reatened with
destruction. Marguerite calmly dressed herself in her richest robes and
jewels in order that her body, if washed ashore, might be easily
identified. Then under one of her splendid bracelets she slipped a band
of oiled silk containing an epitaph written by herself:

"Cy gise Margot, la gente damoysella,
Qui eust deux maris, et si morut pucelle."

This has been roughly translated thus:

"Beneath this tomb the highborn Margaret's laid,
Who had two husbands and yet died a maid."

In this epitaph we get one of the few hints of the fact that Marguerite
had inherited her father's whimsical sense of humor. Her letters and her
papers generally seem written under the shadow of court etiquette. Her
acts, however, and many of her recorded conversations, show a quick
appreciation of ludicrous or grotesque situations.

But the young poetess's epitaph was premature. The ship made the coast
of England in safety. The princess was invited to visit Henry VII. of
England; which invitation she accepted with the result that she was,
says the old historian, "much caressyed by the whole Court." Whether
Marguerite at this time met Charles Brandon (afterward the Duke of
Suffolk) who was destined secretly to play an important part in her love
affairs, is unknown, but it is probable that she did. Shortly after, her
marriage a magnificent ceremony took place at Madrid.

Once more a crown glittered before the ambitious girl's eyes, and again
it was dashed from her. Six months after their marriage, Don Juan
suddenly died. Marguerite returned to Germany. Again she married, this
time Philibert of Savoy, who seems to have loved her deeply; he, too,
soon died. Twice a widow and once divorced, Marguerite at the age of
twenty-five returned to her father's court, declaring that no political
exigencies should again force her into matrimony. About this time, she
adopted her strange, sad motto: _Spoliat mors munera nostra_ (Death ever
destroys what is granted to us). A pathetic little poem it loses much in
translation written by Marguerite at this time is still preserved:

"Must I thus ever languish on?
Must I, alas, thus die alone?
Shall none my tears and anguish know?
From childhood, I have suffered so!
Too long it lasts this weary woe."

As Thackeray said long afterward of the work of another poet-princess:
"These plaintive lines are more touching than better poe