"Follow me, Signor; my Lord consents to see you."
It was a cold welcome; but Louis thought not of the words, since the permission was granted. He hastened through the arcades, to a large curtained door.—Martini drew it back, and Louis beheld the honoured object of his long and filial pilgrimage. The Duke was standing with his back to him, reading a scroll of paper. Nothing that was not purely the son, was then in his labouring heart; and he was advancing to throw himself at his father's feet, when Martini spoke:—
"My Lord! The Marquis de Montemar."
Ripperda turned his head.
"Let him wait my leisure," and, looking on the paper again, sternly resumed his reading.
Louis stood.—The face of deadly paleness, the eye's livid flash, and the deep, emaciated lines, furrowed with every trace of the burning volcano within, filled him with a dismay, even more terrible than the fierce estrangement this reception announced. But it was only for a moment that his astounded faculties were transfixed by the direful apprehension. He was his father still; his noble, injured, suffering father! and, rushing forward, he flung himself on his knees before him, and covered his face in his robe; for the hand he would have grasped was withheld.
Ripperda's breast was locked.—
"What is it you require of me?" said he, "The minion of two Queens must have some reason for bending thus low, to the man the one has dishonoured, and the other betrayed!"
Louis looked up in that implacable countenance: He attempted to speak, but no sound obeyed. He struggled for his father's hand, and wrung it to his heart. Ripperda stood cold and collected.
"What would you yet seek of me? I have no longer fame, nor riches, nor power to bestow. These were your idols! Deny it not! They were my own! I found their food ashes. But the draught that turned my blood to poison, was the desertion of my Son."