This was not the king's deliberate arrangement. Varo Vesali had been in his room earlier, perhaps with something important to tell the king—yet the moment the wizard recognized the Duke of Mortemart, his face turned ashen, then flushed with a sickly red. But when Louis turned around, he saw only a faintly puzzled smile on the duke's face. The duke looked at the king, then at Vesali, his gaze indifferent and calm, especially when it passed over Vesali's black robes—he had heard that the king kept many scholars and physicians at his side. Perhaps this man was one of them. And in the duke's view, such people were always a little mad, so he did not much mind the man's discourtesy.
The king walked on, with the Duke of Mortemart close behind him, leaving Varo Vesali alone in the corridor.
Varo Vesali had imagined it countless times, so many that even he could not number them. He had imagined standing before his enemy after winning immense honor and lofty status at court—he would humiliate him, torment him, strip away all his hopes just as he had once done to Vesali. But only today did he realize how foolish those thoughts had been—the Duke of Mortemart had seen him, and he had seen the duke. Yet he remembered the duke as though a sharp blade had carved him into his mind. But the duke? The Duke of Mortemart did not remember him at all, did not even have the faintest impression of him. To such an exalted man, he was like a crude wooden box holding precious gemstones. To take the gems, was it not the most ordinary thing in the world to smash the box and cast it aside? What right had he to be remembered by the other man?