The most successful men in life are usually those who, by experience or by instinct, have learned to calculate other people's actions. It is not invariably so, although, at first sight, such ought naturally to be the result. If a man knows and sees all the paths around him clearly, surely he ought to be able to choose that which will lead him to the end he has in view.
But we always forget one element in our calculation of others, namely, self. We omit it altogether, or we do not give it its just value. Yet what an important element it is! We may know--we may calculate, in general or in detail, what will be the course in which each man's mind will lead him; but if we know not ourselves, we can never direct the results; for, take away the main-spring from the watch, and the cogs and wheels are idle.
However that may be, Antonio was one of the keenest and most clear-sighted men at that time in Italy, although his fortunes were still humble, and his prospects not very brilliant. It required no very deep consideration to show a man of his character that Lorenzo would be at his quarters almost as soon as himself. He therefore walked quickly, and had not waited five minutes before his young lord was in the room.
"I wish to Heaven I could help bantering," thought Antonio, as he sat expecting every minute to hear Lorenzo's foot on the stairs; "it is as well to be serious sometimes; but, on my life, the more one lives in this world the less one thinks there is anything serious in it. It is all one great farce from beginning to end, and the only people who cannot look upon it as a joke are infants who have skewers stuck into them by their nurses, men who are going to be broken on the wheel, and young lovers. These are the folks, especially the last, who cannot understand a joke. But here he comes; I must try to be grave."
"Now, Antonio," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "let me hear all about your journey;" and then he added with that sort of dalliance with the desired subject which youth and love are wont to show, "How long were you in getting to Florence?"
"Upon my soul, my lord, I cannot tell," replied Antonio, "unless I were to stay to calculate how many inns I stopped at, how many times my horse cast a shoe, and how often I had to go round to get out of the way of some wild beast or another. But I got there as fast as I could, be sure of that; and even then I was disappointed, for when I got to Madonna Francesca's house I found everything shut up, and nothing but an old custode so deaf that he could not distinguish between Francesca and Ghibellina, for he told me that was the street when I asked for his mistress. I made him comprehend at last by signs, and I then found out that the whole family, servants, pages, etc., had all gone to the villa on the Bolognese road to spend the summer. There, of course, I had to go; but I put it off from the grey of the night, as it then was, till the grey of the next morning; and a fine old place it is. Don't you recollect it, signor, when we were in Florence long ago? just up in the chestnut woods on the second slope of the mountains."
Lorenzo shook his head. "Well," continued Antonio, "it is somewhat like that villa you admired close by Urbino, half castle, half palace. On one side it looks as gloomy as a prison, and on the other as gay and light as a fire-fly; and it has such a beautiful view all over the Val d'Arno, running up to San Miniato, and taking in Heaven knows how much of the country over the hills!"
"Well, well," said Lorenzo, impatiently, "I trust I shall see it ere long."
"Well, my lord, I put up my horse," continued Antonio, "and asked among the servants for the signora. All the people recollected me, and I found she had a habit of sitting out in the garden in the early morning, just as she used to do at the Villa Rovera, which shows how people can be mistaken, for I thought she would have given up that custom when there was no person to sit with her; but they said she would sit there and think for hours."
Lorenzo smiled, for he thought that he knew of whom she was thinking, and he remembered that, even in the bustle of the march, he had passed many an hour sitting listlessly on his horse, thinking of her.
"Well, I did not find her very easily, my lord," continued Antonio, "for it is a curious labyrinth of a place--villa, and gardens, and all--but a last I caught sight of something like a white robe just in the shade of a tall old cypress tree. The beautiful lady was very flattering to me; and I am a personable sort of a man, I believe, not easily to be forgotten when once seen. But she remembered me in a minute, and started up and ran forward to meet me, crying out, 'What news--what news, Antonio? Is he safe--is he well?' Then she gave me her hand to kiss, and I kissed it, and put your letter into it, and then she kissed the letter; but it was a hypocritical kiss, that, for she tore it the next minute in a very barbarous manner, in order to get at the inside. Then she kissed it again and read it. Then she read it again, and she did not speak a word for nearly half an hour, but went back and picked out little bits of the letter, just as a child picks the nice bits out of a pie."
"Out upon you, Antonio!" cried Lorenzo; "here the dear girl has been showing all the warm feelings of her heart only for you to laugh at."
"Indeed, I was more like to cry, for she herself cried in the end, and the tears flowed over the long black lashes and fell upon the letter, and had I been a crying person, I must fain have wept to keep her company. It is very funny, my lord, that people cry when they are extremely happy, for I am quite certain that Donna Leonora was not crying for sorrow then, and yet she cried as if her eyes were fountains of diamonds; and then she wiped them with her kerchief, and turned away her head and laughed, and said, 'This is very foolish, Antonio, but I have been dreaming of this letter's coming so long, and now it is so much sweeter than I thought it would be, that--' and then she forgot what she was going to say, or perhaps she never intended to say anything more; but I understand very well what she meant, for all that."
Antonio paused, but Lorenzo was not yet half satisfied. He taxed the man's memory to the utmost. I am not sure he did not tax his imagination also to tell him every word, and to describe every look of Leonora. Then he made him speak of the villa; and there Antonio was quite at home, for, during the three days he had stayed, nothing had escaped his attention. He knew every corner in the house, and every walk or terrace in the gardens; and a strange, wild, rambling place it must have been, the manifold intricacies of which spoke but too plainly the terrible and lawless times which existed at the time of its construction, and which, alas! existed still.
The ruins may still be seen upon the slope of the Apennines, and many a passage and chamber may be found lighted only by the rays which can find their way through a thin plate of marble undistinguishable on the outside from the wall or rock. The light thus afforded, be it remarked, though dim, and at first hardly sufficient to guide the footsteps, is mild and pleasant, and the eye soon becomes accustomed to it.
Mona Francesca and sweet Leonora d'Orco have passed away; the walls have crumbled, and in many parts fallen; on base, and capital, and fluted column wild weeds and tangling briers have rooted themselves, but a short, smooth turf, dotted with the deep-blue gentia, leads from the high road to the villa; and where several terraces once cut upon the side of the hill, may still be traced, and over which the feet of Leonora once daily walked, a thick covering of short myrtle, with its snowy stars, has sprung up, as if fragrance and beauty rose from her very tread.
