'Is it of our own?'
'No, Monsignore; from the ducal cellar. Our own is consumed.'
Brissonet upset the cup.
'Your Majesty will pardon me, but the wines of this place may be unwholesome. Thibaut, send a messenger at once to the camp, and let him fetch a barrel from the field cellar.'
'Why—eh? What is this?' asked the King disconcerted.
The cardinal whispered that he feared poison; anything might be expected from men who had done to death their legitimate sovereign; true, nothing suspicious had yet occurred, but prudence never comes amiss.
'Eh? All child's folly!' grumbled Charles, twitching one shoulder: however, he submitted.
The heralds took their places before the king; pages raised over his head the splendid baldachin of blue silk, embroidered with the silver lilies of France; the seneschal threw on his shoulders a scarlet mantle, ermine-bordered, and embroidered with golden bees, and the motto, 'Roi des abeilles n'a pas d'aiguillons'; the procession traversed gloomy and deserted halls, and took its way to the apartments of the dying man.
Passing the chapel, the king caught sight of the Duchess Isabella at her faldstool. He gallantly removed his cap, stopped, and calling her 'dear sister,' would have kissed her on the lips, according to the French ceremonial, but the duchess hurried to throw herself at his feet.
'Have compassion on us, most clement lord,' she began hurriedly, in set words. 'Defend the innocent, O magnanimous knight-errant, and God shall give thee thy reward! Il Moro has robbed us of everything; he has usurped our throne; has given poison to Gian Galeazzo, my husband, legitimate inheritor of the Lords of Milan! In our own house he has surrounded us with spies and assassins....'