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

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.