Antonio described the place as it then was, and the young lover fancied he could see the first, dearest object of his ardent nature wandering amid the cypresses which led in along avenue from the villa to the convent higher up the hill, or seated upon the terrace looking toward Naples and counting, with the painful longing which he felt in his own heart, the long hours which had to elapse ere they could meet again.
It seemed as if Antonio's eyes could look into his heart, for just at the moment when that longing had reached its highest point, he said quietly, "I wonder, my lord, that you do not quit this French service and court, and here, in our own beautiful Italy, spend the rest of your days, when you have here large estates, and the loveliest and sweetest lady in all the world ready to give you her hand for the asking. On my life, I would take the cup of happiness when it is full. Heaven knows, if you let it pass, how empty it may be when it comes round again, if ever."
Wise, wise Antonio! you have learned early the truth of the words of your old patron,
"Chi voul esser lieto sia.Di doman non c'e certezza."
"Chi voul esser lieto sia.Di doman non c'e certezza."
Lorenzo remained silent and thoughtful, and it must be owned the temptation was very strong; but he remained silent, as I have said, and the man went on. "What advantage can you, sir, gain from France? What tie binds you to follow a monarch engaged in the wildest enterprises that ever entered a vainglorious head!"
"Hush! hush! Antonio," said Visconti; "speak no ill of King Charles. Much leads me to follow him; many advantages can be reaped from France, and advantages which, for my Leonora's sake, I must not neglect. Have I not received from Charles's hands the order of chivalry? Have I not been led by him into the way of glory and renown? Has he not protected my youth, treated me with every kindness, advanced me even above those who are superior to me in all respects?
"And would you have me share in all the glorious and successful past of his career, and leave him at a moment when clouds are gathering in the sky, and danger and difficulty menace his future course? But even were I base enough to do so, where is security, peace, justice, tranquillity to be found in this unhappy land? Were I alone in life, without bond of love, or the happiness of any other depending upon me, I might, indeed, cast myself into the struggling elements now at work in Italy--I might venture all to serve or save my country. But Leonora, what would become of her? France may meet with a reverse or a misfortune, but it can only be for a time. There is peace and security for her I love. Even here, under the banner of the king, is the only safety, the only hope of justice and security. I must not abandon one who can and will give aid and protection to all who serve him faithfully."
"But suppose this king were to die," said Antonio, "where would be your security then?"
"Founded more strongly than ever," answered Lorenzo; "the Duke of Orleans is more nearly related to me than King Charles, and I have always stood high in his favour. But there is no chance of King Charles dying. He is young, healthy, and destined, I trust, to a long life and a long reign. The thought would be far more pleasant to me to take my Leonora into France, where, safe from all the dangers of this beautiful and beloved but distracted land, she might spend her days in security and peace, than to remain with her here, were all the highest prizes of ambition ready to fall into my hand. No, no, Antonio, I must not dream of such things. My lot is cast with that of the King of France, at least for the present. Perchance, ere long, the opportunity may occur of bearing my Leonora away to other lands. I cannot form plans, I cannot even judge of probabilities, where all is uncertainty and confusion; but through the mists of the present and the darkness of the future twinkles still a star of hope, which will guide us home at last, I trust. Now go and get rest and food, Antonio. I have taxed your patience; but you would forgive me if you knew what had been the anxieties of the last few weeks and the relief of this day."
Antonio left him, and Lorenzo turned to Leonora's letter again. As he read he kissed the lines her hand had traced again and again; but they must have a place alone, as showing the character of her who wrote better than any words of mine could do.
LETTER OF LEONORA D'ORCO TO LORENZO VISCONTI.
"It has come--it has come! Oh, yes, it has come at length. Dear Lorenzo, my own Lorenzo, forgive me if I am wild with joy. How I have longed, how I have looked for this letter! longed and looked, till hope itself grew very like despair! and yet what a fool I was to expect it sooner. You would not write till you reached Naples. I knew it well; you told me so. But what a time has it seemed! Oh, those three months between the day of your departure and the day when you wrote--threeshortmonths, people would say; three long ages to me--how slowly, how heavily have they passed away!
"I believe the sun has shone and the sky been clear, and winter has gone and spring has come again, and the earth, grown weary of having no flowers, is putting out blossoms on every spray, and sprinkling the ground with gems; but every day has been a day of mist and darkness to me, a night of fear and dread.
"Consider that I knew nought of your fate--that in every siege or battle that took place my whole hopes, my whole happiness was perilled upon each stroke that fell. I could bear it, dear Lorenzo, if I were near. I could ride with you through the thickest of the fight; no weak terror, no idle cautions should keep you back, or distract your mind, or bate your daring, or paralyse your arm, were I but near to bathe your brow, or pillow your head, or soothe your pain, if you came back sick and wounded. But you were alone, with none but menials near you. In the hour of anguish or of death there was no Leonora to console, to comfort, to tend you, and, at the last, to go hand in hand with you on high, and be your sister in a better world. This is what gave poignancy to all the sorrows of absence.
"But why should I plead my cause with you as if you would blame my terror; or think hardly of the anxieties I have felt? I know you can understand them--I know you can sympathise with them. Yes, yes, you have been apprehensive and anxious for me--I see it in every line of your letter--for me, whose days have passed without event or incident, without danger and without fear.
"Oh, my beloved, what can be more wearisome, what can be more full of dark, dull dread than those still, eventless days, when, like a prisoner in his solitary cell, our soul sits expecting the blow of fate.
"But it has come--the dear assuaging letter has come to tell me that you are safe, that you are well, that you love me still, that your heart yearns for our meeting. It was long upon its way; but I, do believe poor Antonio brought it as fast as he could. I think he knew how I longed for its coming--how I longed for yours.
