It abated nothing of the terror of the man that no sign of passion ever crossed his face, nor word his lips. He turned away, not having uttered a sound; and left the delinquent collapsed as under a heat-stroke.'Now, let it be no worse than the strappado!' prayed the poor wretch to himself.In the meanwhile, Cicada, swift, quivering, alert, was descending, like a gulped Jonah, into the bowels of the tower. He had no need to pick his path: the well-stairway, like a screw pinning the upper to the underworld, transmitted to him every whisper and shuffle of the footsteps he was pursuing. Sometimes, so deceptive were the echoes in that winding shaft, he fancied himself treading close upon the heels of the chase; yet each little loop-lighted landing found him, as he reached it, audibly no nearer. His mocking mouth was set grim; he dreaded, not for himself but for his darling, some nameless entrapping wickedness. 'If they design it,' he thought—'if they design it! Hell shall not hide them from me.'Suddenly the sounds below died away and ceased. He listened an instant; then went down again, turning and turning in a nightmare of blind horror. The walls grew dank and viscous to his palm. A stumble, and all might end for him hideously. Then, at the same moment, weak light and a weaker cry greeted him. He descended, still without pause—and shot into the glowing mouth of a tiny tunnel, where were the figures he sought.They stood at a low grating in the wall, which was pierced into a subterranean chamber. The bars were thrown open, and through the aperture Tassino directed the light of a flaring torch he held upon a figure lying prostrate on the stones below. Cicada crept, and peered over his master's shoulder. The thing on the floor was grotesque, unnatural—a human skeleton emitting noises, heaving in its midst. That great bulk had become in its shrinkage a monstrous travesty of life. But existence still preyed upon its indissoluble vestments of flesh.'He clings to life, for a monk,' whispered the Fool.With the sound of his voice, Bernardo was sprung into a Fury. He lashed upon Cicada, tooth and claw:—'Thou knew'st, and hid it from me in parables!''Inference, inference!' cried the Fool. 'I would have spared thee.''Sparedme? Thus?''Ah! thy shame through wicked sophistries! He was foredoomed. Had I interfered, I had been lying myself there now, and you a loving servant the less.'Bembo flung his arms abroad, as if sweeping all away from him.'Love! Let pass!' he shrieked: 'Fiends are ye all, with whom to breathe is poison!' and he broke by them, and went flying and crying up into the daylight. He ran, without pause, by the walls, down the notched stairway, across the ward, and came with flaming colour into the buttery.'Give me wine and bread!' he screamed of the steward there; and the man, in a flurry of wonder, obeyed him. Then away he raced again, his hands full, and never stopped until the sentry, a new one, at the tower door barred his progress. The way was private, quoth the man. He could let none past but by order.'Of whom?' panted Bembo.'Why, the Provost-Marshal.'Then the boy tried wheedling.'Dear soldier: thou art well cared for. There is one within perishes for a little bread.'But the man was adamant.'Where, then, is the Provost-Marshal?' cried the other in desperation.Within or without—the sentry professed not to know. In any case, it was death to him to leave his post.Bernardo put down his load on the battlements, and, turning, fled away again.CHAPTER XBona sat amongst her maidens. They were all busy as spiders upon a loom of tapestry, spinning a symbolic web. The subject was as edifying as their talk over it was free. Their lips and fingers were perpetually at odds, weaving reputations and pulling them to pieces. Bona herself said little; but abstraction gave some indulgence to the smile with which she listened, or seemed to.'Whither do her thoughts travel?' whispered one girl of another.'Hush!' was the answer. 'Along the Piedmont Road with her lord, of course. What else would you?'The first giggled.'Nothing, indeed, if it left a chance for poor little me. But, alack! I fear her charity stops nearer home.''What then, insignificance? Would your presumption fly at an angel?''Yes, indeed, though it got a peck for its pains. (Mark the Caprona's ear pricked our way! She knows we are on the eternal subject.) Heigho! it will be something to share in this promised commonwealth of love, at least.'She spoke loud enough for the little Catherine Sforza, sitting by her adopted mother, to hear her.'Ehi, Carlina,' cried that pert youngster: 'What share do you expect for your small part?''I thought of Messer Bembo, Madonna,' answered Carlina demurely.They crowed her down with enormous laughter.'Nay, child,' said Catherine: 'there is to be no talk of exclusiveness in this Commonwealth. We are all to take alike—Mamma, and I, and the Countess of Casa Caprona, and whoever else subscribes to the Purification. For my part I shall be content with becoming very good; and I have hopes of myself. See the reformation in our dear Countess; and she was in his company but a day or two.''Peace, thou naughtiness!' cried Bona; while Beatrice's eyes burned dull fire; and a girl, one who worked near her, a soft and endearing little piety, looked up and choked in a panic, 'O Madonna!'Catherine mimicked her:—'O Biasia! Is the subject too tender for thy conscience? Alas, dear! but if thy only hope is in this Commonwealth? Angels are not monogamous.'Biasia blushed like a poppy; yet managed to stammer amidst the laughter: 'It is only that he,—that the subject, seems to me too sacred. He preaches heavenly love—the brotherhood of souls—in all else, one man one maid.'Catherine very gravely got upon a stool, and paraphrased Messer Bembo, voice and manner:—'I kiss thee, kind Madonna, for thine exposition. A man must put a fence about his desires, would he be happy. A sweet mate, a cot, beehives and a garden—he shall find all love's epitome in these. None can possess the world but in the abstract—a plea for universal brotherhood. What doth it profit me to own a palace, and live for all my needs' content in one room of it? Go to and join, and leave superfluous woman to the preacher.'Some tittered, some applauded; Biasia hung her head, and would say no more. Bona cried, 'Come down, thou wickedness!' but indulgently, as if she half-dreaded attracting to herself the flicker of the little forked tongue.'O!' cried Catherine, 'I grant you that, with an angel, the manner spices the lesson. I will tell you, girls, how he rebuked me yesterday on this same legend of reciprocity. "How could you take sport," says he, "of witnessing that poor Montano's punishment?" "Why, very well," says I, "seeing he was a man, and therefore my natural enemy." "How is man so?" says he. "He makes me bear his children for him," says I. "But I suppose he will be made to sufferhisshare of the toil in this new Commonwealth of love." "You talk like a child," he says. "Then," says I, "I will sing like a woman," and I extemporised—very clever, you will admit.'She pinched up her skirts, and put out a little foot, and chirruped, in no voice at all, but with a sauce of impudence:—'"Love is give and take," says he,"Every gander knows—Wear the prickle for my sake;For thine, I'll wear the rose.""Grazie, kind and true," says I,"For that noble dower—Only, between me and you,Ishould like the flower.""And hast thou not it?" cries St. Bernardo, interrupting me; and, would you believe it, swinging round his lute, his lips and his finger-tips join issue in the prettiest nonsense ever conceived for a poor wife's fooling. Wait, and I will recall it.'She had the quickest wit and memory, and in a moment was chaunting:—'"Whence did our bird-soft baby come?How learned to prattle of this for home?Some sleepy nurse-angel let her stray,And she found herself in the world one day.She heard nurse calling, and further fled:She hid herself in our cabbage bed.There we came on her fast asleep,What could we do but take and keep,Carry her in and up the stair?She would have died of cold out there.She woke at once in a little fright;But Love beckoned her from the light.Lure we had lit, for dear love fain;She had seen it shine through the window pane.Lure we had kindled of flame and bliss,To catch such a little ghost-moth as this.Ah, me! it shrivelled her pretty wing.Here she must stay, poor thing, poor thing!"'She ended: 'Faith, St. Charming's lips make that daintiest setting to his fancies, that I could have kissed 'em while he improved his song with a homily' (she mimicked again the boy's manner, comically emphasised). '"Why," saith he, "would you grudge yourself that poignant privilege of your sex? would ye share the agony and halve the gain? What gift so careless in all the world makes such sweet possession? Furs, gowns, and trinkets pall; perishable things grow less by use; the diamond suffers by its larger peer. Only the gift of love, the wee babe, takes new delight of time; renews woman's best through herself; is a perpetual novelty, spring all the year round, flowers fresh burgeoning through faded blooms. To be sole warden of the quickening soul ye bore—you, you! to see the lamb-like heaven of its eyes cuddling to your bosom's fold—all thine, save the spent heat that cast it! O, rather be the mould than the turbulent metal it shapes! Go to, and thank God for labours yielding such reward. Go to, and be the mother of saints." Whereat I curtsied, and "Thank you, sir," says I, "for the offer, but my bed's already laid for me in Rome," and then——'What more she might have quoted or invented none might say, for at the moment a wild figure burst into the chamber, and ran to its mistress, and entreated her with lips and hands.'Give me thy gage—quick! There is one starves in the "Hermit's Cell," and they will not let me pass to him without. Thou art the Duke, thou art the Duke now. Give it me, in mercy, and avert God's vengeance from this wicked house!'Bona had arisen, pale as death, pity and anguish pleading in her eyes.'Alas! What say'st thou? Thou, not I, art the Duke.''Give it me,' demanded Bembo feverishly. 