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!”