carried a golden candlestick with wax
candles. He did not enter the archduchess's
room—not then; but it is certain that he
must have been summoned in the course of
the night. He and the other gentlemen gave
the articles they carried to the ladies at the
door; and the whole contents were spread
out not only on the sideboard, but on the
bed."

"As to the archduke," adds my authority
for these incidents, "he supped more solidly
than his spouse, along with the Duke de
Nevers and the Compte de Ligny. The
king abstained from that repast. He fasted
on bread and water, because that day was
the eve of Notre Dame des Avents."

What a place Blois must have been for
grandeur and sweetmeats at that time!
What a flourishing trade the confectioner's;
and also the dentist's. This was in fifteen
hundred and one; and the object of all this
cracking of sugar-plums was to negotiate a
marriage between Charles the Fifth, then
Duke of Luxemburg, with Claude of France.
But too much sugar-candy had disagreed
with all parties; the espousals were broken
off, and Claude, in good time, became the
wretched wife of the unprincipled roué who
is known in history as Francis the First, the
same Duke de Angoulême who was kissed by
Jeanne of Austria.

Many other visitors came to Blois; and
always to his favourite home came Louis
from the disastrous wars that clouded his
later years. Once, in fifteen hundred and
ten, there came a deep-eyed Italian, calm,
mild, and smiling; lying, cheating, and
swindling with such an air of honesty that it
was impossible to suspect him of anything
but the purest intentions. this was
Macchiavel; and poor Cardinal d'Amboise, who was
prime minister of France, was twisted round
the diplomatist's thumb. But off the thumb,
and off the face of the earth, that ambitious
priest slipped into the grave this very year.
When he was dying, he said to the simple
ecclesiastic who attended him, "Ah, Friar
John, Friar John! why wasn't I always
Friar John!" He had wanted all his life,
like our English Wolsey, to be Pope; and to
obtain the tiara, was ready to sacrifice the
interests of France. but Louis did not share
in his minister's devotion to the Roman See.
The Pope of that time had formed a league
against him, in which were united many
discordant elements. there were Germans
and Spaniards, and Swiss and Italians. Even
the Turks had come to the help of Rome,
and the crescent floated side by side with the
keys of Saint Peter. Louis waked from his
sybarite indulgence at Blois, and scandalised
the clergy of that city by vowing vengeance
against the Seven Hills. He struck medals
with the device "Perdam Babylonis nomen;"
and determined to force his way into the
castle of Saint Angelo, and bring his Holiness,
the fighting Pontiff, Julius the Second, a
prisoner to France. But disasters fell upon
the French arms; there were defeats at
Novara, and routs at Guinegate in Picardy.
The loftiness of Louis was brought low, and
in the midst of these reverses his wife died.
Blois was now hung with mourning. The
king, in despair, had come to catch the last
blessing from the dying lips of the only
woman he ever really loved, and felt for awhile
that life had few farther enjoyments for him.
The authors of the time dwell upon his grief
as something dreadful; and one of them
records that he even abstained from mourning
in violet, as the kings of France have
done since Clovis, and dressed himself in black,
like the meanest of his subjects.

But a few months made him exchange his
sombre black for bridegroom's satin, and he
married Mary of England; a short marriage
for her, for the old gentleman could not bear
the change of life she introduced from the
court of Windsor. For, says the chronicler,
whereas he used to dine at eight o'clock, he
agreed to dine at noon; and whereas he used
to go to bed at six, he often sat up till midnight.
No constitution could stand these
late hours; and he died (partly of want of
sleep, and partly of jealousy at the attentions
the young Duke d'Angoulême paid to the
youthful queen) on the first day of the year
fifteen hundred and fifteen. Perhaps there
is some taint of bitterness arising from the
flirtation he had observed between his wife
and his successor in the words he spoke
concerning that flower of chivalry and truth.
"We may do what we like," he sighed, when
he thought he had settled the public affairs
satisfactorily, "but that big fellow d'Angoulême
will spoil all." And he did. He spoilt
all. He embroiled himself with Europe,
half-ruined his country, and neglected Blois.
The Castle, as if exhausted with the effort of
producing a king, and keeping him so many
years in royal state, never did anything more
—at least, for a long time. But in fifteen
hundred and seventy-two, Henry the Fourth,
the King of Navarre, came to arrange with
Catherine de Medicis about his marriage
with Margaret de Valois; and great fêtes
were given in honour of the event. Charles
the Ninth was there, and the young Prince
de Condé, and De la Rochefoucault, and five
hundred other nobles of the Protestant faith.
There were balls and games every night;
feasting, hawking, and hunting every day;
but in a secret room of the castle, far away
from the noise of the revellers, feebly
illuminated by a little lamp, there sat round a
small table, night after night, the following
personages: the King, the Queen-mother,
the Cardinal of Lorraine, the Duke of Guise,
the Duke d'Anjou, the Chancellor Biragues,
and some others of the orthodox faith, and
plotted a great deed; they arranged all their
plans, marshalled all their supporters,
prepared for all emergencies, and at last were
ready to execute their design. It was the