"Oh, how I long for it still, my Lorenzo; and yet there is a pleasure in having to write. I can tell you on this page--I can dare to own to you more than I could by spoken words. This paper cannot see my cheek glow, nor, though cold and unsympathetic as the world, can it smile coldly at feelings it cannot comprehend. Oh yes, there are many hundred miles between us, and I dare pour out my whole heart to you. I dare tell you how much I love you; how you have become part of my happiness--of my being; how my existence is wrapped up in yours.
"When I think of that long journey together--of that journey which your noble nature made safe for me, and oh! how happy too, I thank Heaven, which has made me know a man whom I can reverence as well as love.
"Even as I write, the memory of those sweet days comes back, every act, every word, every look is remembered. The tones that were music to me, the look that was light, are present to my eye and ear; my head upon your bosom; your eyes look into mine, and the burning kisses go thrilling through my veins into my heart.
"Oh come soon, Lorenzo, come and realize all our dreams; blot out this long period of anxious absence from my memory, or only leave it as a dark contrast to our bright joy. I can part with you no more, my beloved; I must go with you where you go. Nothing now opposes our union; you say my father's consent is given. Let me have the right to be with you everywhere, whether in the city or the camp. Let me be your companion, your friend, your consolation, and you shall be my guide, my protector, my husband.
"How wildly, how madly I write! some would say how unwomanly. Let them say what they please. They who blame have never loved as we have loved--have never trusted as we trust; or else they have never known you, and cannot comprehend how worthy you are of seeing a clear picture of Leonora's heart, how little capable of misinterpreting one word she writes, or abusing one feeling which you yourself have inspired.
"Perhaps, were you here, I could not tell you all this; my tongue might hesitate, my voice might fail me, but the same sensations would be within, and the words, unspoken, would be written in my heart.
"It is hard to come forth from our own separate world, and speak of the things of the common, every-day life. Indeed, I have nothing to tell, for I have lived in my own dear world ever since you left me; but one thing I must mention. Tell the Marquis de Vitry that I have heard from my dear cousin Blanche Marie, and she wishes to know if he wears her glove still, and what fortune it has found. She says, if he has not forgotten her, and any couriers pass by Pavia, she would fain hear of his health.
"This is the way in which I ought to write to you, I suppose, Lorenzo; but I cannot do so; and yet, Heaven bless the dear girl, and grant that her union with De Vitry may be as happy as ours. She well deserves as much happiness as can be found on earth, for she has ever preferred others to herself. I almost feel selfish when I compare myself with her, and consider how completely your love has absorbed every thought and feeling of your
Leonora."
"From this, sire, I am of opinion," continued the Cardinal Bishop of St. Malo, after having given a long exposition of his views in regard to the state of Italy, "that it would be wise for your Majesty to send some high dignitary of the Church to confer with the pope, and endeavour to detach him from the League, of which people speak so much, and of which Monsieur de Commines is so much afraid. His Holiness can hardly be supposed to be sincerely attached to it, and will doubtless yield to some slight inducements. At the same time, I will send messengers to Monsieur de Commines, instructing him to negotiate with the Venetians concerning a commercial treaty and a guarantee of the coasts of Italy against the invasion of the Turks. There is nothing, to my eye, very formidable in the treaty between the Italian powers, which was fairly and openly published at the Vatican, and in which his Majesty was invited to take part. It is not usual for monarchs to be asked to fight against themselves, and I cannot but believe that the objects of the confederation have been plainly and candidly stated, notwithstanding the terrors of Monsieur de Commines, who has now somewhat of the timidity of age about him."
The prelate looked round the council-board, at which were seated some of the most distinguished soldiers of France, and it was evident, from the self-satisfied features of his countenance, that he thought he had made a very effectual and convincing speech. He was destined to be much disappointed, however; for, though Montpensier and several others held their tongues, a somewhat sarcastic smile curled the lips of the old soldiers, and La Tremouille probably spoke the universal sentiment, though in rather an abrupt and discourteous way.
"There spoke a priest," he said, "my lord the king; this is a council of war, I think, and though I could not probably celebrate mass as well as monseigneur here can cook a ragout, yet I think I know somewhat more of war than he does, and perhaps as much of policy. Commines is not alarmed without cause.
"Put by paltering with naked facts, and you will find the case to stand thus: The most formidable league, probably, that ever was formed against a King of France, has been entered into by the Venetians, the Duke of Lombardy, all the petty princes of the North of Italy, the King of Spain, the Emperor of Germany, and the King of the Romans. All these are jealous of your Majesty's conquest of Naples, and the pope, knowing that he has given you good cause of offence, hates you because he has done you wrong, has broken his treaty with you, and fulfilled not one single promise that he made, except giving cardinals' hats to the Bishop of St. Malo and the Archbishop of Rouen. He also has joined the league against you. There is one plain fact.
"Now for another, sire. Your enemies are in an active state of preparation. The Venetians have levied large forces, both of men-at-arms, of infantry, and of light Albanian cavalry. These Stradiotes are scouring all Lombardy. The Duke of Milan alone has a force in the field superior in numbers to any your Majesty can bring against him. The houses of Este and Gonzaga are both in arms; the fleets of Genoa and Venice are both upon the sea to cut off your reinforcements, and the King of Spain is hurrying his preparations, not alone to bar your passage into France, but to attack your French dominions.
"Now, sire, it does not behove the high officers of your Majesty's crown and army to risk the perdition of their monarch for an old woman's tale or a churchman's delays. What is the advice we are bound to give you? To remain here shut up in this remote corner of Italy till your enemies gather strength every day, attack you on all sides, and sweep us up, as one of these Neapolitan fishermen sweeps up the fish in his net? Certainly not. The only course, then, is for you to return to France. Can you return by sea? It is impossible; we have no ships at hand to carry us, and if we had, there are superior fleets upon the water. By land, then, is the only way--I was going to say--still open, but I can hardly say that, for De Vitry here tells me that troops are gathering fast upon the Taro. But they are not yet in sufficient numbers to be of much account."
"But, Monsieur de la Tremouille," said the king, interrupting him, "would you have me abandon Naples, after all it has cost us to acquire it?"
