At intervals stood statues, masterpieces of ancient art, faintly lit by the golden glimmer of the swinging lamps.
And all the stairs and corridors and gallery were alive and brilliant with the magnificent guests of the Visconti--lords and ladies, the finest the dismantled court of France could boast. Yet, used to splendors as they were, coming from the most refined court of Europe, the costly display made by an Italian usurper impressed them with wonder, almost with awe.
Tisio Visconti, most richly dressed and adorned with all his favorite jewels, mingled in the throng, gay and happy, forgetful of everything save the lights and the colors, the kindly respectful tones in which he was addressed, unheeding the silent page that followed him.
The wide, usually so somber, entrance of the palace stood open upon the street, and the red flare of torches, the gleam of richly-caparisoned horses, the bustle of pages and men-at-arms, were visible to the courtiers within, and blended city and palace in one splendor.
"I would the French were always here," cried Tisio, excitedly. "I love the palace to be light and gay."
The gay flutter of silk and satin, the elegant grace of the strangers, pleased him, and he smiled like a contented child. But suddenly all the light was struck out of his face.
"The Duke!" the courtiers behind him took up the word, and the tattle of voices ceased.
Gian Visconti was approaching down the gallery, followed by several pages in the Viper's silver and green livery.
He passed between the rows of bowing courtiers carelessly; there were many there of the proud nobility of France who found it hard to stand silent and respectful before this man, whose crimes alone were his passport to sovereignty.
To them this marriage was a humiliation, a disgrace to the French crown, but to Visconti it was a triumph, the successful crowning of ambition. He was in a genial mood, and as he passed Tisio stopped and smiled, telling him for to-night he might go where he pleased.
It was not too much to spare to the brother whose possessions he enjoyed.
And as Visconti passed on, more than one Frenchman raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders expressively as the sweep of his scarlet train disappeared.