more. Her imagination, so easily transported, dwelt more and more on subtilised religion and subtilised passion, fused into one strange, all-engrossing mood in that uncritical mind of hers. A pretty tale that Brantôme tells of her at this time gives a sudden insight into this tender and unworldly attitude.
I tell the story almost in Brantôme's words. The brother of Brantôme, Jean de Bourdeille, destined in his youth for the Church, had been sent to Ferrara, then almost a French colony under the Duchess Renée of France, to finish his studies. There he met a charming young French widow, Madame de la Roche, with whom the young seminarist fell passionately in love. He threw up his career, and, bringing his lady to the shelter of Margaret's Court at Nérac, set off to the wars in Piedmont. Six months afterwards Captain de Bourdeille returned. His first visit was to Pau, where his mother was, and also the Queen of Navarre. He met the Queen coming out of church after vespers. She, la meilleure princesse du monde, turned, and led him into the deserted church. There for some time they talked together, walking to and fro, speaking of Italy, Piedmont, of the wars, but not a word of Madame de la Roche. Suddenly Margaret stopped, and, seizing the hand of Bourdeille, she said, in a changed voice, "My cousin, do you fell nothing move beneath your feet?" "No, Madame," he replied. "But, think well, my cousin," she insisted. "I have thought, Madame, but nothing moves; for a firm flagstone is underneath my feet." "Then I will tell you," said the Queen. "You are over the tomb and the body of that poor young Madame de la Roche, who is buried here beneath you, and whom you loved so much. And since our souls still feel
