Lorenzo Visconti rode along but slenderly accompanied. A few attendants and one or two pack-horses formed all the train which followed him. A carelessness had come over him, not only of all display, but of life and all things that life could give. He rode, as De Vitry had described, at headlong speed. It seemed as if he were flying from something--perhaps from bitterly contrasted memories; but, as ever, black care sat behind the horseman, and no furious riding could shake him off. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, but he saw not loose stone or slippery rock, and never marked the heavy clouds which, having ravaged the valley of the Isere, were now rising over the hills upon his left, and threatening to pour down their fury upon him.
Grave and, for him, strangely sad, Antonio was following close behind him, watching with eager anxiety the obstructions in his master's way, and marking also the coming tempest. "My lord," he said, at length, with a somewhat hesitating voice, "were it not better to seek some shelter and to ride more slowly?"
"Why?" asked Lorenzo; "the road is good."
"Because, my lord," replied the man, "if we do not seek some shelter we shall be half drowned in ten minutes, and if we ride so hard, though you may go safe, we worse mounted men will break both our necks and our horses' knees, as soon as the sun sets, which will be in a quarter of an hour."
Lorenzo drew in his rein; but the only word he spoke was "Well?"
"We just passed a handsome chateau, my lord," urged Antonio, "and I am sure they will give you ready welcome there, if you like to rest there for the night."
"Whose chateau is it?" inquired his lord, with no great signs of interest.
"Is it that of Madame de Chaumont?" replied Antonio. "Do you not remember her and her beautiful daughter at the court last year? They were very fond of your society, and will gladly receive you, I will warrant."
"Yes, she is very beautiful," said Lorenzo, carelessly, "but light as vanity: what woman is not? But I cannot stay tonight, my good Antonio. My cousin and her husband expect me, and I must on."
"But you will never be able to pass the Isere, my lord," said Antonio; "that cloud has left half its burden there, depend upon it. Do you not remember how the river rises in an hour? I will wager a crown to a coronet there is ten feet of water on the bridge by this time. But here come the drops, and we shall have water and fire too enough before we have done. I have a hideous cold, my lord, and cold bathing is not good for me."
Lorenzo turned towards him with a cynical smile; but, before he could reply, there was a gay, ringing laugh came up from the gorge into which they were just descending, and two ladies, followed by several servants, some with falcons on their hands, some carrying dead game across their saddles, came cantering up. They glanced towards Lorenzo as they approached, and, at first did not seem to recognize him; but the next moment the younger exclaimed, "Dear mother, it is the young Seigneur Visconti. Give you good day, my lord--give you good day. We cannot stay to greet you; but turn your horse and ride back with us, for the roof of our chateau is a better covering for your head than yonder black cloud. Mother, make him come."
Lorenzo carelessly turned his horse as the gay and beautiful girl spoke, and a few words of common courtesy passed between him and the Marquis de Chaumont. But Eloise de Chaumont would have her part in the conversation, and she exclaimed, "Come, Seigneur Visconti, put spurs to your steed and show your horsemanship. I am going home at full gallop, otherwise the plumes in my beaver will be as draggled as those of the poor heron that my bird struck in the river. The haggard kite would not wait for him to tower. On! on! I will bet you my last embroidered hawking-glove against an old gauntlet that my jennet reaches the castle first." Thus saying, she applied the whip somewhat unmercifully to her horse, and Lorenzo put spurs to his. The race was not very equal, for Lorenzo's hackney was tired with a long journey and hard riding; but still the young knight kept up side by side with his fair companion till they came to a narrow pass between a high cliff and a deep dell, where Lorenzo somewhat drew in the rein to leave the lady better room.
"Ay," she exclaimed, "I shall beat you. See, your horse is out of breath. Spur up, spur up, or the day is mine."
Whether Lorenzo did imprudently use the spur, or that the horse shied at something on the way, I do not know, but in trying to regain his place by the lady's side the hackney (as lighter horses were then called) swerved from the centre of the road and trod upon the loose stones at the side. They gave way beneath his feet and went rattling down into the glen, while the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled around. The gallant beast made a strong effort to recover his footing, but it was in vain; the ground yielded beneath his hoofs, and he fell down the slope, rolling over his master as he went.
"Jesu Maria!" cried Eloise de Chaumont, with a scream, "I have killed him."
