The Constable De Bourbon

“I have not reproached you, madame, but I say that your declarations are utterly inconsistent with your conduct. You have pursued me with unceasing animosity. By your instrumentality, madame – for I well know you were the cause of my removal – I was despoiled of my authority in the Milanese, which I had helped to win, and the government given to Lautrec, by whose mismanagement the fruits of the battle of Marignan were lost. Not only did you prevent the reimbursement of the large sums I had expended for the king’s use in Italy, but you withheld the payment of my pensions as grand-chamberlain of France, as governor of Languedoc, and as Constable. I deserved better treatment from the king, but I knew from whom the wrongs proceeded, and made no complaint. This was not enough. By your instigation a deeper affront was offered me, I will not vaunt my military skill, though I had proved it sufficiently at Marignan, but I was excluded by you – by you, madame, for you directed the king – from the four grand military commanderships formed by his majesty, and given by him to the Duke d’Alençon, the Duke de Vendôme, Bonnivet, and Lautrec, Still I was patient.”

“Why were you patient, Charles? Why did you not complain to me?” cried the duchess.

“Though deeply mortified by the affront,” pursued Bourbon, disregarding the question, “I did not hesitate to obey the king’s commands to join the army of Picardy, and brought with me six thousand well-armed fantassins, and three hundred lances. How was I requited? I need not tell you, madame, since the work was yours, that the command of the vanguard, which was mine by right, was given to the incapable D’Alençon. That affront was hard to bear, yet I did bear it. Well might the king call me the Prince Mal-endurant!”

“Again I ask you, Charles, why did you not appeal to me?” said the duchess.

“Appeal to you, madame – to the author of my wrongs!” rejoined the Constable, fiercely. “I would have died rather than so humiliate myself. Though profoundly wounded, I remained loyal in heart to the king. No act, no word evinced resentment. But, instead of disarming your animosity, my patience only aggravated it. You had not wreaked your vengeance sufficiently upon me. Disgrace was not enough. I must endure spoliation. You threw off the mask and assailed me in person. In concert with your unscrupulous adviser, Duprat, you contrived a diabolical plan to deprive me of the whole of my possessions. An infamous process was commenced against me, which has filled all France – all Europe – with astonishment. The finishing stroke has only to be put to your work. My property has been sequestrated by the Parliament, and may be confiscated. But beware, madame!” he added, in a voice of terrible menace. “Beware! A fearful retribution will follow.”

“Threaten me not, Charles de Bourbon,” she rejoined. “But listen. I do not deny the charges you have brought against me. Had you submitted to the first blow – had you sued for grace – all the rest would have been spared you.”

“Sue for grace, madame! Sue for grace to you!” cried the Constable. “You know little of Charles de Bourbon if you think he would so demean himself.”

“Hear me out,” said the duchess. “I was determined to conquer your pride – to bring you to my feet – but you compelled me, by your inflexibility, to have recourse to harsher measures than I originally intended. You have to thank yourself, Charles, for the punishment you have endured. But throughout it all, I have suffered more than you – far more.”

“I am glad to hear it,” remarked Bourbon. “But I doubt it.

“When I have seemed to hate you most, I have loved you best, Charles. My heart was torn by conflicting emotions – rage, grief, love. You had spurned my love, and few women could pardon such an affront. But I could forgive it, and would have forgiven you, if you had returned to me. But you ever held aloof. You forced me to go on. Blow after blow was dealt, in the hope that each might be the last. Oh, how it would have joyed me to restore you to the government of the Milanese! – to have ordered the payment of your pensions! – to have given you the command of the army of Picardy! But all can now be set right.”

“Impossible, madame,” rejoined Bourbon.

“Say not so, Charles. Since you have been made aware of my motives, you must view my conduct in a different light. Let the past be forgotten. Let all animosity be at an end between us. Henceforth, let us be friends – nay, more than friends. Do you not understand me, Charles?”

“I would fain not do so, madame,” rejoined Bourbon, averting his gaze from her.

“Let not resentment blind you to your own interests, Charles,” pursued the duchess. “You have felt my power to injure you. Henceforth, you shall find how well I can serve you. I can restore all you have lost – honours, commands, pensions. Nay, I can raise you higher than you have ever risen, and load you with wealth beyond your conception. All this I can do – and will do. Kneel down at my feet, Charles – not to supplicate my pardon, for that you have – but to renew those protestations of love which you once offered me. Kneel, I conjure you.”