'Nay, quibble not, while he gasps out his agony—a monk—hear'st thou? A monk!'She temporised a moment in her pain.'There are black sheep in those flocks.''God forgive thee!''Alas!thouwilt not. Indeed I have no talisman will open doors that my lord has shut.'Beatrice, intent, with veiled eyes, from her place, bestirred herself with an indolent smile.'Madonna forgets. Love laughs at locksmiths.'The two women faced one another a minute. Some subtle emotion of antagonism, already born, waxed into a larger consciousness between them.'How, Countess?' said Bona quietly.'Madonna wears her bethrothal ring—a verypassepartout. It is the talisman will serve her with monks and saints alike.'A little flush mantled to the Duchess's brow. Standing erect a moment she slipped the ring from her finger, and held it out to Bernardo.'It should be the pledge through love of Charity. Take it, in my lord's good name, whose jealous representative I remain. And when thou return'st it, may it be sanctified of new justice, child, against the prick of envy and slander and the spite of venomous tongues.'She turned away stately and resumed her needle as Bernardo, with a cry of thanks, ran from the room. A minute or two later he appeared before the sentry on the ramparts and flourished his token. To his surprise the man hardly glanced at it as he stepped aside to let him pass. He thought on this with some shapeless foreboding, as he leapt like a chamois down the steeps of the tower, the food, which he had snatched up, in his hands. God pity him and his awakening! There are emotions too sacred for minuting. Let it suffice that Jacopo had proved too faithful a prophylactic to superstition. The wretched monk had not been allowed to justify his own prediction by dying of starvation. In that last interval, between the Parablist's going and coming, his throat had been cut.A minute later Bernardo leapt like a madman from the tower. His face was ashy, his hands trembling. At the foot of the curtain he stumbled over a poor patch, prostrate and moaning.'I am thy Fool, and I shall never make thee smile again.'All quivering and unstrung, he threw himself on his knees by Cicada's side.'Up!' he screamed, 'up! Get you out of this Sodom ere the Lord destroy it!'The Fool bestirred himself, raising eyes full of a sombre, eager questioning.'I am forgiven?' he gasped; but Bernardo only cried frenziedly, 'Up! up!'CHAPTER XIThere was consternation in the castello, for its angel visitant had disappeared. The evening following upon the episode of the ring saw his quarters void of him, his household retinue troubled and anxious, and some others in the palace at least as perturbed. It was not alone that the individual sense of stewardship towards so rare a possession filled each and all with forebodings as to the penalty likely to be exacted should Galeazzo return to a knowledge of his loss; the loss itself of so sweet and cleansing a personality was blighting. Now, for the first time, perhaps, people recognised the real political significance of that creed which they had been inclined hitherto merely to pet and humour as the whimsey of a very engaging little propagandist. How sweet and expansive it was! how progressive by the right blossoming road of freedom! Where was their silver-tongued guide? And they flew and buzzed, agitated like a bee-swarm that has lost its queen.But, while they scurried aimless, a rumour of the truth rose like a foul emanation, and, circulating among them, darkened men's brows and drove women to a whispering gossip of terror. So yet another of the Duke's inhumanities was at the root of this secession! By degrees the secret leaked out—of that living entombment, of the boy's interference, of his bloody forestalling by the executioner, of his flight, accompanied by his Fool, from the gates. And now he was gone, whither none knew; but of a certainty leaving the curse of his outraged suit on the house he had tried to woo from wickedness.The story gained nothing in relief as it grew. Whispers of that free feminine bandying with their Parablist's name, of Catherine's childish mockery of a sacred sentiment, deepened the common gloom. It mattered nothing to the general opinion that this little vivacious Sforza had but echoed its own bantering mood. Every popular joke that spells disaster must have its scapegoat. And she was not liked. In the absence of her father there were even venturings of frowning looks her way, which, when she observed, the shrewd elfin creature did not forget.And Bernardo returned not that night, nor during all the following day was he heard of. Inquiries were set on foot, scouts unleashed, the sbirri warned: he remained undiscovered.Messer Carlo Lanti went about his business with a brow of thunder. Once, on the second day, traversing, dark in cogitation, a lonely corner of the castle enceinte, he came upon a figure which, as it were some apparition of his thoughts suddenly materialised, shocked him to a stand. The walls in this place met in a sunless, abysmal wedge; and, gathered into the hollow between, the waters of the canal, welling through subterranean conduits, made a deep head for the moat. And here, gazing down at her reflection, it seemed, in that black stone-framed mirror, stood Beatrice.She was plainly conscious, for all her deep abstraction of the moment before, of his approach, yet neither spoke nor so much as turned her head as he came and stood beside her. It must have been some startle more than human that had found her nerves responsive to its shock. Her languor and indolence seemed impregnable, insensate, revealing no token of the passion within. Like the warm, rich pastures which sleep over swelling fires, the placid glow of her cheek and bosom appeared never so fruitful in desire as when most threatening an outburst. Carlo, for all his rage of suspicion, could not but be conscious of that appeal to his senses. He frowned, and shifted, and grunted, while she stood tranquilly facing him and fanning herself without a word. At length he broke silence:—'I had wished to see thee alone'—he stared fixedly and significantly at the water, struggling to bully himself into brutality—'Nay, by God and St. Ambrose,' he burst out, 'I believe we are well met in this place!'Not a tremor shook her.'Alone?' she murmured sleepily. 'Why not? there was not used to be this ceremony between us.''I have done with all that,' he cried fiercely. 'I see thee now—myself, at least, in the true light. Harlot! wouldst have turned my hand against the angel that revealed thee! Where is he? Hast struck surer the second time? I know thee—and if——'He seized her wrist and turned her to the water. She did not resist or cry out, though her cheek flushed in the pain of his cruel clutch.'Know me!' she said. 'Didst thou ever know me? Only as the bull knows the soft heifer—the nearest to his needs.Thouhast done with me—thou! I tell thee, if Fate had made a sacrament of thy passion, yielding the visible sign, I had brought hither the monstrous pledge and drowned it like a dog. Do we so treat what we love? I am not guilty of Bernardo's death, if that is what you mean.'He let her go, and retreated a step, glaring at her. Her blood ebbed and flowed as tranquilly as her low voice had stabbed.'This—to my face!' he gasped. Then he broke into furious laughter. 'Art well requited, if it is the truth. Love him! But, dead or alive, he will not love thee—that saint—a wife dishonoured.''O noble bull—thou king of beasts!' she murmured.'Why should I be generous?' he snarled. 