The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century

"Come, Blanche, read us the verses," Diana of Sauveterre suggested. "The Queen may send for us any moment before she retires."

Instead of complying at once with Diana's request, Blanche of Verceil pointed to Anna Bell, who remained in silent abstraction, and in a low voice said to her companions: "Decidedly, the little one is in love. Her ears do not prick up at the sound of that tickling word pasquil– a divine tid-bit of wit and wickedness the salt of which is worth a hundred fold, a thousand fold more than all the sugar of the candies."

"I wager she is dreaming awake of the German Prince of whom she speaks in her slumbers. How indiscreet sleep is! Poor thing, she thinks her secret is well kept," rejoined Clorinde of Vaucernay.

"Blanche, the pasquils," again cried Diana, impatiently. "I burn with curiosity to hear them."

"Honor to whom honor is due. We shall commence with our good dame the Queen;" and with these words Blanche read:

"People ask, What's the resemblance
’Tween Catherine and Jesebel:
One, the latter, ruined Israel,
And the former ruins France;
Extreme malice marked the latter,
Malice's self the former is;
Finally, the judgment fell
Of a Providence divine
Caused the dogs to eat up Jesebel,
While the carcass rank of Catherine
In this point doth differ much:
It not even the dogs will munch."[51 - Register Journal of L'Etoile, p. 28.]

The maids of honor broke out into peals of laughter. Anna Bell, still pensively seated apart at the open casement, let her eyes wander over space, a stranger to the hilarity of her companions. She paid no attention to the reading of the verses.

"You will yet see, in the event of our good Dame Catherine's being taken unawares and swallowing some of the sugar plums destined for her victims, that the rascally dogs may fear the remains of our venerable sovereign are poisoned – and will run away from her carcass," said Clorinde of Vaucernay.

"That pasquil should be read to the Queen. If she is in a good humor she will have a good laugh over it," put in Diana of Sauveterre.

"Indeed, few things amuse her more than bold and witty verses," acquiesced Blanche. "Do you remember how, when she read the 'Marvelous Discourses' from the satirical pen of the famous printer Robert Estienne, the good dame laughed heartily and said: 'There is some truth in that! But they do not know it all – how would it be if they were more fully posted!'[52 - The queen's words are historical. The book was Marvelous Discourses on Catherine De Medici, by Robert Estienne, Geneva, 1565.] Now, listen. After the Queen, Monsieur the Cardinal, that is a matter of course. He is supposed to be dead – they wish he were – that also is natural. Here is his epitaph written in advance:

"The Cardinal, who, in his hours of life
Kept heaven, sea and earth all seething o'er,
In hell now carries on his furious strife,
And 'mong the damned, as erst 'mong us makes war.
"Why is it that upon his tomb is showered
The holy water in such rare profusion?
It is that there the torch of war lies lowered,
And all fear lest it flare to new confusion."[53 - Register Journal of L'Etoile, p. 30.]

"Poor Monsieur Cardinal!" exclaimed Diana of Sauveterre. "What a villainous calumny! He, such a poltroon as he, for a Guise – he is the most craven of all cravens – to compare him with a bolt of war!"

"No, not a bolt, but a torch," Blanche corrected. "He rests satisfied with holding the torch of war, like Madam Gondi, the governess of the royal Princes and Princesses, held the torch of Venus to light the amours of the late King Henry II, whose worthy go-between, or, to speak more plainly, whose Cyprian, she was."

"As for me," said Clorinde of Vaucernay, "I highly commend the Queen for having placed, as governess over her children, her own husband's go-between. It is a sort of hereditary office which can not be entrusted to hands too worthy, and should be perpetuated in titled families."

"Accordingly," said Blanche, "Gondi, faithful to the duties of her Cyprian employment, took charge of carrying the first love letter from Mademoiselle Margot[54 - That was the familiar appellation at court of Princess Marguerite, the daughter of Catherine of Medici and Henry II, so famous for her excesses. She married Henry IV, who later divorced her.] to young Henry of Guise, whom we are about to meet in the army of Marshal Tavannes. Hence evil tongues are saying: 'In these days, it is not the men who fall on their knees before the women, but the women who fall on their knees before the men and entreat them for amorous mercy.'"[55 - De Thou, History of France, book LXXIV, p. 240.]

