She smiled at him and his heart began to hammer that mad litany:
“Mine … Mine …”
She came toward him and her smile held all the charm of which he had dreamed. He knelt suddenly and kissed the hem of her robe; he remained on his knees looking up at her.
“I should not have come thus,” she said. “But I wished to see you.”
And still he continued to kneel and gaze up at her.
“You must tell me to go,” she said, “if that is what you wish. You must forget that I am the Queen. I would not dream of … commanding you to receive me … if you did not wish to do so.”
“Isabella,” he said slowly, “you would but have to command and I should obey.”
He rose to his feet, still looking at her, marveling at the beauty of her oval, childish face, the eyes that were deep-set and heavily lashed, the sweet, childish mouth. And her dress was beautiful. It was meant to be simple, but French simplicity was so much more becoming than Spanish grandeur.
He became aware of Juan, who was clearly marveling at the change in him, and he was angry that any should share this moment with him and Isabella.
He cried: “Begone! The Queen comes to visit
Juan, good-natured, easy-going, indifferent to his nephew’s whims, lifted a shoulder and, bowing to the Queen, retired. He wondered whether he ought to tell some responsible person that her Majesty was alone with the mad Prince.
“Carlos,” she said, “I wish us to be friends. I think we should be, do you not? For we are of an age and … do you remember … they once intended us to marry?”
“Yes,” he said, with smoldering passion. “I do indeed remember.”
“Well, ’twas not to be, and so you are my stepson. But we are friends … the best of friends.”
“You never had a friend like Carlos.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you might not like me.”
“How could that be?” he cried. “You are beautiful, Isabella.”
“Isabella!” she repeated. “I must get used to that. It is always Isabella now. I was Elisabeth at home.”
“Elisabeth is French, and you are Spanish now.”
“Yes. I am Spanish now.”
“Do you mind?”
Her face clouded a little. “It is hard … at first, but it is our lot. That is what my papa said. It was the fate of princes and princesses, he said, and although it was hard at first, sometimes we find great happiness.”
Carlos was fascinated. He watched her lips as she talked; her pronunciation of the familiar words made them so attractively unfamiliar. He was so moved that he wanted to put his arms about her and weep.
He saw that there were tears in her eyes. In her frank French way, she explained, “It is because of my father. I always cry when I think of him.”
“Did you not hate your father?”
“Hate him? How could I? He was the best father in the world.” She saw the hatred in his face and she cried out in alarm: “Carlos! What is it? You look so fierce.”
He could not yet tell her of the great passion in his life. He must not frighten her; perhaps she had not yet learned to hate Philip. Carlos was afraid that if he told her his thoughts he would frighten her, and if she were frightened she might run away.
“Nay,” he said. “I am not fierce. I am happy because you came to see me.”
“I thought I might offend you. You Spaniards stand on such ceremony, do you not? Oh, Carlos, I am glad you did not mind my coming to see you. I shall come again, Carlos, now that you and I are friends.”
“I shall never forget that you wanted to see me, Isabella. I shall never forget that you came like this.”
“You are so different, Carlos, from what I thought you would be. Then we
“I wish to know all about you. I have learned to read French because I wished to speak to you. But I should be afraid to speak it.”
“Oh, speak it, Carlos, speak it! You do not know how happy that would make me! How I long to hear it!”
“You would laugh.”
“Only because I should be happy to hear it. Come then.”
Carlos laughed and blushed and said in French with a very strong Castilian accent: “Isabella, I am happy you are come. Carlos bids you welcome to Spain.”
And she did laugh, but so tenderly that he was happy. Then the tears came to her eyes and she said: “You learned that for me, Carlos. That is the nicest thing that has happened to me since I came to Spain.”
Then she put her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, for she was taller than he was, and she kissed him first on his right cheek, then on his left. That moment, Carlos was sure, was the happiest in his life.
He was showing her his books, and she was telling him about the court of France when the door opened and Alexander Farnese and Juan looked in.
