“It is not for me, my Reina,” he answers at last, “to abuse the constable, I leave that to my son Henry. But for Luna, I should never have possessed the treasure of this little hand.” Again he passes his long white fingers over hers, turning the rings she wears to the light and examining them one by one, as though he would fain find a pretext for retaining them in his own.
A cloud passes over the glowing face of the queen. She suddenly remembers that she was imposed on him by the Conde de Luna as a reason of state.
This puts her in a rage whenever she thinks of it.
“Do you imagine, my lord, that that recommends him to me?” she answers, in a tone which betrays her feelings. “How do I know that you do not still prefer the French Princess Fredegonde to me?”
A blush and a faint denial is the reply, and a murmured assurance that such perfection as she possesses makes him the envy of all the sovereigns his neighbours. The timid Don Juan shrinks from any form of attack; he is so tormented that he scents trouble in the air.
The queen sees her advantage, and continues: “Believe me, I, at least, love you, if you care for that. Too much so, indeed, to bear to see you so overshadowed as you are. Your son, too, is drawing away your subjects from you. A great sacrifice must be made or you will never reign.”
“A sacrifice?” answers Don Juan vaguely. He affects not to understand her, but reddens with annoyance at this false note in the harmony of their interview.
“Oh, Juan, how can you pretend to mistake me!” she cries, clasping her hands; “is it the first time I have told you that while the constable lives I shall never have a happy hour?” Her countenance saddens with real or pretended distress; a deep sigh heaves her bosom, upon which rests a collar of jewels and strings of Orient pearls. With her kerchief she wipes away imaginary tears. Don Juan, who is vaguely contemplating her as a vision of beauty, is suddenly greatly distressed, and rises to comfort her. She puts him back with a pettish motion, and with a troubled air he resumes his seat.
“How do I know,” she continues, in a lower voice, “that the magic arts Luna exercises over you may not be employed against me?”
“Magic arts!” faintly ejaculates the king.