That he was killed seemed for several minutes true, for he lay without sense or motion. Antonio and several of the servants scrambled down and raised the young lord's head, but he lay senseless still. Eloise had bounded from her jennet and stood wringing her hands upon the brink, and even Madame de Chaumont stayed for several minutes gazing down; but at length the rain became too heavy for her patience, and she said, "We can do no good here, Eloise. Let them carry him up to the chateau. We shall only get cold and spoil all our housings. Mark, look to that bird: its hood is all awry. Come, my child, come;" and, without waiting for reply, she rode on.
Eloise remained, however, not doing much good, it is true, but at least showing sympathy; and at length Lorenzo was raised, and with difficulty brought up to the road again. A deep groan as they carried him told that life was not yet extinct, and the rain falling in his face revived him as three of the servants carried him in their arms towards the chateau. When he opened his eyes Eloise de Chaumont was walking by his side, weeping, and, as soon as memory of all that had occurred came back, he said, with a great effort, "I am not much hurt, I believe. Do not grieve, dear lady."
"O you are--you are, Lorenzo," she cried, "and I did it, foolish, wicked girl that I am. But do not speak. We shall soon be at the chateau. Ride, Guillaume, ride to the priest of St. Servan--he knows all about chirurgy--bid him come up at all speed. Give the jennet to Jean Graille. Ride on, I say, and be quick. Oh, Seigneur Visconti, I am so sorry for my folly."
In a few minutes Lorenzo was borne into the chateau, and carried to a chamber, where, stretched upon a bed, he waited the arrival of the priest. But Eloise de Chaumont would not leave him, notwithstanding several messages from her mother. With her own hands she wiped the earth from his brow; with her own hands she gave him water to drink, and more than ever she called him Lorenzo, bringing back to the young lord's mind a suspicion which he had once entertained, but speedily dismissed as a vain fancy, that Eloise de Chaumont viewed him with more favour than most others at a court where she was universally sought and admired.
It skills not to dwell upon the tedious process of a long sickness and a slow recovery. Madame de Chaumont, a lady of a light and selfish character, though not fond of witnessing suffering, visited Lorenzo religiously once every day. Eloise de Chaumont, never accustomed to restraint in anything, was in his chamber morning, noon, and night. In his sickness she regarded him as a pet bird, or a favourite horse; and, to say sooth, it would seem there were other feelings too, for one time when he was sleeping he was wakened by the touch of her lips upon his brow. Guests came and went at the chateau, but their presence made no change in her conduct. When Mademoiselle de Chaumont was asked for, the reply was, usually, "She is in the Seigneur de Visconti's chamber;" and people began to wonder and to talk.
The circles made on the clear bosom of the waters by a pebble cast into them differ in this from those produced by the spread of rumour; in the one case they become more and more faint in proportion to their distance from the centre; in the other, they are not only extended, but deepened. The gossip of the neighbouring chateaux spread to the neighbouring towns, thence to wider circles still. They reached the chateau of De Vitry, and they reached the court, and many a circumstance was added which had never existed. Blanche Marie and De Vitry rejoiced, for they hoped that the tendance of Eloise de Chaumont might not only aid to cure Lorenzo from mere physical evils, but to apply still more efficacious remedies to his mind. She was young, she was beautiful, she was wealthy, the only child left by one of the first nobles in the land; and there seemed all the frankness and freedom of innocence about her, with a kindly heart, and a mind which was brilliant, if not strong. They rode over together to see their young cousin, and Blanche Marie was charmed with all she saw. She knew not how dangerous it is to give way to impulses where feelings are not backed by principles. She thought Eloise one provided by Heaven to wean Lorenzo from the memory of another more dear, whom she believed to be unworthy of him.
At the court of the King of France--the lawful guardian of the young heiress--the rumours of what was taking place at Chaumont produced some agitation. Eloise was a special favourite of sweet Anne of Brittany, and the queen was vexed and alarmed. Men are not so easily affected by scandal as women, and the king laughed at what had grieved his wife. "My life for it," he said, "this matter will be easily explained. My young cousin Lorenzo is not one to peril a lady's reputation, and if he has done so he must make reparation. We will send for him, however, my dear lady."
