The short walk and the fiery wine which he had again enjoyed in abundance at dinner had increased the pain from which he was now never free, day or night, and it was some time ere Adrian could succeed in propping his infirm body comfortably.
At last Charles passed his handkerchief across his perspiring brow, and called to the majordomo.
Quijada eagerly approached, and the valet was respectfully leaving the room, but the Emperor’s summons stopped him.
“I have something,” Charles began, no longer able to maintain complete control over his voice, which was sometimes interrupted by the shortness of breath that had recently attacked him, “to say to you also—”
Here he hesitated, pointed to the window which overlooked the park, then, with a keen glance at the valet’s face, continued:
“A ghost wanders about there. I have already seen it several times under the trees. True, it avoided approaching me. What still remains useful in this miserable body! But my eyes are sharp yet, and I recognised the spectre—it is the Ratisbon singer.”
“Your Majesty knows,” replied Quijada, “what befell her after the birth of the child, and that she is now living here in Brussels; but I was strictly forbidden to mention her name in your Majesty’s presence.”
“That command closed my lips also,” said the valet.
“But what the hearing rejected forced itself upon the sight,” remarked Charles, gazing fixedly into vacancy. “Wherever I appear in public I see this woman, always this woman! It is not only the basilisk’s eye that has constraining power. I can not help perceiving her, yet I have as little desire to meet her gaze as to encounter vanity, worldly pleasure, folly, sin.”
“Then,” cried Quijada angrily, “it will be advisable to transfer her husband, who is in your Majesty’s service, from here to Andalusia or to the New World.”