her to do what she thought right. And she certainly considered Martin Luther worthy of her attention.
One day I saw her talking to a group of people and wandering up, I stopped to listen.
She was saying: “The Pope at the moment is inclined to shrug this aside. He thinks Luther a clever priest…interesting… expressing new ideas. But the Cardinals see danger here. They believe Luther is striking at the foundations of the Church. This may well be, but should we go on accepting these old laws and traditions? Should we not take them out of storage and give them a closer look? This is interesting. I do not believe it is the simple matter some people think. There is a good deal to the friar. I'll swear he will be sent for…to Rome, and if he goes, it may be that we will hear no more of Martin Luther, for he is certainly causing disquiet in some circles.”
Everyone listened intently—among them myself—and a few gave their opinions. She must have noticed me for when she stood up to leave she called to me.
“You are Anne Boleyn, I believe,” she said. “The little one who stayed behind with Queen Mary and now serves Queen Claude.”
I told her this was so and she went on: “You were listening to the discourse.”
“Madame, I am sorry…Isaw no harm …”
She laughed. “You have long ears, I believe,” she said and pulled one of them playfully. “Tell me, what do you think of this man Luther?”
“I…I have not seen the theses.”
That amused her. “Many people are giving judgment without seeing them.”
“I…I think one should see them first.”
She bent toward me and said: “We think alike.”
Then she dismissed me, but after that she would speak to me when she saw me; and sometimes she would have a little chat—just the two of us—which I found most exciting.
The attention she bestowed on me had its effect and people were a little more respectful to me than before.
It was about this time that Raphael's masterpiece
St. Michael
arrived in France. Having persuaded Leonardo da Vinci to take up residenceunder his shelter, François had tried hard to induce Raphael to do the same. Raphael, however, declined the invitation, but at least François succeeded in having two of his pictures brought to France.
St. Michael
came and
The Holy Family
was to follow.
When
St. Michael
arrived, it was treated with a respect which bordered on idolatry. François had the picture hung in his grandest gallery. It was hidden by a rich velvet curtain and only those who, in François's opinion, could appreciate great art were invited to the unveiling.
“It is sacrilege,” said François, “to display great art to those who do not understand it.”
So it was a great privilege to be at the ceremony.
Marguerite sent for me. Eagerly I went to her. I had lost my awe of her and enjoyed these occasions when I would be seated on a stool close to her and listen to her reading poetry, often her own. She had discovered in me a love of the artistic. I had always been interested in clothes and I was allowed to design my own, which I did in a humble way; I invented a special sleeve which hung over my hand to hide the sixth nail.
Marguerite had admired them and when she knew the reason why, she admired them still more. She had decided that I was worthy to attend the unveiling; and so I was present on that great occasion.
It was thrilling when the curtains were drawn aside and the masterpiece revealed.
Afterward François came to his sister and I heard him say: “Who is your little guest?”
“Anne Boleyn,” she told him.
“A protégée of yours?”
“An interesting child.”
He surveyed me and I cast down my eyes. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to his. He stroked my cheek gently.
“Charming,” he said. His smile frightened me a little. Marguerite saw this and laid a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from him. His smiles were then all for her.
“Her sister has now joined her,” said
One day I saw her talking to a group of people and wandering up, I stopped to listen.
She was saying: “The Pope at the moment is inclined to shrug this aside. He thinks Luther a clever priest…interesting… expressing new ideas. But the Cardinals see danger here. They believe Luther is striking at the foundations of the Church. This may well be, but should we go on accepting these old laws and traditions? Should we not take them out of storage and give them a closer look? This is interesting. I do not believe it is the simple matter some people think. There is a good deal to the friar. I'll swear he will be sent for…to Rome, and if he goes, it may be that we will hear no more of Martin Luther, for he is certainly causing disquiet in some circles.”
Everyone listened intently—among them myself—and a few gave their opinions. She must have noticed me for when she stood up to leave she called to me.
“You are Anne Boleyn, I believe,” she said. “The little one who stayed behind with Queen Mary and now serves Queen Claude.”
I told her this was so and she went on: “You were listening to the discourse.”
“Madame, I am sorry…Isaw no harm …”
She laughed. “You have long ears, I believe,” she said and pulled one of them playfully. “Tell me, what do you think of this man Luther?”
“I…I have not seen the theses.”
That amused her. “Many people are giving judgment without seeing them.”
“I…I think one should see them first.”
She bent toward me and said: “We think alike.”
Then she dismissed me, but after that she would speak to me when she saw me; and sometimes she would have a little chat—just the two of us—which I found most exciting.
The attention she bestowed on me had its effect and people were a little more respectful to me than before.
It was about this time that Raphael's masterpiece
St. Michael
arrived in France. Having persuaded Leonardo da Vinci to take up residenceunder his shelter, François had tried hard to induce Raphael to do the same. Raphael, however, declined the invitation, but at least François succeeded in having two of his pictures brought to France.
St. Michael
came and
The Holy Family
was to follow.
When
St. Michael
arrived, it was treated with a respect which bordered on idolatry. François had the picture hung in his grandest gallery. It was hidden by a rich velvet curtain and only those who, in François's opinion, could appreciate great art were invited to the unveiling.
“It is sacrilege,” said François, “to display great art to those who do not understand it.”
So it was a great privilege to be at the ceremony.
Marguerite sent for me. Eagerly I went to her. I had lost my awe of her and enjoyed these occasions when I would be seated on a stool close to her and listen to her reading poetry, often her own. She had discovered in me a love of the artistic. I had always been interested in clothes and I was allowed to design my own, which I did in a humble way; I invented a special sleeve which hung over my hand to hide the sixth nail.
Marguerite had admired them and when she knew the reason why, she admired them still more. She had decided that I was worthy to attend the unveiling; and so I was present on that great occasion.
It was thrilling when the curtains were drawn aside and the masterpiece revealed.
Afterward François came to his sister and I heard him say: “Who is your little guest?”
“Anne Boleyn,” she told him.
“A protégée of yours?”
“An interesting child.”
He surveyed me and I cast down my eyes. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to his. He stroked my cheek gently.
“Charming,” he said. His smile frightened me a little. Marguerite saw this and laid a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from him. His smiles were then all for her.
“Her sister has now joined her,” said
Similar Books
