Francis I came frequently here to hunt, and his memory is still kept alive by the Chambre Francois I. Francois held possession till his death, when his son made it over to the “admired of two generations,” Diane de Poitiers.

Diane’s memory will never leave Chenonceaux.  To-day it is perpetuated in the Chambre de Diane de Poitiers; but the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which was supposed to best show her charms, has now disappeared from the Long Gallery at the chateau.  This portrait was painted at the command of Francois, before Diane transferred her affections to his son.

No one knows when or how Diane de Poitiers first came to fascinate Francois, or how or why her power waned.  At any rate at the time Francois pardoned her father, the witless Comte de St. Vallier, for the treacherous part he played in the Bourbon conspiracy, he really believed her to to be the “brightest ornament of a beauty-loving court.”

Certainly, Diane was a powerful factor in the politics of her time, tho Francois himself soon tired of her.  Undaunted by this, she forthwith set her cap for his son Henri, the Duc d’Orleans, and won him, too.  Of her beauty the present generation is able to judge for itself by reason of the three well-known and excellent portraits of contemporary times.

Diane’s influence over the young Henri was absolute.  At his death her power was, of course, at an end and Chenonceaux, and all else possible, was taken from her by the orders of Catherine, the long-suffering wife, who had been put aside for the fascinations of the charming huntress.

It must have been some satisfaction, however, to Diane, to know that, in his fatal joust with Montgomery, Henri really broke his lance and met his death in her honor, for the records tell that he bore her colors on his lance, besides her initials set in gold and gems on his shield.

Catherine’s eagerness to drive Diane from the court was so great, that no sooner had her spouse fallen—­even tho he did not actually die for some days—­than she sent word to Diane “who sat weeping alone,” to quit the court instantly; to give up the crown jewels—­which Henri had somewhat inconsiderately given her; and to “give up Chenonceaux in Touraine,” Catherine’s Naboth’s vineyard, which she had so long admired and coveted.

She had known it as a girl, when she often visited it in company with her father-in-law, the appreciative but dissolute Francois, and had ever longed to possess it for her own, before even her husband, now dead, had given it to “that old hag Diane de Poitiers, Duchesse de Valentinois.”

Diane paid no heed to Catherine’s command.  She simply asked:  “Is the king yet dead?”

“No, madame,” said the messenger, “but his wound is mortal; he can not live the day.”

“Tell the queen, then.” replied Diane, “that her reign is not yet come; that I am mistress still over her and the kingdom as long as the king breathes the breath of life.”