"Nothing wonderful in that!" replied Clorinde. "Is it not for a Queen to take the first step towards her subjects? What are we? Queens. What are the men? Our subjects. Besides that, Henry of Guise is so handsome, so brave, so amorous! Although he is barely eighteen years old, all the women are crazy over him – I first of all. My arms are open to him."

"Oh, Clorinde! If Biron were to hear you!" cried Diana of Sauveterre.

"He has heard me," answered Clorinde. "He knows that in pledging constancy, exception is always implied for an encounter with Henry of Guise. But let us hear the other pasquils, Blanche!"

"The next one," announced Blanche, "is piquant. It alludes to the new custom that the Queen has borrowed from Spain. It alludes to the title of Majesty that she wishes to be addressed by, as well as her children:

"The Kingdom of France, to perdition while lagging,
Has seized from the Spaniard his heathenish bragging:
It rigs up a mortal in godhead's travesty,
And when his estate with hypocrisy's smelling,
I plainly can see, and without any telling,
Our Majesty's booked – to be stript of majesty."[56 - Register Journal of L'Etoile, supplement, p. 57.]

"That last line is humorous," laughed Clorinde. "'Our Majesty's booked – to be stript of majesty.'"

"For want of the thing we take the name – that is enough to impose upon the fools," said Diana of Sauveterre.

Blanche pointed to their companion who was still seated by the window, now with her forehead resting on her hands, and said: "Look at Anna Bell. In what black melancholy is she plunged?"

"To the devil with melancholy!" answered Diana. "One has to fall in love with some German Prince in order to look so pitiful!"

"Who may the Prince Charming be?" Blanche inquired. "We know nothing of the secrets of that languishing maid, except a few words uttered by her in her sleep – 'Prince – Germany! – Germany! – My heart is all yours. Alas, my love can not be shared.'"

"Can Anna Bell be German?" asked Clorinde.

"Ask our good Dame Catherine about that. She is no doubt acquainted with the mystery of Anna Bell's birth, and may enlighten you on what you want to know. As for me, I know nothing about it."

"The German Prince has turned her head and made her forget poor Solange altogether," said Clorinde.

"The most famous preachers, among them Burning-Fire and Fra Hervé the Cordelier, failed to draw the Marquis of Solange back to the fold of the Church. Anna Bell undertook his conversion, and, by grace from above – or from below – by virtue of her blue eyes or of her charming hips, the Huguenot became an ardent Catholic."

"But to whom does he render his devotions?" asked Clorinde, meaningly. "To the Church, or to the chapel of our little friend?" The maids of honor laughed uproariously and Clorinde continued: "But let us return to our pasquils."

"This one," resumed Blanche of Verceil, "is odd on account of its form – and the climax is droll. Judge for yourselves:

"The poor people endure everything;
The men-at-arms ravage everything;
The Holy Church pensions everything;
The favorites demand everything;
The Cardinal grants everything;
The Parliament registers everything;
The Chancellor seals everything;
The Queen-Mother runs everything;
And only the Devil laughs at everything;
Because the Devil will take everything."[57 - Register Journal of L'Etoile, supplement, p. 198.]

The loud hilarity of the maids of honor, whom the wind-up of the last pasquil amused intensely, finally attracted the attention of Anna Bell. Her face bore the impress of profound sadness; her eyes were moist. Fearing that she was the object of her companions' jests, the maid furtively wiped away her tears, stepped slowly towards the other young women, and let herself down beside Blanche of Verceil.

"We are somewhat after the fashion of the devil – we laugh about everything," said Clorinde to her. "You alone, Anna Bell, among us all, are as sad as a wife who sees her husband return from a long voyage, or beholds her gallant depart for the wars. What is the reason of your despondency?"