Page:The Literary Magnet 1825 vol 4.djvu/176

 tournament. As the affair between the Queen of Scots and Chastelard had become known, and been generally talked of, the latter was vile enough to pretend, that his visit had been intended to me. The consequence was, that when I appeared by the side of Queen Catherine, I remarked a general whispering, and observed that all eyes were upon me. I thought I should have died with shame, and the more so, as the Dauphiness did not appear to notice me. At the close of the tournament, Chastelard approached me with a smile of confidence, but I publicly turned my back upon him; upon this he muttered something about forgetfulness and former favours, whereupon I turned round, and unable to restrain my indignation, called him a liar, and left him. In a forced passion, and in a shrill tone, I heard him exclaim—“My lady, this demands satisfaction!” At this moment the young Count Mongomery approached me, and begged me to leave this satisfaction to him. My heart was full, I was unable to utter a single syllable in reply, and the Count took my silence for consent. “Mount and break a lance with me, Chastelard!” cried he leaping into his saddle, and forcing the dastard to do the same. I saw that the Queen was about to interpose, but it was too late, for Chastelard, struck by the irresistible lance of the young Count, lay already stretched on the sand. There was a general burst of applause. The Queen kissed my forehead, and the fair Mary approached and embraced me tenderly, asking my pardon for the suspicion she had entertained, and in such touching expressions that I could not restrain my tears. The whispers of the crowd were finished; nothing was now visible but an expression of universal contempt against Chastelard, and the King gave orders that he should instantly quit the court.

The following evening there was a private assembly at the Queen’s; my attendance could not be dispensed with. Nay, you may well smile, my dear Mother, and so do I too; but your little Clara, with all her simplicity, is now the decided favourite of the two most distinguished queens in Christendom; of Catherine de Medicis, the proud and mighty Queen of France; and of the lovely Sovereign of Scotland. You often praised the beauties of the court of Francis the First; but you should see an assembly of the Queen’s to be in perfect raptures. The royal consort herself still commands admiration; but what shall I say of that soft, melancholy beauty, the Princess Elizabeth, once happy in being betrothed to the heir of Spain, Don Carlos; but now condemned to be the spouse of his father, the gloomy Philip the Second. There is an ineffable melancholy in her dark eyes; and it is remarked, that she hardly ever speaks since the sad change in her fate. At her side brightens in a charming contrast, that wonderful child, her sister, Marguerite de Valois, all spirit, all splendour; but there is something in her burning eye, which I almost fear, speaking, as it does, of a genius of an awful kind. Then there are the famous beauties Mademoiselle de Tournon, and Maria Princess of Nevers, and many more—all surrounded by the flower of our young nobility, who do not yield to them in beauty and accomplishments, really present a most splendid spectacle. But all—all of them must yield to the lovely Mary Stuart. You should see her when, in her Scottish attire, she sings the old ballads of her country, accompanying herself on the lute; or when she recites some of