'Have I reason to spare thee? Yet I will be generous, an thou art guiltless of this, Beatrice. I have loved thee, after my fashion.''Thou hast. Ah! If I might sponge away that memory!''Well, I would fain do the same for his sake.''Dog!''What!''Barest thou talk of love?—thou, who hast rolled me in thine arms, and waked from sated ecstasy to call me murderess!''Had I not provocation, then? Faith, you bewilder me!''Poor, stupid brute!''Stupid I may be, yet not so blind as woman's folly. Hast borne me once, Beatrice. Well, it is past: I ask nothing of it but thy trust.''My trust!''Ay, when I warn thee. This saint is not for thee. O, I am wide awake! Stupid? like enough; but when a wife, the queenliest, parts with her betrothal ring——'She made a quick, involuntary gesture, stepping forward; then as suddenly checked herself, with a soft, mocking laugh.'O this bull!' she cried huskily—'this precisian of the new cult! Not for me, quotha, but for another—a saint to all but the highest bidder!''Not for you nor any one,' he said savagely.'What! not Bona either?' she said. 'Be warned by me, rather. Yours is no wit for this encounter. Love is a coil, dear chuck; no battering-ram. Not for me nor any? Maybe; but the game is in the strife. Go, find your saint: I know nothing of him.''No, nor shall. Be warned, I say.''Well, you have said it, and more than once.'He hesitated, ground his teeth, clapped his hands together, and turning, left her.Glooming and mumbling, he went back to the palace. A page met him with the message that the Duchess of Milan desired his attendance. He frowned, and went, as directed, to her private closet. He found Bona alone, busy, or affecting to be busy, over a strip of embroidery. She greeted him chilly; but it was evident that nervousness rather than hauteur kept her seated. He saluted her coldly and silently, awaiting her pleasure. She glanced once or twice at the closed portière; then braced herself to the ordeal with a rather quivering smile.'This is a sad coil, Messer Carlo.'He answered gruffly:—'If I understand your Grace.'She put the quibble by.'We, you and I, are in a manner his guardians—accountable to the Duke.''I can understand your Grace's anxiety,' he said shortly.'Nevertheless, it was not I introduced him to the court,' she said.'But only to some of its secrets,' he responded.'I do not understand you.''It is very plain, Madonna. You gave him the key to that discovery.'She rose at once, breathing quickly, her cheeks white.'Ah, Messer! in heaven's name procure me the return of my ring!'Her voice was quite pitiful, entreating. He looked at her gloomily, gnawing his upper lip.'Madonna commands? I will do my best to find and take it from him, alive or dead.'She fell back with a little crying gasp.'Find him—yes.''No more?' he demanded grimly.'I thought you loved him?' she gulped.'Too well,' he answered, 'to be your go-between.'She uttered a fierce exclamation, and clenched her hands.'Go, sir!' she said.He turned at once. She came after him, fawning.'Good Messer Carlo, dear lord,' she breathed weepingly; 'nay, thou art a loyal and honest friend. Forgive me. We are all in need of forgiveness.'He faced about again.'Penitence is blasphemy without reform,' he said.'Ah me! it is. How well thou hast caught the sweet preacher's style. Hastthoureformed?''Ay, in the worst.''Thou hast made an enemy of thy mistress? Poor Bembo, poor child! He will need a mother.''Wouldst thou be that to him?''What else? Get me my ring.''Beatrice hates him——''She would, the wretch, for his parting you and her.''Or loves him—I don't know which.''Wanton! how dare she?''Well, if you will play the mother to him——''Is he not a child to adore? Ah me! to be foster-parent to that boon-comrade of the Christ!'Carlo looked at her with some satisfaction darkling out of gloom. His honest hot brain was no Machiavellian possession; his temper was the travail of a warm heart. He believed this woman meant honestly; and so, no doubt, she did in her loss, not considering, or choosing not to consider, the emotionalism of regain.'Ay, Madonna,' said he, kindling, ''tis the most covetable relation. Who but a Potiphar's wife would associate what we call love with this Joseph? God! a look of him will make me blush as I were a brat caught stealing sugar. There is that in him, we blurt out the truth in the very act of hiding it. A child to adore? Is he not, now, the dear put? and to hearken to and imitate what we can. Ay, and more—to shield with this arm—let men beware. Only the women harass me, this way and that. Their loves and hates be like twin babes. None but their dam can tell each from the other. Therefore, would ye mother him—''Yes—''And cherish and protect—''Yes—''And of your woman's wisdom keep skirts at a distance—''I will promise that most.''Why, I will bring him back to thee, ring and all, though I turn Milan upside down first.'He bowed and was going; but she detained him, with sycophant velvet eyes.'Dear lord, so kind and loyal. Tell him that without him we find ourselves astray.''Ay.''Tell him that from this moment his Duchess will aid and abet him in all his reforms.''I will tell him.''Ask him—' she hesitated, and turned away her sweet head—'doth he seek to retaliate on his mistress's innocent confidence, that, by absenting himself, he would turn it to her undoing?'Carlo grunted.'By your Grace's leave, an I find him, I will put it my way.'She acquiesced with a meek, lovely smile, and the words of the Mass: 'Ite, missa est!'And when he was gone, she sighed, and looked in a mirror and murmured to herself in a semi-comedy of grief: 'Alas! too weak to be Messalina! I must be good if he asks me.'And, being weak, she let her thoughts drift.CHAPTER XIIIn a street of the quarter Giovia the armourer Lupo had his smithy. He had been a notable artisan in a town famous for its steel and niello work; but in his age, as in any, a plethora of fine production must cheapen the value of the individual producer. Therefore when a vengeful caprice blinded him, and his door remained shut and his chimney ceased to smoke, patronage transferred its custom to the next house or street without a qualm; and his achievements in his particular business were forgotten, or confounded with those of fellow-craftsmen, deriving, perhaps, in their art from him. It was a sample of that banal heartlessness of society, which in a moral age breeds collectivists, and desperadoes in an age of lawlessness. And of the two one may pronounce the latter the more logical.In Milan men came quickly to maturity, whether in the art of forging a blade or using it. Life flamed up and out on swift ideals of passion. Parental love, high education, the intricate cults of beauty and chivalry, were all gambling investments in a speculative market. The odds were always in favour of that old broker Death. Yet the knowledge abated nothing of the zeal. It was strange to be so fastidious of the terms of so hazardous a lease. One might be saving, just, virtuous—one's life-tenancy was not made thereby a whit securer. The ten commandments lay at the mercy of a dagger-point; wherefore men hurried to realise themselves timely, and to cram the stores of years into a rich banquet or two.Master Lupo, a sincere workman and a conscientious, was flicked in one moment off his green leaf into the dust. There, maimed and helpless, the tears for ever welling in his empty sockets, he cogitated tremulously, fiercely, the one sentiment left to him, revenge—revenge not so primarily on the instrument of his ruin, as on Tassinothroughthe system which had made such a creature possible. He lent his darkened abode to be the nest to one of those conspiracies, which are never far to gather in despotic governments, and which opportunity in his case showed him actually at hand.Cola Montano, it has been said, had been borne away after his scourging by some women of the people. Grace, or pity, or fear was in their hearts, and they nursed him. Scarcely for his own sake; for, democracy being impersonal, he was at no trouble to be a grateful patient. He took their ministries as conceded to a principle, and individually was as surly and impatient with them as any ill-conditioned cur.Recovering betimes (the dog had a tough hide), he learned of neighbour Lupo's condition, and walked incontinently into that wretched artificer's existence. He found a blind and hopeless wreck, shelves of rusting armour, a forge of dead embers, and, brooding sullen beside it, a girl too plainly witnessing to her own dishonour. He heard the rain on the roof; he saw the set grey mother creeping about her work; and he sat himself down by the sightless armourer, and peered hungrily into his swathed face.'Dost know me, Lupo? I am Montano.'The miserable man groaned.'Master Collegian? Stands yet thy school of philosophy? A' God's name, lay something of that on this hot bandage!''The school stands in its old place, armourer; but its doors, like thine, are shut. What then? Its principles remain open to all.'The poor wretch put out a hand, feeling.'Where art thou? Have thy wounds healed so quickly? Mine are incurable.''What!' croaked Montano jeeringly, 'with such a salve to allay them! I heard of it—logic meet to an angel—to renew thine image through her yonder. Marry, sir! conception runs before the law. Hast chased thy likeness down and taken it to church? Mistress Lucia there would seem a sullen bride. Hath her popinjay come and gone again? Well, you must be content with the legitimising.'The armourer writhed in answering.'What think you? There has been none. Mock not our misery. Is it the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced?''No, but to be called angels. Heaven is not easy surfeited with adulation.''He was glorified in his judgment; and there, for us, the matter ended.''Not quite.'The pedagogue bent his evil head to look again into that woful face.'Lupo, my school is closed; alumnus loiters in the streets. Shall he come in here?'There was something so significant in his tone that the broken man he addressed started, as if a hand had been laid on his eyes.'For what? Who is he?' he muttered.'I will tell you anon,' answered Montano. 