M. Vyelen answered that she must wait; in two hours the senna would relieve her.
“Oh, my God!” cried Madame. “If you were in my pain you would not speak so quietly of waiting.”
For a while she tossed and twisted from side to side. People surged in and out of the room; none of them believed that she was in any danger; the doctor insisted that she was not, that in a while the pain would pass, that the coldness of her hands and feet was only an ordinary symptom of a chill.
Presently she called out that she would be moved; the bed had grown hot and uncomfortable and intolerable. There was a little bed in her dressing-room; they wrapped her in a blue silk mantle and Monsieur and two of her ladies carried her there. She was slight–of the weight of a child.
The clearer atmosphere of the dressing-room and the cool bed seemed to relieve her; she lay still, swathed in her mantle, her auburn hair, that was marvellously fine, in disorder on the pillow.
On the table by the bed stood a couple of candles, and by the light of these they saw her face more clearly than when she was in the curtained bed. And it startled them.
“Do the candles trouble you?” asked Monsieur, his voice unsteady.
“No, Monsieur,” she answered. “Nothing troubles me. To-morrow morning I shall be dead.”
Why did not the King come?
As she had eaten nothing since dinner, they brought her some supper on a silver tray; Monsieur showed some tenderness in holding it for her and in insisting that she should take something which at first she could not bring herself to; but at last she thanked him with a look and drank some soup. All at once her agony became so terrible that they thought she must die on the instant: she shook and stiffened with torment, like one at the stake; her face turned an ashy hue and glistened with moisture; the pupils of her eyes contracted and dilated.
“I am poisoned,” she said.
Some wept to see her cruel sufferings. Monsieur sat by her side and held her hand.
There was a commotion in the ante-chamber–in the bedroom; the door was flung open, and a gentleman in brown and gold, carrying his hat, entered, behind him M. de Crequi.
“The King,” said Monsieur.
Louis came half-way across the dressing-room.
“The doctors wish to see you, Monsieur,” he said; he was very pale and frowning.
All the light in the chamber was about the bed of Madame, where the candles burnt in their silver sticks and shone full on her pillow.
All beauty had been wiped from her face like paint from a mask. Against the blue of her robe and the glimmering hue of her hair her face was like gray wax; the blood had come through the bandages on her arm in a red stain–but he, to her vision was as godlike, as golden glorious as ever.
As he came up to her she controlled her pain with an heroic effort.
“Sire, you lose one of your truest servants to-night,” she said.
He answered in great agitation–
“You are not dying; I will not believe it—”
He seemed afraid to come too near to her; she spoke calmly, with a world of wild feeling in her eyes.
“You know I am not afraid of death–but I am afraid of losing your good thoughts—”
“Talk of God, Madame,” he replied hoarsely.
“Louis–I am dying,” she said. “Come and speak to me–close.”
She made a little feeble movement with her hand, and the King came up to her bed.
“I am poisoned,” she repeated; it seemed she wished to drive him to accept the statement to accuse some one.
“You show great courage, Madame,” he said, and looked at her in a terrified manner.
“I have never been afraid,” she repeated, “but I do not want to die.”
“I will see your doctors,” he said. “There must be some remedy.”
He turned away, seemed glad to go.
Madame clutched hold of Mme de la Fayette. “I am horrible. Give me a mirror.”
She reached out and caught up a heavy glass from her dressing-table; her frail strength could hardly lift it. She looked in it a second, then dropped it on the quilt.
“Madame de la Fayette,” she said, “my nose has shrunk—”
The lady could only weep. It was true; her nose had sunk into her face with a ghastly and corpse-like effect. She tossed herself about; whether in bodily or mental agony it was impossible to tell.
Mme de Gamaches came to say that Mme de la Vallière and Mme de Montespan had come together.
“Admit neither of them,” said Madame. She sent Mme de la Fayette out to them.
The two would share the crown she had left. Why had they come now? They must be glad she was dying–not la Vallière perhaps; she was a gentle woman.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the doctors suddenly informed the King that there was no hope; and those symptoms that two hours before they had vowed meant nothing they now declared the certain signs of gangrene and approaching death, and advised that Madame took the Holy Sacrament.
The King accused them of losing their heads. Monsieur fought his way into the dressing-room where Madame lay and told her, in an agitated manner, what they had said.
“So I have their permission to die?” She gave a tragic smile and fixed her eyes on her husband. “Where is the King?”
As she spoke he returned with the Queen and Mme de Soissons.
