"I have remarked it," replied the duke. "He used to be gentle, courteous, gay, bright, and brave as his sword, but when last I saw him he had grown stern and somewhat haughty, careless of courtesies, and curt and sharp of speech. They said that some disappointment weighed upon his mind."
"The most bitter, your highness, that can press down the heart of man or woman," answered Blanche Marie; "no less than the faithlessness of one he loved. She is my cousin, yet I cannot but blame her for breaking so noble a heart. They parted with the fondest hopes. She promised to wait his coming in Florence, where they were to be united immediately. When he arrived there she was gone, without leaving letter or message, or announcement of any kind. He could not follow her to Rome, from the state of the country; and though he wrote, and took every means to make her know where he was, his letters remained unanswered, or were sent back. He might have doubted some foul play; but a few words in her own hand, written carelessly on a scrap of paper, in a packet returned to him, showed too well that she was cognizant of all that had been done; and the last news was that she was married, or to be married to another."
"Then let him marry another too," said the Duke of Orleans; but the conversation was here cut short by the announcement that supper was spread in the hall below, and the duke's noble followers assembled there.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Lorenzo Visconti rode along but slenderly accompanied. A few attendants and one or two pack-horses formed all the train which followed him. A carelessness had come over him, not only of all display, but of life and all things that life could give. He rode, as De Vitry had described, at headlong speed. It seemed as if he were flying from something--perhaps from bitterly contrasted memories; but, as ever, black care sat behind the horseman, and no furious riding could shake him off. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, but he saw not loose stone or slippery rock, and never marked the heavy clouds which, having ravaged the valley of the Isere, were now rising over the hills upon his left, and threatening to pour down their fury upon him.
Grave and, for him, strangely sad, Antonio was following close behind him, watching with eager anxiety the obstructions in his master's way, and marking also the coming tempest. "My lord," he said, at length, with a somewhat hesitating voice, "were it not better to seek some shelter and to ride more slowly?"
"Why?" asked Lorenzo; "the road is good."
"Because, my lord," replied the man, "if we do not seek some shelter we shall be half drowned in ten minutes, and if we ride so hard, though you may go safe, we worse mounted men will break both our necks and our horses' knees, as soon as the sun sets, which will be in a quarter of an hour."
Lorenzo drew in his rein; but the only word he spoke was "Well?"
"We just passed a handsome chateau, my lord," urged Antonio, "and I am sure they will give you ready welcome there, if you like to rest there for the night."