'No prelector but hath his favourite pupils. He, alumnus, is in this case threefold—three dear homeless scholars of mine, Lupo, needing a rallying-place in which to meet and mature some long-discussed theory of social cure. I have heard from them since—since my illness. They chafe to resume their studies and their mentor—honest, good fellows, confessing, perhaps, to a heresy or so.''Master,' muttered the armourer, 'you will do no harm to be explicit.''Shall I not? Well, if you will, and by grace of an example, such a heresy, say, as that, when the devil rules by divine right, the God who nominated him is best deposed.''Yes, yes, to be sure. That is blasphemy as well as heresy. But I think of Messer Bembo, who is still His minister, and I believe your pupils go too far.''Why, what hath this minister done for you?''Very much, in intention.''Well, I thought that was said to pave the other place; but, in truth, the issues of all things are confounded, since we have an angel for the Lord's minister and a devil for His vicegerent.''Pity of God! are they not? And ye would resolve them by deposing the Christ—by knocking out the very keystone of hope?''Nay, by substituting a rock for a crumbling brick.''What rock?''The people.''Might they not, too, elect a tyrant to be their representative?''How could tyranny represent a commonwealth?''A commonwealth! It is out, then! It is not God ye would depose, but Galeazzo. Commonwealth! Is that a name for keeping all men under a certain height? But the giant will dictate the standard, and any one may reach to him who can. Messer Montano, I seem to have heard of a republican called Cæsar.''Then you must have heard of another called Brutus?''Ay, to be sure; and of a third called Octavian.''Those were distracted times, my friend.''And what are these? Have you ever heard of the times when a man's interest was one with his neighbour's? Besides, the flame of art burns never so sprightly as under a despot. It finds no fuel in uniformity—each man equal to his neighbour.' He put out groping hands pitifully. 'I loved my art,' he quavered. 'They might have spared me to it!'Montano bit his lip scornfully. It was on his tongue to spurn this spiritless creature. But he suppressed himself.'What would you, then?' he demanded; 'you, the wretched victim of the system you commend?''Ah!' sighed Lupo, 'ideally, Messer, an autocracy, with an angel at its head.'The philosopher laughed harshly.'Why,' he sneered, 'there is your ideal come to hand. Be plain. Shall we depose a tyrant, and elect in his place this new-arrived, this divine boy, as ye all title him?''Why not?'Montano started and stared at the speaker. There was suggestion here—of a standard for innovation; of a rallying-point for reform. A republic, like a despotism, might find its telling battle-cry in a saint. The boy, as representing the liberty of conscience, was already a subject of popular adoration. Why should they not use him as a fulcrum to the lever of revolution, and, having done with, return him to the cloisters from which he drew? There was suggestion here.He mused a little, then broke out suddenly:—'Brutus is none the less indispensable.''I do not gainsay it, master.''What! you do not? Then there, at least, we are agreed. Wilt have him come here?''Who is he, this Brutus? I grope in the dark—O my God, in the dark!'During all this time the two women had remained passive and apparently apathetic listeners. Now, suddenly, the girl rose from her place by the chimney and came heavily forward, her eyes glaring, her hands clenched in woe, like some incarnated, fallen pythoness.'Tellme,' she said hoarsely. 'I haven'thispatience for my wrongs, nor caution neither. What's gained by caution when one stands on an earthquake? Let me make sure ofhim, my fine lover, and the world may fall in, for all I care.'The pale mother hurried to her husband's side. He put out helpless, irresolute hands, with a groan. Montano stooping, elbow on knee, and rubbing his bristly chin, conned the speaker with sinister approval.'Spoken like a Roman,' said he. 'Thou art the better vessel. If all were as you! Tyranny is hatched of the gross corpse of manliness—a beastly fly. Wilt tell thee my Brutus's name, girl, if thou wilt answer for these.'He pointed peremptorily at her parents.'Ay, will I,' she answered scornfully; 'though I have to wrench out their tongues first.'He applauded shrilly, with a triumphant, contemptuous glance at the cowering couple.'That is the right way with cowards. I commit my Brutus to thee. 'Tis a threefold dog, as I have said—a fanged Cerberus. Noble, too—as Roman as thou; and, in one part at least, like wounded. He, this third part, this Carlo Visconti, had a sister. Well, she was a flower which Galeazzo plucked; and, not content therewith threw into the common road. Another head is Lampugnani, beggared by the Sforzas; and Girolamo Olgiati is my third, a dear beardless boy, and instigated only by the noblest love of liberty.'The girl nodded.'And are these all?''All, save a fellow called Narcisso—a mere instrument to use and break—no principles but hate and gain. Was servant to that bully Lanti and dismissed—hum! for excess of loyalty. Fear him not.''Alas!' broke in the armourer: 'why should we fear him or anybody? There is no harm in this letting my shop to be thy school's succedaneum.'Lucia laughed like a fury.'No harm at all,' sniggered Montano, 'save in these heresies I spoke of. And what are they?—to reorganise society on a basis of political and social freedom. No harm in these young Catalines discussing their drastic remedies, perhaps in the vanity of a hope that some Sallust may be found to record them.''Nay, have done with all this,' cried the girl witheringly. 'I know nothing of your Catalines and Sallusts. Ye meet to kill—own it, or ye meet elsewhere.'Her mother cried out: 'O Lucia! per pieta.'She made no answer, only fixing Montano with her glittering eyes. He rose from his stool stiffly, with a snarl for his aching wounds. But his face brightened towards her like a spark of wintry sun.'We meet to kill, Madonna,' he said, 'ruined, crippled, debauched—the victims of a monster and his system. And thou shalt have thy share, never fear, when the feast comes to follow the sacrifice.'
It abated nothing of the terror of the man that no sign of passion ever crossed his face, nor word his lips. He turned away, not having uttered a sound; and left the delinquent collapsed as under a heat-stroke.
'Now, let it be no worse than the strappado!' prayed the poor wretch to himself.
In the meanwhile, Cicada, swift, quivering, alert, was descending, like a gulped Jonah, into the bowels of the tower. He had no need to pick his path: the well-stairway, like a screw pinning the upper to the underworld, transmitted to him every whisper and shuffle of the footsteps he was pursuing. Sometimes, so deceptive were the echoes in that winding shaft, he fancied himself treading close upon the heels of the chase; yet each little loop-lighted landing found him, as he reached it, audibly no nearer. His mocking mouth was set grim; he dreaded, not for himself but for his darling, some nameless entrapping wickedness. 'If they design it,' he thought—'if they design it! Hell shall not hide them from me.'
Suddenly the sounds below died away and ceased. He listened an instant; then went down again, turning and turning in a nightmare of blind horror. The walls grew dank and viscous to his palm. A stumble, and all might end for him hideously. Then, at the same moment, weak light and a weaker cry greeted him. He descended, still without pause—and shot into the glowing mouth of a tiny tunnel, where were the figures he sought.
