Old Court Life in France, vol. 1. Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

interview was the first act in that long and intricate drama by which the spite of a mortified woman drove the Duc de Bourbon – the greatest general of his age, under whom the arms of France never knew defeat – to become a traitor to his king and to France.

      CHAPTER III.

      BROTHER AND SISTER

      YEARS have passed; Francis, with his wife, Queen Claude, daughter of Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany, is at Chambord, in the Touraine. Claude, but for the Salic law, would have been Queen of France. In her childhood, she was affianced to Charles, son of Philip the Fair, afterwards Charles V. of Germany, the great rival of Francis. Francis had never loved her, the union had been political; yet Claude is gentle and devoted, and he says of her, “that her soul is as a rose without a thorn.” This queen – the darling of her parents – can neither bear the indifference nor the infidelity of her brilliant husband, and dies of her neglected love at the early age of twenty-five.

      Marguerite d’Alençon, the Duke her husband, and the Court, are assembled for hunting in the forests of Sologne. Chambord, then but a gloomy mediæval fortress lying on low swampy lands on the banks of the river Casson, is barely large enough to accommodate the royal party. Already Francis meditates many changes; the course of the river Loire, some fifteen miles distant, is to be turned in order to bathe the walls of a sumptuous palace, not yet fully conceived in the brain of the royal architect.

      It is spring; Francis is seated in the broad embrasure of an oriel window, in an oak-panelled saloon which looks towards the surrounding forest. He eagerly watches the gathering clouds that veil the sun and threaten to prevent the boar-hunt projected for that morning. Beside him, in the window, sits his sister Marguerite. She wears a black velvet riding-habit, faced with gold; her luxuriant hair is gathered into a net under a plumed hat on which a diamond aigrette glistens. At the farther end of the room Queen Claude is seated on a high-backed chair, richly carved, in the midst of her ladies. She is embroidering an altar-cloth; her face is pale and very plaintive. She is young, and though not beautiful, there is an angelic expression in her large grey eyes, a dimpling sweetness about her mouth, that indicate a nature worthy to have won the love of any man, not such a libertine as Francis. Her dress is plain and rich, of grey satin trimmed with ermine; a jewelled coif is upon her head. She bends over her work, now and then raising her wistful eyes with an anxious look towards the King. The Queen’s habits are sedentary, and the issue of the hunting party is of no personal interest to her; she always remains at home with her children and ladies. Many attendant lords, attired for hunting, are waiting his Majesty’s pleasure in the adjoining gallery.

      “Marguerite,” says the King, turning to the Duchesse d’Alençon, as the sun reappears out of a bank of cloud, “the weather mends; in a quarter of an hour we shall start. Meanwhile, dear sister, sit beside me. Morbleu, how well that riding-dress becomes you! You are very handsome, and worthy to be called the Rose of the Valois. There are few royal ladies in our Court to compare to you”; and Francis glances significantly at his gentle Queen, busy over her embroidery, as if to say – “Would that she resembled you!”

      Marguerite, proud of her brother’s praise, reddens with pleasure and reseats herself at his side. “By-and-by I shall knock down this sombre old fortress,” continues Francis, looking out of the window at the gloomy façade, “and transform it into a hunting château. The situation pleases me, and the surrounding forest is full of game.”

      “My brother,” says Marguerite, interrupting him and speaking in an earnest voice, for her eyes have not followed the direction of the King’s, which are fixed on the prospect; she seems not to have heard his remarks, and her bright look has changed into an anxious expression; “my brother, tell me, have you decided upon the absolute ruin of Bourbon? Think how his haughty spirit must chafe under the repeated marks of your displeasure.” They are both silent. Marguerite’s eyes are riveted upon the King. Francis is embarrassed. He averts his face from the suppliant look cast upon him by his sister, and again turns to the window, as if to watch the rapidly passing clouds.

      “My sister,” he says at length, “Bourbon is not a loyal subject; he is unworthy of your regard.”

      “Sire, I cannot believe it. Bourbon is no traitor! But, my brother, if he were, have you not tried him sorely? Have you not driven him from you by an intolerable sense of injury? Oh, Francis, remember he is our kinsman, your most zealous servant; – did he not save your life at Marignano? Who among your generals is cool, daring, valiant, wise as Bourbon? Has he not borne our flag triumphantly through Italy? Have the French troops under him ever known defeat? Yet, my brother, you have now publicly disgraced him.” Her voice trembles with emotion; she is very pale, and her eyes fill with tears.

      “By the mass, Marguerite, no living soul, save our mother, would dare to address me thus!” exclaims the King, turning towards her. He is much moved. Then, examining her countenance, he adds, “You are strangely agitated, my sister. What concern have you with the Constable? Believe me, I have made Bourbon too powerful.”

      “Not now, not now, Francis, when you have, at the request of a woman – of Madame de Châteaubriand too – taken from him the government of Milan; when he is superseded in his command; when our mother is pressing on him a ruinous suit, with your sanction.”

      At the name of Madame de Châteaubriand Marguerite’s whole countenance darkens with anger, the King’s face grows crimson.

      “My sister, you plead Bourbon’s cause warmly – too warmly, methinks,” and Francis turns his head aside to conceal his confusion.

      “Not only has your Majesty taken from him the government of Milan,” continues Marguerite, bitterly, unheeding the King’s interruption, “but he has been replaced by Lautrec, brother of Madame de Châteaubriand, an inexperienced soldier, unfitted for such an important post. Oh, my brother, you are driving Bourbon to despair. So great a general cannot hang up his victorious sword.”

      “By my faith, sister, you press me hard,” replies the King, recovering the gentle tone with which he always addressed her; “I will communicate with my council; what you have said shall be duly considered. Meanwhile, if Bourbon inspires you with such interest, as it seems he does, tell him to humble his pride and submit himself to us, his sovereign and his master. If he do, he shall be greater than ever, I promise you.” As he speaks, he glances at Marguerite, whose eyes fall to the ground. “But see, my sister, the sun is shining; and there is some one already mounting in the courtyard. Give the signal for departure, Comte de Saint-Vallier,” says the King in a louder voice, turning towards two gentlemen standing at an opposite window in the gallery. The King has to repeat his command before the Comte de Saint-Vallier hears him. “Saint-Vallier, you are in deep converse with De Pompérant. Is it love or war?”

      “Neither, Sire,” replies the Captain of the Royal Archers, looking embarrassed.

      “M. de Pompérant, are you going with us to-day to hunt the boar?” says the King, advancing towards them.

      “Sire,” replies De Pompérant, bowing profoundly, “your Majesty does me great honour; but, with your leave, I will not accompany the hunt. Urgent business calls me from Chambord.”

      “Ah, coquin, it is an assignation; confess it,” and a wicked gleam lights up the King’s eyes.

      “No, Sire,” says De Pompérant. “I go to join the Constable de Bourbon, who is indisposed.”

      “Ah! to join the Constable!” Francis pauses and looks at him. “I know he is your friend,” continues he, suddenly becoming very grave. “Where is he?”

      “At his fortress of Chantelle, Sire.”

      “At Chantelle! a fortified place, and without my permission. Truly, Monsieur de Pompérant, your friend is a daring subject. What if I will not trust you in his company, and command your attendance on our person here at Chambord?”

      “Then, Sire, I should obey,” replies De Pompérant; “but let your gracious Majesty remember the Duc de Bourbon is ill; he is a broken and ruined man, deprived of your favour. Chantelle is more a château than a fortress.”

      “Go, De Pompérant; I