Madame lay silent; the King approached her bed; he railed against the doctors: he seemed confused, bewildered.
“I am no physician,” he said, “but I could have suggested thirty remedies they have not tried, and now they say there is no hope.”
He stood irresolute, looking at her; the candlelight could give no colour to his fair face. She could not believe that he would not send away the others and sit by her till the end; she waited for that. For some tenderness on his part, some passion, some regret, she waited; he came up to her bed, kissed her hands and bade her adieu.
“Adieu!” she echoed. She thought she saw tears in his eyes. “Do not weep for me yet, Sire. The first news you hear in the morning will be of my death; weep then.”
She turned her face away from him and he withdrew with Mme de Soissons. Hearing him go, she moved sharply and opened her eyes.
Close to her stood the stooping figure of Maria Teresa.
Madame looked at her curiously; a few days ago she had seen another Spanish Queen with the same look of grave suffering in her face, the butt of her brother’s court. How often she had laughed at both of them–but now–she suddenly stretched out her arms with an eager gesture.
The Queen’s face changed; she moved back.
“God forgive you, Madame la Duchesse,” she said in a voice torn and broken. “God have mercy on you.” With that she burst into tears and hurried from the room, the light running down her silver dress.
Madame was silent; she lay with her hand over her eyes until they came to move her back into her own bed that had been re-made.
Then she asked for the King.
He had returned, she was told, to Versailles.
She never mentioned his name again. With his departure all hope and desire of life had gone; he had fled, forsaken her. She almost wished to die now, so that she might have respite from her pain.
The Mârechal de Granmont was brought to her bedside; she told him that she was poisoned and bid him farewell.
She began to cough.
“It is the death cough,” she said. “Do you remember how my mother coughed just before she died?” She then asked how long she had to live, and expressed again her desire to confess.
The King had gone and the doctors had said there was no hope.
She thought no more of life; she made no complaint of her terrible and sudden death, of her cruel agonies; she made no reflection on the bitterness of dying in the midst of triumph, in the flower of her youth; she tried to face the certainty of approaching Death with what courage she might; she tried to realise a thing that till now she had never thought of.
She confessed again to M. Feuillet; he was a stern priest, and exhorted her in a severe fashion. When he had finished a Capuchin Father, her usual confessor, began to speak to her.
His discourse wearied her; she was trying to realise God for herself. The room was full of people; she saw them in a blur behind the figures of the two priests: she heard their talking, their sobbing. She noted the lines of her bed curtains, of her coverlet, and these things troubled her.
Presently another figure came to her bedside. After a moment she knew him–Lord Montagu, the English Ambassador. She thought of her brother.
“Tell him–that none loved him better than I—” Her voice failed.
My Lord answered her in English.
“Are you poisoned, Madame? I have heard it said. Is it true?”
“Yes. But in error–I accuse no one. Do not tell my brother; he might wish to take vengeance—”
Here M. Feuillet interrupted; she had spoken in English, but he had caught the word “poison.”
“Think of nothing but God, Madame–leaving these earthly matters.”
She held up her hand.
“My Lord–that diamond ring; take it to my brother.”
He drew it from her finger.
“Tell him I regret nothing so much as his grief. Tell the Duke of York–that–also.”
As she said no more the Ambassador drew back into the crowded chamber.
Madame became weaker; an intense chillness had succeeded her heat; her hands and feet were cold; it seemed to her that her heart had almost stopped. With a sudden unutterable pang she remembered her keys. Monsieur would get them; he would read her papers, her letters. If she had only known last night—
Now he would see how she had lied to him—
She strove to put this thought from her; he was the master now and she helpless.
The Capuchin continued his discourse; she prayed him, very sweetly, to leave her in peace for a while.
She received the Holy Eucharist; to her it was a blur of gold vessels, a murmur of words. She fainted three times while they administered it.
Another doctor arrived; he advised a bleeding in her foot.
“Then you must make haste,” she whispered.
Her head was whirling; she felt that the room had grown immense, that a great multitude was about her–talking, whispering, sobbing.
She never asked for her children and no one thought to speak of them or bring them; but they sent for M. de Condom.
She felt her foot bared and the prick of the lancet; as they bathed it they cried out she was dying. Very little blood came.
They gave her extreme unction.
She felt herself now in a soft darkness, striving for the light; she thought that this light would either blast or comfort her–and that it was God.
She called out for her husband; he came instantly.
“Will you leave the room now, Monsieur?” she asked. “Have you my keys?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Be merciful,” she whispered piteously. “Adieu, Monsieur.”