When the king's letter arrived, requiring in kindly terms Lorenzo's presence at Amboise, that young nobleman, though able to rise from his bed, was by no means sufficiently recovered to take a long journey, or even to mount his horse. He assured the king in his reply, however, that the moment he could ride he would get out on the journey; and, to tell the truth, he longed not a little to leave the castle at Chaumont. He himself felt that his residence there was becoming somewhat dangerous to him. The memory of Leonora could not be banished from his mind. Disappointment, indignation, and even a certain feeling of contempt, which the indifference he believed her to have shown had generated, could not extinguish entirely that first-born, fairy love, which, once it has possession of the heart, rarely goes out entirely. But yet Eloise de Chaumont was, as the poet says, "beautiful exceedingly"--of a very different character from Leonora, more fair, more laughing, with less soul in the look, less depth and intensity of mind in the eyes, but still very beautiful. A sort of intimacy too, of a nature difficult to describe, had sprung up during her long attendance upon him; they called each other by their Christian names, and, although no word of love had ever passed between them, it was evident to everyone around that Eloise, knowing that her loveliness and wealth gave her the choice of almost any man in France, looked upon Lorenzo as her own, and would have been as much surprised as grieved to think there was a doubt of her becoming his wife.
Lorenzo, for his part, could not but be grateful, could not but admire. One thing, however, proved that he did not love--he saw in her many faults. He wished she was not so light, so frivolous. He wished he could see some indications of firm character and steadfast principles. "And yet," he thought, "Where I believed they most existed they were the most wanting. What matters it to me whom I wed now? If Eloise can love me, that amounts to the utmost sum of happiness I can now hope for."
Nevertheless, when, at the end of another fortnight, he mounted his horse to proceed to Amboise, not a word had passed to bind him to her who had nursed him so kindly.
"When will you be back, Lorenzo?" asked Eloise, as she gave him her cheek to kiss at parting.
"I know not what the king wishes," replied Lorenzo, "or how long he may detain me--not long, I hope."
Those words bound him to nothing in the common eye of the world; but, as he pondered them while riding on his way, he felt that they implied a promise to return as soon as the king left him free to do so. And yet he hesitated, and yet he doubted, and yet he asked himself, "Can she make my happiness, or can I make hers?"
"It is well to be off with the old loveBefore we are on with the new,"
"It is well to be off with the old loveBefore we are on with the new,"
says an old song, and Lorenzo had reason to regret that he did not apply the maxim it contains to his own heart.
After traversing one half of France, and at Blois increasing his retinue by a number of his servants from Paris, he rode on to fair Amboise, where the king was then engaged in erecting those splendid buildings which since his day have been the scene of so many tragical events. He arrived at the castle early in the morning, and was immediately admitted to Charles's presence. The monarch received him kindly, saying,
"So, my good cousin, you have come at length; your illness must have been severe and tedious. What was its nature?"
"Some broken bones, may it please your Majesty, and a body all bruised and shaken by my horse falling down a hill and rolling over me," replied Lorenzo.
"By my faith! it does not please my Majesty at all," said the king, laughing. "Odds life! dear Lorenzo, if your horse had served you so at Fornovo, I should have been at the tender mercies of the Venetians, most likely. But they tell me you found consolation in a fair lady's society, and had plenty of it."
"Mademoiselle de Chaumont attended me most kindly, and gave me as much of her time as she could spare," replied Lorenzo, gravely.
"She gave you a little of her reputation too, I am told," answered the king, "and this is a subject on which I must speak to you seriously, my cousin. You are perhaps not aware that idle and malicious tongues have been busy with your name and that of Eloise de Chaumont. They say that she would pass more than one half the night in your chamber."
The angry blood rushed up into Lorenzo's face, but he answered at first scoffingly. "If she did, sire, it must have been when I was insensible to the honour," said Lorenzo; but he added, in a sterner tone, "in short, my lord the king, he who said so is a liar, and I will prove it on his body with my lance."
"There is an easier manner to clear the young lady's reputation," replied Charles, "for cleared, of course, it must be. She is a ward of the crown. Her father was one of our best subjects and most faithful friends, and your own station and fortune, as well as our affection for you, render you, of all others, the man on whom we should wish to bestow her hand. But, my dear cousin," he continued, in a lighter tone, "there was, if I remember right, a fair lady in Italy whose knight you were when we were there?"
Lorenzo winced as if a serpent had stung him.
"She is nothing to me, my lord, nor I to her," he said; "her own will has severed every bond between us."
"Then there is no impediment," said the king, "to your marriage to Mademoiselle de Chaumont?"
"None whatever that I know of, sire," replied Lorenzo.
"And you promise me, whatever may happen to myself," said Charles, "that you will heal this little scandal, produced by her great kindness to yourself, by making her your wife as speedily as may be?"
