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

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СКАЧАТЬ Milan,” continues Marguerite, bitterly, unheeding the King’s interruption, “but he has been replaced by Lautrec, brother of Madame de Châteaubriand, an inexperienced soldier, unfitted for such an important post.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 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.

      CHAPTER IV.

      THE QUALITY OF MERCY

      FRANCIS is at the Louvre, surrounded by his most devoted friends and councillors, Chabannes, La Trémouille, Bonnivet, Montmorenci, Crequi, Cossé, De Guise, and the two Du Bellays. The Louvre is still the isolated stronghold, castle, palace, and prison, surrounded by moat, walls, and bastions, built by Philippe Auguste on the grassy margin of the Seine. In the centre of the inner court is a round tower, also moated, and defended by ramparts, ill-famed in feudal annals for its oubliettes and dungeons, under which the river flows. Four gates, with posterns and towers, open from the Louvre; that one opposite the Seine is the strongest. The southern gate – which is low and narrow, with statues on either hand of Charles V. and his wife, Jeanne de Bourbon – faces the Church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.2 Beyond are gardens and orchards, and a house called Fromenteau, where lions are kept for the King’s amusement.

      These are the days of stately manners, intellectual culture, and increasing knowledge. Personal honour, as from man to man, is a religion, of which Bayard is the high priest; treachery to woman, a virtue inculcated by the King. The idle, vapid life of later courts is unknown under a monarch who, however addicted to pleasure, cultivates all kinds of knowledge, whose inquiring intellect seeks to master all science, to whom indolence is impossible. His very meals are chosen moments in which he converses with authors, poets, and artists, or dictates letters to Erasmus and the learned Greek Lascaris. Such industry and dignity, such grace and condescension, gather around him the great spirits of the age. He delights in their company.

      It is the King’s СКАЧАТЬ