He embraced her silently and went away, leaving her to her darkness.
The clock struck two. M. de Condom arrived; she saw him, heard that he was speaking to her but she did not know what he said. The lapping darkness was wrapping her; she saw through it glimmering points of candles and weeping faces; she saw, too, Exeter towers, very plainly, and the laughing eyes of M. de Guiche.
Then the mists cleared, and she beheld everything in a bright, strong light. She turned to a woman who bent over her pillow and said in English–
“When I am dead give M. de Condom the emerald ring I am having made for him.”
Her natural courtesy spared his thanks by speaking in a language he did not understand. Her agonies were suddenly ceased; she turned on her side with a soft sigh.
“I think I could sleep,” she said to M. de Condom. “May I, for a little–sleep?”
He said “Yes,” and that he would go and pray for her. He descended the steps of her bed; he had hardly crossed the room before she called to himin a sweet voice–
“It has come. I am dying.”
He returned to her bedside and held out the crucifix. She half raised herself; her pale, lovely hair hung about her blue wrap. She took the crucifix in her hands and clasped it to her bosom. The darkness was lifting–behind Exeter towers; she saw the Thames as she had seen it from the windows of Whitehall; she heard the priest’s voice reciting the prayers for the dying. Her lips were on the crucifix; she gave the responses, but her thoughts were not in the words. The light brightened into a dazzle that blotted everything out. She let the crucifix fall and sank back on her pillow. The clock chimed the half hour. She moved her lips convulsively and died–after nine hours of agony.
The King was asleep at Versailles and Monsieur was in her private cabinet, weeping furiously and tearing up the multitude of her love-letters by the light of a trembling candle flame.
M. de Condom, preaching her funeral sermon, displayed her as a Christian Princess, entirely virtuous.
Being an Account of the Last Day of Carnival and the Vision of Girolamo Savonarola in the City of Florence, 1497
“Behold, the sky shall be darkened! Behold, it shall rain fire and flame, stones and rocks; it shall be wild weather. I have placed ye between four winds,” saith the Lord–namely, prelates, princes, priests and bad citizens.
“Fly from their vices; gather ye together in charity. Fly from Rome, O Florence, and come to repentance! The Lord saith: ‘I will debase the princes of Italy and trample on the pride of Rome; then, O Italy, trouble after trouble shall befall thee, trouble from this side and from that–rumours from the east, rumours from the west, from all sides rumour after rumour.’
“Then men shall yearn for the visions of the prophets, and shall have them not, for the Lord saith, ‘Now do I prophesy in my turn.’”
So ended the sermon of Frà Girolamo, preached from a temporary pulpit erected in front of the church of Santa Maria del Fiore, the last day of the Carnival of the year fourteen hundred and ninety-seven, the third year since the expulsion of the Medici, the third year of the Friar’s rule in Florence.
The monks of St. Mark’s were gathered about the pulpit, and round them the Piangoni, theactive supporters of the Friar; beyond them the crowd filled the Piazza from end to end, a crowd reverent, silent, excited.
It was a windless spring; the odours of the flowers in the fields without hung in the breezeless air and filled the city streets with perfume. Above the fine straight lines of the houses and the majestic shape of the church the sky hung pure of cloud and deeply blue as an early violet.
Frà Girolamo paused, gripping the smooth edge of the pulpit, and looked across the gathered multitude.
He wore the habit of the Friars of St. Mark, a loose coarse brown robe and a hood and shoulder-piece in one that fitted closely round his face and neck. He was of the middle height, stooping a little and gaunt; his features were harsh and rudely modelled, his complexion dark and sickly, cheeks and forehead fined with deep furrows, his nose a heavy aquiline, his eyes large, expressive and of a sparkling grey tint; his thick but mobile lips were at that moment compressed in a firmness that had the sweetness of true strength. Truly that expression of noble gentleness illumined the whole ungainly countenance, softened the unlovely lines and gave divine dignity to the common features.
As he stood so, motionless, the monks began to sing psalms and the crowd went to their knees on the paving stones of the great Piazza, their coloured garments shifting and changing in light and shade as they moved. When the men’s voices sank on the last pulse of the holy music that rose like incense on the clear thin air, Frà Girolamo took the Host, and raising it with his right hand lifted the left in blessing of the kneeling press of worshippers.
The great and stately door of the church was a fitting background for the frail figure holding the Host of God which gleamed in the lucid rays of the sun that struck straight from heaven on it, like a mystical jewel fed with inner light.
