Read Ebook: Old Court Life in France vol. 1/2 by Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1304 lines and 89437 words, and 27 pages

Meanwhile, the Constable receives, with a somewhat reserved and haughty civility, the compliments of the Court. He is conscious of an antagonistic atmosphere. It is well known that the King loves him not; and whom the King loves not neither does the courtier.

A page then approaches, and invites the Constable, in the name of Queen Claude, to join her afternoon circle. Meanwhile, he is charged to conduct the Constable to an audience with the Regent-mother, who awaits him in her apartments.

The King had been cool and the Princess silent and reserved: not so the Regent Louise de Savoie, who advances to meet the Constable with unmistakable eagerness.

"I congratulate you, my cousin," she says, holding out both her hands to him, which he receives kneeling, "on the dignity with which my son has invested you. I may add, that I was not altogether idle in the matter."

"Your highness will, I hope, be justified in the favour you have shown me," replies the Constable, coldly.

"Be seated, my cousin," continues Louise. "I have desired to see you alone that I might fully explain with what grief I find myself obliged, by the express orders of my son, to dispute with a kinsman I so much esteem as yourself"--she pauses a moment, the Constable bows gravely--"the inheritance of my poor cousin, your wife, Madame Suzanne de Bourbon. Suzanne was dear to me, and you also, Constable, have a high place in my regard."

Louise ceases. She looks significantly at the Constable, as if waiting for him to answer; but he does not reply, and again bows.

"I am placed," continues the Regent, the colour gathering on her cheek, "in a most painful alternative. The Chancellor has insisted on the legality of my claims--claims on the inheritance of your late wife, daughter of Pierre, Duc de Bourbon, my cousin. I will not trouble you with details. My son urges the suit. My own feelings plead strongly against proceeding any further in the matter." She hesitates and stops.

"Your highness is of course aware that the loss of this suit would be absolute ruin to me?" says Bourbon, looking hard at Louise.

"I fear it would be most disastrous to your fortunes. That they are dear to me, judge--you are by my interest made Constable of France, second only in power to my son."

"I have already expressed my gratitude, madame."

"But, Constable," continues Louise de Savoie, speaking with much animation, "why have you insisted on your claims--why not have trusted to the gratitude of the King towards a brave and zealous subject? Why not have counted on myself, who have both power and will, as I have shown, to protect you?"

"The generosity of the King and your highness's favour, which I accept with gratitude, have nothing to do with the legal rights of my late wife's inheritance. I desire not, madame, to be beholden in such matters even to your highness or to his Majesty."

"Well, Constable, well, as you will; you are, I know, of a proud and noble nature. But I have desired earnestly," and the Regent rises and places herself on another chair nearer the Constable, "to

"Truly," replies Bourbon, with a sigh; "but I know not what princess of the blood would enable me to accommodate your highness's suit in so agreeable a manner."

"Have you not yourself formed some opinion on the subject?" asks Louise, looking at the Constable with undisguised tenderness.

"No, madame, I have not. Since the hand of your beautiful daughter, Madame Marguerite, is engaged, I know no one."

"But--" and she hesitates, and again turns her eyes upon him, which the Constable does not observe, as he is adjusting the hilt of his dagger--"but--you forget, Duke, that I am a widow."

As she speaks she places her hand upon that of the Constable, and gazes into his face. Bourbon starts violently and looks up. Louise de Savoie, still holding his hand, meets his gaze with an unmistakable expression. She is forty years old, but vain and intriguing. There is a pause. Then the Constable rises and drops the hand which had rested so softly upon his own. His handsome face darkens into a look of disgust. A flush of rage sends the blood tingling to the cheeks of Louise.

"Your highness mistakes me," says Bourbon. "The respect I owe to his Majesty, the disparity of our years, my own feelings, all render such an union impossible. Your highness does me great honour, but I do not at present intend to contract any other alliance. If his Majesty goes to law with me, why I will fight him, madame,--that is all."

"Enough," answers Louise, in a hoarse voice, "I understand." The Constable makes a profound obeisance and retires.

This 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.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

Marguerite d'Alen?on, the Duke her husband, and the Court, are assembled for hunting in the forests of Sologne. Chambord, then but a gloomy mediaeval 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, 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 fa?ade, "and transform it into a hunting ch?teau. 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.

"Not now, not now, Francis, when you have, at the request of a woman--of Madame de Ch?teaubriand 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 Ch?teaubriand 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 Ch?teaubriand, 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."

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

"M. de Pomp?rant, are you going with us

to-day to hunt the boar?" says the King, advancing towards them.

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

"No, Sire," says De Pomp?rant. "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 Pomp?rant, 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 Pomp?rant; "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 ch?teau than a fortress."

"Go, De Pomp?rant; I did but jest. Tell Bourbon, on the word of a king, that he has warm friends near my person; that if the Regent-mother gains her suit against him, I will restore tenfold to him in money, lands, and honour. Adieu, Monsieur de Pomp?rant. You are dismissed. Bon voyage."

Now, the truth was that De Pomp?rant had come to Chambord upon a secret mission from Bourbon, who wished to assure himself of those gentlemen of the Court upon whom he could rely in case of rebellion. The Comte de Saint-Vallier had just, while standing at the window, pledged his word to stand by Bourbon for life or death.

The King is now mounting his horse in the courtyard, a noble bay with glittering harness. He gives the signal of departure, which is echoed through the woodland recesses by the bugles of the huntsmen. A lovely lady attired in white has joined the royal retinue in the courtyard. She rides on in front beside the King, who, the better to converse with her, has placed his hand upon her horse's neck. This is Fran?oise, Comtesse de Ch?teaubriand, the favourite of the hour--at whose request Bourbon had been superseded in the government of Milan by her brother Lautrec.

Behind this pair rides Marguerite d'Alen?on with her husband, the Comte de Guise, Montmorenci, Bonnivet, and other nobles. A large cavalcade of courtiers follows. Since her conversation with her brother, Marguerite looks thoughtful and anxious. She is so absent that she does not even hear the prattle of her husband, who is content to talk and cares not for reply. On reaching the dense thickets of the forest she suddenly reins up her horse, and, falling back a little, beckons the Comte de Saint-Vallier to her side.

"M. le Comte," she says in a loud voice, so as to be overheard by her husband and the other gentlemen riding in advance, "tell me when is the Court to be graced by the presence of your incomparable daughter, Madame Diane, Grande Seneschale of Normandy?"

"Madame," replies Saint-Vallier, "her husband, Monseigneur de Br?z?, is much occupied in his distant government. Diane is young, much younger than her husband. The Court, madame, is dangerously full of temptations to the young."

"We lose a bright jewel by her absence," says Marguerite, abstractedly. "M. le Comte," she continues in a low voice, speaking quickly, and motioning to him with her hand to approach nearer, "I have something private to say to you. Ride close by my side. You are a friend of the Constable de Bourbon?" she asks eagerly.

"Yes, madame, I am."

"You are, perhaps, his confidant? Speak freely to me; I feel deeply the misfortunes of the Duke. I would aid him if I could. Is there any foundation for the suspicion with which my brother regards him? You will not deceive me, Monsieur de Poitiers?"

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet