How much accident sometimes serves us--nay, how often our own follies and indiscretions lead us to better results than our wisdom and prudence could have attained!
"Conduct is fate," "Knowledge is power," are the favourite doctrines of those who believe they have conduct, or presume they have knowledge. Carried to the infinite, both axioms are true, but in every degree below the infinite they are false; and oh, how false with man! Every abstract, indeed, is often found to be a practical falsehood. The wisest and the best of men, from Socrates to Galileo, have, by the purest conduct, won the worst of fates; and power, either to do good or evil, slipped from the hands of Bacon just when he reached the acme of his knowledge. It seems as if God himself were pleased to rebuke continually the axioms of human vanity, and to show man that no conduct can overrule his will--no knowledge approach even to the steps of power.
It was unfortunate for Lorenzo that he had imprudently left all his men but Antonio below. There were two old monks sitting on the rocks just before the great gates of the monastery, and talking with each other earnestly. Both started and rose when they heard the sound of horses' feet; but as the place where they stood commanded a full view down the road, they could see at once that the party which approached was not formidable in point of numbers.
In troublous times men built their houses for defence as well as shelter, and the monks had found it necessary to use even as much precaution as their more mundane brethren. The monastery was well walled, and the rocks on which it stood were fortifications in themselves; but all the skill of the builder had been expended upon the great gates, which were assailable from the road leading directly to them. Two massy towers, however, one on either side, a portcullis with its herse ready to fall on the heads of any enemies who approached too near, a deep arch behind that, with loop-holes in the dark, shadowy sides, and machicolations above, and then two heavy iron-plated doors, gave sufficient defence against anything but cannon, which were not likely to be dragged up those heights.
One of the monks, as soon as he had satisfied himself of the number of the approaching party, seated himself again on the rock; the other retreated a few steps as if to re-enter the building, but stopped just under the portcullis.
"What seek you, my son?" said the first, as Lorenzo rode up and drew in his rein by his side. "We are in great trouble this morning, and the prior, though unwilling to stint our vowed hospitality, has commanded that no one be admitted."
"I came to seek intelligence regarding those most dear to me, father," replied Lorenzo; "there has been a terrible act committed at the Villa Morelli down below."
"Alas! alas!" said the old man, "a terrible act indeed."
The monk at the gate had by this time drawn nearer, and was looking steadfastly at Antonio. "Why, surely," he said, "I saw you at the villa some weeks ago with the ladies Francesca and Leonora."
"Assuredly," replied Antonio; "you came down seeking Brother Benevole, and stayed for an hour to hear of what was doing at Naples. It is those two ladies we are seeking. My young lord set out last night from Pisa, and we have travelled all night, for the purpose of visiting the Signora Leonora and Madonna Francesca, and when we arrive we find nothing but ruin and destruction."
"Alas! alas!" said the old monk who was seated on the rock, fixing a very keen, and Lorenzo thought a very meaning, look upon the other friar; "alas! alas! it is very terrible."
"But can you give me any information respecting these ladies, good fathers?" asked the young lord, somewhat impetuously. "If you knew how closely I am connected with them, you would comprehend what I would give for even the slightest information regarding them."
"Alas! we can give you none, my son," answered the old man; "can we, Brother Thomas? In the grey of the morning we were disturbed by the coming of that fiend in the shape of a man, and some of us ran out when they heard the cries and saw the flames, but the prior recalled us all by the bell, and made us shut the gates and keep quite close within till the man and his company was gone."
"Of whom are you speaking, father?" asked Lorenzo, abruptly. "Whom do you call 'the man' and 'that fiend'?"
"Do you not know?" exclaimed the monk. "I mean that demon, enemy of God and man, calling himself Cæsar, Cardinal of Borgia."
"He shall answer me for this, if it be in the Vatican!" said Lorenzo, setting his teeth hard. "Come, Antonio, I must follow these men, and may chance to bring those upon them who will take a bloody vengeance."
"Stay a moment, my lord," whispered Antonio; "there is more to be got here--there is some news, and it may be good news, lying hid somewhere. If they saw nothing but what the good monk says, how does he know it was Don Cæsar? Let me deal with him. Good Father Sylvester," he continued aloud----
"That is not my name, my son," said the monk upon the rock. "I am called Fra Nicolo, though sometimes men call me Fra Discreto."
"Well, good Father Nicolo, then," said Antonio, "my young lord here, Signor Lorenzo Visconti, Knight, proposes to pursue yonder company of wicked men and bring upon them the whole power of the King of France, whose cousin he is."
"He will do a good deed," said the old monk, drily.
"But, good father, he cannot do so," said Antonio, "without food for his horses and men, and drink also. Now I will crave Fra Tomaso here to go into the prior, and tell him of our case. Ask him to speak with my young lord in person, for he has a dozen or two of men below, and as many horses, but he did not choose to approach your peaceful gates with such a force."
"Brother Thomas can do as he pleases," said the old monk, "but I don't think the prior can feed so many, especially the horses; so there is not much use of his going."
Fra Tomaso, however, thought differently, for he immediately turned to go into the convent; and Antonio, who had dismounted a moment or two before, went with him as far as the inner gate, whispering eagerly in his ear all the time. Lorenzo did not perceive that the friar answered anything, but Antonio's face was much more cheerful when he returned than it had been after witnessing the ruin of the Villa Morelli.
The old monk who remained did not appear to have any great benevolence in his nature, or it was not excited by Lorenzo and his servant. "It is useless," he said--"all useless. There is the prior's mule: that is all we have."
"Oh, we and our horses are soon satisfied," said Antonio, in his usual tone. "We only want a little hay and water for ourselves and a little white bread and wine for our horses."
"I think you are mocking me, my son," said the monk, with a very cloudy brow. "I do not bear mocking well."
"And yet your Heavenly Master was both mocked and scourged," said Antonio, "and he uttered not a word."
