She understood only a few words of the brief speech which the monarch
addressed to the new Knight of the Golden Fleece. She saw for the first
time the dignitaries of so many different nations upon whom she was
gazing down, and most of whom she did not even know by name. But what
did she care how they were called and who they were? Her eyes were fixed
only on Charles and the young man in the armour artistically inlaid with
gold, peach-coloured silver brocade, and white silk, who was kneeling
before him.

Suppose that a son of hers should be permitted to share such an honour;
suppose that Charles should some day bend down to her child and kiss
his brow with the paternal affection which he had just showed to the
young duke whom he had wedded to his daughter? And this daughter was the
child of a mother who was her sister in sorrow, and had been her superior
in nothing, neither in birth nor in beauty.

She said this to herself while she was intently watching the progress of
the solemn ceremonial. How lovingly and with what enthusiastic reverence
Ottavio was now gazing up into the face of his imperial father-in-law,
and with what grateful fervour, as the youngest Knight of the Fleece,
he kissed his hand! Not only outwardly but in heart--the warm light of
their eyes revealed it--these men, so unlike in age and gifts, were
united; yet Ottavio was not Charles's own son, as another would have been
whom she wished to withhold from such a father, and in her selfish
blindness to withdraw from the path to the summit of all earthly
splendour and honour.

Who gave her the right to commit so great, so execrable a robbery?