THE ROYAL CHAMBER.
Tito entered the regal abode, neither regretting nor content with having
established relations with Death. But as he ascended the stairs of
the palace, and remembered that he was to see his idolized Elena, all
lugubrious ideas disappeared, like night birds at the break of day.
With a brilliant escort of courtiers, and other personages of rank,
he passed through galleries and salons toward the royal bed-chamber,
whilst all admired the wonderful beauty and tender youth of the famous
physician, whom Philip had sent from the Granja palace, as the last hope
of human aid, to save the life of his son.
The two Courts were there, that of Louis and that of Philip. There were,
so to speak, two rival powers, who for a week had lived in constant
warfare: there were the old servants of the first Bourbon branch, and the
new ones whom the Regent of France (Philip of Orleans, the Generous),
had grouped around the throne of Spain to prevent the ambitious ex-Duke
of Anjou from seizing that of his grandfather; there were, in fact, the
courtiers of the gentle, dying child, and those of his beautiful wife,
the powerful daughter of the Regent, the renowned Duchess of Montpensier.
The allies of Isabella Farnesio, stepmother of Louis I., desired his
death, in order that the sons of the second marriage of Philip V. might
be nearer the throne of St. Ferdinand.
The partisans of the young queen wished the sick monarch to live, not
from any love of the quarrelsome pair, but from hate of Philip V. whom
they did not wish to see again upon the throne.
The friends of the unfortunate Louis trembled at the idea of his death;
for, having induced him to shake off the restraint which the hermit of
the Granja exercised over him, they well knew that if the latter returned
to power, his first act would be to exile or imprison them. The palace
therefore was a labyrinth of opposed interests, various ambitions,
intrigues, suspicions, hopes and fears.
Tito entered the chamber, searching in all directions for one face—that
of his beloved Elena. Close to the king’s bed he saw her father, the
Duke of Monteclaro, the close friend of the late Count of Rionuevo. He
was speaking with the Archbishops of Santiago and Toledo, the Marquis de
Mirabal, and Don Miguel de Guerra, the four most deadly enemies of Philip
V. The Duke did not recognize the former page and youthful companion
of his charming daughter. Across the room, and not without a certain
feeling of fear, the Friend of Death recognized among the ladies who
surrounded the young and beautiful Louisa Isabel of Orleans, the Countess
of Rionuevo, his implacable and bitter enemy. Although he almost touched
her, as he passed to kiss the queen’s hand, she did not recognize her
husband’s son. Against a piece of tapestry, behind this group of ladies,
he saw, among two or three others whom he did not know, a tall, pale,
beautiful woman.
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.
He was about to say, “Yes,” (forgetting that his opinion was to be given
only to Philip V.), when he felt someone touch his arm.
Turning, he saw standing near him at the head of the bed, a person
dressed entirely in black.
It was Death.
“He will die of this illness, but not to-day,” thought Tito.
“How does he appear to you?” asked the Archbishop of Toledo, feeling as
all did that involuntary respect inspired by the youth’s supernatural
appearance.
“Pardon me,” replied the ex-shoemaker, “my opinion is reserved for him
who sent me.”
“But,” added the Marquis of Mirabal, “you who are so young, cannot have
acquired so much scientific skill; undoubtedly God or the Devil has
inspired you. You may be a saint who works miracles, or a magician, a
friend of witches.”
“As you please,” responded Tito; “at any rate, I read the future of the
king who lies in this bed; a secret of value to you, as it would enable
you to solve the doubt whether to-morrow you will be the favorite of
Louis I., or the prisoner of Philip V.”
“What!” stammered Mirabal, pale with anger, but smiling blandly.
At this moment Tito observed that Death, not content with having
approached the monarch, took advantage of his visit to the royal chamber
to seat himself beside a lady, almost in the same chair, and was
regarding her fixedly.
The doomed victim was the Countess of Rionuevo.
“Three hours!” thought Tito.
“I must speak to you,” continued Mirabal, to whom had occurred the idea
of purchasing the young physician’s secret.
But a glance and smile from Tito, who had divined his thoughts, so
disconcerted him that he drew back.
The look and smile were the same which that morning had conquered Philip
V.
During Mirabal’s confusion, Tito made a great step in his career, and
established his reputation at Court.
“Sir,” said he to the Archbishop of Toledo, “the Countess of Rionuevo,
whom you see seated alone in that corner” (we already know that Death was
visible only to Tito), “will die in the course of three hours. Advise her
to prepare for her last moments.”
The Archbishop recoiled with horror.
“What is it?” asked Don Miguel de Guerra.
The prelate related Tito’s prophecy to various persons, and all eyes were
at once fixed upon the Countess, who actually began to grow deathly pale.
Meanwhile Tito approached Elena, who was standing in the middle of the
room, silent and immovable as a statue; charmed, overcome, possessed of a
terror and of a happiness that she could not herself define, she followed
every movement of the friend of her childhood.
“Elena!” murmured the youth, as he reached her side.
“Tito!” she answered, mechanically, “is it indeed you?”
“Yes,” replied Tito, fondly, “’tis I; fear nothing.” And he left the
apartment.
The Captain was awaiting him in the antechamber.
Tito wrote some words on paper, and said to Philip’s faithful retainer:
“Take this to the Granja. Do not lose a moment.”
“And you,” replied the Captain, “I cannot leave you. You are a prisoner
in my custody.”
“I place myself on parole,” proudly replied Tito, “for I cannot follow
you.”
“But—the king!”
“The king will approve your conduct.”
“Impossible!”
“Listen! and you will see that I am right.”
At this moment they heard a great commotion in the royal chamber.
“The physician! the physician!” cried several persons, running from the
room.
“What has happened?” asked Tito.
“The Countess of Rionuevo is dying,” said Don Miguel de Guerra. “Come
this way, they have placed her in the queen’s bed-chamber.”
“Go, Captain!” said Tito, “I insist.”
And he accompanied these words with such a glance and gesture that the
soldier departed without a word. Tito followed De Guerra into the queen’s
chamber.