At the other end of the room the Duke d'Orleans and Tisio were playing at chess; between these two, during the Duke's enforced stay in Milan, a friendship had sprung up, and Visconti, weary of his foolish guest, was well pleased a foolish brother should take him off his hands.
The Frenchman was prepared at once to carry out the contract, marry Valentine, and depart for France, but Visconti's pride would not permit. The Duke d'Orleans had witnessed a reverse, he should behold a triumph. Valentine should leave Italy as befitted his sister, not fly from it as a fugitive; and the French prince, who in a few weeks had yielded to Gian's subtle influence and learned both to fear and obey Visconti, assented meekly to delay, and whiled away the time as best he might.
Visconti sat so motionless and silent that the chess-players were forgetful of his presence, and their voices rose high.
"My move," said Tisio gleefully. "See, the rook take your knight."
"Your rook could take my knight," returned d'Orleans, "if it were your move, but as it is mine——"
"You are not watching the game," was the angry rejoinder.
"Your pardon, my move," said the Frenchman calmly, and, with a smile on his vacant face, he swept up one of Tisio's men.
"My move—and—mate, M'sieu."
With a cry of childish rage, Tisio snatched at the board, spilling the men onto the floor.
"I love not to play with you," he cried. "I would Count Conrad were here, he was the one to play with."