They stood at a low grating in the wall, which was pierced into a subterranean chamber. The bars were thrown open, and through the aperture Tassino directed the light of a flaring torch he held upon a figure lying prostrate on the stones below. Cicada crept, and peered over his master's shoulder. The thing on the floor was grotesque, unnatural—a human skeleton emitting noises, heaving in its midst. That great bulk had become in its shrinkage a monstrous travesty of life. But existence still preyed upon its indissoluble vestments of flesh.
'He clings to life, for a monk,' whispered the Fool.
With the sound of his voice, Bernardo was sprung into a Fury. He lashed upon Cicada, tooth and claw:—
'Thou knew'st, and hid it from me in parables!'
'Inference, inference!' cried the Fool. 'I would have spared thee.'
'Sparedme? Thus?'
'Ah! thy shame through wicked sophistries! He was foredoomed. Had I interfered, I had been lying myself there now, and you a loving servant the less.'
Bembo flung his arms abroad, as if sweeping all away from him.
'Love! Let pass!' he shrieked: 'Fiends are ye all, with whom to breathe is poison!' and he broke by them, and went flying and crying up into the daylight. He ran, without pause, by the walls, down the notched stairway, across the ward, and came with flaming colour into the buttery.
'Give me wine and bread!' he screamed of the steward there; and the man, in a flurry of wonder, obeyed him. Then away he raced again, his hands full, and never stopped until the sentry, a new one, at the tower door barred his progress. The way was private, quoth the man. He could let none past but by order.
'Of whom?' panted Bembo.
'Why, the Provost-Marshal.'
Then the boy tried wheedling.
'Dear soldier: thou art well cared for. There is one within perishes for a little bread.'
But the man was adamant.
'Where, then, is the Provost-Marshal?' cried the other in desperation.
Within or without—the sentry professed not to know. In any case, it was death to him to leave his post.
Bernardo put down his load on the battlements, and, turning, fled away again.
CHAPTER X
Bona sat amongst her maidens. They were all busy as spiders upon a loom of tapestry, spinning a symbolic web. The subject was as edifying as their talk over it was free. Their lips and fingers were perpetually at odds, weaving reputations and pulling them to pieces. Bona herself said little; but abstraction gave some indulgence to the smile with which she listened, or seemed to.
'Whither do her thoughts travel?' whispered one girl of another.
'Hush!' was the answer. 'Along the Piedmont Road with her lord, of course. What else would you?'
The first giggled.
'Nothing, indeed, if it left a chance for poor little me. But, alack! I fear her charity stops nearer home.'
'What then, insignificance? Would your presumption fly at an angel?'
'Yes, indeed, though it got a peck for its pains. (Mark the Caprona's ear pricked our way! She knows we are on the eternal subject.) Heigho! it will be something to share in this promised commonwealth of love, at least.'
She spoke loud enough for the little Catherine Sforza, sitting by her adopted mother, to hear her.
'Ehi, Carlina,' cried that pert youngster: 'What share do you expect for your small part?'
'I thought of Messer Bembo, Madonna,' answered Carlina demurely.
They crowed her down with enormous laughter.
'Nay, child,' said Catherine: 'there is to be no talk of exclusiveness in this Commonwealth. We are all to take alike—Mamma, and I, and the Countess of Casa Caprona, and whoever else subscribes to the Purification. For my part I shall be content with becoming very good; and I have hopes of myself. See the reformation in our dear Countess; and she was in his company but a day or two.'
'Peace, thou naughtiness!' cried Bona; while Beatrice's eyes burned dull fire; and a girl, one who worked near her, a soft and endearing little piety, looked up and choked in a panic, 'O Madonna!'
Catherine mimicked her:—
'O Biasia! Is the subject too tender for thy conscience? Alas, dear! but if thy only hope is in this Commonwealth? Angels are not monogamous.'
Biasia blushed like a poppy; yet managed to stammer amidst the laughter: 'It is only that he,—that the subject, seems to me too sacred. He preaches heavenly love—the brotherhood of souls—in all else, one man one maid.'
Catherine very gravely got upon a stool, and paraphrased Messer Bembo, voice and manner:—
'I kiss thee, kind Madonna, for thine exposition. A man must put a fence about his desires, would he be happy. A sweet mate, a cot, beehives and a garden—he shall find all love's epitome in these. None can possess the world but in the abstract—a plea for universal brotherhood. What doth it profit me to own a palace, and live for all my needs' content in one room of it? Go to and join, and leave superfluous woman to the preacher.'
Some tittered, some applauded; Biasia hung her head, and would say no more. Bona cried, 'Come down, thou wickedness!' but indulgently, as if she half-dreaded attracting to herself the flicker of the little forked tongue.
'O!' cried Catherine, 'I grant you that, with an angel, the manner spices the lesson. I will tell you, girls, how he rebuked me yesterday on this same legend of reciprocity. "How could you take sport," says he, "of witnessing that poor Montano's punishment?" "Why, very well," says I, "seeing he was a man, and therefore my natural enemy." "How is man so?" says he. "He makes me bear his children for him," says I. "But I suppose he will be made to sufferhisshare of the toil in this new Commonwealth of love." "You talk like a child," he says. "Then," says I, "I will sing like a woman," and I extemporised—very clever, you will admit.'
She pinched up her skirts, and put out a little foot, and chirruped, in no voice at all, but with a sauce of impudence:—
'"Love is give and take," says he,"Every gander knows—Wear the prickle for my sake;For thine, I'll wear the rose.""Grazie, kind and true," says I,"For that noble dower—Only, between me and you,Ishould like the flower."
'"Love is give and take," says he,"Every gander knows—Wear the prickle for my sake;For thine, I'll wear the rose."
'"Love is give and take," says he,
"Every gander knows—
Wear the prickle for my sake;
For thine, I'll wear the rose."
"Grazie, kind and true," says I,"For that noble dower—Only, between me and you,Ishould like the flower."
"Grazie, kind and true," says I,
"For that noble dower—
Only, between me and you,
Ishould like the flower."
"And hast thou not it?" cries St. Bernardo, interrupting me; and, would you believe it, swinging round his lute, his lips and his finger-tips join issue in the prettiest nonsense ever conceived for a poor wife's fooling. Wait, and I will recall it.'
She had the quickest wit and memory, and in a moment was chaunting:—
'"Whence did our bird-soft baby come?How learned to prattle of this for home?Some sleepy nurse-angel let her stray,And she found herself in the world one day.She heard nurse calling, and further fled:She hid herself in our cabbage bed.There we came on her fast asleep,What could we do but take and keep,Carry her in and up the stair?She would have died of cold out there.She woke at once in a little fright;But Love beckoned her from the light.Lure we had lit, for dear love fain;She had seen it shine through the window pane.Lure we had kindled of flame and bliss,To catch such a little ghost-moth as this.Ah, me! it shrivelled her pretty wing.Here she must stay, poor thing, poor thing!"'
'"Whence did our bird-soft baby come?How learned to prattle of this for home?
'"Whence did our bird-soft baby come?
How learned to prattle of this for home?
Some sleepy nurse-angel let her stray,And she found herself in the world one day.
Some sleepy nurse-angel let her stray,
And she found herself in the world one day.
She heard nurse calling, and further fled:She hid herself in our cabbage bed.
She heard nurse calling, and further fled:
She hid herself in our cabbage bed.
There we came on her fast asleep,What could we do but take and keep,
There we came on her fast asleep,
What could we do but take and keep,
Carry her in and up the stair?She would have died of cold out there.
Carry her in and up the stair?
She would have died of cold out there.
She woke at once in a little fright;But Love beckoned her from the light.
She woke at once in a little fright;
But Love beckoned her from the light.
Lure we had lit, for dear love fain;She had seen it shine through the window pane.
Lure we had lit, for dear love fain;
She had seen it shine through the window pane.
Lure we had kindled of flame and bliss,To catch such a little ghost-moth as this.