But Bourbon remained inflexible.

“My knees would refuse their office were I inclined to comply,” he said.

“Then I must perforce take on myself the part which of right belongs to you, Charles. By the death of your spouse, Suzanne de Bourbon, you are free to wed again. I offer you my hand. You ought to solicit it on your bended knee – but no matter! – I offer it to you.”

“Is the king aware of your design, madame? Does he approve of the step?” demanded Bourbon.

“The king sent for you at my instance to arrange the marriage,” rejoined the duchess.

“His majesty’s complaisance is carried to the extremest point,” said Bourbon. “But he seems to have taken my assent for granted – as you have done, madame.”

“We could not doubt it,” said the duchess, smiling confidently. “The proposed union offers you too many advantages to be rejected.”

“Enumerate them, I pray you?” said Bourbon. “First, then, the marriage will amicably settle the process between us, and will operate like a decree in your favour, for you will retain your possessions. Next, I shall bring you a royal dowry. As my husband, you will be second only in authority to the king. Nay, you will have greater power than he. You will find Louise de Savoi a very different wife from Suzanne de Bourbon. I will enrich you – I will augment your power – I will aggrandise you. You shall be king – all but in name.”

“I doubt not your power to accomplish all this, madame,” rejoined Bourbon. “I know your unbounded influence over your son. I know you have filled your coffers from the royal treasures – as was proved by the confession of the wretched Semblençay, who gave you the five million ducats he ought to have sent to Italy, and who paid the penalty of his folly with his life. I know that in effect you have already despoiled me of my possessions —

“Dwell on these matters no longer, Charles,” she interrupted. “Forget the past, and look forward to a brilliant future. My offer is accepted? – speak!”

“You deem me so much abased that I must needs accept it, madame,” said Bourbon. “But I am not yet fallen so low. I reject it – scornfully reject it.”

“Reflect, Charles – reflect before you come to this fatal determination, for fatal it will be to you,” she cried. “You are ruined – irretrievably ruined – if you wed me not.”

“I would sooner be degraded from my rank – I would sooner mount the scaffold, than wed you, Louise de Savoie, my some time mistress, but now my bitter enemy,” said the Constable, fiercely.

“Bourbon, I swear to you I am not your enemy,” cried the duchess. “Do not regard me with scorn and hate. Look at me as a loving woman. My heart – my soul is yours. Since you will not stoop to me, I will do what I never yet did to man – I will kneel to you.”

And she threw herself before him, and clasped his hands.

“Forgive me, Charles!” she cried, in half suffocated accents. “Forgive me for the great love I have ever borne you.”

Notwithstanding the supplications and tears of the duchess, there was no symptom of yielding in Bourbon. With almost rudeness, he said, “Arise, madame. It is useless to prolong this interview. Farewell!”

“Stay, I command you, Charles de Bourbon,” she said, rousing all her dignity. “For a moment I had forgotten myself, but your barbarous conduct has restored me. Henceforward I will banish your image from my breast, or only retain it there to animate my vengeance. Your possessions shall be at once confiscated. I will make you a beggar, and then see if you can find a wife among the meanest of my court dames.”

“I shall not need to do so, madame,” rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “Let it confound you to learn that the Emperor Charles V has offered me in marriage his sister Leanor, widow of the late King of Portugal.

“The Emperor has offered you his sister?” exclaimed the duchess. “It is false – it is false!”

“You will find it true, madame,” said Bourbon, with a contemptuous smile.

“You shall never wed her,” cried the duchess. “If you reject me, you shall wed no one else.”

“These threats are idle, madame,” rejoined Bourbon, scornfully. “I laugh at your impotent malice. You have wreaked your vengeance to the utmost. But you will never be able to subdue me to your will.”

“Traitor and villain, I see through your designs!” cried the duchess. “You meditate reprisals through the enemies of your country. But I will effectually crush you. If your treasonable practices be proved, I will have your head – ay, your head, Charles de Bourbon.”

“I have no fear for my head,” laughed Bourbon, disdainfully. “It is safe enough, even though I am in the king’s palace at Fontainebleau.”

