German fiction -- Translations into English; Holy Roman Empire -- History -- Charles V, 1519-1556 -- Fiction
“The banquet is ready,” added Count Buren, and Malfalconnet, with a low
bow, said:
“And a portion of it is the covered chiming dish with which your
Majesty’s love and wisdom intends to surprise the illustrious epicure.”
While speaking, he cautiously opened the door of the royal apartment,
but the dogs were held back by the pages who had carried the train of
the festal robe. Two others zealously aided her to throw the trailing
brocade across her arm, and in this manner she entered her distinguished
brother’s chamber.
This was so deep that a short walk was necessary to reach the window
near which the Emperor sat. The office of lighting the vast room was
assigned to a dozen wax candles in a silver candelabrum, but they were
so inadequate to the task that neither the mythological scenes on the
Brabant Gobelin curtains with which the walls were hung, nor the very
scanty furniture of the remainder of the long chamber could be seen from
the door.
Thus the prevailing dusk concealed the surroundings of the great monarch
who was resting there, and the only object visible to the entering
Queen was his figure illumined by the light. In her soul everything
else receded far behind the person, welfare, and pleasure of this mighty
sovereign. Yet she had already crossed half the room, and her entrance
still remained unnoticed.
The Emperor Charles, with his forehead resting on his hand, sat absorbed
in thought before the papers which had occupied his attention. How
mournful he looked, what sorrowful thoughts were doubtless again
burdening that anxious brain! Never before had he seemed to his sister
so old.
Perhaps it was the ceaseless planning and pondering of the statesman and
general which, during the last few years, had thinned the light-brown
hair at the corners of the brow.
The resting ruler now seemed to have brought his mind to repose also,
for every emotion had vanished from his pallid face. Even the sharply
cut nostrils of the long nose, which usually moved swiftly, were
perfectly still. The heavy chin, framed by a thin, closely clipped
beard, had sunk upon the high ruff as if for support, and the thick,
loosely hanging lower lip appeared to have lost its elasticity.
In this hour of rest and relaxation this tireless and successful
sovereign, utterly exhausted, had even relinquished seeming what he
was; his brown hair framed his brow and temples in a tangled, disordered
mass; the lacings of his velvet doublet were loosened; a shabby woollen
coverlet of anything but imperial appearance was wound around his lower
limbs, and the foot in which the gout throbbed and ached rested on his
sleeping hound, and was wrapped in the cloths which his valet Adrian
found at hand after the Venetian ambassador, the confessor, and the
leech had left his master.
It pierced his sister to the heart to see her mighty brother, upon whose
dominions, it was said, the sun never set, in this guise.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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