Francis I. died slowly of a disgusting malady, the consequence of his licentious amours. For a time his life was prolonged by the use of potent medicines; but the opportunity thus given him of redeeming the past was wasted in regrets that he had not extirpated heresy.[24] He used often to say, if we may credit Brantome, that this novelty--the Reformation--“tended to the overthrow of all monarchy, human and divine.” Yet none of the kings who embraced the new creed lost their thrones; while the devotee Henry III., and the converted Henry IV., both fell by orthodox daggers. The king’s funeral sermon was preached by Pierre du Chastel, Bishop of Macon, whose orthodoxy had become suspected in consequence of the attempts he had made to save Stephen Dolet. When Cardinal de Tournon reproached him with this, the good prelate made answer: “I acted like a bishop, you like a hangman.” When the sermon was published, the Sorbonne hunted out several heretical propositions, particularly a passage where the bishop, after extolling Francis as a saint of the highest order, continued: “I am convinced that, after so holy a life, the king’s soul, on leaving his body, was transported to heaven without passing through the flames of purgatory.”[25] The Sorbonne protested against this, and a deputation of doctors went to St. Germains, where the court was staying, to denounce the heretical panegyrist. They were received by John de Mendoza, the first chamberlain, who desired them to be quite easy in their minds: “If you had known His Majesty as well as I did, you would have understood the meaning of the bishop’s words. The king could never stop anywhere, however agreeable the place might be; and if he went to purgatory, he only remained there long enough to look about him, and was off again.” _Solvuntur risu tabulæ!_ The doctors retired in confusion: there was no answering such a jest. The character of Francis is a “mingled yarn.” He had great virtues, but he also had great vices. He had noble aspirations, but he often suffered them to be obscured by ignoble passions. All his life long he allowed himself to be led by women. Had they all been like his sister, Margaret of Valois, it would have been well for him, for France, and for religion; but they were more frequently such as the Duchess of Valentinois, and even worse. He was ambitious, but it was more for his kingdom than for himself; he was a warrior, though not equal to his rivals; he was sumptuous and extravagant, but architects and painters, historians and poets, scholars and wits, were not neglected by him. He was impressionable and superstitious, but he often checked the fiery zeal of the persecutors, tried to reform the clergy in his dilettante fashion, and was never bigoted except when frightened by the priests, or when he fancied his personal dignity insulted. It is not wonderful that Frenchmen look back to him with pride, for he represents the national character in its best as well as in its worst phases.