e comforted her. Then his marriage to
dictatorial little Anne of Brittany, for whom he had induced Pope
Alexander to divorce him from the poor little crippled owlet, Joan. In
consideration of this divorce he had put Caesar Borgia, Pope
Alexander's son, on his feet, financially and politically. I think he
must have wanted the owlet back again before he was done with Anne,
because Anne was a termagant--and ruled him with the heaviest rod of
iron she could lift. But this last passion--the flickering, sputtering
flame of his dotage--was the worst of all, both subjectively and
objectively; both as to his senile fondness for the English princess
and her impish tormenting of him. From the first he evinced the most
violent delight in Mary, who repaid it by holding him off and evading
him in a manner so cool, audacious and adroit that it stamped her
queen of all the arts feminine and demoniac. Pardon me, ladies, if I
couple these two arts, but you must admit they are at times somewhat
akin. Soon she eluded him so completely that for days he would not
have a glimpse of her, while she was perhaps riding, walking or
coquetting with some of the court gallants, who aided and abetted her
in every way they could. He became almost frantic in pursuit of his
elusive bride, and would expostulate with her, when he could catch
her, and smile uneasily, like a man who is the victim of a practical
joke of which he does not see, or enjoy, the point. On such occasions
she would laugh in his face, then grow angry--which was so easy for
her to do--and, I grieve to say, would sometimes almost swear at him
in a manner to make the pious, though ofttimes lax-virtued, court
ladies shudder with horror. She would at other times make sport of his
youthful ardor, and tell him in all seriousness that it was indecorous
for him to behave so and frighten her, a poor, timid little child,
with his impetuosities. Then she would manage to give him the slip;
and he would go off and play a game of cards with himself, firmly
convinced in his own feeble way that woman's nature had a tincture of
the devil in it. He was the soul of conciliatory kindness to the young
vixen, but at times she would break violently into tears, accuse him
of cruelly mistreating her, a helpless woman and a stranger in his
court, and threaten to go home to dear old England and tell her
brother, King Henry, all about it, and have him put things to right
and redress her wrongs generally. In fact,