"That does not follow, sire," replied La Tremouille; "You can garrison the principal strong places of this kingdom, and then, with the rest of the army, march, lance in hand, to the frontier of France. I will undertake, upon my head, that we cut our way through if we set out at once; if we delay, God only knows what will be the result. Our junction once effected with the Duke of Orleans, we have nothing more to fear, and may then either turn upon this Ludovic the Moor and chastise his many crimes, or gathering fresh forces in France, return to Naples, and set all our enemies at defiance. This is my advice. I know not what is the opinion of the other lords here present."
"I go with my good cousin, sire," said Montpensier: "and if it be needful, and your Majesty so commands, I am ready to remain here in Naples, and do my best to keep the kingdom for you till you can return yourself or send me reinforcements."
Every member of the council, with the exception of the bitterly-mortified Cardinal of St. Malo, concurred in the views of La Tremouille.
Charles still hesitated, and ended by endeavouring to combine the advice of his minister with that of his generals. He gave orders to prepare for immediate departure, and sent prelates to the pope, and letters to his ambassador at Venice. The appearance of the first in Rome served to warn Alexander to fly from the approach of the French army; the receipt of the latter in Venice only served to hasten the preparations of the Venetians to oppose the king's passage. But still with some vacillation of purpose, before the council rose he questioned De Vitry as to the nature and source of the intelligence he had received regarding the concentration of troops upon the Taro.
"I have got the man here without, sire," replied De Vitry; "shall I call him in, that your Majesty may examine him yourself?"
The king bowed his head, and a moment after Antonio was in his presence. The scene was somewhat imposing, for all the greatest men of France--those who had served their country--those who had made themselves a name in history, were present round that council-board; but I fear, Antonio's was not a very reverent nature. It was not alone that he had but small respect for dignities, but that he had as little for what are generally considered great actions. Doughty deeds were to him but splendid follies; and he felt more reverence in the presence of a woman suckling her babe than he would have felt for Cæsar in his hour of triumph. If he was a philosopher, it was certainly of the school of the cynics.
On the present occasion he appeared before the King of France with perfect unconcern; perhaps there was a little vanity in it, for he argued, "They may know more about some things, but my mother-wit is as good as theirs, and may be better. Why should I stand in awe of men, many of whom are inferior to myself, and few superior?"
"Well, sir, tell what you know of this matter," said the king, taking it for granted that De Vitry had told him why he was brought within.
"Of what matter, sire?" asked Antonio; "I know a good deal of several matters."
"I mean of what is taking place beyond the mountains," said the king. "I thought Monsieur De Vitry had explained."
"He merely told me to come to your Majesty's presence," replied Antonio. "As to what is taking place beyond the mountains, sire, there are many things I wish were not. It is now the month of May, and the prospects of the harvest are but poor. There is plenty of it, but the crop is likely to be bad--spears and bucklers instead of wheat and furrows, sire, and blood and tears instead of gentle rain and light airs."
"Be more precise, sirrah," said the Cardinal of St. Malo, sharply; "we want facts, and not any more moralizing."
"Heaven forbid that I should moralize in your Eminence's presence," replied Antonio, with great gravity; "but if his Majesty wishes to know what I saw on my journey from this place to Florence and back again, I will deliver it at large."
"Pray spare yourself that trouble," said De Vitry, interposing; "merely tell, and that as briefly as possible, my good friend, what you told me just now about the state of the country, especially on the other side of the Apennines."
"Why, my lord, the people are arming all through Romagna and the Papal States," replied Antonio. "I have never seen such an arming in Italy before. There is not a small baron or a vicar of the Church who is not getting men together; and had it been know I was in the French service, I could not have passed; from which I argue that all this preparation bodes no good to France. Then, as to the other side of the mountains, I saw nothing with my own eyes. But I heard from a muleteer, who had been plundered of his packs by the Albanians, that about Fornovo and Badia there is a Venetian force of several thousand men--a thousand lances, he said, at the least, besides foot-soldiers, and that the Stradiotes were scouring the country right and left, and bringing in food and fodder to a camp they are forming near Badia on the Taro. Another told me that on the road near Placenza he had passed a force of some five thousand men marching towards the mountains; and the report ran that his Highness of Orleans had been stopped near Novara by a superior army and forced to throw himself into that place."
"That accounts for there being no letter, sire," said La Tremouille.
"He surely could have found means of sending us intelligence," said Charles; "it is always customary, I believe, my lords, to send more couriers than one, and by different routes."
"No French courier could pass, sire," said Antonio; "there are barriers across the whole of Italy, whose sole business is to cut off all communication between your Majesty and your French dominions."
"Then how did you pass?" exclaimed the king, somewhat irritated by the man's boldness.
"Because I can be a Frenchman when I like and an Italian when I like, may it please your Majesty," replied Antonio; "this time I thought fit to be an Italian, and that saved me."
"I would fain have the man asked," said La Tremouille, "if he knows by whom those bands are commanded, led, or instigated."
"I know nothing but by common report," replied Antonio, "and she is a stumbling jade upon whom it is not well to rest weighty matters. However, she sometimes stumbles right, and the general rumour throughout the whole country was that his Eminence the Cardinal Cæsar Borgia was at the bottom of the whole. Certain it is that the men who stopped and robbed the muleteer professed themselves to be his soldiers."
"I cannot believe it," said the king; "he was wrong in leaving our camp it is true, when he had voluntarily surrendered himself as a hostage, but in all our communications he showed reverence for the crown of France, and professed respect and affection for our person."
A slight smile came upon the lips of several of the counsellors, who had learned by experience the difference between professions and realities, but no one ventured to assail the king's opinion, and shortly after Antonio was dismissed; but it was only to give place to the king's provost, who came to report very unmistakable signs of mutiny and sedition in the city of Naples itself. From his account it appeared that even those who had been most discontented with the Arragonese princes, and had greeted most warmly the entrance of Charles into Naples, longed for the restoration of the old dynasty, and were, step by step, advancing towards revolt.
"They are an ungrateful people," said Charles; "have I not freed them from taxes and burdens insupportable?"
