From Colburn's New Monthly. THE LOUVRE AND LUXEMBOURG. CATHERINE DE MEDICIS AND MADEMOISELLE D'ORLEANS. during the reigns of his son Henri II. and also of Charles IX. THE "sight," par excellence, of Paris, is the Louvre. There is nothing in the city that can in any way compete with this en- Within these walls did that incarnation chanted and enchanting palace. With of cruelty and intrigue, Catherine de Méin and without it is full of wonders, and dicis, arrange the details of the horrible the admiration it inspires increases with butchery which had been resolved on every succeeding visit. In an architectu- seven years before, on the occasion of the ral point of view, beautiful as is the build-interview at Bayonne, between herself and ing, it may elsewhere find rivals, but the treasures of painting and sculpture within its walls are indeed unparalleled. The magnificent collection it contains of the rarest works of art render it at once the most curious and interesting museum in Europe. To leave Paris without thoroughly examining it, would be like going to Rome without seeing the Coliseum, and each day of at least an entire week ought to be entirely devoted to its inspection in order to acquire a fair estimate of its con tents. All my life I had longed to behold this palace, connected with so much that is interesting in history and admirable in art. When the moment arrived for this longing to be realized, I felt quite oppressed and overcome-I was too happy-and I only wish my pen could impart to this cold page one half of the interest its walls inspired me with. Every stone is associated with some recollection, and the names of all the French monarchs whose characters and reigns claim our liveliest interest are in some way connected with it. It was begun by Francis I., who has left so many noble monuments of his love of the arts; here he held his brilliant court, and welcomed and entertained those celebrated artists he enticed by his royal bounty from Italy. Here Leonardo da Vinci came, and here Benvenuto Cellini executed many of his matchless sculptures. But the palace was not completed until later, being continued VOL. XXXIX.-NO. III. that kindred spirit of wickedness the Duke of Alba. Here the beautiful but licentious Marguerite de Valois indulged her vicious propensities, and, too much occupied with her various lovers, disdained to secure the heart of her noble husband. He, too, the gallant Henri Quatre, whom we have lately encountered at St. Germain, lived and loved, danced and intrigued within these same walls, which on the fatal night of the Massacre of St Bartholomew so nearly proved his grave. In a fit of fanatic frenzy, Catherine de Médicis devoted to a sudden and horrible death all the Reformers in the kingdom. Even the Comte de Clermont, reported to be her lover, was not spared. Young, gay, and handsome, professing an ardent attachment to herself, he was also sacrificed and fell by the hand of a secret assassin. In the mind of Catherine de Médicis (for such a woman could not possess a heart) every consideration yielded to the joint influence of ambition and fanaticism, the indulgence of these ferocious passions affording her the same gratification which the tender and softer feelings generally afford to a woman. When Francis I., in order to insure for his sons the inheritance of Florence, and to obtain the aid of that republic in defending his claims on the Milanese (that object of his unceasing amcition), negotiated the marriage of his second son, afterwards Henri II., with this Italian basilisk, he little foresaw the misery and crime he entailed on his de 22 scendants by this alliance. Catherine was then a happy, smiling girl, remarkable for the burning black eyes and clear olive complexion of her native Italy. But crimes such as these generally receive, even in this world, a punishment so palpable and self-evident that none can mistake the finger of the Almighty. The horrible death of Charles IX. serves as an example of such retribution. The blood oozed forth from the pores of his skin, and he who had caused such a deluge of blood to flow, actually himself bled to death! His unaccountable disease baffled all medical skill. Such a sight had never been witnessed, and he himself felt and acknowledged that his sufferings were the consequence of a Divine judgment. Horrible visions haunted his dying couch; the bloody corpses of the murdered Protestants seemed to pass before him in endless processions, and, haunted by images of horror, and suffering the most fearful agonies, he expired while comparatively young. These circumstances are matter of historical notoriety. But retribution did not stop here. His brother, Henri III., who succeeded him, also took a share in that massacre, and, as the details of his death are less known, I shall here recapitulate them; for, if possible, Divine judgment is more palpably evident in this event than in the other. Sire," replied Osman, somewhat recovered from his confusion, "as sure as fate, the heavens this night are inauspicious. There are signs of mourning among the stars; lamentation and woe are written in the planets; a great misfortune hangs over us. Beware!" "By Heavens !" cried the king, "the fellow is glib enough