Frà Girolamo flashed his eyes over the crowd, among whom he could distinguish several of the Compagnacci, adherents of the vanished Medici, and many of the Arrabbiati, his bitter foes who had threatened to revive the old orgies of the Medicean rule, the pagan and splendid carnival of Lorenzo, called the Magnificent, now for years since dead in sin.
A strong excitement shook the slender frame of the Friar; his countenance became blanched with the intense emotion that inspired him. In a trembling but powerful voice he cried–
“O Lord, if my deeds be not sincere, if my words be not inspired by Thee, strike me dead on the instant.”
The Host was lowered and the people rose from their knees; but the Friar remained in the wooden pulpit.
Now the crowd drew back and made way for a strange procession that was wending across the Piazza.
It was headed by four fair-headed youths attired in white, who bore between them a marble figure of the Infant Christ, pointing with one hand to a wreath of thorns and raising the other in benediction; this was the work of Donato di Bardi, a famous sculptor. After came a company also in white and carrying in their hands red crosses, singing the lauds and hymns of Girolamo Benivieni in sweet and eager voices.
Behind them followed men and women soberly dressed who collected from the crowd, holding out on silver trays the alms they received; they were begging on behalf of the Monte di Pietà, and had already amassed more gold than had been given in charity in Florence during a year of the old Medicean order.
Next there came a vast number of children decently and quietly dressed, some singing, some repeating prayers, all carrying, dragging or supporting between them a strange and varied number of objects–books, dresses, pictures, statues, masks, false hair, boxes and cases of perfume, lutes, viols, mirrors, ornaments, gauds, manuscripts, cards, dice, cosmetics, chess-boards, cups and balls of gold, and all manner of rich, precious trifles and beautiful gorgeous examples of art.
These were the vanities that had been collected during the Carnival by the very children who, under the rule of Lorenzo, had sung and danced, fought and played profane games in the streets they now traversed in orderly procession; then with the Carnival verses of the Medici on their lips, now with holy hymns.
From every house in Florence they had demanded all vanities to be given to them, and when they received the offerings they sang a devotional work composed by Frà Girolamo. Now laden with these relics of the old pagan rule, they were making their way to the Piazza dei Signori, there to complete the purging of Florence by publicly burning the vanities that had been so long her temptation and her curse.
The Friar descended from the pulpit and joined the procession in company with his personal supporters; chanting and rejoicing, the children made their joyful way, dragging with them the trophies of luxury and wantonness, whose perfume of musk, ambergris and nard gave a heaviness to the air as they passed.
Frà Girolamo held himself, as was his habit, modestly, and kept his eye low in real humility; but in his great heart was a wild exultation that this city of his love had responded to the agonies of his exhortation and was turning from the wickedness of Borgia and Medici to the strong face of God.
Beneath his rough and long robe beat a spirit so lofty and enthusiastic that had it not been hampered and held down to earth by the poor enfeebled body it had walked on the heads of all of them and conversed with Angels.
But since He who made the soul of this Friar directed these things for His own ends, Frà Girolamo, who bore in his bosom a burning light of truth that might have served to redeem the world, worked in the wicked, lovely city of Florence and spent his strength to redeem this little circle of beloved sinners.
When the procession reached the Piazza there was found to be a great eight-sided pyramid there, built up in the centre of the square and reaching near as high as the Palace of the Signori; there were seven stages to this, one for each of the deadly sins. On the apex stood two grotesque and glittering figures, robed in gemmed satin and wearing high-coloured crowns; one was King Carnival, the old monarch of the wanton Medicean orgies; and in his monstrous, under-jawed face and princely garb, in his straight heavy locks and the velvet cap under the circlet of sovereignty, might be traced a malicious likeness to the magnificent Lorenzo, purposely contrived by the artificer as an affront to the banished House.
The other figure was Lucifer, horned, black, and hideous, bearing in the lap of his scarlet robes seven little images representing the seven mortal sins.
The procession paused; the men and women arranging themselves under the Loggia de’ Lanzi and along the Pinghiera, while the children advanced two at a time, and deposited their loads on the various platforms, where the soldiers of the Signori arranged them in piles from the bottom to the base of the pyramid.
So much had been collected, so many and various were the costly offerings, that several hours passed before the final vanity was cast on to the heap and the children retired to a great circle round the Piazza; but all this while there had been no sign of weariness or impatience on the part of the people, who continued with great spirit and gladness to sing their lauds and hymns, mingled with denunciations of the Carnival.