"Yes, sire," replied bluff La Tremouille; "but I must say in their favour that ifyouhave freed them, some of our good friends have burdened them sufficiently. In fact, your Majesty, it has been but a change in the nature, not in the weight of the load, and the old story goes, if I recollect right, that the ass who carried the gold, found his pack quite as heavy as the ass who carried the hay."
"You are somewhat bold," replied the king, with a frowning brow.
"I am, sire," replied the undaunted soldier; "perhaps too bold, and I can crave your pardon on the plea that I am rendered bold by my zeal for your Majesty's service. The people of the whole kingdom we know to be discontented at the end of three short months. Now, as your Majesty has shown yourself full of the kindest and most liberal feelings towards them, this discontent can only be produced by the exactions and peculations of inferior persons. I mention it now, whatever it may produce, because I sincerely hope and trust that Naples may ever remain a dependency of the French crown; and it will be necessary that these things be examined into very closely, in order that the country may be rendered a willing and attached dependency, rather than a hot-bed of mutiny and discontent--a sore in the side of France."
"You mean well, I know," said the king, rising; "let all preparations be made with speed to commence our march at the earliest possible day. Montpensier, we will confer with you privately on the defence and maintenance of the kingdom at the hour of noon--that is to say," he continued, with a faint smile, "if you can contrive to rise so early in the morning."
Thus saying, Charles quitted the council chamber with a sad feeling of the weight and difficulty, the care and anxiety, the duty and responsibility of a crown.
I am about to quote from another who knew well the facts he recorded. His name matters not, but the whole is a translation, upon my word. "The king had remaining nine hundred men-at-arms, comprising his household troops, two thousand five hundred Swiss, two thousand of the French infantry, and about fifteen hundred men fit to bear arms that followed the army. These troops formed a body of nine thousand combatants at the utmost, with whom he had to cross all Italy.
"This small army was not yet out of Naples when Ferdinand had effected his landing on the coast of Calabria, at the head of some Spanish troops. Charles began his march on the 20th day of May, not long after his coronation. He met with no impediment on his march to Rome, from which city the pope had fled. He passed through it, strengthened himself by the reinforcements collected from various garrisons which he had left in the strong places of the ecclesiastical states, and sacked the small town of Toscanella, which refused to receive his troops."
So far my author; but after quitting Rome, whither did Charles direct his march? First to Viterbo, thence to Sienna, and from Sienna to Pisa. Was he bending his steps to Florence? Was the long-looked-for hour coming quick to Lorenzo Visconti? Poor youth! he could not tell. His heart beat when he thought of it. He formed eager and passionate plans--he dreamed dreams of joy. He would press Leonora to an immediate union; he would carry her with him to France; he would take her to the sweet banks of the Loire, and in that old chateau he so much loved he would see melt away at least some few of those bright days of youth which God made for happiness. Oh! the cup and the lip--the cup and the lip! How short the span that will contain many and momentous events!
The army arrived at Pisa, and every one asked his neighbour what was the direction of the next day's march. No one could tell. The morning broke, and no orders were given. The citizens of Pisa rejoiced, provided for the French soldiers as if they had been brothers, rivalled each other in showing kindness and courtesy, and lost no means in testifying that gratitude which they might well feel, or of conciliating that friendship which had already proved so valuable.
The King of France busied himself with their affairs, endeavoured to moderate between them and the Florentines, and enjoyed all the pleasures of that city in the fairest period of the year; but though every day increased his peril, he spoke not of the forward march, and never hinted an intention of visiting Florence ere his departure from Italy.
At length Lorenzo could endure suspense no longer, and craved permission to absent himself for a few days.
"They must be few indeed," said the king gravely. "If you can ride thither in one day and back in another, you can spend one day with your sweet lady, my good cousin. On the fourth we march forward for Pontremoli."
The time was very short, but still a day--an hour with Leonora was a boon not to be neglected. It was night when Lorenzo received the permission, and ere an hour was over he was on the way to Florence with a small train. The air was clear and calm, the moon was shining brightly, near the full, and the ghost-like, dreamy beauty of the white marble buildings harmonized with the lights that fell upon them. Oh fair Pisa! city of beauty, of sorrow, and of crime! Standing in thy streets and remembering thy past history, one knows not whether to admire, to grieve, or to abhor!
The word was given, the gates were opened, and the train passed out, not numerous enough for any military expedition, yet comprising too many men, and those too well armed, for any party of mere pleasure, except in days of war and peril. Then the country between Pisa and Florence was regarded as peaceful, as those days were; but peace was a mere name in the time I speak of, and it was well known that armed parties had ravaged the adjacent districts ever since the arrival of the King of France at Pisa.
Yet how calm and tranquil was the sky, how soft and soothing the early summer air, how melodiously peaceful the song of the choristers of the night, and even the voice of the cricket on the tree or the insects in the grass! The eternal warfare of earth and all earth's denizens seemed stilled as if the universal knell awaited the coming day.
Through scenes, oh, how fair! passed on Lorenzo and his train, twelve mounted men, fully equipped and armed, and half a dozen pages and servants, and as they rode, the same feelings--varied, but yet the same--were in the bosom of both leader and followers; a weariness of the turmoil and ever-irritating watchfulness of war, a sense of relief, a blessed sensation of repose in the quiet night's ride, and the peaceful moon, and sweet bird's song--a consciousness of calm, such as comes upon the seaman when the storm has blown out its fury, and the sky is clear, and the ocean smooth again.
The rudest man in all the train felt it, and all were silent as they rode, for few of them knew the sources of the emotions they experienced, fewer sought to analyse them, and only one was moved by passions which rendered the scenes and circumstances through which he passed accessories to the drama playing in his own heart. Lorenzo felt them all, it is true, but it was feeling without perception. The moonlight, and the trees, and the birds' song, and the glistening murmur of the river, all sank into his mind and became part of the dream in which he was living, and yet he remarked none of all these things distinctly, and gave every thought to Leonora.
