The battle now raged furiously, and the din of arms Was as if a thousand smiths were at work, mingled with the rattle of arquebusses, the shrieks of wounded horses, and the shouts, curses, and groans of the combatants. Terrible was the carnage. On all sides could be seen the bravest and noblest of the French chivalry flocking towards the king’s standard, resolved to win the day or perish with him, for his actions showed that he would never retire.
But the decisive moment had come. Pescara was down, and severely wounded as we have seen, and his squadron shattered by the last charge of the king. Lannoy, who had advanced to sustain him, was likewise repulsed. For a brief space the heroic king persuaded himself that he could retrieve his losses, but his exultation was speedily quelled. He saw a dense dark mass gathering in front that threatened to overwhelm him.
Bourbon was there with his lanz-knechts, his German reiters, and his Burgundian lances. At his right and left wing were Von Frundsberg and Sittich. Fierce and terrible was the joy that lighted up the duke’s haughty features at that moment. He saw the king, who had so deeply wronged him. He saw him surrounded with his peerless knights and nobles. Chaumont was there, the Marshal de Foix, Lambese, Lavedan, the Grand Master of France, and a hundred other noble knights. There also was the hated Bonnivet. He could crush them all.
After gazing at them as the eagle gazes ere swooping upon its prey, Bourbon gave word to charge. The trumpets sounded, and the Burgundian lances and German reiters dashed on, shouting loudly, “Vive Bourbon!”
Clearing the ground between them and the foe, they burst like a thunder-cloud upon the French men-at-arms and knights. Tremendous was the splintering of lances – loud the rattle of musketry – sharp the clash of swords. But the squadron gathered round the king was broken in six places, and could not rally. In the terrific mêlée that ensued, half the gallant knights whom Bourbon had seen were slain. Chaumont was transfixed in the charge – Lavedan cut down – the Grand Master buried beneath a heap of dead.
Vainly the king and those near him essayed to rally the men. They were panic-stricken, and could not be got together again.
If the strife was not yet over, the victory was won, and the decisive blow had been given by Bourbon.
XI. HOW BONNIVET WAS SLAIN BY BOURBON
The lanz-knechts and Burgundians were now wholly occupied in making prisoners and slaughtering the foe. Heaps of slain lay thick on all sides, the plain was deluged in blood, and the knights rode over the dead and dying.
It was at this terrible crisis that the king’s eye, ranging over the field, caught Bonnivet, who instantly rode up to him.
“What orders, sire?” he demanded.
“Hence!” cried François. “Quit my sight for ever. This is your work.”
“Sire,” rejoined Bonnivet, “if I have done wrong it has been unwittingly. Let me die by your side.”
“No, I will not have you near me,” cried François. “Away, false traitor, away!”
“Sire, by Heaven I am no traitor!” rejoined Bonnivet. “But I will not long survive your displeasure.”
And, without a word more, he dashed into the thick of the enemy.
He had not been gone more than a minute, when the Marshal de Foix rode up, his left arm shattered, his armour sullied, and his steed covered with gore. From his ghastly looks it was evident he was mortally wounded, but he had still strength enough to sit his horse.
“Where is Bonnivet, sire?” he demanded. “I thought I saw him with you.”
“He is gone,” rejoined the king. “What would you with him?”
“Slay him – slay him with this sword dyed in the blood of our enemies,” rejoined De Foix. “It is he who has brought this dire calamity on France. But for him this disastrous battle would not have been fought. If I can slay him, I shall die content. Where is he, sire? Show him to me.”
“Ride from the battle while you can, and seek a surgeon – ‘twere best,” said the king.
“No, I will first slay Bonnivet,” rejoined De Foix.
“Then seek him yonder,” said the king, pointing to the thickest part of the strife.
And while De Foix rode off, he himself renewed the combat. Scarcely knowing whither he was going, De Foix was quickly surrounded by several Burgundian lances, when he found himself confronted by a knight in black armour.
“Yield you, De Foix?” said this knight. And, raising his visor, he disclosed the features of Bourbon.
“I yield,” replied the other. “But you had better let your men finish me. There is not an hour’s life in me.”
“Nay, I trust you are not so badly hurt as that,” said Bourbon. “Let him be taken at once to Pavia and carefully tended. Captain Castaldo, I give him in your charge.”
“Bourbon,” said De Foix, “I will forgive you all the wrong you have done to France, if you will slay Bonnivet.”
