o have seen that couple, gallant,
inconstant, memorable, popular, both, to employ a Gallicism, franchement
paillards. But it would have been curious to have seen Margot, as a
historian described her, carrying about a great apron with pockets all
around it, in each of which was a gold box and in each box, the embalmed
heart of a lover--memorabilia of faces and fancies that hung, by night, at
her bed.[65]

"All the world published her as a goddess," another historian declared,
"and thence she took pleasure all her life in being called Venus Urania,
as much to show that she participated in divinity as to distinguish her
love from that of the vulgar, for she had a higher idea of it than most
women have. She affected to hold that it is better practised in the spirit
than in the flesh, and ordinarily had this saying in her mouth:
'Voulez-vous cesser d'aimer, possedez la chose aimee.'"[66]

The historian added: "I could make a better story about it than has ever
been written but I have more serious matters in hand."

What Dupleix omitted Brantome supplied. To the latter the pleasure of but
beholding Margot equalled any joy of paradise.

Henri IV must have thought otherwise. He tried to divorce her. Margot
objected. The volage Henri had become interested in the beaux yeux of
Gabrielle d'Estrees. Margot did not wish to be succeeded by a lady whom
she called "an ordinary person." But later, for reasons dynastic, she
consented to abdicate in favor of Marie de Medici, and, after the divorce,
remained with Henri on terms no worse than before, visited by him, a
contemporary has stated, reconciled, counselled, amused.[67]

Gabrielle, astonishingly delicate, deliciously pink, apparently very
poetic, but actually prosaic in the extreme, entranced the king who
ceaselessly had surrendered to the fair warriors of the Light Brigade.
But to Gabrielle the surrender was complete. He delivered his sword to mes
chers amours, as he called her, mes belles amours, regarding as one yet
multiple this fleur des beautes du monde, astre clair de la France, whose
portrait, painted as he expressed it in all perfection, was in his soul,
his heart, his eyes--temporarily that is, but, while it lasted, so
coercive that it lifted this woman into a sultana who shared as consort
the honors of the triumphal entry of the first Bourbon king into the Paris
that was worth to him a mass.

"It was in the evening," said L'Estoile, "and on horseback he crossed the