The Life of Marie de Medicis, Queen of France, Consort of Henri IV, and Regent of the Kingdom under Louis XIII — Volume 2Pardoe, Miss (Julia)
History
The Life of Marie de Medicis, Queen of France, Consort of Henri IV, and Regent of the Kingdom under Louis XIII — Volume 2
Pardoe, Miss (Julia)
Marie de Médicis, Queen, consort of Henry IV, King of France, 1573-1642
Alarmed by the report of firearms within the boundary of the palace,
Marie de Medicis, who had not yet completed her toilet, desired Caterina
Selvaggio to throw open one of the windows, and to demand the cause of
so singular and unpardonable an infraction of the law. She was obeyed;
and the Italian waiting-woman no sooner perceived De Vitry advancing
below the apartments of her royal mistress than she inquired of him what
had occurred.
"The Maréchal d'Ancre has been shot," was his abrupt reply.
"Shot!" echoed Caterina; "and by whom?"
"By myself," said De Vitry composedly; "and by the command of the King."
"Madame!" exclaimed the terrified attendant, as she rushed to the side
of the Queen-mother, "M. le Maréchal has been killed by order of
his Majesty."
Marie de Medicis started from her seat; her cheeks were blanched, her
lips quivered, and she wrung her hands convulsively, as she gasped out,
"I have reigned seven years. I must now think only of a crown
in heaven."
Her attendants, stupified with terror, rapidly gathered round her; and
ere long she learnt that her guards had been disarmed, and replaced by
those of the King. She listened vaguely to each successive report, and
paced the room with rapid but uncertain steps. At length she exclaimed
vehemently, "I do not regret that my son should have taken the life of
Concini, if he believed it necessary to the safety of his kingdom; but
his distrust of myself in concealing such a project from my knowledge is
more than I can bear."
When the first violence of her emotion had subsided she sank into a
seat, and with clasped hands and drooping head appeared to be absorbed
in deep and bitter thought; for at intervals the blood mounted to her
brow and burned there for a time, after which she again became pale as
ashes, and as motionless as a corpse. She was still in this attitude
when one of her confidential servants imprudently approached her, and
inquired how the melancholy event was to be communicated to the
Maréchale d'Ancre? "Perhaps," he incautiously suggested, "your Majesty
will condescend to acquaint her with it yourself."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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