Frà Girolamo stood back from the pile with his hands folded in the sleeves of his robe; his face was largely concealed by the shadow of his hood, which he had partially drawn forward, and he conveyed neither by word nor gesture fanatic rejoicing or common triumph. Rather was his mien sad and grave, as if he weighed what was being done and pondered on that far greater cleansing of Florence of which this was but a symbol–the cleansing of the hearts of her citizens.
Truly when the last child cast down his burden and withdrew, it was a marvellous sight of worldly splendour to behold; all these gauds and glories cast together in this heap under the calm spring sky, half in the shadow of the palace and other noble buildings and half sparkling and glittering in the clear gold of the early sunshine, fainting in the approach of afternoon. Rich and valuable were these vanities, worth many thousands of ducats; a merchant of Venice had offered to buy them for the vast sum of twenty thousand crowns, and the portrait of this man was flung on top of the other baubles.
Carnival costumes were there of satin, silk and tinsel; chaplets and garlands of false flowers; locks and wigs of artificial hair, masks painted and gilt; necklets, bracelets and brocade shoes, girdles, ribbons and playing cards; chess-men in ivory, silver and ebony; fans in feathers dyed bright colours; books of profane poems with pictures tinted and gilt; lutes, viols and pipes painted and carved; boxes, bottles and caskets of cosmetics, powders, philtres and charms; statues and busts of pagan gods and goddesses, white marble, veined marble, and time-stained alabaster; mirrors set in copper, gold and silver; toy daggers for ladies with handles of jade, sardonyx and emerald; watches of crystal, of filigree, of enamel; caskets of perfumes; paintings of wanton figures, of beautiful women, of heathen scenes; velvet purses embroidered with armorial bearings; gauntlets stitched thickly with silver thread and pearl; mantles edged with vair and sable; sword-hilts fringed with knotted silk and gold; pins for the hair set with rubies and sapphires; false faces and gaudy finery for the carnival; statues in bronze, in gilt, in silver; enamel cups and drinking-horns bound with a rim of precious stones; cushions of brocade and down; boxes of ointment, of unguents; phials of rare perfumes; caskets of sweetmeats, bags of confetti, dice, parti-coloured playing balls, and many trifling things composed the pile. And with the glimmer of the gems, the shining of the gold and silver, the soft gleam of the rich stuffs, the flash of glass and crystal, the strange fantastic look of mask and carnival garment, it seemed as if the ransom of some monarch of the east, a pasha of Turkey or some potentate of Rhodes or Candy Isle was gathered there.
Now an excited and trembling silence of expectancy fell upon the crowd; four of the soldiers of the Signori stepped forward with flaming torches that showed pale and smoky in the daylight, and as Frà Girolamo raised his hand they lit the four corners of the pile, the interior of which was filled with combustibles.
As the flames hesitated, crouched, then seized hold and caught their prey, the trumpeters of Florence blew a blast of triumph, the bells broke out from the palace and the people gave free vent to their wild enthusiasm.
The Friar did not move nor even lift his eyes to the opulent sacrifice; the thick soft smoke spread sideways in a sudden little gust of wind and half obscured his figure.
The people burst out of their ordered ranks; they laughed, shouted, sang their spiritual lauds and crowded about the huge costly bonfire in a press of delirious pleasure; the Piangoni stood near and by the aid of long poles thrust the vanities deeper into the flames and cast back any that had slipped, chanting the while the hymns of Girolamo Benivieni.
The Friar maintained his position; his lips moved as if he ardently communed with himself; so absorbed was he in his own meditations that he did not notice a man standing close, and also motionless amid the circling and excited throng, who was observing him with intense and peculiar attention.
This man, although he wore the sober mantleof an ordinary citizen, and though he appeared to be there in sympathy with the general religious enthusiasm, was nevertheless in air and appearance one of the Arrabbiati or Compagnacci, who intrigued with the outcast Medici and hated the Friar, though they submitted to a force they could not withstand with safety as yet.
He was wrapped so completely in his dark cloak, the hood of which was well drawn over his face, that had any been free enough to observe him they would have had difficulty in judging of his person and character; the thick folds of the common stuff, however, could not disguise the virile grace of his figure, the beautiful poise of his head and the delicate shape of his feet and of the hand that clasped his hood at the chin.
The excited people and friars, breaking into a kind of religious dance, ran round and about this man, and in between him and Frà Girolamo; but he did not move nor once take his eyes from the equally still figure of the Friar, save to occasionally lift them to the pyre of the Vanities, now a burning cone of flames from base to apex, from which rose thick columns of sweet, heavy-scented smoke.
