GIULIANO.
LOUIS.
Monseigneur Jules as you a triple crown—
Son of Ligurian peasants!
GIULIANO.
Ay,
Of Italy’s own soil. But as the vines
Breed flavour by the sod, Liguria
Creates in me survivance to ascend
The Throne my uncle Sixtus made august,
Holding each force ingenerate in man
Executive, building as Titans build.
Only Rodrigo Borgia’s Spanish gold
Has kept me unachieved, to bear the sorrow
Of Destiny’s elect that wait their star:
There is prepotency in such. This bastard
Tears through his day—a comet—to his fall.
LOUIS.
O Seigneur Dieu!
What bombast and vain glory in his coming.
The Kings of Fez or Ethiopia
Climb out of fewer jewels: our street-gazers
Have scarcely drawn their breath since he passed by,
The little Duke we titled Valentinois!
Yet, by all saints, he loads the air with sway
Of such duplicity and blandishment,
He puts such grace about magnificence,
Such a cold and heat about his speech—I, Louis
Of France, have promised
Soldiers to win him land, my niece to marry.
The papers all are signed. Acquaint the Pontiff,
With largest swell of triumph, Charlotte D’Albret
Of the blood royal is his César’s bride.
Cor meum—so he names this slip of his!
And he has been in fury like the Bull
Of his escutcheon at the scarlet waving
Of royal-hearted, contumacious Naples.
Felicitate our weary guest. The lady
Shall meet him in your presence. Saint Denys,
This unfrocked bastard of a priest, what order,
Or what precedence notes him, even his birth
Is sacrilege—he bows too low! God grant me
One day to set my face against his prayer!
[Exit King Louis.