“How,” exclaims the King, starting up, “never be free? What do you mean?”
“Calm yourself, my brother. You are, I fear, too weak to hear what I have to say.”
“No, no! my sister; suspense to me is worse than death. Speak to me, Marguerite; speak to me, my sister.”
“Then, Sire, let me ask you, when you speak of release, when the Emperor tells you you are free, are you aware of the conditions he imposes on you?”
“Not accurately,” replies Francis. “Certain terms were proposed, before my illness, that I should surrender whole provinces in France, renounce my rights in the Milanese, pay an enormous ransom, leave my sons hostages at Madrid; but these were the proposals of the Spanish council. The Emperor, speaking personally to a brother sovereign, would never press anything on me unbecoming my royal condition; therefore it is that I desire to treat with himself alone.”
“Alas! my brother, you are too generous; you are deceived. Much negotiation has passed during your illness, and since my arrival. Conditions have been proposed by Spain to the Regent, that she—your mother—supported by the parliament of your country, devoted to your person, has refused. Listen to me, Francis. Charles seeks to dismember France. As long as it remains a kingdom, he intends that you shall never leave Madrid.”
“Marguerite, my sister, proceed, I entreat you!” breaks in Francis, trembling with excitement.
“Burgundy is to be ceded; you are to renounce all interest in Flanders and in the Milanese. You are to pay a ransom that will beggar the kingdom. You are to marry Elinor, Queen Dowager of Portugal, sister to Charles, and you are to leave your sons, the Dauphin and the Duc d’Orléans, hostages in Spain for the fulfilment of these demands.”
Francis turns very white, and sinks back speechless on the pillows that support him. He stretches out his arm to his sister and fondly clasps her neck. “Marguerite, if it is so, you say well,—I shall never leave Madrid. My sister, let me die ten thousand deaths rather than betray the honour of France.”
“Speak not of death, dearest brother!” exclaims Marguerite, her face suddenly flushing with excitement. “I have come to make you live. I, Marguerite d’Alençon, your sister, am come to lead you back to your army and to France; to the France that mourns for you; to the army that is now dispersed and insubordinate; to the mother who weeps for her beloved son.” Marguerite’s voice falters; she sobs aloud, and rising from her chair, she presses her brother in her arms. Francis feebly returns her embrace, tenderly kisses her, and signs to her to proceed. “Think you,” continues Marguerite more calmly, and reseating herself, but still holding the King’s hand—“think you that councils in which Bourbon has a voice——” At this name the King shudders and clenches his fist upon the bed-clothes. “Think you that a sovereign who has treacherously lured you to Madrid will have any mercy on you? No, my brother; unless you agree to unworthy conditions, imposed by a treacherous monarch who abuses his power over you, here you will languish until you die! Now mark my words, dear brother. Treaties made under duresse, by force majeure, are legally void. You will dissemble, my generous King—for the sake of France, you will dissemble. You must fight this crafty emperor with his own weapons.”