Lure we had kindled of flame and bliss,
To catch such a little ghost-moth as this.
Ah, me! it shrivelled her pretty wing.Here she must stay, poor thing, poor thing!"'
Ah, me! it shrivelled her pretty wing.
Here she must stay, poor thing, poor thing!"'
She ended: 'Faith, St. Charming's lips make that daintiest setting to his fancies, that I could have kissed 'em while he improved his song with a homily' (she mimicked again the boy's manner, comically emphasised). '"Why," saith he, "would you grudge yourself that poignant privilege of your sex? would ye share the agony and halve the gain? What gift so careless in all the world makes such sweet possession? Furs, gowns, and trinkets pall; perishable things grow less by use; the diamond suffers by its larger peer. Only the gift of love, the wee babe, takes new delight of time; renews woman's best through herself; is a perpetual novelty, spring all the year round, flowers fresh burgeoning through faded blooms. To be sole warden of the quickening soul ye bore—you, you! to see the lamb-like heaven of its eyes cuddling to your bosom's fold—all thine, save the spent heat that cast it! O, rather be the mould than the turbulent metal it shapes! Go to, and thank God for labours yielding such reward. Go to, and be the mother of saints." Whereat I curtsied, and "Thank you, sir," says I, "for the offer, but my bed's already laid for me in Rome," and then——'
What more she might have quoted or invented none might say, for at the moment a wild figure burst into the chamber, and ran to its mistress, and entreated her with lips and hands.
'Give me thy gage—quick! There is one starves in the "Hermit's Cell," and they will not let me pass to him without. Thou art the Duke, thou art the Duke now. Give it me, in mercy, and avert God's vengeance from this wicked house!'
Bona had arisen, pale as death, pity and anguish pleading in her eyes.
'Alas! What say'st thou? Thou, not I, art the Duke.'
'Give it me,' demanded Bembo feverishly. 'Nay, quibble not, while he gasps out his agony—a monk—hear'st thou? A monk!'
She temporised a moment in her pain.
'There are black sheep in those flocks.'
'God forgive thee!'
'Alas!thouwilt not. Indeed I have no talisman will open doors that my lord has shut.'
Beatrice, intent, with veiled eyes, from her place, bestirred herself with an indolent smile.
'Madonna forgets. Love laughs at locksmiths.'
The two women faced one another a minute. Some subtle emotion of antagonism, already born, waxed into a larger consciousness between them.
'How, Countess?' said Bona quietly.
'Madonna wears her bethrothal ring—a verypassepartout. It is the talisman will serve her with monks and saints alike.'
A little flush mantled to the Duchess's brow. Standing erect a moment she slipped the ring from her finger, and held it out to Bernardo.
'It should be the pledge through love of Charity. Take it, in my lord's good name, whose jealous representative I remain. And when thou return'st it, may it be sanctified of new justice, child, against the prick of envy and slander and the spite of venomous tongues.'
She turned away stately and resumed her needle as Bernardo, with a cry of thanks, ran from the room. A minute or two later he appeared before the sentry on the ramparts and flourished his token. To his surprise the man hardly glanced at it as he stepped aside to let him pass. He thought on this with some shapeless foreboding, as he leapt like a chamois down the steeps of the tower, the food, which he had snatched up, in his hands. God pity him and his awakening! There are emotions too sacred for minuting. Let it suffice that Jacopo had proved too faithful a prophylactic to superstition. The wretched monk had not been allowed to justify his own prediction by dying of starvation. In that last interval, between the Parablist's going and coming, his throat had been cut.
A minute later Bernardo leapt like a madman from the tower. His face was ashy, his hands trembling. At the foot of the curtain he stumbled over a poor patch, prostrate and moaning.
'I am thy Fool, and I shall never make thee smile again.'
All quivering and unstrung, he threw himself on his knees by Cicada's side.
'Up!' he screamed, 'up! Get you out of this Sodom ere the Lord destroy it!'
The Fool bestirred himself, raising eyes full of a sombre, eager questioning.
'I am forgiven?' he gasped; but Bernardo only cried frenziedly, 'Up! up!'
CHAPTER XI
There was consternation in the castello, for its angel visitant had disappeared. The evening following upon the episode of the ring saw his quarters void of him, his household retinue troubled and anxious, and some others in the palace at least as perturbed. It was not alone that the individual sense of stewardship towards so rare a possession filled each and all with forebodings as to the penalty likely to be exacted should Galeazzo return to a knowledge of his loss; the loss itself of so sweet and cleansing a personality was blighting. Now, for the first time, perhaps, people recognised the real political significance of that creed which they had been inclined hitherto merely to pet and humour as the whimsey of a very engaging little propagandist. How sweet and expansive it was! how progressive by the right blossoming road of freedom! Where was their silver-tongued guide? And they flew and buzzed, agitated like a bee-swarm that has lost its queen.
But, while they scurried aimless, a rumour of the truth rose like a foul emanation, and, circulating among them, darkened men's brows and drove women to a whispering gossip of terror. So yet another of the Duke's inhumanities was at the root of this secession! By degrees the secret leaked out—of that living entombment, of the boy's interference, of his bloody forestalling by the executioner, of his flight, accompanied by his Fool, from the gates. And now he was gone, whither none knew; but of a certainty leaving the curse of his outraged suit on the house he had tried to woo from wickedness.
The story gained nothing in relief as it grew. Whispers of that free feminine bandying with their Parablist's name, of Catherine's childish mockery of a sacred sentiment, deepened the common gloom. It mattered nothing to the general opinion that this little vivacious Sforza had but echoed its own bantering mood. Every popular joke that spells disaster must have its scapegoat. And she was not liked. In the absence of her father there were even venturings of frowning looks her way, which, when she observed, the shrewd elfin creature did not forget.
And Bernardo returned not that night, nor during all the following day was he heard of. Inquiries were set on foot, scouts unleashed, the sbirri warned: he remained undiscovered.
Messer Carlo Lanti went about his business with a brow of thunder. Once, on the second day, traversing, dark in cogitation, a lonely corner of the castle enceinte, he came upon a figure which, as it were some apparition of his thoughts suddenly materialised, shocked him to a stand. The walls in this place met in a sunless, abysmal wedge; and, gathered into the hollow between, the waters of the canal, welling through subterranean conduits, made a deep head for the moat. And here, gazing down at her reflection, it seemed, in that black stone-framed mirror, stood Beatrice.
She was plainly conscious, for all her deep abstraction of the moment before, of his approach, yet neither spoke nor so much as turned her head as he came and stood beside her. It must have been some startle more than human that had found her nerves responsive to its shock. Her languor and indolence seemed impregnable, insensate, revealing no token of the passion within. Like the warm, rich pastures which sleep over swelling fires, the placid glow of her cheek and bosom appeared never so fruitful in desire as when most threatening an outburst. Carlo, for all his rage of suspicion, could not but be conscious of that appeal to his senses. He frowned, and shifted, and grunted, while she stood tranquilly facing him and fanning herself without a word. At length he broke silence:—
'I had wished to see thee alone'—he stared fixedly and significantly at the water, struggling to bully himself into brutality—'Nay, by God and St. Ambrose,' he burst out, 'I believe we are well met in this place!'
Not a tremor shook her.
'Alone?' she murmured sleepily. 'Why not? there was not used to be this ceremony between us.'
'I have done with all that,' he cried fiercely. 'I see thee now—myself, at least, in the true light. Harlot! wouldst have turned my hand against the angel that revealed thee! Where is he? Hast struck surer the second time? I know thee—and if——'
He seized her wrist and turned her to the water. She did not resist or cry out, though her cheek flushed in the pain of his cruel clutch.
'Know me!' she said. 'Didst thou ever know me? Only as the bull knows the soft heifer—the nearest to his needs.Thouhast done with me—thou! I tell thee, if Fate had made a sacrament of thy passion, yielding the visible sign, I had brought hither the monstrous pledge and drowned it like a dog. Do we so treat what we love? I am not guilty of Bernardo's death, if that is what you mean.'
