"We shall but give you time to bait your horses, Seigneur Visconti," said the Queen of France, "and then send you back to your fair bride. No stain must rest upon a lady's reputation long; and though this be but the work of evil tongues, without a shadow of foundation for the scandal, the sooner they are silenced the better. We are now going out by the old postern into the fosse to see a game of tennis played, in which, perchance, my lord may take part. We invite you to go with us, that all the world may see we give no credit to these wild rumours."
One of the chamberlains hastened to open the door of the hall, and the royal party passed out, followed by Lorenzo and the attendants. They took their way through the great marble hall below, and through a long, narrow corridor or passage in the thick wall of the castle. It was terminated by a low-browed, stone archway, with an oaken door, in passing through which Charles, miscalculating its height, struck his head violently against the arch, and would have fallen had he not been caught by Lorenzo, who came close behind.
For a moment or two the king seemed confused and almost stunned; but the accident he had met with was so commonplace and apparently insignificant that nobody took much notice of it. The ladies who followed the queen were inclined to smile, and Charles himself treated it more lightly than any one. He pressed his hand, it is true, once or twice upon the top of his head, and took off his bonnet for the cool air, but he declared it was "nothing--a mere nothing."
A paleness had spread over the young monarch's face, however, which Lorenzo Visconti did not like; but the royal party were soon in the dry deep fosse, and the memorable jeu de paume began.
Charles prided himself upon his skill in all manly exercises, and after looking on for a time, he took a racket, and joined in the game. He was, or he was suffered to appear, the best player present; but after he had played one score he gave up the racket, and withdrew from the game, remaining for a short while as a spectator; and Lorenzo remarked that, as the king stood looking on, he twice pressed his hand upon his heart. At length he turned to the queen, and the rest of the party who had accompanied him thither, and proposed to return into the castle, adding a few words to Lorenzo on his approaching marriage. The young nobleman walked nearly by his side, but a little behind, and all passed the postern, and entered the narrow gallery or corridor, still talking. When they had nearly reached a flight of steps which led to the halls above, the king turned suddenly towards Lorenzo, saying, "Remember," and then fell at once upon the pavement.
A scene of indescribable confusion followed. Some of the attendants raised the monarch to carry him up the stairs, but the chief chamberlain forbade them to move him till a physician should be called. Some cushions were brought to support his head, and speedily a number of fresh faces crowded the passage; but the king remained without consciousness. Some broken words fell from his lips, but no one could discover what they meant, and, after a short struggle with death, Charles VIII. passed away, beloved and mourned rather than respected.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Again let us change the scene. There is another whose course we must trace, from the fatal, the terrible moment when she parted from Lorenzo Visconti in Tuscany, to the death of Charles VIII. Ere we do so, however, it may be needful to notice a small incident which affected greatly her fate, without appearing to be in a direct manner connected with it.
In a magnificent room in one of those grand buildings, half palace, half fortress, with which Rome in those days abounded, sat Cæsar Borgia and Ramiro d'Orco, on the very day on which Charles VIII. began his march from Lombardy to France. The cheek of Ramiro was less pale than usual, and there was a slight gathering together of the eyebrows, not to say a frown, which in an ordinary man might have signified very little, but in one who had so strong an habitual command over his features and over his emotions would indicate to those who knew him well, an unusual degree of excitement. His voice was calm, however, his tone courteous, and from time to time a quiet smile belied the aspect of his brow.
"My lord," he said, "I must have some security. Not that I doubt your Eminence in the least. Heaven forbid! But all wise men like to have some guarantee for anything that is promised to them, and are always willing to give guarantees for that which they really intend to perform."