"She will come with me," he thought, "she will surely come with me. What matters it that the time is short? It is not as if we were the mere acquaintances of a day. We have wandered half through Italy together; she has rested in my arms, and pillowed her head upon my bosom. She will never refuse to come, though there be but one day for decision and action. But then Mona Francesca, will she not oppose? She is one of those soft, considerate women of the world, who dress themselves at the world's eye, and regulate every look by rule. She cannot feel as we feel, and will think it easy for me to return a few months hence and claim my bride with all due ceremony--a few months, and a few months! Why life might slip away, and Leonora never be mine. The present only is ours in this fleeting world of change, and we must not let it fly from us unimproved. Yet Mona Francesca will certainly oppose. At all events, she will wish to consult some one, to shield herself under the opinions of others from the world's comments. On Leonora only can I rely, and on her must I rely alone. Here, Antonio, ride up beside me here: I wish to speak with you."
The man rode up, and Lorenzo questioned him much and often. He asked if there were not a church near the villa, and what he knew, if he knew anything, of the priest.
"There is a church some two miles off in the valley," said Antonio, "but I never saw the priest. The servants told me, however, he was a severe man, who exacted every due to the uttermost."
That was not the man for Lorenzo's purpose; and he paused and waited, and then propounded other questions, to which he received answers not much more satisfactory. At length Antonio exclaimed, with a laugh, "Tell me, my lord, what is it you want with a priest, and it shall go hard but your poor Antonio will find means to gratify you. You cannot want to confess, methinks, since you confessed last, or you must have sinned somewhat cunningly for me not to find you out."
"See here, Antonio," replied Lorenzo; "I must be back on the day after to-morrow at Pisa. Now, in a word, the Signora d'Orco must be mine ere I depart."
"Oh, then, my lord, take her home with you," said Antonio, with some feeling. "If your absence now has caused her such pain when you are but lovers, think how she would pine, poor lady, if you were so long absent from your wife."
"Such is my intention, Antonio," answered Lorenzo. "When I meet her again, I can part with her no more; but here is the difficulty: Mona Francesca will oppose our hasty union. It must, therefore, be private. Once mine by the bonds of the Church, and with her father's full consent, which I have in writing, no opposition can avail. She is mine beyond all power to separate us--she is mine, and for ever. Mona Francesca must perforce consent to her going with me to France, and, indeed, if she did not, her opposition would be vain."
"I wish you had brought more men with you, my lord," replied Antonio, "but that is neither here nor there. As we have begun, so we must go on. Then, next, as to a priest, which is now, I suppose, the all-important question. First, we must find one who is willing; next, we must find one who is sure; and, thirdly, we must find one who is dexterous. Give me but two hours, and I think I can make sure of the man. When I was telling you all about the Villa Morelli, I mentioned that there was a monastery just above, not a quarter of a mile up the mountain. You did not take much notice of what I said, for you did not know how serviceable it might be. Oh, my lord, you cannot imagine how useful convents and monasteries are on various occasions, nor what various sorts of men can be found within them. Now there are always many who have taken priest's orders, and in this monastery there is one, at least, qualified in every way to celebrate matrimony, or anything else you like. He is Madonna Francesca's director, and therefore must be a holy and devout man."
There was a slight touch of sarcasm in Antonio's tone, but that did not prevent Lorenzo from presenting the very reasonable objection that he was the last man who ought to be asked to perform the marriage ceremony of Mona Francesca's temporary ward without her knowledge and consent.
"My good lord is not much acquainted with priests and friars," said Antonio; "but just as certain as Monseigneur Breconnel steals the king's money just when his Majesty has most need of it himself, so will Fra Benevole marry you to the signora, and help to keep Madonna Francesca quiet and ignorant till all is over. Why, I have drunk more than one bottle with him; and for a sufficient sum--for the benefit of the monastery--always for the benefit of the monastery, you know--he will either give Mona Francesca such a penance for all the sins she has even wished to commit as will keep her in her own chamber all day, or he will drug her little cup of vino di Monte Capello, which she takes every morning, so as to make her sleep for four-and-twenty hours, or he will poison her outright and save you all further trouble about her, just as your lordship likes," and Antonio touched his cap with solemn irony.
"The two latter alternatives are rather too strong for my taste, Antonio," replied Lorenzo, "but the first will do well enough, if you can depend upon your boon companion."
"We can make him reliable, sir," said Antonio; "that depends entirely upon the ducats. Faith is a very good thing when it is of the right sort; but the only faith that is good is faith in God and the blessed Virgin. Faith in man must be tied with gold, and then it may hold fast. What am I to promise him if he perform the marriage ceremony, in the chapel of the villa, between you and the signorina some time to-morrow, and contrive the means?"
"Why, Cynic, he will demand the money in hand," said his young master. "Why should he trust to your faith if you will not trust to his?"
"We will both trust half way, my lord," replied Antonio, "and then it will be the interest of neither to deceive the other. If you please, we will give him half the money for his promise, and the other half after his performance. He shall have one moiety when he says he will do it; and the other when he gives you, under his own hand, the certificate of the marriage. What do you think he ought to have?"
"Whatever he asks," replied Lorenzo; "a couple of hundred ducats."
"Oh! the extravagance of youth!" exclaimed Antonio; "he would poniard his own father for a quarter of that sum. If I understand you right, I am to offer him anything he seeks under two hundred ducats."
"Nay, I placed not that limit absolutely, my good friend," answered the youth; "the truth is, Antonio, this marriage must take place at once. I will not leave my Leonora again, and now she can only go with me as my wife. Whatever he asks he must have. I have about five hundred ducats with me, and he can surely trust my word for more, should it be necessary."
"Heaven forgive us!" exclaimed Antonio; "you are almost blasphemous, sir, to suppose that a priest of the Catholic Church would set such a price upon matrimony when he charges so little for any other sin you please to mention. I will arrange the matter for you easily, now I know how far you will go. You have no mind, perhaps, to have any cardinal assassinated, or any rich lord put out of the way, for I dare say I could get it done gratis, as a sort of make-weight, when your lordship is so liberal about matrimony! But look upon that matter as all arranged. You have nothing to do but prepare the lady and obtain her consent, and I will let you know, within four hours after we arrive, the when, and the where, and the how."
