It was Elena de Monteclaro!
Tito gazed at her intently, while the young girl trembled at the sight of that beautiful and funereal face, as though looking upon the countenance of a dead lover; as if she saw, not Tito, but his ghost enveloped in a shroud; as if, in fact, she saw a being of the other world.
Tito in the Court, consoling the queen! that proud and haughty princess who treated all with disdain! Tito in that elegant dress, admired and respected by all the nobility! Ah! it must be a dream!... thought the charming Elena.
“Come, Doctor!” said the Marquis of Mirabal. “His Majesty has awakened.”
Tito made a painful effort to shake off the ecstasy which seized his whole being, on finding himself before his loved one, and approached that bed of disease.
The second Bourbon of Spain was a rickety youth of seventeen years, tall and thin, like a plant that grows in the shade.
His countenance (which did not lack a certain fineness of expression despite its irregularity of feature), was now frightfully swollen, and covered with ash-colored pustules. He appeared a coarse, clay imitation of a sculptured marble.
He directed an anxious look at the other youth who was approaching his bed, and encountering his dull and lustreless eyes, fathomless as the mystery of eternity, gave a shrill cry and hid his face beneath the sheets. Tito in the mean time looked about to discover Death. But Death was not there!
“Will he live?” asked several courtiers in a low voice, who believed they read hope in Tito’s expression.