J Stormy Life;

OR

QUEEN MARGARET'S JOURNAL.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DAWN.

Tarascon in Provence, 1435.

I, MADAME L'INFANTE D'ANJOU, am six years old to-day. Messire Antoine de la Salle has given me this fair book, and painted that garland of daisies which you see in the first page, and my name, Marguerite, in fine blue and red letters and much gold. Monseigneur Louis is jealous; but when he writes as well as I do, then Messire Antoine will give him also a book, and instead of daisies he will paint for him a laurel wreath, which doth become a soldier. I wish I was a prince, for then when I was tall enough I should be knighted like Monseigneur Jean, who kept watch by the side of his arms all night at Dijon, though he is only three years older than I am. It would like me to put on armour and fight against the caitiff Duke of Burgundy, who keeps my father-king in prison. But as I cannot be a man, I will be like Jeanne la Pucelle, and ride a fine white horse, and wear the sword of Charlemagne, and be called the Maid of Anjou. Of all the stories I have heard, none pleases me so well as that of Jeanne. I wish Monseigneur St. Michel would speak to But Théophanie never leaves me alone in the garden. I think that is the reason why angels do not talk to me.

me.

When we go abroad here the people throw flowers on the road, and build green arches and fair bowers wherever we pass. This liketh me well, but yet more to hear them sing the lays of King René, my dear father. When they play on their instruments the "Sacre d'Angers," my heart beats in my breast like a little bird in its cage. The Provençals love us very much.. They cry out that Louis and I are the most beautiful and excellent creatures in the whole world, and like unto God's angels in the sky. But Théophanie says they do not know how naughty Monseigneur and Madame are at home, and not at all like unto angels.

When we were on the terrace with the Queen to-day a crowd came to look at us. I saw ugly faces which scared me. When Agathe was undressing me she said that two witches had been caught, which sometimes turn into cats, and by means of a purse made out of a cat's skin work many devilries and charms, which cause lovers to hate each other and many dreadful things. They came from Hyères, and now they are taken to Aix, where the judges will cause them, she hopes, to be burnt alive.

Last night I could not sleep for thinking of those witches; so Théophanie came and sat by my bedside, and talked of my dear father and my aunt Marie, whom she took care of when they were little, as she now takes care of me.

"Ah, petite madame," she said, "you must indeed be a very virtuous princess, for where can be found in one family so many great examples of piety as in your race? Your grandams, Madame Marguerite de Bâvière and Madame Yolande d'Arragon, are the most esteemed princesses in Europe, and every one calleth them saints. Your aunt Marie, my sweet nurseling, is a paragon of virtue. The late King Louis and his Queen, your great uncle Monseigneur de Bar and your royal parents, have not their like in this age for nobility of soul and towardness in serving God."

"But I am too little to serve God," I answered.

Then Théophanie said,

"There is in Brittany a princess married to the Duke Pierre, your uncle Francis's brother, who, when she was but five years old, was called the little saint."

"What is her name ?" I asked, for I liked to talk more than to sleep.

"Madame Françoise d'Amboise," she answered. "When she was only three years old she always said her prayers, and was never so happy as when in the church. One winter day after Mass her nurse, who was chafing her cold little feet, saw her shed tears. O good nurse,' she cried, didst thou not see my good patron Messire St. François in his chapel with his stone feet all cold and bare? Prithee, carry him my stockings to put on.' When she was five, the good duchess took her one day on her knees, and said, 'Sweetheart, what aileth thee, that thou dost often weep?' 'Madame,' quoth the wise infant, I see you and Monseigneur and all your court go to the altar, and the good Jesus comes into your hearts. I weep because He comes not to me.' 'Comfort thee, little Françoise,' quoth the duchess. If the Bishop hearkens to my prayer, on All Saints' day the good Jesus shall also come to thee.' And so it came about that

at All Hallows Madame Françoise, albeit only five years of age, received the good God into her heart."

"And how old is she now?" I asked.

"About twenty-five years of age," said Théophanie.

"And hath she been good ever since?"

"Yea," she said. "More good every day."

"Then methinks she must be very tired now," I cried; "for I am tired if I am good only one day."

And then I fell asleep, for I had forgot about the witches.

I have been a little sick to-day, and could not go out. To pass the time, I had a pack of cards to play with. I spread them all on the table, and made armies of them. Barbe told me those with faces are portraits. The queen with the shamrocks is my aunt Marie; the one with hearts the late Queen Isabel; she with the lance the Pucelle Jeanne; and the other with the squares Agnes Sorel. I marvel she should be one of them. She is no queen, nor yet a brave soldier like Jeanne. The kings, Barbe said, were King Charles, and the King of England, who is dead, and the King of Spain, I think, and Monseigneur de Bourgogne, whom I hate. I tore that card into little bits, which Barbe thought was a pity. I like the knaves. They are Messire la Hire, and Dunois, and Hector de Galard, and the brave Barbazon, who died at Bulgneville.