He let her go, and retreated a step, glaring at her. Her blood ebbed and flowed as tranquilly as her low voice had stabbed.
'This—to my face!' he gasped. Then he broke into furious laughter. 'Art well requited, if it is the truth. Love him! But, dead or alive, he will not love thee—that saint—a wife dishonoured.'
'O noble bull—thou king of beasts!' she murmured.
'Why should I be generous?' he snarled. 'Have I reason to spare thee? Yet I will be generous, an thou art guiltless of this, Beatrice. I have loved thee, after my fashion.'
'Thou hast. Ah! If I might sponge away that memory!'
'Well, I would fain do the same for his sake.'
'Dog!'
'What!'
'Barest thou talk of love?—thou, who hast rolled me in thine arms, and waked from sated ecstasy to call me murderess!'
'Had I not provocation, then? Faith, you bewilder me!'
'Poor, stupid brute!'
'Stupid I may be, yet not so blind as woman's folly. Hast borne me once, Beatrice. Well, it is past: I ask nothing of it but thy trust.'
'My trust!'
'Ay, when I warn thee. This saint is not for thee. O, I am wide awake! Stupid? like enough; but when a wife, the queenliest, parts with her betrothal ring——'
She made a quick, involuntary gesture, stepping forward; then as suddenly checked herself, with a soft, mocking laugh.
'O this bull!' she cried huskily—'this precisian of the new cult! Not for me, quotha, but for another—a saint to all but the highest bidder!'
'Not for you nor any one,' he said savagely.
'What! not Bona either?' she said. 'Be warned by me, rather. Yours is no wit for this encounter. Love is a coil, dear chuck; no battering-ram. Not for me nor any? Maybe; but the game is in the strife. Go, find your saint: I know nothing of him.'
'No, nor shall. Be warned, I say.'
'Well, you have said it, and more than once.'
He hesitated, ground his teeth, clapped his hands together, and turning, left her.
Glooming and mumbling, he went back to the palace. A page met him with the message that the Duchess of Milan desired his attendance. He frowned, and went, as directed, to her private closet. He found Bona alone, busy, or affecting to be busy, over a strip of embroidery. She greeted him chilly; but it was evident that nervousness rather than hauteur kept her seated. He saluted her coldly and silently, awaiting her pleasure. She glanced once or twice at the closed portière; then braced herself to the ordeal with a rather quivering smile.
'This is a sad coil, Messer Carlo.'
He answered gruffly:—
'If I understand your Grace.'
She put the quibble by.
'We, you and I, are in a manner his guardians—accountable to the Duke.'
'I can understand your Grace's anxiety,' he said shortly.
'Nevertheless, it was not I introduced him to the court,' she said.
'But only to some of its secrets,' he responded.
'I do not understand you.'
'It is very plain, Madonna. You gave him the key to that discovery.'
She rose at once, breathing quickly, her cheeks white.
'Ah, Messer! in heaven's name procure me the return of my ring!'
Her voice was quite pitiful, entreating. He looked at her gloomily, gnawing his upper lip.
'Madonna commands? I will do my best to find and take it from him, alive or dead.'
She fell back with a little crying gasp.
'Find him—yes.'
'No more?' he demanded grimly.
'I thought you loved him?' she gulped.
'Too well,' he answered, 'to be your go-between.'
She uttered a fierce exclamation, and clenched her hands.
'Go, sir!' she said.
He turned at once. She came after him, fawning.
'Good Messer Carlo, dear lord,' she breathed weepingly; 'nay, thou art a loyal and honest friend. Forgive me. We are all in need of forgiveness.'
He faced about again.
'Penitence is blasphemy without reform,' he said.
'Ah me! it is. How well thou hast caught the sweet preacher's style. Hastthoureformed?'
'Ay, in the worst.'
'Thou hast made an enemy of thy mistress? Poor Bembo, poor child! He will need a mother.'
'Wouldst thou be that to him?'
'What else? Get me my ring.'
'Beatrice hates him——'
'She would, the wretch, for his parting you and her.'
'Or loves him—I don't know which.'
'Wanton! how dare she?'
'Well, if you will play the mother to him——'
'Is he not a child to adore? Ah me! to be foster-parent to that boon-comrade of the Christ!'
Carlo looked at her with some satisfaction darkling out of gloom. His honest hot brain was no Machiavellian possession; his temper was the travail of a warm heart. He believed this woman meant honestly; and so, no doubt, she did in her loss, not considering, or choosing not to consider, the emotionalism of regain.
'Ay, Madonna,' said he, kindling, ''tis the most covetable relation. Who but a Potiphar's wife would associate what we call love with this Joseph? God! a look of him will make me blush as I were a brat caught stealing sugar. There is that in him, we blurt out the truth in the very act of hiding it. A child to adore? Is he not, now, the dear put? and to hearken to and imitate what we can. Ay, and more—to shield with this arm—let men beware. Only the women harass me, this way and that. Their loves and hates be like twin babes. None but their dam can tell each from the other. Therefore, would ye mother him—'
'Yes—'
'And cherish and protect—'
'Yes—'
'And of your woman's wisdom keep skirts at a distance—'
'I will promise that most.'
'Why, I will bring him back to thee, ring and all, though I turn Milan upside down first.'
He bowed and was going; but she detained him, with sycophant velvet eyes.
'Dear lord, so kind and loyal. Tell him that without him we find ourselves astray.'
'Ay.'
'Tell him that from this moment his Duchess will aid and abet him in all his reforms.'
'I will tell him.'
'Ask him—' she hesitated, and turned away her sweet head—'doth he seek to retaliate on his mistress's innocent confidence, that, by absenting himself, he would turn it to her undoing?'
Carlo grunted.
'By your Grace's leave, an I find him, I will put it my way.'
She acquiesced with a meek, lovely smile, and the words of the Mass: 'Ite, missa est!'
And when he was gone, she sighed, and looked in a mirror and murmured to herself in a semi-comedy of grief: 'Alas! too weak to be Messalina! I must be good if he asks me.'
And, being weak, she let her thoughts drift.
CHAPTER XII
In a street of the quarter Giovia the armourer Lupo had his smithy. He had been a notable artisan in a town famous for its steel and niello work; but in his age, as in any, a plethora of fine production must cheapen the value of the individual producer. Therefore when a vengeful caprice blinded him, and his door remained shut and his chimney ceased to smoke, patronage transferred its custom to the next house or street without a qualm; and his achievements in his particular business were forgotten, or confounded with those of fellow-craftsmen, deriving, perhaps, in their art from him. It was a sample of that banal heartlessness of society, which in a moral age breeds collectivists, and desperadoes in an age of lawlessness. And of the two one may pronounce the latter the more logical.
In Milan men came quickly to maturity, whether in the art of forging a blade or using it. Life flamed up and out on swift ideals of passion. Parental love, high education, the intricate cults of beauty and chivalry, were all gambling investments in a speculative market. The odds were always in favour of that old broker Death. Yet the knowledge abated nothing of the zeal. It was strange to be so fastidious of the terms of so hazardous a lease. One might be saving, just, virtuous—one's life-tenancy was not made thereby a whit securer. The ten commandments lay at the mercy of a dagger-point; wherefore men hurried to realise themselves timely, and to cram the stores of years into a rich banquet or two.
Master Lupo, a sincere workman and a conscientious, was flicked in one moment off his green leaf into the dust. There, maimed and helpless, the tears for ever welling in his empty sockets, he cogitated tremulously, fiercely, the one sentiment left to him, revenge—revenge not so primarily on the instrument of his ruin, as on Tassinothroughthe system which had made such a creature possible. He lent his darkened abode to be the nest to one of those conspiracies, which are never far to gather in despotic governments, and which opportunity in his case showed him actually at hand.