"You have but a sad opinion of the clergy of your own country, my good Antonio," said Lorenzo, with a mind greatly relieved by his companion's promises.
"On my life, it is not of the clergy alone I have such a favourable opinion," replied Antonio, laughing; "from prince to peasant it is all the same thing, only the clergy have the best opportunities. Look at our friend Ludovic of Milan; look at your friend Cardinal Cæsar; pope, prince, lawyer, doctor, friar, it is all the same thing. We have got into a few trifling bad habits here in Italy, what between Guelphs and Ghibelines, popes and emperors. Those who dare not draw a sword, unsheath a dagger; and those who wish not to spill blood, because people say it leaves a mark behind it, use poison, which leaves none. Buondoni, who came near killing you, was, I do believe, one of the best of all the rascals in Italy. He was always ready to peril his own life, and rather preferred it. Why, he could have had you put out of the way by something dropped into a cup of wine or scattered on a bunch of grapes for half a sequin."
"What! in the Villa Rovera?" asked Lorenzo, in a tone of doubt.
"It might have been difficult there, it is true," replied Antonio, "and perhaps Ludovic was in a hurry; otherwise he would have had it performed, as they call it, anywhere on your journey, for less than it cost Buondoni to feed his horses on the road to Milan. Death is cheap here, my lord. But let us talk of business again. I had better lighten your purse at once of a hundred ducats, that I may be prepared when we arrive to go to early mass, which I can do safely, as I have nothing on my conscience but a small trifle of matrimony, which we are told is a holy state."
Lorenzo not only gave him readily the money he required, but would fain have pressed more upon him, for he was fearful even of the least impediment occurring to frustrate or delay the execution of his plan.
Throughout the livelong night he and Antonio continued to discuss every part and particular of the scheme they had devised; not, indeed, that there was anything more of importance to be said, but Lorenzo loved to dwell upon details which gave rise to happy thoughts, and Antonio had an amiable toleration for his master's passion.
Day dawned at length, and found the party of horsemen some five miles from the city of Florence; but their course was no longer to be pursued in that direction. Under the guidance of Antonio, they left the broad highway between Pisa and Florence, and began to ascend by a narrower and steeper path toward the villa they were seeking. It was a wild and somewhat savage region through which they now passed--beautiful, indeed, but stern in its beauty.
The sides of the Apennines in those days were covered with dense forests, which, long after, were cut down to take away their shelter from the robbers which infested them; and the oaks and chestnuts had even in some places encroached upon the road. In other spots, however, large masses of rock appeared; and in others, again, the path, having been cut along the side of the hill, displayed a grand view over the wide and beautiful valley of the Arno and the surrounding country. At the first of these gaps, where the open landscape presented itself, neither Lorenzo nor Antonio looked toward it, for both had matter of thought within which made them somewhat indifferent to external objects. They might have even passed the second and third without notice, but one of the soldiers who followed exclaimed, "That is a good large body of men, my lord."
"Ha!" cried Lorenzo, immediately turning his eyes to the open country. "Indeed it is, Parisot. There must be full five hundred spears."
"More than that, sir," replied the man; "but they are not coming our way."
"Nor going to Florence, either," remarked Antonio. "They are no Florentine troops, Monsieur Parisot."
"I do not know what they are," said the soldier, "but I know what they are not. They are not French troops, or you would see them in better order. Why, they are riding along like a flock of Sarcelles."
"Ay, I see," said Antonio; "not half the regularity of a flock of wild geese."
"Don't you think, my lord," continued Parisot, without remarking Antonio's quiet sneer at his boast of his countrymen's military array, "don't you think they look like one of those irregular bands which we sometimes saw in the Roman States? people said they were kept up by Cardinal Borgia. They go flying about just in the same way, shifting from flank to rear--now in line, now in hedge, and now in no order at all."
"They do look like them," said Lorenzo; "but I should hardly think the cardinal would venture his men so far as this."
"Oh, my lord, you cannot tell how far he will venture," said Antonio, "especially when he is only taking the dues of the Church. He and his holy father have a right to tithes, and those bands are merely sent out to collect a tenth of all the property in Italy. But what are they doing now? Some twenty of them have gone to that pretty little villa to get a draught of water, I warrant."
"Well, let us pass on," said Lorenzo; "they do not see us up here, or they might prove troublesome fellow-travellers."
But before he could move on beyond the break in the trees from which he had been observing the cavalry in the valley below, a thin white smoke rose up from the villa, and the detachment which had ridden up to it was seen retreating towards the main body of their comrades, who had paused upon the high road. The next moment a flash of flame mingled with the smoke, and then, from two of the windows, lines of fire were seen to extend along a verandah, probably of wood, which ran round three sides of the house. Another moment, and all was in flames, while indistinctly were seen several persons, apparently women, in the hands of the brutal soldiery.
Lorenzo shut his teeth close and rode on. He uttered not a word aloud, but he thought, "Oh that I had supreme power over this beautiful land, if but for a brief space of time, I would be a tyrant for the people's good--remorseless, cruel to all such fiends as these. But I would stop the crimes that make a hell of a paradise, or die."
The ascent seemed very long. Oh, how long the last portion of any journey seems when we are hastening to those we love! "Is it much farther, Antonio? is it much farther?" asked Lorenzo, repeatedly.
"Only a mile, my lord--only half a mile," replied the man. But the mile seemed a day's journey, the half mile a league.
At length the joyful words were heard, "We turn off here, signor." But still the chestnut woods hid the villa from sight; and though Lorenzo now pushed on his jaded horse fast along the more level ground they had reached, some more slow moments passed ere he came upon the smooth, free turf-ground, bedizened with flowers, which Antonio had described at the approach to the villa. It opened out at a turn of the road very suddenly, and the young knight was upon it ere he was aware. But in an instant he reined in his horse, and was still gazing forward with a look of dismay and anguish when his men came up.
There indeed stood the Villa Morelli--at least what was left of it. There were the old towers firm and perfect externally, though the windows were cracked and broken; but the more modern edifice which was turned towards the west for the purpose of catching the full influence of the most beautiful hour of Italy, with its light graceful architecture, its richly-ornamented windows, and fairy colonnade, where was it?