How far the dispute might have gone between Antonio and Fra Discreto or Nicolo, had it remained uninterrupted much longer, it is difficult to say, for the worthy monk was evidently waxing irate; but at that moment came, almost running forth from the gates, a portly, jovial-looking friar of some fifty-five or sixty years of age, who took Antonio in his arms, and gave him a mighty hug. "Welcome! welcome, my son!" cried Fra Benevole, for he it was; "thrice welcome at this moment, when we need better comfort than wine can give us--though, Heaven bless the Pulciano, it was the only thing that did me good at first. Now this is your young lord, I warrant, of whom you told me so much, and whom the signorina loves so well."
The very reference to Leonora's name brought down upon the jovial monk a whole host of questions, but he gave a suspicious look to the old man, who still continued to oppress the rock, and he likewise professed inability to answer. But there was something in his manner which renewed hope in the bosom of Lorenzo, though it did not remove apprehension. He had spoken of Leonora in the present tense too, not in the past, and that was something.
"But come to my cell," he cried; "come and rest, and have some light refreshment; for though I must touch nothing myself, for these three hours, I can always cater for my friends."
His face was turned toward Lorenzo as he spoke, as if the invitation was principally directed toward him, and the young nobleman answered, "I am afraid, good father, I must await the return of Fra Tomaso, who has gone to bear a message to the prior."
"Oh, Brother Thomas will know where to find you," replied Benevole. "It was he who told me of your arrival and sent me to you. He will be sure to seek you first in my cell."
But the monk's hospitable intentions were frustrated by the appearance of Tomaso himself, followed by no less dignified a person than the prior himself, a nobleman by birth and a churchman of fair reputation. Lorenzo dismounted to meet him, and their greetings were courteous, if not warm.
"I will beg you, my lord," the prior said, "to repose in my apartments for a time, while your horses and men are cared for by the monastery. All attention shall be paid to their wants and comfort, and if you will explain to Brother Benevole where they are exactly, he will have them brought up to the strangers' lodging."
"They are down by the ruins of the villa," said Lorenzo, "and one man must remain there to watch that brutal band, for, God willing, they shall not escape punishment. But I beseech you, reverend father, give my mind some ease as to the fate----"
The prior bowed his head with graceful dignity, saying, "Of that presently, my son; let us always trust in God. As to your sentinel, neither he nor any need remain. We have a watchman in the campanile of the church. He can see farther than any one below, and will mark everything at least as well. I lead the way."
Lorenzo followed, leaving Antonio with his friend Benevole and the horses, and the prior conducted him through a wide court, past the church, and through the cloister-court to a suite of apartments which spoke more the habits of a somewhat luxurious literary man than a severe ecclesiastic.
"These are, by right," said the prior, "the apartments of the abbot; but an election, as it is called, has not been held for some years, and may not, perhaps, till a new pope blesses the Church. Pray be seated, my lord. I see you are impatient," he added, closing the door, and looking round to assure himself that what he said could not be overheard. "Set your mind at rest. She for whom I know you feel the deepest interest has not been injured."
"But is she free? Have not those men carried her off, as they did others?" exclaimed Lorenzo, in as much impatience as ever.
"She is safe--she is in no danger," replied the prior; "let that suffice you for the present. If you proposed to follow those daring, wicked men to rescue her from their hands, the attempt would have been madness and without object, for she is not with them."
"Let me be sure that we speak of the same person," said Lorenzo, still unsatisfied.
"Of the Signorina Leonora d'Orco," replied the monk.
"Thank God! oh, thank God!" exclaimed Lorenzo, with a deep sigh. "And Mona Francesca?" he asked, after a pause; "you have said nothing of her fate, reverend father."
"Alas! my son," replied the prior, "her fate has been perhaps less happy, perhaps more so than that of her younger and fairer companion. It will be as God's grace is granted to her. Let us speak no more of this. Have you anything else to ask?"
"Simply this," replied Lorenzo; "you are doubtless aware, father, as you seem to have full knowledge of my relations with the Signora d'Orco, that she is my promised wife, with the full consent of her father and the blessing of the good Cardinal Julian de Rovera. It is absolutely necessary that I should see her, and see her speedily, as I am obliged to rejoin his Majesty of France at an early hour to-morrow."
"I fear, my son, that is not possible," said the prior; but the door opened to admit some of theservitoryof the monastery bearing more than one kind of food and wine, and the good monk stopped suddenly in his reply. As soon as the refreshments had been spread on a small stone table, and the room was again clear, he pressed Lorenzo to take some meat and wine, saying, "I can speak to you while you eat, my son."
Lorenzo seated himself at the table, and, before he ate anything, filled the large silver goblet with wine, and drank it off. The mind was more depressed by anxiety than the body by fatigue. The monk watched him; for, removed as he was from much active participation in the world's affairs, he had long been a spectator of the great tragedy of human life, and comprehended at once, by slight indications, what was passing in the shadow of the bosoms around him.
"I fear it is impossible, my son," he said, "that you should see the lady so speedily as you wish. I can communicate with her, it is true, and can procure for you, under her own hand, assurance which you cannot doubt, that she is, as I have told you, safe and well; but more I cannot promise."
"Father, I do not doubt you," said Lorenzo, ceasing from his meal before more than one mouthful had been tasted. "You would not deceive me, I am sure; but you cannot tell what I feel--you cannot comprehend what I endure, and shall endure till I see her again--till I can clasp her to my heart, and, after she has escaped such a peril, thank God, with her, for her preservation. In your blessed exemption from the passions as well as the cares of secular life, you cannot even imagine the eager, the burning desire I feel to see her, to touch her hand, to assure myself by every sense that she is safe--that she is mine. Could you conceive it, you would find or force a way to bring me to her presence ere I depart for France."
