William Ainsworth - The Constable De Bourbon

“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.

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.”