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
[Illustration: Door of the Chapel, Château of Amboise]
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 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 Pompérant. You are dismissed. Bon voyage.”
Now, the truth was that De Pompérant 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 Françoise, Comtesse
de Châteaubriand, 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’Alençon 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 Brèzè, 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?”
Saint-Vallier does not answer at once. “The Constable de Bourbon will
never, I trust, betray his Majesty,” replies he at last, with
hesitation.
“Alas! my poor cousin! Is that all the assurance you can give me,
Monsieur de Saint-Vallier? Oh! he is incapable of treason,” exclaims
Marguerite with enthusiasm; “I would venture my life he is incapable of
treason!”
A courier passes them at this moment, riding with hot speed. He nears
the King, who is now far on in front, and who, hearing the sound of the
horse’s hoofs, stops and listens. The messenger hands the King a
despatch. Francis hastily breaks the seal. It is from Lautrec, the new
governor of Milan. Bourbon is in open rebellion.
Bourbon in open rebellion! This intelligence necessitates the instant
presence of the King at Paris.