"I will--I will," answered Charles, raising her and seating her by him; "by every title you have given me, you have a right to demand my aid, and I am bound to give it. My good cousin the count, this must be seen to at once. I will tarry in Pavia for the purpose of inquiring into these matters, and seeing them rightly regulated before I go hence."
"As your majesty pleases," answered Ludovic, bowing his head with a look of humility. "You will find, upon full inquiry, that I have acted for my nephew's best interests. The lady, poor thing, is somewhat prejudiced, if not distraught; but all these matters can be made perfectly clear when you have time to listen."
The young duke gave him a look of disdain, and she answered, "Ay, perfectly clear, count, if the king will but hear both parties."
"I will, dear lady, doubt it not," answered Charles, tenderly. "Be comforted. No time shall be lost. My cousin here shall be removed to a purer air; my own physician shall visit him. Be comforted."
A smile--the first smile of hope that had visited her lip for many a day--came upon the poor girl's face. "Thank you--oh, thank you, sire," she said.
Well had she stopped there! But she was very young, had no experience of the omnipotence of selfishness with man. Her fate had been a very sad one. She never sang to her child but with tears; and yet all had not taught her that oceans of blood would not bar man from an object of great desire.
"I cannot be comforted, my lord," she answered, "notwithstanding all your generous promises--nay, notwithstanding even their fulfilment, while my poor father, against whom your mighty power is bent--I speak of Alphonso, King of Naples--is in such a case of peril."
Charles's brow darkened; the compassionate look passed away; but still the unhappy girl went on, crushing out in the bosom of the young king the spark of pity which her melancholy situation had lighted. "My poor father, my lord," she continued, "has done nothing to call down your indignation upon him. Let me entreat your mercy on him; let me beseech you to pause and consider ere you ruin a man--a king who has never injured you--nay, who is ready to submit to any terms you are pleased to dictate. Oh, my noble lord, hear me; let me plead not only for my husband and myself, and my child, but for my father and my brother also."
Ludovic the Moor, one of the most subtle readers of the human heart that the world has ever produced, heard her first reference to her father with delight; and his eyes were instantly turned towards the young king's face. He traced but too easily the change of feelings going on. He saw the first spark of irritation produced by the unwelcome topic: he saw her gradually fanning it into a flame by her efforts to change the settled and selfish purpose of the king. He saw the struggle between the sense of justice and a favourite scheme; he saw the anger which a consciousness of wrong, together with a resolution to persevere in wrong invariably produces, growing up in Charles's bosom; and he let her go on without a word, till he perceived that the effect was complete. Then suddenly interposing, he said, "May it please your majesty, such exciting scenes are too much for the feeble health of my poor nephew; I must care for it, if this lady does not. You have heard all she has to say, and if you will mark the duke's countenance, you will perceive, from the change which has taken place, that further discussion now would be dangerous if not fatal. I will therefore beseech your majesty to give this matter further consideration at a future day, and to visit the poor dwelling I have prepared for you."
The king rose; and the poor duchess, perceiving too late the error she had committed, bent down her head upon her hands and wept. Charles took a kindly leave of the young duke, removing the further consideration of his case to that "more convenient season" which never comes, and merely saying to the poor helpless girl, who had pleaded for her father as well as for her husband, "Be comforted, madam. We will see to your protection and future fate."