“A moment, Charles!” cried the duchess, suddenly relapsing into tenderness, and making an effort to detain him. “Are we to part thus?”

“How otherwise should we separate, madame, than with threats on your part – defiance on mine?” said Bourbon.

And with a haughty inclination he was about to depart, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and the king, unannounced, entered the cabinet.

IV. WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE KING AND BOURBON

Evidently, François had expected a very different termination to the interview from that which had occurred. The smile fled from his countenance as he gazed at the pair.

“I have found him utterly impracticable,” whispered the duchess. “But you may have better success.”

“We shall see,” replied the king, in the same tone. “Leave us alone together.”

Casting a look at Bourbon, who haughtily averted his gaze from her, the duchess stepped towards the back of the cabinet and raised the hangings, behind which was a door communicating with her private apartments. Instead of passing through the door, however, she concealed herself behind the arras.

“Come, cousin,” said François, approaching the Constable, and leaning good humouredly on his shoulder. “Cast off those moody looks. Have you quarrelled with my mother? If so, I will engage to set the matter right.”

“I pray your majesty to let me go,” rejoined Bourbon. “I am scarce master of myself, and: may offend you.”

“No, you will not do that,” replied the king. “I have more command of my temper than you have; and besides, I can make allowances for you. But you must not let your pride interfere with your interests.”

“The duchess has told me so already, sire,” cried Bourbon, impatiently. “I know what you design to say to me. I know the arguments you would employ. But the match cannot be brought about.”

“Answer one question,” said the king. “Is it nothing to be father-in-law to the King of France?”

“I am sensible enough of the distinction such an alliance would confer upon me, sire,” replied the Constable. “But, for all that, I must decline it.”

“Foi de gentilhomme! fair cousin, you are perverse enough to provoke me, but I will be calm,” said the king, changing his attitude and tone. “Since argument is useless, I must exert my authority. By Saint Denis! the match shall take place. I will have no ‘nay’ from you. Now you understand.”

“I hear what you say, sire,” rejoined Bourbon, sternly. “But you cannot enforce compliance with the injunction. Not even at your bidding will I wed the Duchess d’Angoulême.”

“You refuse! – ha?” demanded the king, fiercely.

“Absolutely,” replied Bourbon. “I am a prince of the blood.”

“What of that?” cried François, yet more highly incensed. “Were you a crowned king, you would not bemean yourself by marriage with my mother. It is she who degrades herself by stooping to you. But this,” he added, checking himself, “cannot be your motive.”

“No, sire, it is not my motive,” rejoined Bourbon. “Since you force me to speak, you shall have the truth. I prefer death to dishonour.”

“Dishonour!” echoed the king, astounded and enraged. “Dare you breathe such a word in connexion with my mother? What mean you? Speak!”

François looked at him with eyes that seemed to flash lightning. Bourbon, however, did not quail before the fierce looks and gestures of the king, but replied with stern significance:

“A man of my quality, sire, does not marry a wanton.”

“Sang Dieu! this to me!” cried the king, transported with rage.

And he struck Bourbon in the face with his hand.

This mortal insult, as may be imagined, produced a fearful effect on the Constable. His first impulse was to slay his assailant, and his hand involuntarily clutched his sword. But he abandoned the insane design almost as soon as formed. In the effort to constrain himself, his frame and features were terribly convulsed, and a cry of rage that was scarcely human escaped him. The king watched him narrowly, prepared for attack, but manifesting no alarm.

“Sire,” cried Bourbon, at length, “that was a craven blow, unworthy of one who aspires to be the first knight in Christendom. No other person but yourself, who had thus insulted me, should live. But you are safe. You have dishonoured me for ever. Take back the dignity you have bestowed upon me, and which I am unworthy longer to wear,” he added, tearing the jewelled cross of Saint Michael from his breast, and casting it on the ground. “Others may fight for you. My sword shall never again be drawn in your service.”

With a heart bursting with rage and grief, he rushed out of the room.

As Bourbon disappeared, the duchess came from behind the hangings.

“So, you have heard what has passed between us, madame?” cried the king.

“I have,” she replied. “He is a false traitor and a liar, and has been rightly served. But you will not let him quit the palace? By that blow’, which he richly deserved, you have made him your mortal enemy. You have him now in your hands, and you will rue it, if you suffer him to escape. He has many partisans, and may raise a revolt.”