"My son, you are mistaken," said the prior, in a tone of solemn, even melancholy earnestness. "I can conceive the whole. God help us, poor sinful mortals that we are. When we renounce the world we renounce its indulgences; but can we, do we, renounce its passions? How many a heart beneath the cowl--ay, beneath the mitre--thrills with all the warmest impulses of man's nature! How many--how terrible are the struggles, not to subdue the unsubduable passions, but to curb and regulate them; to bring them into subjection to an ever-present sense of duty; to chasten, not to kill the most fiery portion of our immortal essence! My son, you are mistaken; I can conceive your feelings--nay, I can feel with you and for you. God forbid that, as some do, I should say these impulses, these sentiments, these sensations are unconquerable, and therefore must be indulged. On such principles let the Borgias act. But I say that we--even we churchmen--must tolerate their existence in our hearts while we refrain from their indulgence, and that thereby we retain that sympathy with our fellow-mortals which best enables us to counsel them aright under all temptations. I will do my best for you, and, if it be possible, you shall see your Leonora for a time. When must you go hence?"
"I should set out by sun-down, father," replied Lorenzo; "the King of France must make a hasty march. Would to Heaven indeed it had been hastier, for the news we have is bad."
"Can you not remain behind?" said the monk; "you are an Italian, and not his subject, and it might serve many an excellent purpose if you could tarry here even for a few days."
"It cannot be, father," answered the young man; "were I to follow my own will, I would remain for ever by Leonora's side, but I am bound to King Charles by every tie of gratitude and honour. Those, indeed, I fear me, I might break in any common circumstance, and trust the king would pardon me upon the excuse of love; but, father, this is a moment when I dare not, for my honour, be absent from his force. There are dangers before and all around him. A battle must be fought ere we can cut our way to France. His army is small enough, and even one weak hand may turn the chance for or against him. I had hoped indeed, and I will own it frankly, that my beloved girl, with her father's full sanction to our union, which she has, would have consented to be mine by a hasty marriage, and go with me to France; but, alas! I fear----"
"My son, my son," exclaimed the monk, in a reproachful tone, "you would not surely dream of taking her into such scenes of danger as you speak of: nay, that is selfish."
"Is she not in greater danger here in Tuscany?" asked Lorenzo.
"She is in none, I trust," replied the prior. "It was imprudent, beyond doubt, to come in such times as these to a defenceless villa; but in Florence she will be safe as any one can be where wrong and rapine rage as here in Italy. But what you wish is quite impossible. If you have duties that must take you hence, she has duties also that must bind her here. I will keep my promise with you; but you must give up vain wishes and purposes that cannot be executed. She herself will tell you that it is impossible. Stay a moment; I must ask some questions."
The prior rose and left the room. He did not close the door behind him, and Lorenzo heard him give orders to some one without to go up to the belfry and ascertain if anything could still be seen of the party who had burned the villa. That done, he rejoined his young guest, but did not renew the conversation, merely pressing him to eat. In a few moments, a good fat monk rolled into the room, and announced that the party of the Borgias were still in sight.
"They have halted, and seem regaling themselves in the gardens of the Villa Morone," he said; "but I see--at least I think I see, and so does Brother Luigi--that there are movements taking place about the gates of the city, and if they stay much longer the Signoria will most likely send out troops to drive them hence."
"Let them be watched well, good father, I beseech you," exclaimed Lorenzo; "for if the Florentine troops come forth to attack them, I will go down to help."
"What an appetite have some men for fighting!" said the prior, making the monk a sign to depart; "but, my son, you will be better here. Though our gates and walls may set them at defiance, I do believe, yet to know that we have some men whose trade is war within might save us from attack. Now, my son, will you sit here and read, or go with me to our church and hear high mass? The latter I would counsel, if your mind be in a fitting state; if not, I never wish any one to attend the offices of religion with wandering thoughts and inattentive ears."
"I will go with you, father," said the young knight. "I have much to be thankful for although some hopes may be disappointed; and my thoughts, I trust, will not wander from my God when I have most cause to praise Him for sparing to me still the most valuable of all the blessings he has given me. But is it really the hour for high mass? How the time flies from us!"
"It wants but a few minutes," said the prior. "Time does fly quickly to all and every one; but it is only towards the close of life we really feel how quickly it has flown. Then--then, my son, we know the value of the treasures we have cast away neglected. Come, I will show you the way. At the church door I must leave you, and perhaps may not see you again for several hours; but you can find your way back here and read or think, if the curiosity of our good brethren be too great for your patience."
"But you promised," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "that I should see the Signora Leonora for a time."
"If it be possible," replied the monk; "such was the tenor of my promise, and it shall not be forgotten. I think it will be possible," he added, seeing a shade of disappointment, or, rather, of anxiety, upon Lorenzo's brow; "but the continued presence of those bad men in the valley scares away from us those we most need at the present moment."
He explained himself no further, but led the way onward to the church.
It cannot perhaps be said that the attention of the young nobleman was not sometimes diverted from the office in which he came to take part; but there was a soothing influence in the music, and a still more comforting balm in the very act of prayer. They who reject religion little know the strength and the consolation, the vigour and the assurance which is derived even from the acknowledgment of our dependence upon a Being whom we know to be all-powerful and all-good--how we can dare all, and endure all, and feel comfort in all when we raise our hearts in faith to him who can do all for us. How often in the course of each man's life has he to say--and oh! with what different feelings and in what different circumstances is it said--"Help, Lord, I sink!" Nor is it ever said without some consolation; nor is it ever asked but it is granted--ay, some help is granted, either in strength, or in resolution, or in patience, or in deliverance. The fearful exclamation might show some want of faith in him who had been eye-witness to a thousand miracles, but with us it shows some faith also. We call upon whom we know to be able to help, and in the hour of adversity or the moment of peril we remember the Lord our God, and put our last, best trust in Him.