To-night they have kindled great fires before the castle gate. Louis thought they were bonfires, and clapped his hands for joy. It was like the Eve of St. John, and Agathe hoped it would drive away all witches and fairies; but Messire Antoine told me it was done to chase the plague from us-the black death, which killeth many persons in the town.

They have lighted fires every night, but the black death will not cease. We are going to Marseilles in a few days, and then in a ship across the sea to my father's new kingdom in Italy. The good Provençals have given my mother soldiers, who will fight for us against the Spaniards. Farewell, sweet Provence, where every one loves us so well. Farewell, blue river Rhone, which will carry us swiftly to the sea, and then we shall see you no more. Farewell, Yolande; farewell, Monseigneur Jean de Calabre. I wish I was like you, in prison with my father. I wish I was a blossom on a branch near to his window. I wish the wind would blow me through the bars into his arms. O, I am tired of wishing and of writing.

Messire Marie de St. André hath been this day portraying the

castle for a love-token from my mother to my father. He hath made it so like to what we see, that he will have, methinks, much contentment in this piece of painting. The Queen stood a long time looking on it, and then she said,

"Ah, Messire André, my Lord will recompense you for this work. He hath a great heart toward skilled persons such as you, and is no mean limner himself."

Then they talked of the chapel which shall be built here underground, and the fair terrace above the river to be added to the battlements. When the Queen was gone, Messire Antoine said to the painter,

"My master's passion for your art is so great, that even the news of his advent to a new kingdom did not suffice to make him lay down his brush.”

"How so?" quoth Messire Marie; and M. Antoine replied,

"The Sieur Vidal Cabanis came from Naples with these tidings, and found his Majesty portraying our Lady's image on glass, who never so much as looked up or stopped to say, 'Why or wherefore are you come?' The envoy, weary of waiting, said, 'Monseigneur, God hath called to Himself your sister-in-law Queen Joan, who hath made you her heir.' God rest her soul !' quoth the king, and crossed himself. Then straightway took up his brush again, which angered the envoy, who was constrained to force his majesty to listen to the message by which the crown of Naples was tendered to him.'

I admire that my father likes to paint more than to hear of a kingdom. It would please me to be told I should be a queen.

Marseilles, April 21st.

The sea is as blue as the Rhone, and so wide that it should be most like God, I think, of any thing else in the world, for it hath no beginning and no end that I can see. We have been to pray to our Lady of La Garde, at a chapel on a hill. When we were there, I saw the galleys which are to take us to Naples. Théophanie is not afraid now to cross the sea, since we have made a vow to our Lady. I have promised to give my little silver harp to buy bread for the poor, if we reach Naples in safety.

Capua, May 5th.

I think this land is Paradise. The people love us, if possible, yet more than those of Provence. No sooner did they see the ship than they came in boats, waving flags and crying "Evviva!" They carried us through the streets in a great chair like unto a throne, and a canopy of gold and red velvet over our heads. Wherever we passed, the shouts were so loud that it seemed as if they could be heard in the skies. Gold and silver cloths and pieces of tapestry,

with imaged figures, hung from all the windows. The great street, which is called the Via di Toledo, was decked with flowers, and the bells of all the churches rung. Shots were fired, which frighted us at first, though I would not show it, but I looked at Messire Antoine, and he whispered to me it was a token of joy in this country to fire little guns. The Count de Nola and sixteen lords complimented the Queen. I counted them whilst he made his speech. She answered them in Italian, and then they cried "Evviva" again. Louis laughed at the men which ran screaming by our side. He took from the Queen her nosegay, and threw flowers to them, which they caught in their hands and pressed to their hearts. It liketh me well to be the daughter of a king. I will not marry a count, or a duke, no, nor any one but a king. Agathe says I was promised to Pierre de Luxembourg, and that he should have been a fitting husband for me when my father was Duke of Lorraine, but not now when he is the King of Naples. I will not wed him, and be only the Countess of St. Pol. I am too tired to write any more.

I fell asleep last night with my pen in my hand, and woke up crying "Evviva."

June 15th.

The black death, which was at Tarascon, is now at Naples; I hope it will not come to Capua, for I do not want to die, but to live in this fine palace, of which all the walls are painted, so that we need no other pastime but to look at them. The gardens are full of figures of beasts and birds, and sometimes persons, which appear all of a sudden; and if you set your foot in one place, a fountain springeth up and sprinkles you with perfume. It should seem as if fairies lived in these green alleys, and played us tricks. But Queen Joan was the fairy which made this palace. I asked Barbe if she was good. "Good insomuch, madame," she answered, "that she left this kingdom to your royal father." Théophanie sighed when I spoke of the good Queen Joan. She sighs often now, and is not so merry as in France. I wonder she can be sad here, where each day is like a festival, and the sun always shines.

Last night, when Agathe was combing my hair, she said, "Ah! how well a crown will become this lovely head!" I asked her which king I should marry. "O, well-a-day!" she replied, "report says that the King your father shall soon be set free, and that the Duke of Burgundy, if he releases him, will have madame to wed her cousin the King of England." I snatched my hair out of her hands, and cried in great anger, "I will not be the Queen of Eng