The Constable De Bourbon. Ainsworth William Harrison

– a consort in all respects better suited to her. As Queen of Navarre, her court was thronged by poets, savants, and men of letters. Clement Marot thus eulogises her:

      Entre autres dons de grâces immortelles,

      Madame écrit si haut et doucement,

      Que je m’étonne, en voyant choses telles,

      Qu’on n’en reçoit plus d’ebanissement.

      Puis quand je l’ouis parler si sagement,

      Et que je vois sa plume travailler,

      Je tourne bride, et m’ébanis comment

      On est si sot de s’en émerveiller.

      Ronsard, then a handsome page, thus addresses her:

      Ainsi tu fus, ô princesse,

      Ançois plutôt, ô déesse,

      Tu fus certes tout l’honneur

      Des princesses de notre âge,

      Soit en force de courage,

      Ou soit en royal bonheur.

      By some she was styled the Tenth Muse and the Fourth Grace. Her Nouvelles, which obtained a wonderful celebrity in her own day, may be classed with the Decameron of Boccaccio.

      Marguerite was dressed in crimson velvet, richly embroidered, and her head-dress was of goldsmith’s work, like that of the Comtesse de Châteaubriand. If she was not so fascinating as the latter syren, she possessed infinitely more dignity, and her features had an expression which nothing but purity can impart.

      Many other beautiful and high-born dames and demoiselles were present, but we do not think it necessary to describe them, neither can we do more than allude to the brilliant collection of young seigneurs, all magnificently arrayed, by whom the king was attended.

      “So you are resolved to go to Italy, sire,” observed the Comtesse de Châteaubriand to the king, who was standing near an open window, gazing into the orange-garden. “Nothing that I can say will detain you.”

      “I must win back the duchy of Milan, which your brother, the Maréchal de Lautrec, has suffered Prospero Colonna and Pescara to wrest from me,” rejoined François. “Had I been there, this would not have happened. I have been idle far too long, and must conduct the war in person.”

      “I trust it will be a brief campaign,” sighed the countess.

      “Doubt it not, ma mie,” replied the king. “The duchy shall soon again be mine. During the winter I will hold my court at Milan, and you shall come thither, if you list.”

      “I would I might accompany you during the campaign, sire! Let me go with you, I entreat you!”

      “No, that cannot be. You could not cross the Alps with the army. But you shall follow speedily. Nay, content you, mignonne. You shall go with me as far as Lyons.”

      At this moment, Bonnivet, who had come quickly down the gallery, approached them.

      “You have some news for us?” said the king, looking inquiringly at him. “Any tidings from Bayonne, or from the Milanese?”

      “None, sire,” replied the Admiral. “I merely come to announce to you a most unexpected visitor. Not to keep you a moment in suspense, I will add that the Prince Mal-endurant has just arrived at the palace.”

      “The Constable de Bourbon arrived here!” exclaimed the countess.

      “His arrival is not unexpected,” replied the king, smiling. “In fact, I sent for him.”

      “You sent for him, sire!” exclaimed Bonnivet, surprised, and exchanging a glance with the countess. “I did not suppose you would adopt such a course. If I had been aware of it, I would have counselled you against it.”

      “And so would I,” added the countess.

      “For that very reason, I did not mention my design,” remarked François. “What will you say, ma mie, if I should be reconciled to the Constable?” he added to the countess.

      “I shall say that your majesty is not true to yourself,” she replied, unable to conceal her vexation.

      “Reconciliation with Bourbon is impossible, unless the Duchess d’Angoulême will forego her claim – and she will never do that!” cried Bonnivet.

      “Hum!” exclaimed François. “One cannot tell what may happen. I always pay the greatest deference to my mother’s wishes, and, as she has expressed a desire to see the Constable, I have sent for him.”

      “It is strange I should hear nothing of this before, sire,” remarked Françoise de Foix, in a tone of pique.

      “Not so strange as you think, mignonne,” replied the king. “The duchess bound me to secresy.”

      “What can be the meaning of this?” thought Bonnivet. “The duchess hates Bourbon too deeply to make terms with him.”

      “I see it!” mentally ejaculated the countess, instinctively arriving at the truth. “Her love for Bourbon has been suddenly revived. But will he accept her terms? If I know him, he will not.”

      “Here comes the Constable,” remarked François, as the tall and majestic figure of Bourbon was seen moving slowly down the gallery. He was preceded by the chamberlain, and followed by Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne.

      “He has not lost his insolent deportment,” remarked the Admiral. “I ought to have informed your majesty that he has brought with him an escort of three hundred gentlemen.”

      The observations told, and a frown of displeasure passed over the king’s brow. But it fled before Bourbon came up, and gave way to a gracious smile.

      “Welcome, cousin,” he cried, in a voice that bespoke cordiality. “I am right glad to see you again at Fontainebleau.”

      At the same time he advanced towards the Constable, and embraced him affectionately.

      “Sire, your kindness overwhelms me,” said Bourbon, moved by the warmth of the reception.

      “You have been absent from court far too long, cousin – far too long,” pursued the king. “Our sister the Duchess d’Alençon, and the Comtesse de Chateaubriand, will tell you how much we have missed you.”

      “It is not my fault that I have been absent, sire,” replied Bourbon. “Your majesty will own that I had good reasons for keeping away.”

      “I wish you had come, notwithstanding, cousin,” rejoined François. “A few words of personal explanation would have helped to set matters right. But you shall not depart till we have settled our differences.”

      “Then I must tarry long, sire,” observed Bourbon, smiling sternly. “Your majesty, I hear, has been pleased to style me le Prince Mal-endurant, and I own that the appellation is merited, but I am not altogether as patient as you imagine.”

      “I do not wonder at it, cousin. Heaven knows, you have had good cause for anger! And if you have exhibited a patience worthy of the long-enduring patriarch himself, I admire you the more for it. But if I inflict injuries, I know how to repair them, and your wrongs shall be redressed.”

      “You own I have been wronged, sire?” exclaimed Bourbon. “That is something.”

      “Foi de gentilhomme! I will make you amends, cousin,” cried the king. “You shall be abundantly satisfied.”

      Bourbon’s sternness could not fail to give way before these and many other equally gracious expressions. It was evident that François desired to conciliate his offended visitor, and as he employed his irresistible fascination of manner to that end, he succeeded. The king next addressed himself to Saint-Vallier and René de Bretagne, greeting them both with marked condescension and kindness, and, while he was thus engaged, Bourbon paid his devoirs to the Duchess d’Alençon and the Comtesse de Châteaubriand. By the latter he was coldly received, but Marguerite de Valois accorded him a welcome as gracious as that of her royal brother. A haughty salutation passed between the