“You alarm yourself unnecessarily, madame,” rejoined François.

“I have good reason for apprehension,” rejoined the duchess. “He has already entered into secret negotiations with the Emperor.”

“Foi de gentilhomme! if I thought so, I would order his instant arrest!” exclaimed the king. “But are you sure, madame? Have you any proof of what you assert?”

“He boasted, just now that the Emperor had offered him the widowed Queen of Portugal in marriage,” replied the duchess. “Does not that prove that secret overtures have been made him?”

“You are right. He is more dangerous than I thought. I must prevent his defection – by fair means if possible – if not – “.

“You have provoked him too far, my son,” interrupted the duchess. “He will never forgive the insult you have put upon him. Allow him to depart, and most assuredly he will league with your enemies.”

At this moment Bonnivet entered the cabinet.

“Pardon me, sire, and you, gracious madame, if I venture to interrupt you,” he said. “But I would know your majesty’s commands in regard to the Constable. His demeanour and looks are so infuriated, and his language so full of menace, that I have ordered the guard not to let him quit the palace.”

“You have done well, monseigneur,” said the duchess. “Where is he now?”

“In the pavillon de Saint Louis,” remarked Bonnivet, “with her majesty and the Dame de Beaujeu.”

“I did not know the duchess was here,” remarked Louise de Savoie, uneasily.

“She only arrived an hour ago from Paris,” replied Bonnivet. “Ha! what is this I see?” he added, noticing the cross of Saint Michael, which Bourbon had cast on the ground. “Is it thus your honours are treated, sire? Such insolence deserves severe punishment.”

“I would punish the offender – severely punish him – but that I gave him great provocation,” returned the king. “You say that the Constable is in the salle de Saint Louis, with the queen and the Dame de Beau-jeu?”…

“He went thither not many minutes ago,” replied Bonnivet. “Shall I arrest him as he comes forth?”

“No,” said the king. “I will see him again, and then decide. Come with me, madame – and you too, Admiral.”

V. THE DAME DE BEAUJEU

Prevented by the guard from quitting the palace, and nothing doubting that his arrest would speedily follow, Bourbon was slowly pacing the corridor, considering what course he should pursue, when an usher approached him, and, bowing reverently, informed him that the queen desired to speak with him.

The Constable willingly obeyed the summons, and was conducted to a magnificent hall, where he found the queen.

Her majesty was seated in a fauteuil, and beside her was an ancient dame of very striking appearance. Several court demoiselles and pages were in attendance, but they were stationed at the farther end of the hall.

The amiable qualities of Queen Claude were written in legible characters in her countenance. She was still young, and her features, though not beautiful, were pleasing. Her person was slightly deformed. It is quite clear she must have suffered deeply in secret, but profound as they were, her sorrows were breathed only to the ear of her confessor, or to Heaven. Her manner was singularly gentle, almost humble, and she rarely, if ever, manifested resentment against those who most deeply injured her. So saintly, indeed, was her conduct, that when she was released from her troubles, an event which occurred within a year from the date of our history, miracles were supposed to have been wrought upon her tomb. Claude, we need scarcely add, was the eldest daughter of Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany. Married to François, then Duke de Valois, when she was barely fifteen, she brought him as a dowry Brittany, and the title to the duchy of Milan. On the present occasion she was attired in cloth of gold tissue, raised with pearls of damask silver, and was coiffed in a diamond-shaped head-dress, ornamented with jewels.

The ancient dame whom we have mentioned as seated near her was Anne of France, Duchess de Bourbon-Beaujeu, eldest daughter of Louis XI. A woman of masculine character and understanding, the Dame de Beaujeu, as she was called, possessed many of her sagacious father’s qualities, great shrewdness and tenacity of purpose. She had governed the kingdom with firmness and ability during the youth of her brother, Charles VIII., and long maintained her sway, but her credit declined under. Louis XII., and when François I. mounted the throne the power she had once possessed fell entirely into the hands of the Duchess d’Angoulême.

At no time had Anne de France been handsome, and perhaps her features were more agreeable in old age than in youth. Her countenance was hard, strongly marked, and entirely devoid of feminine expression. Always meagre of person, she became thinner and more rigid as she advanced in life. Her manner was cold and severe, but her deportment did not lack dignity.