with his tongue. But tell us, good heathen, are the stars in mourning for a king or for an emperor?" Sire, they mourn over the approaching extinction of the League." "Heaven preserve us!" said the king. "But tell me, now, if you have any knowledge, what do the celestial powers think of our cursed rebel Henri of Navarre? Is that bold Huguenot in favor among the stars?" Osman did not at once reply, but, advancing to the window, threw open the sash, and stood silently observing the heavens. "Sire," replied he, "I see one star shining brightly in the firmament." "Where?" said the king. "Just over the camp of Meudon, where Henri of Navarre lies this night. But look, your majesty, what is this other star that, blazing for a moment, falls and disappears behind the palace ?" "Par la mère-Dieu!" said the king, reddening either with terror or passion, "I have had enough of this gibberish. Hark ye! no more of thy ugly portents, or, by St. Louis, we hold you warrant for all that may happen to our person." Osman, pale with affright, waited not for permission, but rapidly withdrew. It was at the time of the wars of the League, when Henri of Navarre and the king were battling for the sovereignty of the kingdom, that the latter was at St. Cloud, where his troops lay encamped. On the day before his death, Henri III. sat in the long gallery of that palace (now "If ever I heard a voice hoarse with so exquisitely decorated), playing at cards blood, it is his," muttered the astrologer. with the court. Monsieur D'O, a gentle-"By the brightness of the celestial bodies! man in waiting, had been joking him on the subject of some predictions, and chanced to mention that an astrologer named Osman had arrived that night at St. Cloud in company with some nobleman. "By our Lady-mother! let us have him in and hear what he can say," exclaimed the king. "I will question him myself." Osman was sent for accordingly, but, terrified at such a sudden and unexpected interview with the king himself, scarcely knew how to reply to the gibes addressed to him. there will be evil this night. I will never more draw horoscope, if to-morrow's sun finds Henri de Valois alive. There is blood on him, but he sees it not. His star has fallen, and he beheld it, but he understood not the portent." As the astrologer passed through the vast circular hall opening from the gal lery, he met the Comte d'Auvergne, conversing with a Capuchin monk whose countenance expressed every sinister passion. A crowd of gentlemen had assembled round, and were listening to the conversation. "Come, come," said the king, "let us hear what you can do. They tell me you are skilled in drawing horoscopes. Let" me have a specimen of your power." "Good father," said M. d'Auvergne, you cannot really at this hour insist on seeing his majesty." 66 "But, indeed, monseigneur, I do insist on seeing his majesty without a moment's delay," replied the monk. "Cannot the letters you bear be delivered to-morrow, father? for the king has already retired, and is occupied with his devotions." "The king is alone," said another gentleman, who advanced from the gallery. "I have just left him; he desires not to be disturbed." "Good God!" cried the monk, clasping his hands, "if I do not see him to-night I shall never see him." All this time Osman had stood watching the scene. He had not lost a syllable of the conversation. "Did I not say there was blood ?" said he, half aloud; "and is not the vision true? The blood of the king is on that monk; his robes are spotted with it. In his hand I saw a dagger; none else there beheld it, but I saw it, and the point yet streamed with the king's life-blood. Oh! woe, woe! would that I could speak-would that they would listen; for, before many hours, horror will reign within these walls, and it is given to me to avert it, if they would hear me." The astrologer slowly followed the steps of the Comte d'Auvergne, and the sinister monk descended after them into a suite of rooms on the ground floor of the palace. The monk had thrown back his cowl, and displayed a face yet young, but seamed and wrinkled with deep lines; his eyes were dull and heavy; his thin hair scarcely shaded his projecting forehead. He stood in the centre of the apartment, silent, sullen, and preoccupied. "What is your name ?" said the comte, sternly, turning towards him. "Jacques Clément, a Jacobin," was the short reply. "You say you are the bearer of letters to the king?" "Yes," replied he; "from M. de Brionne and the President, now both prisoners in the Bastille." "Show me the president's letter; his writing is as familiar to me as my own. If you are a spy you will meet with no mercy here." The priest drew forth a parcel of unsealed Jetters, which the count read and examined. "It is well," said he; "these are, indeed, proofs that you are a messenger from the king's friends. But how did you, the bearer of such dangerous credentials, contrive to pass the gates of Paris ?" "My habit protected me," said the monk, devoutly crossing himself, "and our blessed Lady gave me courage and address to escape from the hands of these Philistines." "You say that you will answer, then, with your head, that two gates of Paris will open to the king if he advances ?" "I swear