefore, kindle who will these sacred fires!

Chastellard returned with all our troop to France, much grieved and desperate in leaving so beautiful an object of his love. After one year the civil war broke out in France. He, who belonged to the Religion [Protestant], struggled within himself which side to take, whether to go to Orléans with the others, or stay with M. d’Amville, and make war against his faith. On the one hand, it seemed to him too bitter to go against his conscience; on the other, to take up arms against his master displeased him hugely; wherefore he resolved to fight for neither the one nor yet the other, but to banish himself and go to Scotland, let fight who would, and pass the time away. He opened this project to M. d’Amville and told him his resolution, begging him to write letters in his favour to the queen; which he obtained: then, taking leave of one and all, he went; I saw him go; he bade me adieu and told me in part his resolution, we being friends.

He made his voyage, which ended happily, so that, having arrived in Scotland and discoursing of his intentions to the queen, she received him kindly and assured him he was welcome. But he, abusing such good cheer and seeking to attack the sun, perished like Phaëton; for, driven by love and passion, he was presumptuous enough to hide beneath the bed of her Majesty, where he was discovered when she retired. The queen, not wishing to make a scandal, pardoned him; availing herself of that good counsel which the lady of honour gives to her mistress in the “Novels of the Queen of Navarre,” when a seigneur of her brother’s Court, slipping through a trap-door made by him in the alcove, seeking to win her, brought nothing back but shame and scratches: she wishing to punish his temerity and complain of him to her brother, the lady of honour counselled her that, since the seigneur had won nought but shame and scratches, it was for her honour as a lady of such mark not to be talked of; for the more it was contended over, the more it would go to the nose of the world and the mouth of gossips.

Our Queen of Scotland, being wise and prudent, passed this scandal by; but the said Chastellard, not content and more than ever mad with love, returned for the second time, forgetting both his former crime and pardon. Then the queen, for her honour, and not to give occasion to her women to think evil, and also to her people if it were known, lost patience and gave him up to justice, which condemned him quickly to be beheaded, in view of the crime of such an act. The day having come, before he died he had in his hand the hymns of M. de Ronsard; and, for his eternal consolation, he read from end to end the Hymn of Death (which is well done, and proper not to make death abhorrent), taking no help of other spiritual book, nor of minister or confessor.

Having ended that reading wholly, he turned to the spot where he thought the queen must be, and cried in a loud voice: “Adieu, most beautiful, most cruel princess in all the world!” then, firmly stretching his neck to the executioner, he let himself be killed very easily.

Some have wished to discuss why it was that he called her cruel; whether because she had no pity on his love, or on his life. But what should she have done? If, after her first pardon she had granted him a second, she would on all sides have been slandered; to save her honour it was needful that the law should take its course. That is the end of this history.

“Well, they may say what they will, many a true heart will be sad for Mary Stuart, e’en if all be true men say of her.” That speech, which Walter Scott puts into the mouth of one of the personages in his novel of “The Abbot” at the moment when he is preparing the reader for an introduction to the beautiful queen, remains the last word of posterity as it was of contemporaries, – the conclusion of history as of poesy.

Elizabeth living triumphed, and her policy after her lives and triumphs still, so that Protestantism and the British empire are one and the same thing. Marie Stuart succumbed, in her person and in that of her descendants; Charles I. under the axe, James II. in exile, each continued and added to his heritage of faults, imprudences, and calamities; the whole race of the Stuarts was cut off, and seems to have deserved it. But, vanquished in the order of things and under the empire of fact, and even under that of inexorable reason, the beautiful queen has regained all in the world of imagination and of pity. She has found, from century to century, knights, lovers, and avengers. A few years ago, a Russian of distinction, Prince Alexander Labanoff, began, with incomparable zeal, a search through the archives, the collections, the libraries of Europe, for documents emanating directly from Marie Stuart, the most insignificant as well as the most important of her letters, in order to connect them and so make a nucleus of history, and also an authentic shrine, not doubting that interest, serious and tender interest, would rise, more powerful still, from the bosom of truth itself. On the appearance of this collection of Prince Labanoff, M. Mignet produced, from 1847 to 1850, a series of articles in the “Journal des Savants,” in which, not content with appreciating the prince’s documents, he presented from himself new documents, hitherto unpublished and affording new lights. Since then, leaving the form of criticism and dissertation, M. Mignard has taken this fine subject as a whole, and has written a complete narrative upon it, grave, compact, interesting, and definitive, which he is now publishing [1851].