leurs doigts sur les espinettes pour dire saintes chansonettes. So little heretical was his version regarded that in 1540, before it was printed, Francis I made a present of it to Charles V. Florimond de Rémond says:-- “Each of the princes and courtiers adopted one or other of the psalms for himself. King Henry chose as his own Psalm XLII., _Ainsi qu’on oyt le cerf bruire_, which he sang when hunting. Mme. de Valentinois (Diana of Poitiers), his mistress, took as hers Ps. CXXX., _Du fond de ma pensée_, which she sang when galloping. The Queen had selected V.; _Ne veuillez pas, O Sire_, set to a buffoon melody. The King of Navarre, Antoine de Bourbon, chose XLIII., _Revenge moy, prens la querelle_, which he sang to a branle (a dance tune) of Poitou; and so with the rest.” But little by little these metrical psalms assumed an aggressive tone; passed among the people, and these took them to heart more seriously than did the courtiers. Bordier, in his _Chansonnier huguenot_, says:-- “It was soon seen with what energy the Huguenots assimilated this poetry, which responded so well to their burning faith. They knew the psalter by heart. It became one of the tokens by which they recognized one another at long distances, before coming in sight, when certain familiar melodies were borne to their ears. From the windows of the Louvre Henry II more than once saw a crowd flushed with enthusiasm fill the Pré aux Clercs, promenading in the evening with gravity, trolling out these psalms.” The Queen of Navarre was certainly a strange mixture; she wrote treatises of piety, composed a _Mirror of the Sinful Soul_, wrote songs, and in her old age was the authoress of that book of indecent tales, the _Heptameron_, which is still read, whereas the _Mirror of the Sinful Soul_ is forgotten. She took as her device the marigold turning to the sun, and as her motto, “Non inferiora sequor,” hardly appropriate to the compiler of the _Heptameron_. A pretty story is told of her by Brantôme. She had as one of her ladies-in-waiting Mlle. de la Roche, who had been the mistress of Captain Bourdeille, but whom he had cast aside and forgotten. Mlle. de la Roche died in the Queen’s service at Pau, and was buried in the church of S. Martin. Three months later Bourdeille came to Pau, and was received by the Queen, who invited him to attend her to the church. When there, standing in a certain place, Marguerite said to him, “Do you feel the ground heave under your feet?” “Not in the least,” he replied. “Surely you do?” “Madame, I assure you that I do not.” “That is strange,” said the Queen, “for beneath your feet lies your poor, deserted Mademoiselle de la Roche, sighing because that above her stands the man who deceived her. I leave you now alone to your reflections.”