Parts still stood shattered and toppling over, as if about to fall the next moment; part lay in fragments upon the terrace, and part had fallen inward, crushing the luxurious halls and splendidly-furnished chambers, while here and there a wandering wreath of smoke, and even a creeping line of fire among scorched and broken beams, told by what agency the ruin had been produced.
Old men hardened in the petrifying experience of the world, and men of iron souls created and fashioned for the sterner things of life, may be brought suddenly into the presence of such scenes, may even have personal interest in them, without feeling more than a vague general sense of disgust and horror at those who have produced them, and the sorrow which is natural to the human mind in seeing fair things blighted, either by gradual decay or sudden accident. But Lorenzo Visconti was not one of those. There was a certain degree of firmness--even perhaps sternness in his character, it is true; but he was full of emotions, and sensitive, and very young.
There had dwelt his young bride when last he heard of her; there he had every reason to believe she had been dwelling peacefully within a few short hours. Is it wonderful that, besides all the terrible fears which rushed in an indistinct crowd through his head, a thousand wild thoughts should crowd upon his brain and seem to paralyse its functions.
Where was she now? What had become of her? Had she been carried off by the baud of ruthless marauders he had seen below? Was she buried in those dreadful ruins? These and a thousand other fearful questions were flooding his mind like the waves of a sea stirred by a hurricane.
All paused in awe-struck silence for a moment, and then Lorenzo struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on up the terrace even among the still hot fragments. "Ho! is there any one here?" he cried--"is there any one here? For the love of God, answer if there be! Ride round to the back, Antonio. Parisot, take that other way to the left. See if you can find any to answer. But be quick--be quick! there is no time to spare."
"But what would you do, my lord?" asked Antonio, in a sad tone.
"Pursue the villains to the gates of hell!" cried Lorenzo. "I will, I tell you! quick!"
More than once Lorenzo repeated the shout, "Ho! is there any one there?" while the men were absent, and sometimes he would think of sending some of the men down to a small peasant-house he saw about half a mile below, and then he would remember that he might need them all at a moment's notice; and often would he mutter words to himself, such as "They dare not resist a French pennon. What if they do? Then die. Better to die a thousand times than live to think of her in their hands."
The few minutes the men were absent passed thus as if in a dream; but at length Antonio re-appeared, bringing a man with him pressed tightly by the arm. It was a peasant of the middle age, who seemed somewhat unwilling to come where he was led, and was evidently afraid; but, if one might judge from the expression of his face, the dull, heavy look of despair, there was sorrow mingled with his fear.
"You need not hold me so hard, signor," he said, in the rich but somewhat rough Tuscan tongue; "I will come. I only ran from you because I thought you were a party of the band."
"Here!" cried Lorenzo, springing up to meet them; "tell me who has done this. What of the ladies who were here? Where are they? What has become of them? Speak, man, quick! I am half mad."
"Oh, signor, if you had seen your daughter carried away by ruffians you might be whole mad," answered the peasant, and his eyes gushed forth with tears.
"I am sorry for you from my heart," replied Lorenzo, in an altered tone; "yet, my good friend, give me any information in your power. My bride may be where your daughter is, and if so I will pursue them."
The man gave a hopeless, nay, almost a contemptuous look at the handful of men which followed the young lord.
"Never mind," said Lorenzo, well understanding what he meant; "only tell me what you know, and leave the rest to me."
"All I know is very little, signor," replied the man. "A little before daybreak, when it was just grey, I heard a great many horses go by my house yonder, coming this way, and, thinking it strange, I got up and looked after them. I then saw it was a great band of armed men. My heart misgave me, for my poor Judita was up here helping the people at the villa. As fast as I could I crept through the vines; but of course they were a long way before me, and I found that the way to the villa was guarded. I know not how long I stayed, for if it had been but a minute it would have seemed an hour, but I saw after awhile a bright light in the windows of that big old tower, and then the windows of the great new hall were all in a blaze. Everything had been silent till then--at least I could not hear anything where I lay hid by that big stone, covered with the old uva Sant Angelica--but just when the glare came in the windows, there were sounds made themselves heard--cries, and shrieks, and such noises as make men's hair stand on end. Then a whole party came hurrying out, with a fine, handsome man at their head--and he was laughing, too--who said to the first of those that followed, 'Put them on the horses and away. You are sure that fire has taken everywhere.' What the other answered I do not know, for just then I caught sight of the women they were dragging out."
"Who were they?" said Lorenzo, eagerly. "It must have been day by that time. You must have seen their faces."
"I saw no one but my daughter, signor," said the poor man, simply; and after a pause, he added, "and she was soon out of sight for ever. Her body will be in the Arno or the Mugnione to-morrow, and we shall be childless."
Lorenzo's head drooped, and for some moments he kept silence. There was an intensity of grief in the poor parent's tone which awed even his grief.
"Could you distinguish any of these men," he asked at length, "so as to know them again?"
"I saw nothing very clearly," replied the other--"nothing but Judita; only I know that one of the men called the other 'Monsignore.' He looked to me more like a devil than a cardinal, and yet he was a handsome man too."
"My lord, you can see the band from here," said one of Lorenzo's troop; they are taking the Pisa road. "They will fall in with our outposts, if they do not mind."
"Well, they must be followed, and, if possible, cut off," replied his lord, who had now recovered some presence of mind. "If they take their way toward Pisa we shall have them."
"Your pardon, my lord," said Antonio, "but will it not be better to go up to the monastery, and make inquiries there? Depend upon it, the good fathers did not stand looking on at the burning of the villa without marking all, if they did not do all they could. They had no daughters in the villa, and saw more than this poor man, depend upon it. Five minutes will take you thither. You can see one of the towers up yonder, just above the tree-tops."
"Well bethought," replied his lord; "we may, indeed, hear tidings there. But we must not lose sight of the enemy. Parisot, ride on to the verge of the rocks there. You can see them thence for ten miles, at least, I should think. Keep good watch upon them. All the rest stay here. I will be back speedily;" and, so saying, with Antonio for a guide, he rode on.