before God that this is the truth,” replied the monk, again crossing himself; "and my God is not that false Deity worshipped by the Huguenot dogs under him of Navarre, but the true God of the Holy Catholic Church. Let the king trust to his loyal Catholic subjects, and beware of the heretics that are amongst his troops." And the monk scowled around. His eyes met those of Osman, the astrologer, which were fixed on him with the intensity of a cat ready to spring. Jacques Clément trembled; for an instant his boldness forsook him, and he turned pale. "Well, father," said D'Auvergne, laughing, "you are true to your tradea steady Catholic-cela se comprendyou can smell a heretic a mile off, I'll be sworn." The monk made no reply, and turned to a table on which supper was spread, and, sitting down, began to eat. The Comte d'Auvergne turned to M. de la Guesle, a gentleman of the court, who was also present. "I do not know why," said he, "but I have a strange suspicion of that priest; his dark, sinister look and surly answers alarm me." "If monseigneur will listen to me," said Osman, who had advanced from the bottom of the room, "you will not admit him within a hundred miles of his majesty; the stars, count, are" "Confound the stars!" interrupted M. de Guesle; "do you take us for a parcel of fools? Go prate elsewhere." The whole party now joined the monk at the supper-table, and were served by an old valet, who, after pouring out the wine all round, placed himself behind | never then have happened. Did I not the chair of his master the count. His say there was blood on the monk? Did eyes were fixed on Jacques Clément, who I not say that the star of the king had falhad drawn forth from the folds of his gar- len? Oh, woe, woe! If you had but lisments a large dagger, with which he cut tened!" up his meat. "May it please monseigneur," said the valet to the count, "but the reverend father knows how to travel in these stormy times; he has not forgotten to bring a goodly dagger with him, though perhaps the breviary, being less useful, is forgot ten." "Not so, brother," replied the monk, drawing out a missal from his bosom. "I never travel without the one and the other-defences for the body and the soul -whichever may most need it.” But the garrulous old servant, once set talking, was not so easily silenced, and began a long account of how the priest, on arriving, had entertained him and his fellows in the court-yard with a history of the death of Holofernes, the tyrant, by the hands of the blessed Judith. "A bloody tale, forsooth," said M. de Guesle, eyeing the monk. "Ay, blood, blood!" whispered Osman. "See you not," said he, half aloud to the comte, "this monk is a mad fanatic; admit him to no parley with the king: he is mad, monseigneur." "Oh!" replied the count, "I will watch -I will answer that no evil comes of the interview." Soon after, supper being ended, the party separated. The monk was conducted to a bed, and Osman, heaving many heavy sighs, retired to the room appropriated to him, where he consulted the stars, until the dawn of day at once obliterated them, and ended his labor. In the morning Jacques Clément, with his head enveloped in his cowl, was conducted to the presence of the king by the Comte d'Auvergne. He had not been in the room five minutes before a piercing cry was heard. The door was flung open. Guards, gentlemen, and pages rushed into the apartment, where lay Henri III., bathed in blood proceeding from a deep wound in his stomach. At the sound of the confusion Osman appeared. "What!" said he, "is the king dead?" "Not quite," was the reply. "Who did it ?" "Jacques Clément, the Jacobin." "Sainte Marie !" exclaimed the astrologer, "why did you not listen? this would At this moment M. D'O and the Compt d'Auvergne rushed out of the king's room. "Why did you," exclaimed the former, "kill the assassin? We might have discovered his accomplices." 66 "I did not kill him," said the count. 'The king was seated when he entered, and, taking the wretch's papers in his hands, was busy reading them. M. Clermont and I were present, but had retired a little to leave his majesty more at liberty. As he rose from his seat, and was addressing the monk, the traitor drew a dagger and plunged it into his stomach. The king cried out 'Murder!' and, drawing forth the dagger from the wound, gave two or three cuts at the assassin, and then fell. We rushed to his aid and smote the fellow, who was unarmed, right and left. At the noise the doors burst open, and the gentlemen and pages in their rage finished him with a hundred blows. Seeing that he was dead, I ordered him to be stripped and thrown out of the window, to be recognized if possible." "What does it matter who recognizes him?" replied M. D'O. "Have the papers that he showed the king disappeared also ?" But at this moment a physician came up, and desired that all should retire, as the king's wound was about to be examined. The dagger was discovered to have been poisoned, and Henri, after great anguish, expired in a few hours. The body of Jacques Clément, having first been drawn by four horses through the streets of St. Cloud, was burned by the common hangman. But the most remarkable circumstance of the death of this son of