“‘Tis he I seek,” rejoined Bourbon. “Is he with the king?”
“No,” replied De Foix. “He has gone in that direction,” pointing to another part of the field.
“Then I will find him, if he be not slain,” said Bourbon. “Heaven grant he may be reserved for my hand!”
And, renewing his orders to Castaldo, he rode off.
Casting his eyes round the field of battle, and glancing at the numerous groups of combatants, he discerned a French noble engaged in a conflict with three or four lanz-knechts. From the richness of his armour he knew it to be Bonnivet, and spurred towards him. Before he came up the Admiral had slain one of his assailants, and put the others to flight, and was about to ride off. When Bourbon called out to him, he immediately wheeled round.
“At last I have found you,” cried the duke, with a fierce laugh. “You cannot escape me now.”
“What! is it Bourbon?” cried Bonnivet, glancing at him.
“Ay,” replied the other. “Your mortal enemy. Back on your lives!” he added to the Burgundian lances. “I must settle this matter alone. You see that the victory is won,” he added to Bonnivet, “and you know what that means. François has lost the Milanese, and will lose his kingdom.”
“France will never be yours, vile traitor and rebel,” cried Bonnivet, in an access of rage. “You shall never boast of your triumph over the king. I will avenge him!”
And animated with the deadliest fury of hate, he attacked Bourbon.
The conflict was terrible, but brief. By a tremendous downward blow Bourbon struck his adversary’s weapon from his grasp, and then, seizing his arm thrust the point of his sword into his throat above the gorget.
Bonnivet fell to the ground at the feet of the victor. As Bourbon gazed at his noble lineaments, now disfigured and sullied with gore, a slight sentiment of compassion touched his breast.
“Alas! unhappy man,” he exclaimed. “Your destiny was fatal – fatal to France and to me.”
And he rode back towards the scene of strife and slaughter.
XII. HOW THE KING SURRENDERED TO THE VICEROY OF NAPLES
All the king’s bravest nobles were now gone – slain or made prisoners. Already have we particularised the slain. Among the captives were the valiant Montmorency, Saint Pol, De Lorges, Laval, Ambricourt, Fleuranges, and many other illustrious personages. François alone confronted the enemy. He was wounded in three places, and his armour was hacked with many blows and stained with blood. But his prodigious strength seemed undiminished – nay, the very rage by which he was excited lent force to his arm. His blows were delivered with such fury and rapidity that his assailants seemed to fall around him on all sides.
After sustaining this conflict for some time, finding his foes pressing around him he cut his way through them, and pushed his steed towards a bridge over the little river Vernacula. But ere he could reach it a shot from an arquebuss pierced the brain of his charger, and the noble animal, who had borne him so well, and who, like his master, was wounded in several places, fell to the ground.
The king’s assailants now made certain of capturing him alive. They were led on by a Spanish captain, Diego Avila, and Giovanni d’Urbieta, an Italian, neither of whom, however, recognised François, owing to a gash in his face, but they knew from the richness of his armour that he was a personage of the highest rank, and hoped to obtain a large ransom. Thus they now shouted loudly to him to yield, but he replied by striking at them with his sword, and as soon as he could liberate himself from his charger he renewed the attack, killing and slaying several more of his foes, among whom were Avila and Urbieta.
But almost superhuman as was his force, it was impossible that he could long sustain himself against such tremendous odds. His enemies were closing around him, heavy blows were ringing against his armour, when Pomperant, who was riding near, caught sight of his towering figure amid the throng, and seeing the peril in which he stood, forced his way through the band of soldiers, shouting in a loud voice, “Hold! on your lives! It is the king!”
“The king!” exclaimed the soldiers, falling back at the announcement.
Most opportune was the rescue. In another minute François, who disdained to save his life by proclaiming himself, would have been laid low.
Taking advantage of the pause, Pomperant flung himself from his steed, and prostrating himself before the king, who, with his reeking sword in hand, fiercely confronted his assailants.
“Sire,” cried Pomperant, in the most earnest tones he could command, “I conjure you not to struggle against fate. The battle is utterly lost, and all your valour can only end in your own destruction.”
“I do not desire to survive this fatal day,” rejoined the king, fiercely. “I will not yield. If you would boast that you have slain the King of France, draw your sword and attack me.”
