It seems
This bridegroom travels homeward with no bride.
Is he ashamed that, jewelled to the eyes,
He could not win my cousin’s hand—Carlotta’s?
[The Pope takes Sancia’s fan from a table and tears it.
ALEXANDER.
His bride is Italy.
SANCIA.
I thought she was of France.
ALEXANDER.
He is of France. The fleur-de-luce is broidered
On his banners with our Bull. César de France,
Of Italy—the world. You may retire
From our presence: later we will give you rooms
Convenient in Sant’ Angelo. [Exit Sancia.
Fair ladies, Adriana,
I warn you that this Charlotte of Navarre
Is of no further interest than a city
Captured and left behind. The confidences....
[Pinching Lucrezia’s chin.
What have you heard, Discretion? Not the story....
Enough!
We no more lose our Cesar for a wife,
Treasure, then we have lost you in a groom.