DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.63221#0212
170
THE FRENCH RENAISSANCE
that, soldier-like, he has forgotten ? It is hard to say. There
is a smile behind the tears—a hint of elusive irony—but
it vanishes as we question it, and the scene remains painted
in half-tints, Margaret’s favourite colours.
She liked society as long as society was intimate; but
she hated crowds and public places and only frequented
them, says Brantome, so that she might know all things
and, above all, the secrets of the King. Her best happiness
was at home, for these early days had brought her the
fulfilment of her wishes. She had become a mother. In
1528, a daughter was born to her, and the birth of a son
at Alencon, two years afterwards, seemed all that was wanting.
But he did not stay with her long. Having known a
mother’s joy, she was to know a mother’s agony, and when
he was a few months old, he died. “She went into her
room and without the aid of any womanish action, she
kneeled down and very humbly thanked the Lord for all
the good it had pleased Him to do her.” Then she gave
orders that the Te Deum, the popular hymn of rejoicing,
should be sung, instead of the funeral hymn, throughout
the city of Alencon; and that on its walls should be posted
placards, bearing the words: “ The Lord hath given, the
Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”
The only sign of mourning that she showed was in her
dress; and from the day of her baby’s death, she wore
nothing but black. Later it became her taste and her
ladies were not allowed to wear anything else.
Francis showed his best side in sorrow, and his letter of
sympathy about her sorrow has an elaborate sweetness which
reminds us of his early years. He had himself lost two
THE FRENCH RENAISSANCE
that, soldier-like, he has forgotten ? It is hard to say. There
is a smile behind the tears—a hint of elusive irony—but
it vanishes as we question it, and the scene remains painted
in half-tints, Margaret’s favourite colours.
She liked society as long as society was intimate; but
she hated crowds and public places and only frequented
them, says Brantome, so that she might know all things
and, above all, the secrets of the King. Her best happiness
was at home, for these early days had brought her the
fulfilment of her wishes. She had become a mother. In
1528, a daughter was born to her, and the birth of a son
at Alencon, two years afterwards, seemed all that was wanting.
But he did not stay with her long. Having known a
mother’s joy, she was to know a mother’s agony, and when
he was a few months old, he died. “She went into her
room and without the aid of any womanish action, she
kneeled down and very humbly thanked the Lord for all
the good it had pleased Him to do her.” Then she gave
orders that the Te Deum, the popular hymn of rejoicing,
should be sung, instead of the funeral hymn, throughout
the city of Alencon; and that on its walls should be posted
placards, bearing the words: “ The Lord hath given, the
Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”
The only sign of mourning that she showed was in her
dress; and from the day of her baby’s death, she wore
nothing but black. Later it became her taste and her
ladies were not allowed to wear anything else.
Francis showed his best side in sorrow, and his letter of
sympathy about her sorrow has an elaborate sweetness which
reminds us of his early years. He had himself lost two