"Methinks, Sire," said she, "that the flattery is a little overdone, and that it was for the king of earth to go to meet the king of heaven."
The king smiled, but it was easy to see that the flattery did not offend him; as his wont was, he forgot the artist for his art, saved the statue half the journey by walking to meet it, and examined it for a long time in silence. Charles V., who was by nature an astute politician rather than a great artist, although he did one day, in a moment of good humor, pick up Titian's pencil,—Charles V. and the courtiers, who were not entitled to an opinion, waited respectfully to hear that of François before pronouncing their own.
There was a moment of silent suspense, during which Benvenuto and the duchess exchanged a glance of bitter hatred.
Suddenly the king cried,—
"It is beautiful! it is very beautiful! and I confess that my expectations are surpassed."
Thereupon every one overflowed in compliments and extravagant praise, the Emperor first of all.
"If one could conquer artists like cities," said he to the king, "I would declare war on you instantly, to win this one, my cousin."
"But, after all," interrupted Madame d'Etampes, in a rage, "we do not even look at the beautiful antique statues a little farther on, which have somewhat more merit, perhaps, than our modern gewgaws."
The king thereupon walked toward the antique statues, which were lighted from below by the torches, so that the upper portions were in shadow; they were beyond question much less effective than the Jupiter.
"Phidias is sublime," said the king, "but there may be a Phidias in the age of François I. and Charles V., as there was in the age of Pericles."