Lorenzo had mounted the many steps leading to the top of the belfry of the church, and there, with the old monk who was keeping watch, he gazed over the beautiful valley of the Arno. High--high up in the air he stood, far above the rocks and treetops, with the whole country round, as it were, mapped out before him. The sun was rapidly nearing the horizon, and there was that undefinable transparent purple in the atmosphere which in Italy precedes, for nearly an hour, the shades of night; but yet all was still clear and bright, and the various objects in the landscape could be distinguished perhaps more sharply than in the full light of day.
"There they go," said the old monk who was on watch, pointing with his hand in the direction of the mountains. "They have a good guess that the people of Florence would not have them here much longer, and so they are taking themselves away."
Lorenzo turned his eye in the direction to which the monk pointed, and saw, winding along the mountain road to San Miniato, a long troop of horse, evidently the same which had been ranging the Valley of the Arno. He watched them over the several undulations of ground, now disappearing, now rising again into sight, till at length the foremost horseman reached the gap over the farthest hill in view, and one by one they passed out of the range of vision, except a small party which lingered for a moment or two on the side of the hill, as if taking a survey of the country they were leaving, and then, following their companions, disappeared.
"I must go down and tell the prior," said the monk; "but I may as well ring the bell as I go, to let the people of the country know they are gone."
Thus saying, he began to descend; but Lorenzo lingered still a few minutes on the top of the tower, while the great bell below him tolled out in quick, and, to his ear, joyful tones, the announcement to the whole country round that the brutal marauders had departed. Hardly had three or four strokes been given upon the bell when Lorenzo could perceive a number of women issuing from the various peasants' houses in sight, and taking their way by narrow mountain paths towards the monastery or the villa.
He followed the monk down, however, without much delay, and at the base of the belfry found the old man talking with the prior between the church and the tower.
"Come with me, my son," said the prior; "I can now keep my promise with you;" and he led him on through the close around the church, through the cloisters, and through a long, dimly-lighted passage, which opened by a key at the prior's girdle, and the next moment Lorenzo found himself in a small octagonal room, the arched ceiling of which was supported by a light column in the centre. It seemed well and tastefully furnished, and on one of the sides was a little recess, where hung a crucifix and a vessel of holy water.
"Wait here, my son, a few minutes," said the monk; "as soon as the women come up from below, the signora will join you. She can remain with you till the hour you have named for your departure. Be wise, be good, and may God bless you and reunite you soon."
The light in the room was very dim, for the windows consisted only of those light plates of marble which have been mentioned before; and the prior, turning before he departed, added, "I will bid her bring a lamp, otherwise you will soon be in darkness."
He went not out by the same door through which he had entered, and Lorenzo could hear for some moments the fall of his sandal upon the pavement, as if he were walking through a long and vaulted passage. The sound ceased, and the young man's heart beat high with hope and expectation; but still many a minute elapsed--and to him they seemed long minutes indeed--before any sound again met his ear. Then there was a slight rustle, with a quick, light footstep, and through the chink of the door, which the prior had left ajar, came a ray of light as from a lamp.
But poor Lorenzo was to be again disappointed. True, the door opened, and a female form appeared bearing a light; but it was that of a country girl, who, setting down the lamp on the table, looked up in Lorenzo's face with a frank good-humoured smile, saying:
"The signora will be here as soon as I get back to attend on Mona Francesca."
Thus saying, she tripped away, and in a few moments more, a sound not to be mistaken met Lorenzo's ear, the well known fall of Leonora's foot, which had so often made his heart thrill in the halls of the Villa Rovera.
He could not wait till she had reached the room, but ran along the passage to meet her, and then she was in his arms, and then their lips were pressed together in all the warmth of young and passionate love, and then her face was hid upon his bosom, and the tears poured forth abundantly; and then he kissed them away, and, with his arm cast round her, and her hand in his, he led her into the room to which the prior had conducted him.
Let us pass over some five or ten minutes, for all was now a tumult and confusion of sensations, and words, and caresses, which it would be difficult to distinguish, and which had meaning only for those who felt and heard them.
At length, when some degree of calmness was restored, the quick and eager explanations followed. Leonora told him how the news of the king's arrival at Pisa had been brought two days before by the peasantry, and how she had waited, and watched, and could not sleep, and rose while day was yet infirm and pale, in order not to lose one moment of his beloved company. Then she told him that on the morning of that eventful day she had left her bed early, and was hardly dressed when the sound of horses' feet on the road had made her start to the window in the joyful hope that they had come at length. She saw strange arms and strange faces by the pale light of morning, but still she fancied they were French corps which she did not know; and, imagining that he must have dismounted and entered before his companions, she ran along the broad corridor to meet him. To her surprise and terror, however, she saw a stranger gorgeously habited and followed by two men in arms, and turning suddenly back, she fled towards her own apartments. She heard her own name called aloud, she said, and a sweet and musical voice bidding her stop; but, as if it were by instinct, she continued her flight. Then came a fierce oath, and an angry command to follow and bring her back.
"In Heaven's name, how did you escape, my beloved?" exclaimed Lorenzo, pressing her closely to him.