“No, sire. I will never lift my arm against your person,” said Pomperant, respectfully. “But since you have done all that valour can achieve – since you have fought as monarch of France never fought before – since further resistance is in vain, let me implore you to yield to my master, the Duke de Bourbon.”
“Yield to Bourbon! Yield to that rebel and traitor! – never!” exclaimed the king, furiously. “Wert thou not kneeling before me, villain, I would strike thee dead for daring to make the proposition to me. If I surrender to any one, it shall be to the Marquis of Pescara. He is a valiant captain, and loyal to his sovereign.”
“Pescara is wounded, sire, and unable to protect you,” rejoined Pomperant. “But the Viceroy of Naples is at hand.”
“Let him come to me, then,” said François.
Some soldiers were instantly despatched on this errand by Pomperant, who remained standing near the king to protect him. Though smarting from his wounds, François refused all assistance; but feeling faint from loss of blood, he sat down upon the breathless body of his charger, and took off his helmet.
“Fill this with water for me,” he said, giving the casque to a soldier. “I am sore athirst.”
The man hurried to the river, filled the helmet, and brought it to him. François drank eagerly, and breaking off an ornament, bestowed it upon the soldier.
At this moment Lannoy rode up, and, dismounting, knelt before the king, who had risen at his approach, and now assumed a dignified and majestic demeanour. When he spoke, his accents were firm, but full of sadness.
“Here is my sword,” he said, delivering the bloodstained weapon to the Viceroy. “I yield myself prisoner to the Emperor your master. I might have saved myself by flight, but I would have died rather than quit the field dishonourably.”
“Your majesty has held out to the latest moment,” rejoined Lannoy. “Scarce one of your soldiers but has thrown down his arms. Doubt not that you will be worthily treated by the Emperor.”
Lannoy then kissed the hand graciously extended towards him, and drawing his own sword presented it to the king.
“I will take the weapon, though I cannot use it,” said François.
“Your wounds must be tended without delay, sire,” said the Viceroy. “You shall be transported at once to Pavia, where skilful chirurgeons can be obtained.”
“No, not to Pavia,” said François, uneasily. “The inhabitants of that miserable city hate me, and with good reason, for I have shown them scant pity. Let me be taken to the Certosa, where my wounds can be dressed by the monks. They have good chirurgeons among them.”
“Your majesty’s wishes shall be obeyed,” said Lannoy.
A litter was then made with crossed halberds, covered by a cloak, on which the wounded king was placed, and in this manner he was borne on the shoulders of the lanz-knechts towards the Certosa.
On the way thither, many frightful scenes met his gaze. De Leyva and a squadron of cavalry, infuriated against the French, were careering over the battle-field, putting to death all who had survived the fight. Hundreds were thus massacred in this way – hundreds of others, flying for their lives, plunged into the Ticino, and being unable to swim across the rapid stream, were drowned. The shouts of the victors and the cries of the vanquished rang in the monarch’s ear, and filled his breast with anguish.
At one time the progress of the bearers was arrested by a pile of slain, and the soldiers were obliged to turn aside to avoid the obstruction. François remarked that the heap of bodies was caused by the destruction of the Black Bands, and he involuntarily exclaimed, “Ah! if all my soldiers had fought like those brave men, the day would not have gone against me.”
Other interruptions of a like nature occurred. Dead and dying were strewed so thickly on the ground that it was impossible to avoid them. It was utterly impossible, also, to shut the ears to the dismal sounds that smote them.
Presently the king was taken past a spot where the dead lay thickest, and here it was evident, from the rich accoutrements of the slain, that the flower of his young nobility had fallen while fighting so valiantly in his defence. The spoilers were already at work stripping them of their valuables. It was a sad sight to François, and lacerated his heart so severely, that he wished he were lying amongst them.
As he averted his gaze from this painful spectacle, his eye alighted upon a knight accoutred in black armour, who had just ridden up. As this warrior had his visor down, François could not distinguish his features.
“Halt!” exclaimed the knight, authoritatively. And the soldiers immediately obeyed.
The knight then raised his beaver, and disclosed the dark lineaments of Bourbon, now flushed with triumph.
“Ha! by Saint Denis! I felt that a traitor was nigh!” exclaimed the wounded king, raising himself, and gazing fiercely at the other. “Are you come to insult me?”
