this breach of the decorum of his office, recalled him to himself; but not a little was he astonished when the King, whose quick eye had at once discovered him, walked straight to the place where he was posted, without taking notice of any one else.
“So;” he said, “young man, I am told you have been brawling on your first arrival in Touraine; but I pardon you, as it was chiefly the fault of a foolish old merchant, who thought your Caledonian blood required to be heated in the morning with Vin de Beaulne. If I can find him, I will make him an example to those who debauch my Guards. – Balafre,” he added, speaking to Lesly, “your kinsman is a fair youth, though a fiery. We love to cherish such spirits, and mean to make more than ever we did of the brave men who are around us. Let the year, day, hour, and minute of your nephew’s birth be written down and given to Oliver Dain.”
Le Balafre bowed to the ground, and re-assumed his erect military position, as one who would show by his demeanour his promptitude to act in the King’s quarrel or defence. Quentin, in the meantime, recovered from his first surprise, studied the King’s appearance more attentively, and was surprised to find how differently he now construed his deportment and features than he had done at their first interview.
These were not much changed in exterior, for Louis, always a scorner of outward show, wore, on the present occasion, an old dark blue hunting dress, not much better than the plain burgher suit of the preceding day, and garnished with a huge rosary of ebony which had been sent to him by no less a personage than the Grand Seignior, with an attestation that it had been used by a Coptic hermit on Mount Lebanon, a personage of profound sanctity. And instead of his cap with a single image, he now wore a hat, the band of which was garnished with at least a dozen of little paltry figures of saints stamped in lead. But those eyes, which, according to Quentin’s former impression, only twinkled with the love of gain, had, now that they were known to be the property of an able and powerful monarch, a piercing and majestic glance; and those wrinkles on the brow, which he had supposed were formed during a long series of petty schemes of commerce, seemed now the furrows which sagacity had worn while toiling in meditation upon the fate of nations.
Presently after the King’s appearance, the Princesses of France, with the ladies of their suite, entered the apartment. With the eldest, afterwards married to Peter of Bourbon, and known in French history by the name of the Lady of Beaujeu, our story has but little to do. She was tall, and rather handsome, possessed eloquence, talent, and much of her father’s sagacity, who reposed great confidence in her, and loved her as well perhaps as he loved any one.
The younger sister, the unfortunate Joan, the destined bride of the Duke of Orleans, advanced timidly by the side of her sister, conscious of a total want of those external qualities which women are most desirous of possessing, or being thought to possess. She was pale, thin, and sickly in her complexion; her shape visibly bent to one side, and her gait was so unequal that she might be called lame. A fine set of teeth, and eyes which were expressive of melancholy, softness, and resignation, with a quantity of light brown locks, were the only redeeming points which flattery itself could have dared to number, to counteract the general homeliness of her face and figure. To complete the picture, it was easy to remark, from the Princess’s negligence in dress and the timidity of her manner, that she had an unusual and distressing consciousness of her own plainness of appearance, and did not dare to make any of those attempts to mend by manners or by art what nature had left amiss, or in any other way to exert a power of pleasing. The King (who loved her not) stepped hastily to her as she entered.
“How now,” he said, “our world contemning daughter – Are you robed for a hunting party, or for the convent, this morning? Speak – answer.”
“For which your highness pleases, sire,” said the Princess, scarce raising her voice above her breath.
“Ay, doubtless, you would persuade me it is your desire to quit the Court, Joan, and renounce the world and its vanities. – Ha! maiden, wouldst thou have it thought that we, the first born of Holy Church, would refuse our daughter to Heaven? – Our Lady and Saint Martin forbid we should refuse the offering, were it worthy of the altar, or were thy vocation in truth thitherward!”
So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, looking in the meantime, as appeared to Quentin, very like a cunning vassal, who was depreciating the merit of something which he was desirous to keep to himself, in order that he might stand excused for not offering it to his chief or superior.
“Dares he thus play the hypocrite with Heaven,” thought Durward, “and sport with God and the Saints, as he may safely do with men, who dare not search his nature too closely?”
Louis meantime resumed, after a moment’s mental devotion, “No, fair daughter, I and another know your real mind better. Ha! fair cousin of Orleans, do we not? Approach, fair sir, and lead this devoted vestal of ours to her horse.”
Orleans started when the King spoke and hastened to obey him; but with such precipitation of step, and confusion, that Louis called out, “Nay, cousin, rein your gallantry, and look before you. Why, what a headlong matter a gallant’s haste is on some occasions! You had well nigh taken Anne’s hand instead of her sister’s. – Sir, must I give Joan’s to you myself?”
The unhappy Prince looked up, and shuddered like a child, when forced to touch something at which it has instinctive horror – then making an effort, took the hand which the Princess neither gave nor yet withheld. As they stood, her cold, damp fingers enclosed in his trembling hand, with their eyes looking on the ground, it would have been difficult to say which of these two youthful beings was rendered more utterly miserable – the Duke, who felt himself fettered to the object of his aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, or the unfortunate young woman, who too plainly saw that she was an object of abhorrence to him, to gain whose kindness she would willingly have died.
“And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies – we will ourselves lead forth our daughter of Beaujeu,” said the King; “and God’s blessing and Saint Hubert’s be on our morning’s sport!”
“I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, Sire,” said the Comte de Dunois; “the Burgundian Envoy is before the gates of the Castle and demands an audience.”
“Demands an audience, Dunois?” replied the King. “Did you not answer him, as we sent you word by Oliver, that we were not at leisure to see him today, – and that tomorrow was the festival of Saint Martin, which, please Heaven, we would disturb by no earthly thoughts – and that on the succeeding day we were designed for Amboise – but that we would not fail to appoint him as early an audience, when we returned, as our pressing affairs would permit.”
“All this I said,” answered Dunois, “but yet, Sire – ”
“Pasques dieu! man, what is it that thus sticks in thy throat?” said the King. “This Burgundian’s terms must have been hard of digestion.”
“Had not my duty, your Grace’s commands, and his character as an envoy, restrained me,” said Dunois, “he should have tried to digest them himself; for, by our Lady of Orleans, I had more mind to have made him eat his own words, than to have brought them to your Majesty.”
“Body of me,” said the King, “it is strange that thou, one of the most impatient fellows alive, should have so little sympathy with the like infirmity in our blunt and fiery cousin, Charles of Burgundy. Why, man, I mind his blustering messages no more than the towers of this Castle regard the whistling of the northeast wind, which comes from Flanders, as well as this brawling Envoy.”
“Know then, Sire,” replied Dunois, “that the Count of Crevecoeur tarries below, with his retinue of pursuivants and trumpets, and says, that since your Majesty refuses him the audience which his master has instructed him to demand, upon matters of most pressing concern, he will remain there till midnight, and accost your