"Most happily," replied Leonora; "Mona Francesca--it was but yesterday--had made a great exertion for her, and shown me all the apartments of the villa, the passages, the corridors, and even the private way, which her husband constructed before his death, from the old part of the villa to the monastery above. He was a very pious man, she said, and often ascended by that passage to pray alone in the church. I know not why, but I had remarked the passage particularly and the secret door that led to it; and, without any reason that I know of, I had opened and shut the door several times, as if to make myself completely mistress of the means. It would almost seem that I had a presentiment that my safety might depend upon it; and yet I do not remember any such feeling at the time. Now, however, when I heard the footsteps of the three men following me fast, I darted past my own room, and, winged with fear, fled through the corridors toward the apartments of Mona Francesca; but I heard voices and loud words in that direction, and, turning sharply to the right through the old stone hall, I came suddenly on the secret door, and had opened, passed in, and closed it before I well knew what I was doing. I stopped as soon as I had entered the passage, and leaned against the wall for support, for I was terrified and out of breath with the rapidity of my flight. Every moment I expected to hear them at the door, and, though it was well concealed in the masonry, feared they might discover it and break in. I suppose that my quickness in threading passages which they did not know had puzzled them, for I heard no steps approach the door while I stood there. But other and terrible sounds met my ear. I heard the shrieks of women. Oh! dear Lorenzo, I heard the voice of my own poor girl Judita crying for mercy; and I fled onward to the monastery; hoping that the good monks might be able to give that help which I could not give. I know not well how I came hither, but it was through long passages, and up many flights of steps, and at last I found myself in the church. Nor can I well describe to you all that followed, for my brain seemed confused and stupified with terror. The prior, and, indeed, all the monks, were very kind to me; but when I besought them to go down and help the poor people in the villa, they shook their heads sadly, and pointed to the red light that was rising up over the tree-tops. The prior, however, brought me along these passages to a room beyond--it is in one of the towers upon the walls, I believe--and, leaving me there told me I should be safe, and that he would go to see what could be done for my poor kinswoman. Oh, Lorenzo, what a terrible half hour I passed there; and, at length, sorrow was added to fear, for they bore in upon a pallet poor Mona Francesca, living, it is true, and, I trust, likely to live, but dreadfully burned; her neck, her face, her hands, all scorched and swollen, to that you would not know her. She is suffering agony, and the livelong day I have sat bathing her with water from the cool well. I have had none to help me till a few minutes ago, for the peasant girls, it seems, have been afraid to come up as long as these terrible men were in sight. At length, however, the girl you saw just now arrived, and then the prior told me you were here, but must depart tonight. Oh, Lorenzo, is it so? and will you leave me again so soon?"
Lorenzo's tale had now to be related, and he told her all--the bond of honour which he felt himself under to accompany the King of France, and the hopes--the wild, delusive hopes--with which he had come thither. Leonora listened sadly, and for a few moments after he had done speaking she sat silent, with the tears glittering in her eyes, but not overrunning the long black lashes.
"You must go, Lorenzo," she said at length--"you must go. God forbid that I should keep you when honour and duty call you hence, though my selfish heart would say, 'Stay.' Oh that you had been a day earlier! Then all this day's terrible agonies might have been spared us, and even the pain of parting which is before us. Willingly--willingly, my Lorenzo, would I have been your bride at an hour's notice, and I do believe that poor Francesca would have gone with us. But now, oh Lorenzo! you cannot ask me to leave her. I know you will not. If you could see the agony she is suffering, you would not have the heart to do it."
Lorenzo was silent, for the struggle in his bosom was terrible. She spoke in such a tone that he thought he might still prevail if he had but the hardness to press her urgently, and yet he felt that he should esteem, if not love, her less if she yielded. He remained silent, for he could not speak; but at length her sweet voice decided him. "Lorenzo, strengthen me," she said; "I am very weak. Tell me--tell me that it is my duty to remain--that not even love can justify such a cruel, such an ungrateful act; and, as I tell you to go because honour calls you away, oh bid me to stay because it is right to do so."
He pressed her to his heart more fondly than ever; he covered her brow, her cheeks, her lips, with kisses; he held her hand in his as if he never could part with it, and but few more words were spoken till the prior came to tell him his horses were prepared and his men mounted. Then came the terrible parting.
"Father," he said, "I leave her to your care. Oh! you can not tell what a precious charge it is! In a few weeks I will return to claim her as my own. Oh! watch over her till then. My brain seems disordered with the very thought of the dangers that surround her in these days of violence and wrong."
"Be calm, my son--be calm," said the prior. "Trust in a holier and more powerful protector. He has saved her this day; He can save her still. As for me, I will do all that weak man can do. But the first thing is to remove her, as soon as may be, to the city. Even such holy walls as these are no safeguard from the violence of man in these days; but in the city she will be secure. And now, my son, come. Do you not see how terribly a lingering parting agitates her? Do not protract it, but come away at once, and then rejoin her again, as soon as it is possible, to part no more."
Both felt that what he said was just, and yet one long, last, lingering embrace, and then it was over. All seemed darkness to the eyes of Leonora d'Orco as she sat there alone. All seemed darkness to Lorenzo Visconti as he rode away.
This is a cold age of a cold world. Not more than one man or woman, in many, many thousands can sympathise with--nay, can conceive the warm, the ardent love which existed between the two young hearts new separated. But it must be remembered that theirs was an age and a land of passion; and where that passion did not lead to vice and crime, it obtained sublimity by its very intensity.
It may be asked if such feelings were not likely to be evanescent--if time, and absence, and new objects, and a change of age would not diminish, if not extinguish the love of youth. Oh, no! Both were of firm and determined natures; both clung long and steadily to impressions once received; and yet, when they next met, how changed were both!
They were destined to be separated far longer than they anticipated, and to show what was the reason and nature of the change they underwent, it would be necessary to follow briefly the course of each till the youth had become a man and the young girl a blossoming woman.
When Lorenzo reached Pisa with his little band, he found the army of the King of France about to march; indeed, the vanguard had already gone forward. In the retreat, however, the corps of men-at-arms to which he was attached brought up the rear, and thus he was spared the horror of seeing the butchery committed by the Swiss infantry at Pontremoli.