“No, sire,” replied Bourbon. “I have no such design. This is not the moment, when we have changed positions, that I would exult in your defeat. Were it possible, I would soothe the bitterness of your feelings.”
“You would soothe them by telling me I have lost my kingdom,” cried François, fiercely. “You would soothe them by reminding me that I am a captive. You would soothe them by pointing out all those valiant nobles and captains who have died for me. You would soothe them by telling me how many you yourself have slain. Whose blood dyes your sword?”
“The blood of one who has brought all these misfortunes upon you, sire,” rejoined Bourbon.
“You would have me understand that Bonnivet has died by your hand? ha!” demanded François.
“Even so, sire,” rejoined Bourbon. “His guilty soul has just gone to its account. In avenging my own wrongs upon his head, I have avenged you.”
“He has much to answer for,” exclaimed the king. “But Heaven forgive him, even as I forgive him.”
“I will not trouble you with my presence further, sire,” said Bourbon. “I have only intruded upon you now to give you the assurance that we shall never forget what is due to your exalted rank, and that our victory will be used with moderation and generosity.”
“What generosity can I expect from the Emperor, or from you?” cried François, bitterly. “Answer me one question ere you go. How many men have you lost in the battle?”
“Our total losses, as far as we can estimate them, are under seven hundred men, sire,” replied Bourbon.
“And mine! how many have I lost?” demanded the king. “Fear not to speak,” he added, seeing Bourbon hesitate; “I would know the exact truth.”
“Sire,” replied Bourbon, in a sombre tone, “it is impossible to compute your losses at this moment, but I shall not overstate them in saying that eight thousand of your soldiers have fallen upon this plain. Twenty of your proudest nobles are lying within a few paces of us.”
Groaning as if his heart would burst, François sank backwards.
Bourbon signed to the soldiers to proceed with their burden, and then rode off with his Burgundian lances.
François did not again unclose his eyes, and scarcely, indeed, manifested any signs of consciousness, until he was taken into the court of the Certosa.
When he was there set down, the prior with the principal monks came forth to meet him, and would have conveyed him to the interior of the convent, but François refused to have his wounds dressed till he had prayed to Heaven, and desired the prior to conduct him at once to the church.
His injunctions were complied with, and the prior gave him his arm, for he could not walk without assistance. On entering the magnificent fabric, he was taken to the nearest chapel, and ere he knelt down his eye fell upon this inscription on the wall:
BONUM MIHI QUIA HUMILIA STI ME, UT DISCAM JUSTIFICATIONES TUAS
The unfortunate king could not fail to apply these Words to his own situation. Profoundly touched, he humbled himself before Heaven, acknowledging his manifold and great offences, and imploring forgiveness.
His devotions ended, he was taken to the principal chamber of the monastery, where his wounds were carefully dressed.
For three days he remained at the Certosa, the monastery being strictly guarded by the Spanish soldiery, and during his detention there he was visited by the Viceroy of Naples, the Marquis del Vasto, and Pescara, who had only partially recovered from the wounds he had received in the battle.
The king was then removed to the fortress of Pizzighettone, under the charge of the vigilant Captain Alarcon, with a guard of two hundred cavalry and twelve hundred fantassins, there to be kept a close prisoner till the Emperor’s pleasure concerning him could be ascertained.
Before his departure from the Certosa, François announced his defeat to his mother in these memorable words:
“Madame, tout est perdu, fors l’honneur.”
END OF THE FIFTH BOOK
BOOK VI. – CHARLES V
I. HOW FRANÇOIS I. WAS TAKEN TO MADRID, AND CONFINED IN A MOORISH
CASTLE
Had the Duke de Bourbon been able to follow up the great and decisive victory won at Pavia by an immediate invasion of France, he must inevitably have become master of the destinies of that kingdom.
His march to Paris could scarcely have been opposed. The king was a captive – many of his best leaders were slain – others were prisoners – the flower of the French chivalry was destroyed – the gendarmerie annihilated. All that was needed was an army. But this Bourbon could not obtain.
At no previous time was the Imperial army less under the control of its leaders than after the battle of Pavia. Though enriched by the immense booty they had acquired, the insatiate Spaniards absolutely refused to proceed upon any fresh campaign until they received their arrears of pay; while the German lanz-knechts and reiters, fully satisfied with their share of the plunder, disbanded, and returned to their own country.