The slow Italian dusk was closing in; the sky deepened above the palace and the towers, the roofs and domes of Florence. The smoke, spreading, filled the Piazza and gave a cloudy unreality to the moving crowd who circled the strengthening light of the fire.
On the upper part of the buildings a palesun-glow lingered; but the Lion on the Palace steps was absorbed in shade save for the flickering unearthly glow that the burning vanities emitted and that now and then touched the surroundings with a murky crimson reflection.
All the while the bells of the Signori were pealing, and the music of them rose and fell with the hymns. Frà Girolamo suddenly looked up at the flames, the cracking canvas, shrivelling silks, splitting marbles, melting gold and silver, flaring scrolls of manuscript and smoking boxes of perfumes that composed the pyre; then, with bowed head, made his way quickly and unobserved through the crowd and out of the Piazza. He was instantly and closely followed by the tall stranger who had so persistently regarded him, and who now came softly after without attracting his attention.
The streets were deserted; every one being gathered in or near the Piazza, and the Friar passed unnoticed before the fronts of the tall, carved houses; he was swiftly making his way to the Convent of St. Mark, and had turned down an empty side street, deep in shade, when he suddenly paused, as if inwardly troubled, and, turning slowly, beheld the stranger who had also come to a stop a few paces behind him.
Frà Girolamo regarded him earnestly; they were alone in the street at the bottom of which was a glimpse of the Arno’s arched bridge; behind them rose the steps and closed door of a hospital, above the garden wall of which showed cypress trees and branches of laurel.
“You,” said the tall man in sweet and cultivated Tuscan, “you are Frà Girolamo Savonarola, friar of St. Mark’s and ruler of Florence?”
“Girolamo Savonarola I am,” answered the Friar; “ruler of Florence I am not, but God’s instrument for some good in this city.”
The other, still speaking from the depths of the coarse hood that completely concealed his face, made reply–
“Ruler and Master of Florence, Friar, even as Lorenzo was Ruler and Master, even as the Medici were great are you great, and to-day you have had proof of it.”
“Who are you?” demanded Frà Girolamo.
“One who loved Lorenzo and found Florence pleasant in his days.”
“I did not hate Lorenzo–I would have saved his soul.”
“You refused him absolution!”
“Because,” replied the Friar, “he would not repent of his sins.”
The stranger laughed impatiently.
“Usurper! You hold his place, while his son, at the Borgia’s footstool, eats in Rome the husks of charity.”
Frà Girolamo answered sternly, while the light of enthusiasm kindled to red fire in his eyes.
“Who are you who speak for the wicked? Piero de’ Medici abused his power; he would have sold our liberty to the French–lustful, vain, hollow; he was banished Florence for his sinsand a price put upon his head. Woe to this city if he returns! At the Borgia’s footstool, you say! It is fitting that such a prince should fly to such a Pope!”
The stranger came a short step nearer and loosened his hand on his hood so that his face was visible to the Friar, who observed that he wore one of the hideous masks of the Medicean Carnival, mottled and spotted to represent a plague-stricken countenance; he noticed the Friar’s start of aversion and laughed again.
“This should have gone to feed yonder pyre!” he said. “Oh, credulous Friar, do you think that you have burnt all the sins in Florence?”
Girolamo Savonarola answered simply.
“I have done what God put it into my heart to do. Let Him judge me. For you, ask me what question you would have answered, or if this is but idleness, let me on my way.”
“This is your day of triumph,” said the other man with a passionate ring in his voice. “You to-day have burnt all the Medici rejoiced in–painting, statuary, music, books, poetry, gay dresses, perfumes, cards and dice; and those people who praised Lorenzo for making this Florence so beautiful and splendid have danced round your pyre in gladness!”
Frà Girolamo regarded him steadily.
“Are not you also,” he asked gently, “pleased to see this city brought a little way to repentance?”
“Friar,” answered the stranger vehemently, “I am your enemy. I stand for all you would destroy–the lust of the world, the pride of the beautiful, the power of the devil. I am also a ruined, outcast, beggared man, one of those your rule has banished from Florence. If I were discovered I should be murdered, and that would be better than to starve in Rome.”
“Your name?” interrupted Frà Girolamo. “Are you one whom I know?”
“You know me,” was the haughty response; “but my name is not pleasing to your ears.YouI hate, ay, and all your works; but there is a day soon when all hates shall be satisfied.”
