"We wait for thee, Valentine," said Visconti.
A couple of her women moved forward from the shadows, and whispered to the Duke they could do nothing with her. He motioned to them to withdraw.
"Valentine, come! Think of the splendid life that opens before thee from to-day." Visconti's tone had the gentleness of one who has gained his point. "Thou may'st be Queen of France." But Valentine Visconti had too much of her brother's spirit, too much of the ungovernable pride of will, not to hate this yielding to the force of power. She hated her brother's tyranny. She hated this marriage. What would life be for her, with an indifferent husband, in an idle, impoverished court, among foreigners, strangers, far from her own land? She would not be forced to it. She rose to her feet, desperate.
Visconti watched her keenly, standing waiting.
"Come," he repeated, "the Duke of Orleans waits. The feast is ready."
For one moment a mad hate of him overmastered her, a wild desire to refuse to stir, to cling to the altar, dash herself against the floor, anything rather than obey. She knew his parricide; he was not the elder. She would not obey.
Words of defiance were on her lips, but glancing at his face, the words died away, and a sense of the useless folly of resistance, the useless humiliation of refusal, surged over her. She was in his power. When she spoke, it was humbly, in a faltering voice, with tears.
"Gian," she whispered. "Gian—I have never asked anything of thee before. Gian—this marriage is hateful to me—" she paused, then stepped forward with appealing eyes. "Gian—have consideration—have mercy!"
"The Duke of Orleans waits," smiled Visconti. "Will you not let me lead you to him?"
Valentine drew back and steadied herself against the wall.