Catherine de Médicis, and what had escaped the observation of Osman, the astrologer, was, that he expired in the same month, on the same day, and at the same hour that the Massacre of St. Bartholo mew concluded! These recollections quite bewildered me as I traversed the inner court of the Louvre, taking me back vividly into the days of the past. The silence and quiet around as this court is only crossed by foot-passengers - favored reflection. I could have mused for hours, and studied every line of the beautiful carvings, the festoons, and statues that adorn the walls of this court, for the building is a fitting shrine for royal chronicles. The façades of the interior are of matchless beauty, and ornamented with a taste and a profusion of architectural device that we, degenerate moderns, would find vastly difficult to imitate in our boasted century. But the most perfect part of the edifice is, perhaps, that called the Colonnade of the Louvre, facing the church of St. Germainl'Auxerrois, added to the building in the reign of Louis XIV. by Perrault, than which nothing can be conceived more grand or majestic. The immense length of the façade fronting the river, which forms one of the principal ornaments of those quays I so much admire, is also most admirable, and gives the best idea of the enormous size of the palace. Among the ornaments are easily to be traced the different initials of the monarchs who successively continued the building. The H. of Henri II., the husband of the Médici, is lovingly entwined with a D, in compliment to Diane de Poitiers, his mistress, who, although fully twenty years his senior, was loved by him with unswerving constancy-a compliment calculated to infuriate his young and imperious queen in the highest degree. Not to be behindhand in gallantry, Henri Quatre unites his H to a G, in honor of the fair mistress of his heart, Gabrielle d'Estrées. But Louis XIV., who completed that portion of the gallery which joins the Tuileries, though no less gallant than his ancestors, was too proud and too selfish to allow any other letter to figure by the side of his initial, and the single letter L distinguishes his portion of this magnificent building, which each succeeding monarch vied with his predecessors in delighting to adorn. of the Louvre. But, unfortunately, the triumphal scenes represented in these pictures are little carried out by historical truth. Narrow-minded, impetuous, and ambitious, Marie de Médicis was at once feeble and imperious in her conduct; obstinate and indiscreet, she allowed herself to be governed by favorites who usurped her power, and in their turn governed France. The violence of her temper had early alienated the affection of her husband, and her domineering nature estranged her from her son, who was naturally incined to be both attached and dutiful. Richelieu, whose career was then just commencing, was grieved to find that the queen-mother remained deaf to his advice and representations; and he was at last driven, by her foolish and and unreasonable ambition, to become the enemy of the woman who had placed him in the situation he held. He tried every art, every persuasion, to avoid a rupture; he threw himself on his knees, he even wept, he supplicated; but the queen was inflexible, and remained obstinately fixed in her own prejudices. Louis XIII., of a feeble, passive character, delighted to repose all the cares and responsibilities of royalty in the hands of a minister capable of ruling a great nation, and viewed these constant disputes and quarrels with the utmost annoyance. But, instead of acting with the determination worthy of a monarch, or the filial respect of a son, and desiring his mother to abstain from all interference in affairs of state, he only entreated where he ought to have commanded. Not possessing courage to act with the slightest resolution, he basely determined to sacrifice his mother rather than undergo the annoyance of a personal encounter with her imperious temper; and although he was aware that the measure he contemplated would raise her fury to the utmost, he was at least assured that he should avoid being exposed to her violent reproaches. Her exile was determined on, and while the fatal letter announcing the intelligence was carried to Marie de Médicis, the king escaped like a terrified schoolboy, and hid himself in one of his palaces in the country. Several residences were offered to the queen to select as her future abode, provided she consented to leave Paris quietly. I stopped at the palace of the Luxembourg, an edifice as interesting from its architectural and historical associations as from the valuable collection of pictures it contains. Like the Louvre, the building forms four sides of a square, but the proportions are considerably smaller. This was the favorite residence of Marie de Médicis, second wife of Henri Quatre, whom he married after his divorce from the profligate Marguerite de Valois. She was declared regent during the minority of her son Louis XIII., and her actions are Upon learning her fate, she was in desimmortalized by the series of splendid pair. She could not have imagined her paintings, by Rubens, placed in the gallery | own son would thus treacherously have |