Girolamo Savonarola made quiet answer.
“If you are a follower of Piero de’ Medici, I warn you to quit Florence, for I cannot and would not save one of the tyrant’s tools from the just anger of the People–the People!–inthemis my trust against these evils you threaten me with.”
He turned to pass on his way, but the young man sprang lightly after him and caught his mantle.
“The People!” he laughed. “Did not the People shout for Lorenzo yesterday? Will they not shout for Piero to-morrow!”
Frà Girolamo looked at him with serene eyes.
“Never for the Medici,” he answered. “Never for the tyrant. Florence is free.”
“You are a bold man to say so,” returned the stranger, standing at his ease, with one foot on the lowest hospital step. “Free! No, Florence is no freer than she was five years ago; only now it is you who rule instead of the Magnificent. But not for long, Friar.”
“Again, who are you who stay me in the street with these prophecies?”
The sun had left even the tops of the buildings now, and the lucid light was fading from the heavens where an early star hung chill and pale above the Duomo; the black foliage of the cypress and the sharp, long leaves of the laurel showed clearly over the wall and against the argent flush of twilight; a little fear crept into the Friar’s heart, not base fear, or cowardice, or any trembling for himself, but the shadow of some coming doubt lest after all he had not saved Florence; in the tall, dark-robed figure of the stranger, now standing with his arms folded on his breast and regarding him with eyes that shot evil glimmers from the holes in the mottled green and yellow mask, in this man with his settled enmity, his mocking composure, he saw testified all the hatred, scorn and malice that had opposed his life-work.
“Begone!” he said sternly, “and disturb me not.”
The stranger gave him a disdainful salutation and flung up his graceful head.
“Back to your cell, and pray the people in whom you trust keep faithful!” he cried lightly.
“Two thousand crowns to-day for the head of Piero de’ Medici–how much in a year’s time for thine, O Friar, when Alessandro Borgia cries you excommunicate?”
Frà Girolamo stepped away and his dark eyes lifted to the evening sky.
“The Pope is a broken tool, a vile trader in holy things,” he answered with great dignity. “And in Florence, where I am beloved, his authority is worth nothing; here the voice of God alone is strong.”
“And the voice of the People,” returned the stranger mockingly; and with a low, insulting laugh he moved slowly away and was soon lost in the shadows.
Girolamo Savonarola gazed after him a moment, then proceeded on his way, a strange excitement throbbing in his veins and before his eyes a mistiness of familiar objects, as if an unnatural darkness had fallen.
He walked for a while in this manner, meeting no one, marvelling at the curious emptiness of the city and the increasing blackness; everything seemed strange and unusual. He thought he should have reached his Convent by now, but instead found himself traversing dark, empty streets that were those of Florence yet unknown to him. He turned to retrace his steps, but was like one groping in the labyrinth, roads and houses crossed and recrossed, and he wandered confused. Nowhere was there any light, in either window or in the heaven; he had lost sight of the Duomo and the star above it; as if the Plague had crept through the city was the silence and the loneliness.
Then out of the empty hush came the sound as of harsh wings beating together, and a voice cried strongly–
“Girolamo Savonarola!”
The Friar cast up his eyes to the blinding mist and answered–
“I am here!”
And the voice made reply–
“Come thou and see how the people of Florence love thee!”
With great rejoicing he said, “I come!”
Forward he pressed through the obscurity, and the darkness began to be tinged with red and dispelled as from the spreading glow of flames, and as Frà Girolamo hastened on he found himself suddenly on the Piazza again, standing apart from a vast crowd that was dancing and singing about a huge fire that lit the whole black sky and stained the blank buildings with a lurid colour.
And the voice said, very low and in the Friar’s ear–
“These are the people who sang the songs of Lorenzo de’ Medici, the people who burnt the vanities. Behold what task they perform now!”
Frà Girolamo looked and saw that the crowd was very brilliantly dressed, that the women wore jewels and paints, the men fine silks and rich weapons, and that they danced in a mad profane style; many were masked and all wreathed with flowers, and the heavy scents they were anointed with hung in the thick air; nor did they sing hymns, but the wanton carnival songs of Lorenzo de’ Medici.
And in the midst of their reckless rejoicing flared and blazed the vivid devouring flames,soaring one above the other until they far overtopped the dark palace; the deep crimson glow of them picked out from the darkness the painted, leering faces, the evil masks, the leaping, dancing, abandoned forms.
“This is not Florence,” murmured the Friar.
