In the sanctuary at the grand altar, there are windows behind the seats of the priest and his assistants, who celebrate the grand mass.  These windows, which are nearly on a level with the sanctuary (very high), belong to the apartment that Philippe II. had built for himself, and in which he died.  He heard service through these windows.  I wished to see this apartment, which was entered from behind.  I was refused.  It was in vain that I insisted on the orders of the King and of the nuncio, authorising me to see all I wished.  I disputed uselessly.  They told me this apartment had been closed ever since the death of Philippe II., and that nobody had entered it.  I maintained that King Philippe V. and his suite had seen it.  They admitted the fact, but at the same time told me that he had entered by force as a master, threatening to break in the doors, that he was the only King who had entered since Philippe II., and that they would not open the apartment to anybody.  I understood nothing of all this superstition, but I was forced to rest content in my ignorance.  Louville, who had entered with the King, had told me that the place contained only five or six dark chambers, and some holes and corners with wainscots plastered with mud; without tapestry, when he saw it, or any kind of furniture; thus I did not lose much by not entering.

In the Rotting-Room, which I have elsewhere described, we read the inscriptions near us, and the monk read others as we asked him.  We walked thus, all round, talking and discoursing thereon.  Passing to the bottom of the room, the coffin of the unhappy Don Carlos offered itself to our sight.

“As for him,” said I, “it is well known why, and of what he died.”  At this remark, the fat monk turned rusty, maintained he had died a natural death, and began to declaim against the stories which he said had been spread abroad about him.  I smiled, saying, I admitted it was not true that his veins had been opened.  This observation completed the irritation of the monk, who began to babble in a sort of fury.  I diverted myself with it at first in silence; then I said to him, that the King, shortly after arriving in Spain; had had the curiosity to open the coffin of Don Carlos, and that I knew from a man who was present (’twas Louville), that his head had been found between his legs; that Philippe II., his father, had had it cut off before him in the prison.

“Very well!” cried the monk in fury, “apparently he had well deserved it; for Philippe II., had permission from the Pope to do so!” and, thereupon, he began to cry with all his might about the marvels of piety and of justice of Philippe II., and about the boundless power of the Pope, and to cry heresy against any one who doubted that he could not order, decide, and dispose of all.