Riding slowly on by the side of his commander and friend, De Vitry, he conversed with him from time to time, but with thoughts far away and an insurmountable sadness of spirits. Indeed, the elder was full of light and buoyant gaiety; the younger was cold and stern. The cause was very plain; the one was leaving her whom he loved, the other approaching nearer every day to the dwelling of Blanche Marie. Many a danger and difficulty, however, hung upon the path before them. Hourly news arrived of gathering troops and marching forces, of passages occupied, and ambuscades; and at length, in descending from the Apennines towards the banks of the Taro, near its head, the scouts brought in intelligence that the allied forces were encamped at Badia, determined to oppose the passage of the river. It soon became evident that a battle must be fought somewhere between the small town of Fornovo and Badia, and the great numerical superiority of the confederate army rendered the chances rather desperate for France. With the light-hearted courage of the French soldier, however, both men and officers prepared for the coming event as gaily as for a pageant, but the lay and clerical counsellors of the king saw all the dangers, and lost heart. Again they had recourse to negotiation, and the confederate princes, with cunning policy, seemed willing for a time to sell, for certain considerations, a passage towards Lombardy to the King of France. They knew that Fornovo, where he was encamped, could only afford a few days' supply of provisions, and there is every reason to believe that they hoped, by delaying decision from day to day, to starve the royal army into a surrender. The king's counsellors might perhaps have been deceived; but his generals saw through the artifice, and it was determined at length to force the passage of the Taro.
I need not enter into all the details of the battle of Fornovo, the only one at which the young King of France was ever present, but it is well known that if in the engagement he did not show all the qualities of a great commander, he displayed all the gallantry of his nature and his race. By sheer force of daring courage and indomitable resolution the passage was forced, and not by skill or stratagem. More than once the king's life or liberty was in imminent danger; and once he was saved by the boldness of a common foot-soldier, once rescued out of the very hands of the enemy, by Lorenzo Visconti. It may easily be believed that the affection which existed between the young king and his gallant cousin was increased by the service rendered, and to the hour of Charles's death Lorenzo received continued marks of his regard, though some of them, indeed, proved baleful to the young man's peace.
The victory at Fornovo proved only so far beneficial to the King of France as to enable him to negotiate with his adversaries from a higher ground. Slowly he advanced toward Milan, in order to deliver the Duke of Orleans, who, in bringing reinforcements to the monarch's aid, had been drawn into Novara and besieged by the superior forces of Ludovic the Moor. The position of both armies was dangerous. That of the king was lamentably reduced in numbers, and little was to be hoped from the French garrison in Novara, which was enfeebled by famine and sickness.
The army of the Duke of Milan, on the other hand, had much diminished since he commenced the siege, and his ancient enemies, the Venetians, were daily gaining a preponderance in Italy, which he saw would be perilous to his authority. The usual resource of negotiation followed. Peace was re-established between Charles and Ludovic Sforza. Novara was surrendered to the latter, but the Duke of Orleans was suffered to march out with all the honours of war, yielding up the city in conformity with the terms of a treaty of peace, and not of a capitulation wrung from him by force of arms.
The king paused for a short time in Lombardy; festivities and rejoicings succeeded to the din of war; large reinforcements from France swelled his army to more than its original numbers, and for some time the idea was entertained at the court that Naples would be again immediately invaded, and its conquest rendered more complete. But hour by hour, and day by day, came intelligence from that kingdom more and more disastrous for the cause of France. A fleet of French galleys suffered a disastrous defeat; the people of Naples rose against the small French force remaining in the city, and drove them into the two citadels; town after town returned to the allegiance of the House of Arragon; and the very day after the Battle of Fornovo the young King Ferdinand re-entered in triumph his ancient capital.
These events might well cause a change of purpose at the court of France; the work of reducing the kingdom of Naples was all to be done over again; and it was impossible for even the most oily flatterers of the king to conceal the fact that the attempt would be attended by difficulties which had not been experienced in the previous expedition. In fact, the people of Naples had learned what it was to submit to the yoke of France; all their vain expectations had been disappointed; they had found the burden intolerable; they had cast it off, and were resolved to die rather than receive it again.
In the meantime, however, from the aspect of the court and camp of France, no one could have supposed that it was a time of disaster and distress; all was gaiety, merriment, and lighthearted irregularity; and friendships and loves, which had been formed the preceding year, were now renewed as if neither coldness nor hostilities had intervened.
In the midst of all these events a small party left the camp of the King of France and took its way toward the city of Pavia. They went lightly armed, as if upon some expedition of pleasure, and, indeed, the country for fifty miles on the other side of the Po was quite safe and free from all adverse forces; but beneath the Apennines on either side lay the armies of the confederates, blockading every pass, and cutting off communication between Northern and Southern Italy, except by sea. Thus, with no offensive and but little defensive armour, the party rode securely on till they reached the gates of the Villa Rovera, where the two first horsemen dismounted and entered the gardens.
The aspect of all things about the villa was greatly changed since Lorenzo and De Vitry had been there before. There was a stillness, a gloomy quietness about the place which somewhat alarmed them both. In the great hall was seated but one servant, and when they inquired of him for the old count and the young lady, he answered,
"Alas! my lords, you do not know that his excellency is at the point of death."
Such was the state of affairs when Lorenzo and his friend reached the dwelling of Blanche Marie, and what resulted from it must be told hereafter.
In change lies all our joy; in change lies all our pain. Change is the true Janus whose two faces are always looking different ways. I know not whether it may please the reader, but I must change the place and the time, and change it so suddenly and so far as to pass over for a time, events not only interesting in themselves, but affecting deeply the fate of those who have formed the principal objects of my history. Yet it must be so, for there are inexorable laws established by judges against whom is no appealing, which limit the teller of a tale to a certain space; and were I to relate in detail all the events which occupied the two years succeeding the events last mentioned in this book, I should far transgress the regulations of the craft, and perhaps exhaust the patience of my readers. Those events, therefore, must be gathered from others which followed, and, indeed, perhaps this is the best, as it certainly is the shortest way of giving them to the public.
There is a fine old chateau in the south of France, two towers of which are still standing, and hardly injured by the tooth of time. I have a picture of it before me by the hand of one who, born in lofty station and of surpassing excellence, was, as a beacon at a port of refuge, raised high to direct aright all who approached her, who lived not only honoured, but beloved, and has not left a nobler or a better behind. Her eye can never see these lines; her ear can never hear these words; but I would that this work were worthy to be a monument more lasting than brass, to write on it an epitaph truer than any that ever consoled the living or eulogised the dead.
