the king, suspiciously. “You shall join me at Lyons as speedily as you can.”
At this moment a side-door was opened, and a young dame, richly attired, and of surpassing beauty, entered the chamber.
VI. DIANE DE POITIERS.
On seeing the king, she would have instantly retreated, but he commanded her to stay.
“Do not let my presence alarm you, fair lady,” he said. “And do not suppose you interrupt me, for I have finished my conference with the Lord Constable.”
The young dame, who seemed much embarrassed, made a profound obeisance, but did not advance. As we have said, she was exquisitely beautiful. Her features might have been modelled by Praxiteles, and her figure was tall and admirably proportioned. She was attired in green velvet, embroidered with flowers of damask, gold, and pearls, with the sleeves puffed and quilted, and her head-dress, which was very becomingly fashioned, was ornamented with pearls and other precious stones.
“I am trying to recal your features, fair lady,” said the king, approaching her, and regarding her with undisguised admiration, “but I do not think I can have seen you before. Such a lovely face as yours—such lustrous eyes—and such a form—must have made a lasting impression upon me. Yet you must have been at court.”
“No, sire, my father, the Comte de Saint-Vallier, never took me to court,” she replied.
“How?” exclaimed François, surprised. “Are you the charming Diane de Poitiers, who, by bestowing your hand upon the Comte de Maulévrier, have made him the most enviable of mortals?”
“It is my misfortune, sire, to be the wife of the Comte de Maulévrier,” she replied.
“Your misfortune! ha!” exclaimed the king. “Are you aware that your husband is here?”
“Here, sire?” exclaimed Diane, uneasily.
“Nay, be not alarmed,” replied François, smiling. “He has not come for the purpose of taking you back to the Château de Brézé. He brought me some important intelligence from Normandy.”
“'Tis Maulévrier, then, who has revealed the plot,” mentally ejaculated Bourbon.
“I should not return with him, if he desired it,” said Diane, “Your majesty must understand that the comte and I have quarrelled.”
“Quarrelled! ah!” exclaimed François. “And so you took refuge from the husband you hate with the Duke de Bourbon—eh?”
“I do not hate my husband, sire, though he has compelled me to leave him. I came to the Château de Moulins with my father.”
“And you expected to find your father with the Constable when you entered so suddenly just now, eh?” remarked the king, dryly.
“I did, sire. I came to inform them of your arrival at the château—little expecting to find your majesty here. I trust I may infer from your gracious and kindly aspect that the Constable is restored to favour?”
“He is fully restored,” replied the king. “You will be pleased, I am sure, to learn that I have just promised him the command of half my Italian army.”
“You have done well, sire,” she rejoined. “With Bourbon in joint command with your majesty, victory will be assured. You will accompany the king?” she added to the Constable, with evident anxiety.
“I hope to do so,” he replied. “At all events, I will follow as soon as my strength will permit me.”
“Nay, I must have you with me,” said the king.
“Right, sire—do not leave him behind,” she whispered.
“I know the way to enforce obedience on the Constable's part,” said the king. “I shall take you with me to Lyons, fair Diane. He will follow quickly then.”
“Sire!” exclaimed Bourbon, with ill-concealed vexation, “the countess is here with her father!”
“What of that? I shall not ask his consent,” replied the king. “The only person who has any right to object is Maulévrier, and he is not likely to interfere. The Comtesse de Châteaubriand and a large party of court dames are in my train,” he added to Diane. “You shall accompany them.” He then continued in a low voice: “I cannot doubt the great influence you possess over Bourbon. What you say to him he will obey. Charge him, therefore, to join me a week hence at Lyons.”
And he moved towards the other side of the chamber, as if to examine the portrait of the beautiful Clara de Gonzaga.
Diane instantly took advantage of the opportunity, and, approaching Bourbon, said, in a low voice, “You have accepted the king's offer? You will break with the Emperor and Henry VIII., will you not?”
“It is too late,” replied the Constable, in the same tone. “I have signed the compact.”
“But consider that the king has promised to share the command of the army with you?” she urged.
“Promises made by princes under such circumstances are rarely kept,” replied Bourbon. “I can never be really restored to the king's favour.”
“You wrong him,” she said. “He is the soul of loyalty and honour.”
“He loyal!” echoed Bourbon. “He is perfidious as his mother. I will not trust him.”
“That is your determination?”
“My fixed determination,” he rejoined.
“Then we shall never meet again—never, Charles,” she said.
Bourbon made no reply, and his head sank upon his breast. At this moment the king turned round.
“Have you prevailed upon him, fair Diane?” he asked. “Yes, yes, he will come, sire,” she answered, hastily. “You will?” she added to Bourbon, with an entreating look that ought to have been irresistible.
“You have said it,” he rejoined.
“That is well,” observed the king. “I knew you could not resist her persuasion.”
Just then the door opened, and Jean de l'Hôpital entered the room.
“I crave your majesty's pardon for this interruption,” he said, “but I am compelled to attend to my illustrious patient. It is necessary that his highness should take the draught prepared for him.”
“I applaud your zeal, sir,” replied François, “and I enjoin you to use all your art to restore the prince your master to health as quickly as may be. Think you he will be able to set out for Lyons in three days' time?”
“I will not answer for it, sire,” replied Jean de l'Hôpital, consulting Bourbon by a look.
“In a week, then?” demanded the king.
“Perchance in a week, sire,” replied the physician. “But he must travel slowly, for even then he will be very feeble.”
“Come hither, sir,” said the king, taking Jean de l'Hôpital aside. “Answer me truly, as you value your life. What ails the Constable?”
“His highness is labouring under a severe quotidian ague, caught at Montbrison,” replied the physician. “The fever has proved of singular obstinacy, and will not yield to ordinary remedies. We are under great apprehensions,” he added, lowering his voice, “that it may be followed by some mortal ailment, as consumption, or the black jaundice. His state is exceedingly critical, and demands the utmost care. Were he to take cold, I would not answer for his life.”
“Hark