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WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THE KING AND BOURBON.

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      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.”

      With a heart bursting with rage and grief, he rushed out of the room.

      As Bourbon disappeared, the duchess came from behind the hangings.

      “So, you have heard what has passed between us, madame?” cried the king.

      “I have,” she replied. “He is a false traitor and a liar, and has been rightly served. But you will not let him quit the palace? By that blow', which he richly deserved, you have made him your mortal enemy. You have him now in your hands, and you will rue it, if you suffer him to escape. He has many partisans, and may raise a revolt.”

      “You alarm yourself unnecessarily, madame,” rejoined François.

      “I have good reason for apprehension,” rejoined the duchess. “He has already entered into secret negotiations with the Emperor.”

      “Foi de gentilhomme! if I thought so, I would order his instant arrest!” exclaimed the king. “But are you sure, madame? Have you any proof of what you assert?”

      “He boasted, just now that the Emperor had offered him the widowed Queen of Portugal in marriage,” replied the duchess. “Does not that prove that secret overtures have been made him?”

      “You are right. He is more dangerous than I thought. I must prevent his defection—by fair means if possible—if not——“.

      “You have provoked him too far, my son,” interrupted the duchess. “He will never forgive the insult you have put upon him. Allow him to depart, and most assuredly he will league with your enemies.”

      At this moment Bonnivet entered the cabinet.

      “Pardon me, sire, and you, gracious madame, if I venture to interrupt you,” he said. “But I would know your majesty's commands in regard to the Constable. His demeanour and looks are so infuriated, and his language so full of menace, that I have ordered the guard not to let him quit the palace.”

      “You have done well, monseigneur,” said the duchess. “Where is he now?”

      “In the pavillon de Saint Louis,” remarked Bonnivet, “with her majesty and the Dame de Beaujeu.”

      “I did not know the duchess was here,” remarked Louise de Savoie, uneasily.

      “She only arrived an hour ago from Paris,” replied Bonnivet. “Ha! what is this I see?” he added, noticing the cross of Saint Michael, which Bourbon had cast on the ground. “Is it thus your honours are treated, sire? Such insolence deserves severe punishment.”

      “I would punish the offender—severely punish him—but that I gave him great provocation,” returned the king. “You say that the Constable is in the salle de Saint Louis, with the queen and the Dame de Beau-jeu?”...

      “He went thither not many minutes ago,” replied Bonnivet. “Shall I arrest him as he comes forth?”

      “No,” said the king. “I will see him again, and then decide. Come with me, madame—and you too, Admiral.”

V. THE DAME DE BEAUJEU.

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