It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there no relaxation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in aught diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit-stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed the last tournament of France. The lists extending through the most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the terrific towers of the Bastile, were adorned by pavilions and tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy brocades, velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of their owners, betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh all the nobility of France. Over one, whose silver covering glittered so resplendently in the July sun that the aching eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France’s banner, the fleur de lis, which, combined with the splendid accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved that majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light breeze sporting with the many standards, at times gave their devices to view, at others, laid them idly by their staves. Streamers and pennons in gay relief stood forth against the clear blue sky; while the brilliant armour, the glittering spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays, there seemed a hundred suns.
France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in the lists, for none chose to remain mere spectators of games in which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself. Montmorenci, Coligny, Andelot, Condé, Nemours—names bearing with them such undying memories, their mention is sufficient—all were this day present; for the blood-red standard of intolerance and persecution as yet remained unfurled. The very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset; the pealing shouts of welcome as each knight was recognised, marching at the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion; the answering cheers of the men-at-arms; the trampling of many steeds; the frequent clash of steel, as the knights passed and repassed in the lists ere they formed into bands; now and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill prolonged blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling burst of martial music, lingering awhile in its own rude tones, then subsiding gently into the softer song of minstrelsy and love, more fitted to the ears of beauty than the wilder notes of war.
And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine de Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received universal homage; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though most expressive features accorded little with the heavy gorgeousness of her jewelled robes; no retiring yet much-loved Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy; no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic mien would have done honour to a diadem—had there been none of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The diamond coronet of fleur de lis entwining the sterner thistle, that lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank; and the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dauphine, is all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair, bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young girls, indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing on the smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled cheek true tokens of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early youth.
The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity which, while it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart to tremble.
“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or will for more?” asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a birth more southern than Scotia’s colder shores.
“He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered, in a lowered voice, “for, he fears the challenge of the king—fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as yet unrivalled, courage none dare question; but the practice of a soldier brings these things to greater perfection than monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign challenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the count avoid the lists.”
“Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted his sword within its scabbard. I would trust myself to the men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon gallant, bearing thy colours? Is the young esquire of thy father a rival to the goodly count?”
“Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of my love, when he doffed the page’s garb and donned the squire’s. When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of little value.”
“Thinkest thou so? Methought the lowly homage that he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother. But there is some stir below; the trumpets sound the king again as challenger.”
A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form, but there was no answer.
A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie de Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she exclaimed, “Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not let this be! in mercy speak to her grace the queen, implore her to avert th............