Thus Bourbon was again prevented from reaping the fruits of his victory. The crown of France was within reach, if he could have grasped it. But this was impossible without an army. He had counted upon the aid of Von Frundsberg, but that bold commander, though devoted to him, and ready to accompany him, could not keep together his men, who were determined to place their plunder in the care of their families.
Time was thus given to the Duchess d’Angoulême, Regent of France, who displayed extraordinary courage and activity in the emergency, to prepare for the defence of the kingdom by levying fresh forces in Switzerland, by entering into an alliance with England, and by negotiating with the different Italian states.
Immediately after the battle of Pavia the whole of the Milanese was evacuated by the French troops, who made their way across the Alps with the utmost expedition, and the different cities were at once taken possession of by the Imperialists. Francesco Sforza returned to Milan, and ostensibly resumed his former sway, but being now little better than a vassal of the Emperor, he exercised no real authority in the duchy. Hence he naturally became anxious to throw off the yoke imposed upon him, and entered into a league with the rest of the Italian states for protection against their common enemy.
Meanwhile François I. had been detained a close prisoner within the fortress of Pizzighettone, strictly guarded by the harsh and incorruptible Alarcon. But as it was not unlikely that rescue might be attempted, or that the illustrious captive, though ever so carefully watched, might contrive to effect his escape, it was judged prudent to remove him to Spain, and he was accordingly conducted to Madrid by Alarcon and Lannoy – contrary to the wishes of Bourbon, who desired to keep him in Italy.
On his arrival at Madrid, the unfortunate king was placed in an old Moorish castle, and treated with unbecoming severity. Charles V. refused to see him, hoping that the tediousness of captivity would make him yield to the hard conditions he had proposed to him.
Bourbon followed the royal prisoner to Madrid, and was received with the greatest distinction by the Emperor, but neither his brilliant achievements nor his princely rank could reconcile the haughty Castilian nobles to his presence at the court. They regarded him as a rebel and a traitor, and could scarcely refrain from manifesting their scorn and aversion. He came attended by a large retinue, and as the Emperor did not desire to assign him apartments in the royal palace, he begged the Marquis de Villena to lend him his mansion – one of the largest and most magnificent in Madrid.
“Sire,” replied the proud marquis, “I can refuse you nothing. But I declare that as soon as the Duke de Bourbon has quitted my house I will burn it to the ground as a place infected with treason, and unworthy to be inhabited by men of honour.”
“As you please, my lord,” said Charles V., smiling sternly. “But as I have instigated the duke to his treason, I must share the reproach, and since you will not lend him your house, I must perforce lodge him in the Alcazar.”
Bourbon expected that the treaty for the liberation of the captive monarch would be speedily concluded, but such was not the Emperor’s policy. Months elapsed, and François still languished in confinement. On one point only the Emperor relaxed his severity. He permitted the Duchess d’Alençon to enter Spain, and soothe her royal brother in his captivity.
33?
Marguerite de Valois was now a widow, the Duke d’Alençon having died shortly after his ignominious flight from the battle of Pavia, and it was the hope of the intriguing Duchess d’Angoulême that the charms of her daughter might Captivate the Emperor, who was still unmarried. The death of Queen Claude, which occurred immediately after his departure for Italy, had likewise set François I. free, and he intimated his willingness to espouse the Emperor’s sister, Leanor of Austria; the prineess, it will be remembered, who had already been promised to the Duke de Bourbon. To this alliance Charles V. was favourably inclined – he had long since manifested his disinclination to fulfil his promise to Bourbon – but he had not yet given his assent to the proposal. In fact, he intended that the marriage between François I. and Leanor should form one of the conditions of the king’s liberation.
To the Charms of the lovely Marguerite de Valois, who produced a great effect at the Court of Madrid, and enchanted the grandees by her beauty and accomplishments, the Emperor was insensible, his choice being already fixed upon the fair Isabella of Portugal – a princess to whom he was subsequently united.
