The Sun.
London, England, 1865-11-01 00:00:00

Bourbon :

" Answer one question," said the king.
,o 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 use-
less, I must exert my authority. BySaint 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 oven at your bidding will I wed the Duchess d'An-
gouleme."

" You refuse !—ha?" demanded the king fiercely.
" Absolutely," replied Bourbon. "lam a prince of tho

" What of that ?" cried Francois, yet more highly in-
censed. "Were you a crowned king you would not bemean
yourself by marriage with my mother. It is she who de-
grades herself by stooping to you. But 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, astonished and enraged
"Dare you breathe such a word in connexion with my
mother ? What mean you ? Speak !"
Francois 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 imined, produced a
fearful effect on the Constable. Ilis 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 tawrin.

" Sire," cried Bourbon at length, " that was a craven
tlow, 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 o
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.

The readers of Bentley may well be congratulated

upon so auspicious a commencement as that which
we have shown thus distinctly, to be manifest in
chapters of Mr. Ainsworth's new'
thesesto op
ry intehnein/r/iscellany. If continued in the same
spirit, the work gives promise of proving its au-
thor's masterpiece among his historical romances,
as unquestionably as- Rookwood still remains
his masterpiece among his romances pur et simple.
By the way, we are touched to note Mr. Ains-
worth's superscription to his new serial story—
" Inscribed to the Memory of Dudley Costello."
It is the memento of a true friendship.

MARKETS—This Day.