ON a fine July day, the fair Margaret, Queen of Navarre, then on a visit to her royal brother, had arranged a rural feast for the morning following, which Francis declined attending. He was melancholy; and the cause was said to be some lover’s quarrel with a favourite dame. The morrow came, and dark rain and murky clouds destroyed at once the schemes of the courtly throng. Margaret was angry, and she grew weary: her only hope for amusement was in Francis, and he had shut himself up,—an excellent reason why she should the more desire to see him. She entered his apartment: he was standing at the casement, against which the noisy shower beat, writing with a diamond on the glass. Two beautiful dogs were his sole companions. As Queen Margaret entered, he hastily let down the silken curtain before the window, and looked a little confused. “What treason is this, my liege,” said the queen, “which crimsons your cheek? I must see the same.” “It is treason,” replied the king, “and therefore, sweet sister, thou mayest not see it.” This the more excited Margaret’s curiosity, and a playful contest ensued. Francis at last yielded: he threw himself on a huge high-backed settee; and as the lady drew back the curtain with an arch smile, he grew grave and sentimental, as he reflected on the cause which had inspired his libel against all womankind. “What have we here?” cried Margaret; “nay, this is lêse majesté— “‘Souvent femme varie, Bien fou qui s’y fie!’ Very little change would greatly amend your couplet:—would it not run better thus— “‘Souvent homme varie, Bien folle qui s’y fie?’ I could tell you twenty stories of man’s inconstancy.” “I will be content with one true tale of woman’s fidelity,” said Francis drily; “but do not provoke me. I would fain be at peace with the soft Mutabilities, for thy dear sake.” “I defy your grace,” replied Margaret rashly, “to instance the falsehood of one noble and well-reputed dame.” “Not even Emilie de Lagny?” asked the king.