I have the picture before me, with two great towers standing on the wooded hill, with vineyards at the foot, and many a ruined fragment scattered round, showing where the happy and the gay once trod, and commenting silently upon the universal doom. Oh! a ruin is the bestmemento mori, for it tells not the fate of one, but of many generations, and gives to death that universality which most impresses the mind and most prepares the heart.
Those buildings were all fresh, and many of them new at the time of which I write. Not a century had passed since the first stone of the whole edifice was laid; and sumptuously furnished, after the fashion of those times, was the great suite of rooms occupying one floor of both those great towers and of the connecting building, now fallen.
In one of these rooms was a fine hall, lighted by windows of many-coloured glass, with two oriels or bays penetrating the thick walls and projecting into air, supported by light brackets and corbels of stonework without. The floor of those bays was raised two or three steps above the ordinary level of the hall, and each formed, as it were, a separate room within the room.
In one of those bays, just two years after the event which closed the last chapter, sat a tall, powerful man of perhaps thirty-six years of age, dressed in those gorgeous garments of peace which were common to the higher classes in that day. His face was somewhat weather-beaten; there was a scar upon his cheek and on his hand, and the short, curling hair over the forehead had been somewhat worn away by the pressure of the helmet. On the back of the head and on the temples it flowed in unrestrained luxuriance, somewhat grey, indeed, but with the deep brown predominating.
At his knee, on a stool of Genoa velvet--it was her favourite seat--was a beautiful girl, seemingly sixteen or seventeen years of age, fair as a snow-drop, with light, flowing hair, and eyes of violet-blue, deep fringed and tender. Her head rested against his side, her arm lay negligently upon his knee, and those blue eyes were turned towards his face with a look of love--nay, almost of adoration.
They were De Vitry and Blanche Marie, some two months after their marriage. Her good old grandsire, on his bed of death, had committed her to the guardianship of the King of France, with the request that in two years he would bestow her hand upon the gallant soldier, if she loved him still. Nor had that love for a moment faltered, while, under the care of fair Anne of Brittany, she had passed the allotted time at the court of France; and now she was happy--oh! how supremely blessed with him whose character, without shade or concealment, with all its faults and all its perfections, had stood plain and straightforward from the first.
But why does De Vitry turn his eyes so often towards the window and gaze forth upon the road, which, winding down from the castle, ploughs its way through the thick vineyard, and, crossing the Isere by its bridge of stone, ascends the opposite slopes?
"Is he coming, love?" said Blanche Marie. "Do you see him, De Vitry? yes, you do; there is the falcon look in your eyes. They are upon something now."
"How can I tell what it is at this distance, lady mine?" answered her husband; "falcon, indeed, if I could see so far. There is a dark something moving yonder on the far verge of the hills. It may be a train of horsemen; it may be some country carts, for aught I know. But, Madame Blanche," he added, casting his right arm round her, "by my fay, I shall be jealous of this Lorenzo, if you are so eager for his coming."
"Out, false knight," she answered; "I defy you to be jealous of any man on earth. To make you jealous, is alas! beyond my power, for like a foolish girl, I have let you know too well how much I love you."
She spoke gaily, but the moment after she said, in a saddened tone:
"But poor Lorenzo! he is so unfortunate--so unhappy, De Vitry. I may well wish for my cousin's coming when I know that only with you and me he finds any consolation. And yet every time I see him I feel almost self-reproach, as if I had a share in making him so miserable. I loved her so; I believed her so good, so noble, so kind, that I foolishly planned their marriage long before they ever met, and did all I could to promote their love when they did meet; and now to think that she should be so faithless, so cold, so cruel, when she knows he loves her more than life."
"It is indeed strange," said De Vitry with a clouded brow; "she seemed to me as she seemed to you, one of the noblest girls I ever saw. She is not married yet, however. That story is false. I saw a messenger from Rome three days ago. He says she is living with her father, who is now one of the vicars in the Church in Romagna, and she is certainly unmarried."
"That is but poor consolation for Lorenzo," replied Blanche Marie; "he has too much pride, too much nobility of heart, to take her hand now, were it offered him after such conduct."
"I trust he has," said De Vitry; "and were I he, I would cast her from my thoughts for ever. Beauty is something, my love, but there must be goodness, too; otherwise one might as well fall in love with a picture, my dear girl. But tell me, Blanche, when last she wrote to you did she show any such signs of strange caprice?"
"It is near eighteen months since she wrote at all," replied the young wife, "and then her billet, it is true, was somewhat strange and constrained, but it gave no indication of such a change. Oh, how happy is it, De Vitry, to have a constant heart? How dreadful it must be to see one we love change toward us without cause. It is that which makes me pity Lorenzo so much, for it is plain he loves her still.
"We must have that away," said her husband; "he must be reasoned with, amused, engaged in some new pursuit, my Blanche. I will do my best, and you must help me. Look there! upon my life 'tis he. Those are mounted men coming down the hill; but they are bringing thunder with them, and if they do not ride faster the storm will catch them ere they reach us. Do you not see those clouds rising above the trees, looking as hard as iron and as grey as lead. By my faith! dear lass, you have never seen a storm in the valley of the Isere, and it is something to see. I have been in many lands, my Blanche, but I never beheld any like it, when the clouds rolled down from the mountains like black smoke, pouring forth a deluge such as no other part of the world has ever been soaked with since the days of Noah. In less than half an hour you will see the valley a lake, and the bridge quite covered. Your little heart will rejoice to think that the castle is built upon a hill, for I never saw the water come higher than the edge of the vineyard there."
"Does it come as high as that?" exclaimed Blanche, with a look of alarm; "why, how will Lorenzo cross!"