At the time when we discover her, the Dame de Beaujeu seemed utterly prostrated by illness. Her features were wasted and haggard, and all her movements evinced extreme debility. She was attired in black velvet, richly trimmed with sable. Around her throat she wore a gorget, and her venerable locks were partially concealed by a black velvet hood. She had been brought in a litter to the palace, and had to be carried up to the salle de Saint Louis. Her physician, Mathieu Bernard, accompanied her, and was now standing at a little distance, describing her precarious condition to Cornelius Agrippa.

“Is it possible her grace can have journeyed hither from Paris, doctor?” inquired Agrippa.

“She heard that the Constable de Bourbon had been summoned to Fontainebleau by the king, and insisted upon coming hither,” replied Mathieu Bernard. “All my efforts to dissuade her grace were vain.”

“She will scarce get back again,” replied Agrippa.

Making a profound obeisance to Claude, Bourbon knelt reverentially to his mother-in-law, and kissed her withered hand. The old duchess immediately raised him, and embraced him tenderly.

“Your looks bespeak trouble, my son,” she said, regarding him anxiously. “Tell me what has happened?”

Bourbon relieved his bursting heart by a full description of his interview with the Duchess d’Angoulême, and the quarrel that had ensued between him and the king. Both Claude and the old duchess listened to his narration with profound interest. At its close, the queen said:

“I sympathise with you deeply, prince, but do not let the injuries you have received make you swerve from your loyalty to the king.”

“Justice must and shall be done you, Charles,” cried the Dame de Beaujeu. “I will go to the Duchess d’Angoulême at once. Your arm, Charles – give me your arm.”

“You are not equal to the effort, madame,” said the Constable.

“If it costs me my life, I will see her,” cried the resolute old duchess. And she took a few steps, but her strength then utterly failed her, and she would have fallen but for the Constable’s support.

Her physician and Cornelius Agrippa, who had been anxiously watching her, flew to her assistance.

“Oh! that; I had but one hour left of my former strength! I should die content,” she groaned.

“Drink of this, madame,” said Cornelius Agrippa, offering her a phial. “It is a sovereign elixir, and will restore you.”

But she had not strength to take the phial, and was evidently sinking.

Bourbon, however, placed the elixir to her lips, and made her swallow a few drops. The effect was instantaneous and almost magical. New strength seemed imparted to her limbs, the hue of health returned to her cadaverous cheeks, and she was able to stand without support.

“You have given me new life,” she said to Agrippa.

“Waste not a moment of it, madame,” he replied. “It may not be of long duration.”

Just then, the great folding-doors at the end of the hall were thrown open, and the king, accompanied by the Duchess d’Angoulême and Bonnivet, entered the salon. Behind them came a crowd of courtiers, amongst whom were Montmorency, Saint-Vallier, and René de Bretagne.

“I have my wish. She is here!” cried the old duchess.

On the entrance of the king, Claude advanced to meet him, and the Dame de Beaujeu followed closely behind her, marching with the firmness and majesty of former years. As he beheld her move along in this way, Mathieu Bernard observed to Agrippa:

“You have performed a miracle.”

“I have but restored the vital energies for a moment,” replied the other. “It is the last flash of the expiring taper.”

The royal party met in the centre of the salon. Bourbon had followed his mother-in-law, and Saint-Vallier and René came over and stationed themselves beside him.

“I am sorry to learn, sire,” said Claude, “that our cousin, the Constable de Bourbon, has incurred your displeasure. Let me intercede for him with your majesty.”

“It is true that the Duke dc Bourbon has deeply offended me,” said the king. “But it is not too late for his restoration to favour.”

“You hear that, prince,” said Claude to the Constable. “All may yet be well.”

“Sire,” interposed the Dame de Beaujeu, “I ask for justice to my son-in-law, the Duke de Bourbon. Has he not served you faithfully? Has he not brought you men and treasure? Has he not bled for you in the field? And how has he been rewarded? By slights, by the withdrawal of his pensions, by the spoliation of his property, by disgrace, by dishonour. Sire, wrongs like these are enough to make a traitor of the noblest and most loyal heart in France.”

“No wrong, madame, has been done to the Constable de Bourbon,” rejoined the king. “But, if I am not misinformed, he has already played the traitor.”