THE Court is at Amboise. Francis is only twenty, and still solicits the advice of his mother, Louise de Savoie, regent during his minority. Marguerite, now married to the Duc d’AlenÇon, has also considerable influence over him. Both these princesses, who are with him at Amboise, insist on the claims of their kinsman, Charles de Montpensier, Duc de Bourbon,—in right of his wife, Suzanne, only daughter and heiress of Pierre, the last duke,—to be appointed Constable of France. It is an office next in power to the sovereign, and has not been revived since the treasonable conspiracy of the Comte de St. Pol, in the reign of Louis XI.

Bourbon is only twenty-six, but he is already a hero. He has braved death again and again in the battle-field with dauntless valour. In person he is tall and handsome. In manners, he is frank, bold, and prepossessing; but when offended, his proud nature easily turns to vindictive and almost savage revenge. Invested with the double dignity of General of the royal forces and Constable of France, he comes to Amboise to salute the King and the princesses, who are both strangely interested in his career, and to take the last commands from Francis, who does not now propose accompanying his army into Italy.

There is a restless, mobile expression on Bourbon’s dark yet comely face, that tells of strong passions ill suppressed. A man capable of ardent and devoted

love, and of bitter hate; his marriage with his cousin Suzanne, lately dead, had been altogether a political alliance to bring him royal kindred, wealth, and power. Suzanne had failed to interest his heart. It is said that another passion has long engaged him. Francis may have some hint as to who the lady is, and may resent Bourbon’s presumption. At all events, the Constable is no favourite with the King. He dislikes his fanfaronnade and haughty address. He loves not either to see a subject of his own age so powerful and so magnificent; it trenches too much on his own prerogatives of success. Besides, as lads, Bourbon and Francis had quarrelled at a game of maille. The King had challenged Bourbon but had never fought him, and Bourbon resented this refusal as an affront to his honour.

The Constable, mounted on a splendid charger, with housings of black velvet, and attended by a brilliant suite, gallops into the courtyard. His fine person is set off by a rich surcoat, worn over a suit of gilded armour. He wears a red and white panache in his helmet, and his sword and dagger are thickly incrusted with diamonds.

At the top of the grand staircase are posted one hundred archers, royal pages conduct the Constable through the range of state apartments.

The King receives Bourbon in the great gallery hung with tapestry. He is seated on a chair of state, ornamented with elaborate carving, on which the arms of France are in high relief. This chair is placed on a raised floor, or dais, covered with a carpet. Beside him stands the grand master of the ceremonies, who introduces the Constable to the King. Francis, who inclines his head and raises his cap for an instant, is courteous but cold. Marguerite d’AlenÇon is present; like Bourbon, she is unhappily mated. The Duc d’AlenÇon is, physically and mentally, her inferior. When the Constable salutes the King, Marguerite stands apart. Conscious that her brother’s eyes read her thoughts, she blushes deeply and averts her face. Bourbon advances to the spot where she is seated in the recess of an oriel window. He bows low before her; Marguerite rises, and offers him her hand. Their eyes meet. There is no disguise in the passionate glance of the Constable; Marguerite, confused and embarrassed, turns away.

“Has your highness no word of kindness for your kinsman?” says the Constable, in a low voice.

“You know, cousin, your interests are ever dear to me,” replies she, in the same tone; then, curtseying deeply to the King, she takes the arm of her husband, M. d’AlenÇon, who was killing flies at the window, and leaves the gallery.

“Diable!” says Francis to his confidant, Claude de Guise, in an undertone; “My sister is scarcely civil to the Constable. Did you observe, she hardly answered him? All the better. It will teach Bourbon humility, and not to look too high for a mate.”

“Yet her highness pleaded eagerly with your Majesty for his advancement.”

“Yes, yes; that was to please our mother. Suzanne de Bourbon was her cousin, and the Regent promised her before her death to support her husband’s claims.”

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

ascertain from your own lips if this suit cannot be settled À l’amiable. There are many means of accommodating a lawsuit, Duke. Madame Anne, wife of two kings of France, saved Brittany from cruel wars in a manner worthy of imitation.”

“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.