German fiction -- Translations into English; Holy Roman Empire -- History -- Charles V, 1519-1556 -- Fiction
But Granvelle's message that she was one cf those who stood nearest to
the abdicating sovereign constantly echoed in her ears, and her absence
from this ceremony would have seemed to her unnatural--nay, an offence
against something necessary.
Her husband was pleased with the great minister's kindness to his wife.
He had nothing to do in the palace, but he intended to look for the
children, who had gone there before noon with Frau Lamperi, that they
might get the best possible view of the approach of the princes and
dignitaries.
Barbara herself was to use a litter. The ex-'garde-robiere' had helped
her put on her gala attire, and Pyramus assured his wife that every one
would consider her the handsomest and most elegant lady in the galleries.
She knew that he was right, and listened with pleasure, deeply as
resentment and disappointment burdened her soul.
Then the knocker on the door rapped. The litter-bearers had probably
come. But no! The Flemish maid, who had opened the door, announced that
a messenger was waiting outside with a letter which he could deliver only
to the master or the mistress.
Pyramus went into the entry, and his long absence was already making
Barbara uneasy, when he returned with bowed head and, after many words of
preparation, informed her that her father was very ill and, finally, that
apoplexy had put a swift and easy end to his life.
Then a great and genuine grief seized upon her with all its power.
Everything that the simple-hearted, lovable man, who had guarded her
child hood so tenderly and her girlhood with such solicitude and
devotion, had been to her, returned to her memory in all its vividness.
In him she had lost the last person whose right to judge her conduct she
acknowledged, the only one whom she had good reason to be sure cared for
her welfare
as much as, nay, perhaps more than, his own.
The litter, Granvelle's message, the Emperor's abdication ceremony,
everything that had just wounded, angered, and disturbed her, was
forgotten.
She gently refused the consolation of her husband, who in the captain had
lost a dear friend and sincerely mourned his death, and entreated him to
leave her alone; but when her sons returned and joyously described the
magnificent spectacle on which they had feasted their eyes outside of the
palace, she drew them toward her with special tenderness, and tried to
make them understand that they would never again see the good grandfather
who had loved them all so dearly.
But the older boy, Conrad, only gazed at her wonderingly, and asked why
she was weeping; and the younger one did not understand her at all, and
went on talking about the big soldier who wanted to lift him on his
piebald horse. To the child death is only slumber, and life being awake
to new games and pleasures.
Barbara said this to her husband when he wished to check the merry
laughter of the little ones, and then went to her chamber.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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