At this time Charles V., whose power and successes alarmed all the sovereigns of Europe, was still in the prime of early manhood, not having completed his twenty-fifth year, but the gravity of his deportment and the sternness of his aspect made him look much older. Young as he was, however, he had already crowded the events of a long life into his term of existence, and had all the sagacity, prudence, and caution which years alone are generally supposed to confer. His mode of life offered a perfect contrast to that of François I. Little addicted to pleasure, he devoted himself laboriously to affairs of state. Bigoted in religion, he was ever ready to manifest his zeal for the Catholic Church by the persecution of heresy. In manner he was serious and reserved – in disposition obstinate and inflexible. He was a profound hypocrite, as was exemplified by his conduct after the battle of Pavia, when he feigned the greatest humility, and forbade any public demonstrations of joy at so important a victory. “It seems,” says Voltaire, “that at this juncture he was wanting to his fortune. Instead of entering France, and profiting by the victory gained by his generals in Italy, he remained inactive in Spain.” But he could not follow up his success. Lacking the means of carrying on the war, he resolved to impose the hardest conditions possible upon his royal captive, and extort a heavy ransom from him. With this view, the unfortunate king was treated with the unjustifiable severity we have described.
A more remarkable countenance than that of Charles V has seldom been seen. At the period in question, his physiognomy had not acquired the sternness, almost grimness, which characterised it in later life, but even then it was cold and severe. His eyes were grey, searching in expression, and seemed to read the thoughts of those he gazed upon. His brow was lofty, and indeed the upper part of his face was extremely handsome. The nose was well formed, though not set quite straight, but the main defect of the countenance was the chin, the lower jaw protruding so much beyond the upper that the teeth could not meet properly. Notwithstanding this drawback, which was transmitted to all his descendants, and formed a characteristic of the House of Austria, his face was cast in a noble mould, and power, inflexibility, and wisdom could be read in every lineament.
In stature Charles V was not above the middle height, but his port was erect and stately. His limbs were strong and well proportioned, and if his movements lacked lightness and grace, they were never deficient in majesty.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the unfortunate François had been brought to Madrid, and he was still kept a close prisoner in the Moorish castle, when one morning the Duke de Bourbon solicited an audience of the Emperor, which was immediately granted. Charles V. was in his cabinet at the time, and with him were the Viceroy of Naples and his chancellor, Gattinara.
The Emperor was attired, as usual, in habiliments of a sombre hue. His doublet and hose were of black taffety, His black damask mantle was trimmed with sable, and embroidered with the cross of Santiago. Over his shoulders he wore the collar of the Toison d’Or, and his black velvet cap was simply ornamented with a golden chain.
To the Emperor’s surprise, Bourbon was accompanied by the Duchess d’Alençon, and a look of displeasure crossed the monarch’s brow on beholding her. From his manner he appeared disinclined to receive her.
“Sire,” said Bourbon, approaching him, “I beseech you not to dismiss the duchess unheard.” Then lowering his voice, he added, “I have it on the physician’s authority that the king’s life is in imminent danger. He cannot survive many days unless he is allowed more freedom. If he dies, your majesty will lose your ransom.”
The Emperor appeared much struck with what was said, and he inquired somewhat anxiously, “Have you seen him?”
“No, sire,” replied Bourbon, “but I have conversed with the physician. I pray you listen to the Duchess d’Alençon. Approach, madame,” he added to her, “his majesty will hear you.”
Thus invited, the beautiful princess, whose countenance bespoke her affliction, came forward and threw herself at the Emperor’s feet. Charles endeavoured to raise her, but she would not move from her suppliant posture till she had spoken.
“Sire,” she said, in accents well calculated to move the Emperor, “if your majesty has any compassion for your unfortunate prisoner you will see him without delay. You alone have power to cure his malady, which is caused by grief, and aggravated by mental irritation. That he cannot long survive if he continues in this state is quite certain, for his disease is beyond the reach of medicine. His physicians can do no more for him, and leave him to your majesty. If you abandon him, he will die, and then you will have a perpetual reproach upon your conscience. Save him, sire! – save him, while there is yet time!”
“Rest easy, madame, I will save him,” said the Emperor, raising her. “I had no idea it had come to such a pass with your royal brother. I would not have him die for all my dominions. Haste and tell him so, madame. I will come to him speedily.”
“The message will give him new life, sire,” rejoined Marguerite. “I will prepare him for the visit.”
And with a grateful obeisance to the Emperor she retired, and, quitting the palace, hastened to the old Moorish castle in which François was confined.
As soon as the duchess was gone, Gattinara said to the Emperor, “Sire, permit me to observe, that if you visit the king at this juncture, you must grant him his liberty unconditionally. Otherwise, your visit will be attributed to unworthy motives.”
“Would you have the king die, as he infallibly will do, unless his Imperial Majesty sees him?” cried Bourbon.