“This is Florence,” came the answer. “And these are the people–thy people—”
Frà Girolamo felt a hand on his shoulder, and withdrawing his horrified eyes from the devilish crowd, saw at his side the tall figure of the stranger who had accosted him before the hospital.
“Look closer,” he urged. “Look closer. What vain things do they burn now? Not cards, lutes and paintings. Look closer.”
The Friar again gazed at the Piazza, and this time discerned above the flames the outline of a huge gallows from which depended several bodies, hung by the necks, and the blood of these men rained down on to the fire, for the crowd with jeering and laughter threw stones at them that broke their flesh.
“They wear monks’ habits,” said Frà Girolamo, and he strained forward.
At this moment the fire consumed the rope holding one of the victims, and as the crowd gave a shout of rejoicing he fell into the white heat of the fire. In that second the Friar had caught sight of the face; it was the dead tortured countenance of his beloved disciple, Frà Domenico. He gave a cry of anguish, and would have thrown himself into the crowd, but the tall stranger held him back.
And now his maddened eyes noticed a man in scarlet and purple, mounted on a white mule, who rode round the edge of the pyre and urged on the crowd with ribald triumph. This man was old, and wore a triple crown; and at his bridle were two younger men, like him in the face–horribly beautiful, wearing extravagant garments.
“Alessandro Borgia,” said the stranger in the Friar’s ear, “and his two sons, Francesco and Cesare.”
Frà Girolamo tried to speak, but his tongue refused to move.
“Look again,” urged the voice, low, insistent and mocking.
The Friar gazed up through the smoke and flame, and in the horrid blaze saw another figure dangle at the rope’s end, then drop; again, in the instant’s downward fall he saw the face–livid and despairing.
This time his own. His–face and figure.
“See how the people of Florence burn Girolamo Savonarola!” cried the stranger. “These people who wept to hear you preach in the Duomo!”
Frà Girolamo fell back a step and raised a shuddering hand to shut out the awful fire.
The other flung back his mantle, and the great glow of the fire caught the embroideries on the gay dress hitherto concealed beneath.
“You dethroned the Medici,” he said; “these,”–he pointed to the crowd–“will dethrone you.”
Soft blackness rose up, choking the bright flames, blotting out the shouting people, the dim outline of the buildings swirling round the feet of Frà Girolamo and mounting to his eyes. He cast himself on his knees and seemed to sink forward on nothingness; his senses broke and forsook him; he flung out his hands and made an effort to hurl off the darkness as if it were a mantle tossed over his head; he felt his knees strike stone, the blackness rent, tore, lifted and disappeared; he found himself lying up the hospital steps; before him the low wall, the cypress tree, the laurel branches; beyond, the darkening pure sky. And beside him the tall stranger staring at him through the holes of his hideous mask.
The Friar staggered to his feet.
“I have had a vision,” he said under his breath. “Methought you were my guide. Who are you?”
The other tore off the mask, snapping the orange ribbons that bound it to his head, and disclosing a superb face framed in clusters of brown curls, flushed with crimson.
“I am Piero!” he cried. “I am the Medici! And after the burning of Girolamo Savonarola I shall rule again in Florence!”
“Then it was no vision,” answered Frà Girolamo, “but a Devil’s fantasy—”
“A fantasy,” said Piero; “but you shall test its truth.”
The Friar leant against the wall of the hospital and closed his eyes to shut out the picture of the wicked face and red eyes he had last seen with that same smiling expression casting hate on him from beside the death-bed of Lorenzo the Magnificent.
“Lord! Lord!” he cried strongly. “Save me from the snares and delusions of evil!”
Now he opened his eyes and saw about him his own cell in St. Mark, and he lay on his bed, and beside him sat his beloved disciple, Frà Domenico, and he shuddered as one waking from a terrible dream.
“How got I here from the Piazza?” he asked, sitting up. And they told him that a faintness had come over him as would often happen in the pulpit, and that so insensible he had been brought to the Convent.
“Truly,” said Frà Domenico, with love beaming in his eyes, “this was the day of your glory–for all the vanities in Florence were burnt to ashes–yes, even to nothingness was all that wantonness reduced.”
Girolamo Savonarola looked at Frà Domenico, then at his own body.
“To ashes, to nothingness!” he murmured. “Oh, God, make the spirit strong!”
The disciple asked tenderly–
“Father, what troubled you?”
Frà Girolamo made the sign of the cross and replied with a sweet composure–
“Nought–but in the crowd methought that I did see–Piero de’ Medici.”
Madame la Comtesse du Barry