lays on words (sometimes pretty free, and then
generally told by Nomer-fide), or quasi-historical, such as that
already noticed of the generosity of Francis to a traitor, or deal with
remarkable trials and crimes, or merely miscellaneous matters, the best
of the last class being the capital "Bonne invention pour chasser le
lutin."

In so large a number of stories with so great a variety of subjects, it
naturally cannot but be the case that there is a considerable diversity
of tone. But that peculiarity at which we have glanced more than once,
the combination of voluptuous passion with passionate regret and a
mystical devotion, is seldom absent for long together. The general
note, indeed, of the _Heptameron_ is given by more than one passage
in Brantome--at greatest length by one which Sainte-Beuve has rightly
quoted, at the same time and also rightly rebuking the sceptical Abbe's
determination to see in it little more than a piece of _precieuse_
mannerliness (though, indeed, the _Precieuses_ were not yet). Yet even
Sainte-Beuve has scarcely pointed out quite strongly enough how entirely
this is the keynote of all Margaret's work, and especially of the
_Heptameron_. The story therefore may be worth telling again, though
it may be found in the "Cinquieme Discours" of the _Vies des Dames
Galantes_.

Brantome's brother, not yet a captain in the army, but a student
travelling in Italy, had in sojourning at Ferrara, when Renee of France
was Duchess, fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle de la Roche. For
love of him she had returned to France, and, visiting his own country
of Gascony, had attached herself to the Court of Margaret, where she
had died. And it happened that Bourdeilles, six months afterwards, and
having forgotten all about his dead love, came to Pau and went to pay
his respects to the Queen. He met her coming back from vespers, and she
greeted him graciously, and they talked of this matter and of that. But,
as they walked together hither and thither, the Queen drew him, without
cause shown, into the church she had just left, where Mademoiselle de
la Roche was buried. "Cousin," said she, "do you feel nothing stirring
beneath you and under your feet?" But he said, "Nothing, Madame."
"Think, cousin," then said she once again. But he said, "Madame, I have
thought well, but I feel nought; for under me there is but a stone, hard
and firmly set." "Now, do I tell you," said the Queen, leaving him
no longer at stud