Cola Montano, it has been said, had been borne away after his scourging by some women of the people. Grace, or pity, or fear was in their hearts, and they nursed him. Scarcely for his own sake; for, democracy being impersonal, he was at no trouble to be a grateful patient. He took their ministries as conceded to a principle, and individually was as surly and impatient with them as any ill-conditioned cur.
Recovering betimes (the dog had a tough hide), he learned of neighbour Lupo's condition, and walked incontinently into that wretched artificer's existence. He found a blind and hopeless wreck, shelves of rusting armour, a forge of dead embers, and, brooding sullen beside it, a girl too plainly witnessing to her own dishonour. He heard the rain on the roof; he saw the set grey mother creeping about her work; and he sat himself down by the sightless armourer, and peered hungrily into his swathed face.
'Dost know me, Lupo? I am Montano.'
The miserable man groaned.
'Master Collegian? Stands yet thy school of philosophy? A' God's name, lay something of that on this hot bandage!'
'The school stands in its old place, armourer; but its doors, like thine, are shut. What then? Its principles remain open to all.'
The poor wretch put out a hand, feeling.
'Where art thou? Have thy wounds healed so quickly? Mine are incurable.'
'What!' croaked Montano jeeringly, 'with such a salve to allay them! I heard of it—logic meet to an angel—to renew thine image through her yonder. Marry, sir! conception runs before the law. Hast chased thy likeness down and taken it to church? Mistress Lucia there would seem a sullen bride. Hath her popinjay come and gone again? Well, you must be content with the legitimising.'
The armourer writhed in answering.
'What think you? There has been none. Mock not our misery. Is it the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced?'
'No, but to be called angels. Heaven is not easy surfeited with adulation.'
'He was glorified in his judgment; and there, for us, the matter ended.'
'Not quite.'
The pedagogue bent his evil head to look again into that woful face.
'Lupo, my school is closed; alumnus loiters in the streets. Shall he come in here?'
There was something so significant in his tone that the broken man he addressed started, as if a hand had been laid on his eyes.
'For what? Who is he?' he muttered.
'I will tell you anon,' answered Montano. 'No prelector but hath his favourite pupils. He, alumnus, is in this case threefold—three dear homeless scholars of mine, Lupo, needing a rallying-place in which to meet and mature some long-discussed theory of social cure. I have heard from them since—since my illness. They chafe to resume their studies and their mentor—honest, good fellows, confessing, perhaps, to a heresy or so.'
'Master,' muttered the armourer, 'you will do no harm to be explicit.'
'Shall I not? Well, if you will, and by grace of an example, such a heresy, say, as that, when the devil rules by divine right, the God who nominated him is best deposed.'
'Yes, yes, to be sure. That is blasphemy as well as heresy. But I think of Messer Bembo, who is still His minister, and I believe your pupils go too far.'
'Why, what hath this minister done for you?'
'Very much, in intention.'
'Well, I thought that was said to pave the other place; but, in truth, the issues of all things are confounded, since we have an angel for the Lord's minister and a devil for His vicegerent.'
'Pity of God! are they not? And ye would resolve them by deposing the Christ—by knocking out the very keystone of hope?'
'Nay, by substituting a rock for a crumbling brick.'
'What rock?'
'The people.'
'Might they not, too, elect a tyrant to be their representative?'
'How could tyranny represent a commonwealth?'
'A commonwealth! It is out, then! It is not God ye would depose, but Galeazzo. Commonwealth! Is that a name for keeping all men under a certain height? But the giant will dictate the standard, and any one may reach to him who can. Messer Montano, I seem to have heard of a republican called Cæsar.'
'Then you must have heard of another called Brutus?'
'Ay, to be sure; and of a third called Octavian.'
'Those were distracted times, my friend.'
'And what are these? Have you ever heard of the times when a man's interest was one with his neighbour's? Besides, the flame of art burns never so sprightly as under a despot. It finds no fuel in uniformity—each man equal to his neighbour.' He put out groping hands pitifully. 'I loved my art,' he quavered. 'They might have spared me to it!'
Montano bit his lip scornfully. It was on his tongue to spurn this spiritless creature. But he suppressed himself.
'What would you, then?' he demanded; 'you, the wretched victim of the system you commend?'
'Ah!' sighed Lupo, 'ideally, Messer, an autocracy, with an angel at its head.'
The philosopher laughed harshly.
'Why,' he sneered, 'there is your ideal come to hand. Be plain. Shall we depose a tyrant, and elect in his place this new-arrived, this divine boy, as ye all title him?'
'Why not?'
Montano started and stared at the speaker. There was suggestion here—of a standard for innovation; of a rallying-point for reform. A republic, like a despotism, might find its telling battle-cry in a saint. The boy, as representing the liberty of conscience, was already a subject of popular adoration. Why should they not use him as a fulcrum to the lever of revolution, and, having done with, return him to the cloisters from which he drew? There was suggestion here.
He mused a little, then broke out suddenly:—
'Brutus is none the less indispensable.'
'I do not gainsay it, master.'
'What! you do not? Then there, at least, we are agreed. Wilt have him come here?'
'Who is he, this Brutus? I grope in the dark—O my God, in the dark!'
During all this time the two women had remained passive and apparently apathetic listeners. Now, suddenly, the girl rose from her place by the chimney and came heavily forward, her eyes glaring, her hands clenched in woe, like some incarnated, fallen pythoness.
'Tellme,' she said hoarsely. 'I haven'thispatience for my wrongs, nor caution neither. What's gained by caution when one stands on an earthquake? Let me make sure ofhim, my fine lover, and the world may fall in, for all I care.'
The pale mother hurried to her husband's side. He put out helpless, irresolute hands, with a groan. Montano stooping, elbow on knee, and rubbing his bristly chin, conned the speaker with sinister approval.
'Spoken like a Roman,' said he. 'Thou art the better vessel. If all were as you! Tyranny is hatched of the gross corpse of manliness—a beastly fly. Wilt tell thee my Brutus's name, girl, if thou wilt answer for these.'
He pointed peremptorily at her parents.
'Ay, will I,' she answered scornfully; 'though I have to wrench out their tongues first.'
He applauded shrilly, with a triumphant, contemptuous glance at the cowering couple.
'That is the right way with cowards. I commit my Brutus to thee. 'Tis a threefold dog, as I have said—a fanged Cerberus. Noble, too—as Roman as thou; and, in one part at least, like wounded. He, this third part, this Carlo Visconti, had a sister. Well, she was a flower which Galeazzo plucked; and, not content therewith threw into the common road. Another head is Lampugnani, beggared by the Sforzas; and Girolamo Olgiati is my third, a dear beardless boy, and instigated only by the noblest love of liberty.'
The girl nodded.
'And are these all?'
'All, save a fellow called Narcisso—a mere instrument to use and break—no principles but hate and gain. Was servant to that bully Lanti and dismissed—hum! for excess of loyalty. Fear him not.'
'Alas!' broke in the armourer: 'why should we fear him or anybody? There is no harm in this letting my shop to be thy school's succedaneum.'
Lucia laughed like a fury.
'No harm at all,' sniggered Montano, 'save in these heresies I spoke of. And what are they?—to reorganise society on a basis of political and social freedom. No harm in these young Catalines discussing their drastic remedies, perhaps in the vanity of a hope that some Sallust may be found to record them.'
'Nay, have done with all this,' cried the girl witheringly. 'I know nothing of your Catalines and Sallusts. Ye meet to kill—own it, or ye meet elsewhere.'
Her mother cried out: 'O Lucia! per pieta.'
She made no answer, only fixing Montano with her glittering eyes. He rose from his stool stiffly, with a snarl for his aching wounds. But his face brightened towards her like a spark of wintry sun.
'We meet to kill, Madonna,' he said, 'ruined, crippled, debauched—the victims of a monster and his system. And thou shalt have thy share, never fear, when the feast comes to follow the sacrifice.'