"He will not be able to cross at all unless he make more haste," answered her husband. "Pardieu, I cannot guess what has come to him; he who, for the last eighteen months, has never ridden up hill or down dale at less than a gallop, as if some devil were tempting him to break his own neck or his horse's, is now creeping down the hill as if he were at a funeral or a procession."
By this time De Vitry had risen and gone near the open window. The sun had near an hour to run before its course for the day would be ended. The clouds, as he said, were rapidly and heavily descending the mountains, and the rain could be seen at the distance of three or four miles sweeping the valley like a black pall. The sun was still shining bright and clear upon the chateau, and the bridge, and the vineyard. But a moment after De Vitry had taken his place, a redder and a fiercer light blazed fitfully across the scene, followed a few moments after by a peal of thunder which seemed to shake the castle to its foundations.
"Oh, come away, De Vitry, come away," cried Blanche Marie; "the lightning might strike you at that open window."
De Vitry turned round his head with a laugh, calling her a little coward, and then resumed his watch again upon the party of horsemen coming down the opposite hill.
"Ay, ride fast," cried the marquis, "or you will not be in time; but what are all the people thinking of? they have lost their way."
As he spoke the party on whom his eyes were fixed turned from the direct road toward the chateau, and took a smaller path, which, slanting along the hill side, led down the stream.
"Lorenzo is not among them," said De Vitry, abruptly; "he knows the way here as well as I do, my love; but that party of fools will get into a scrape if they do not mind; there is no shelter for ten miles down the river, and the road on the bank will be under water in ten minutes. Ha! they have seen their mistake, and are turning back. Now ride hard, my gallants, and you may reach the bridge yet."
The lightning now flashed nearer, the thunder followed close upon its flaming messenger, the heavy drops of rain began to fall, and poor Blanche Marie, who had much more taste for the beauties than the sublimities of nature, covered her face with her hands, while her heart beat quick. The next moment she felt a warm and kindly kiss upon her brow, and the voice of De Vitry said--
"Take courage, love, take courage; God is everywhere. In His hand we stand, as much in that fierce blaze and amid that thunder roar, as in the gay saloon with nothing but music near. Do not fear, my Blanche, but remember you will soon have guests to entertain. These gentlemen are coming hither. They have passed the bridge just in time, and five minutes will see them in this hall. I would not have them say that De Vitry's wife is afraid of a little thunder."
Blanche took her fingers from her eyes, and, looking up with a smile, put De Vitry's great strong hand on her beating heart, and pressed her own delicate hand upon it.
"See, De Vitry," she said, "just as your hand is stronger than my hand, so is your heart firmer than my heart. Mine is a very weak one, husband, but I will show no fear before your guests. I will be very brave."
The words were hardly uttered when there came another flash, and Blanche's promised bravery did not prevent her from starting and covering her eyes again; and De Vitry, with a laugh, turned to the window and gazed forth once more.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is his highness the Duke of Orleans. I heard he was coming down to Valence, but never dreamed of his coming here. It is lucky the castle lies so near the road. But I must down and meet him;" and he hastily quitted the room.
Blanche was left for some time alone to give way to all her terrors at the storm, without any one to laugh at them, for De Vitry took every hospitable care of his royal guest, and spared his young wife the trouble of giving those orders for the entertainment of the duke and his train which Blanche might have found it difficult to think of in the perturbation of her mind at the time.
As every one knows, the storms on the Isere are frequently as brief as they are fierce; and the one in question was passing away when De Vitry led into the hall the Duke of Orleans, now clothed in fresh and dry garments.
Always courteous and gentle in demeanour, the Duke of Orleans, afterwards Louis XII. of France, applied himself to put his entertainers at their ease. He took Blanche's hand and kissed it, saying, "Your noble husband, dear lady, tells me you expect here to-night your cousin and mine, Lorenzo Visconti. If he come, I shall call it a lucky storm that drove me for shelter to your house, as I have much to say to him; but I fear he cannot reach Vitry to-day. The sun is well-nigh down, and the waters of the river seem as high as ever."
"The storm, too, seems going directly along his road," said De Vitry, "and if it reached him where I think he must have first felt it, he will know that he cannot cross the bridge tonight, and find shelter amongst the peasants' cottages out beyond the hills there. But I trust your highness will stay over to-morrow, as you wish to see him. He is certain to be here, I think, early in the morning."
"I must be away before noon," said the duke, "and in case he should not arrive before I go, you must tell him from me, De Vitry, that I have the king's permission to call any noble gentleman to my aid who is willing to draw the sword for the recovery of my heritage of Milan. Now I think a Visconti would rather see a child of a Visconti in the ducal chair of Milan than any other. Thus I fully count upon his aid toward the end of autumn, with all the men that we can raise. So tell him from me, De Vitry."
"You may count surely, my lord the duke, upon Lorenzo's going to any place where there is a chance of his losing his life," said De Vitry. "He is in a curious mood just now."
"I have remarked it," replied the duke. "He used to be gentle, courteous, gay, bright, and brave as his sword, but when last I saw him he had grown stern and somewhat haughty, careless of courtesies, and curt and sharp of speech. They said that some disappointment weighed upon his mind."
"The most bitter, your highness, that can press down the heart of man or woman," answered Blanche Marie; "no less than the faithlessness of one he loved. She is my cousin, yet I cannot but blame her for breaking so noble a heart. They parted with the fondest hopes. She promised to wait his coming in Florence, where they were to be united immediately. When he arrived there she was gone, without leaving letter or message, or announcement of any kind. He could not follow her to Rome, from the state of the country; and though he wrote, and took every means to make her know where he was, his letters remained unanswered, or were sent back. He might have doubted some foul play; but a few words in her own hand, written carelessly on a scrap of paper, in a packet returned to him, showed too well that she was cognizant of all that had been done; and the last news was that she was married, or to be married to another."
"Then let him marry another too," said the Duke of Orleans; but the conversation was here cut short by the announcement that supper was spread in the hall below, and the duke's noble followers assembled there.