"If she will accept my hand," replied Lorenzo, "of which as yet I know nothing; for no one word of love has ever passed between us; but God forbid that any evil chance should befall your Majesty, as your words seem to anticipate."
"Who can tell?" said the king in a gloomy tone. "Of four children my dear Anne has given me, not one remains alive; they have perished in their beauty and their bloom. Why should I not perish with them? This world is full of accidents and dangers, and we walk continually within the shadow of death. My thoughts have been very gloomy lately, my good cousin," and he laid his hand affectionately on Lorenzo's shoulder; "and yet what matters it," he continued, "whether it be to-day, to-morrow, or the next day? Stretch life out as long as we can, it is but a span at last. However, it is well, in this uncertainty of being, to delay not one hour anything that may be ruined by delay. I will have the royal consent to your marriage with the ward of the crown drawn out this morning. Come to me towards the hour of three, and it shall be ready for you. The queen will then receive you more graciously, when I have told her all, than she might do now."
When Lorenzo returned at the hour appointed, he was conducted into that beautiful hall still to be seen at Amboise, where he found the king, the queen, and several attendants, apparently ready to go forth. Anne of Brittany did receive him most graciously; and Charles handed him the paper authorizing his immediate marriage with Eloise de Chaumont.
"We shall but give you time to bait your horses, Seigneur Visconti," said the Queen of France, "and then send you back to your fair bride. No stain must rest upon a lady's reputation long; and though this be but the work of evil tongues, without a shadow of foundation for the scandal, the sooner they are silenced the better. We are now going out by the old postern into the fosse to see a game of tennis played, in which, perchance, my lord may take part. We invite you to go with us, that all the world may see we give no credit to these wild rumours."
One of the chamberlains hastened to open the door of the hall, and the royal party passed out, followed by Lorenzo and the attendants. They took their way through the great marble hall below, and through a long, narrow corridor or passage in the thick wall of the castle. It was terminated by a low-browed, stone archway, with an oaken door, in passing through which Charles, miscalculating its height, struck his head violently against the arch, and would have fallen had he not been caught by Lorenzo, who came close behind.
For a moment or two the king seemed confused and almost stunned; but the accident he had met with was so commonplace and apparently insignificant that nobody took much notice of it. The ladies who followed the queen were inclined to smile, and Charles himself treated it more lightly than any one. He pressed his hand, it is true, once or twice upon the top of his head, and took off his bonnet for the cool air, but he declared it was "nothing--a mere nothing."
A paleness had spread over the young monarch's face, however, which Lorenzo Visconti did not like; but the royal party were soon in the dry deep fosse, and the memorablejeu de paumebegan.
Charles prided himself upon his skill in all manly exercises, and after looking on for a time, he took a racket, and joined in the game. He was, or he was suffered to appear, the best player present; but after he had played one score he gave up the racket, and withdrew from the game, remaining for a short while as a spectator; and Lorenzo remarked that, as the king stood looking on, he twice pressed his hand upon his heart. At length he turned to the queen, and the rest of the party who had accompanied him thither, and proposed to return into the castle, adding a few words to Lorenzo on his approaching marriage. The young nobleman walked nearly by his side, but a little behind, and all passed the postern, and entered the narrow gallery or corridor, still talking. When they had nearly reached a flight of steps which led to the halls above, the king turned suddenly towards Lorenzo, saying, "Remember," and then fell at once upon the pavement.
A scene of indescribable confusion followed. Some of the attendants raised the monarch to carry him up the stairs, but the chief chamberlain forbade them to move him till a physician should be called. Some cushions were brought to support his head, and speedily a number of fresh faces crowded the passage; but the king remained without consciousness. Some broken words fell from his lips, but no one could discover what they meant, and, after a short struggle with death, Charles VIII. passed away, beloved and mourned rather than respected.
Again let us change the scene. There is another whose course we must trace, from the fatal, the terrible moment when she parted from Lorenzo Visconti in Tuscany, to the death of Charles VIII. Ere we do so, however, it may be needful to notice a small incident which affected greatly her fate, without appearing to be in a direct manner connected with it.
In a magnificent room in one of those grand buildings, half palace, half fortress, with which Rome in those days abounded, sat Cæsar Borgia and Ramiro d'Orco, on the very day on which Charles VIII. began his march from Lombardy to France. The cheek of Ramiro was less pale than usual, and there was a slight gathering together of the eyebrows, not to say a frown, which in an ordinary man might have signified very little, but in one who had so strong an habitual command over his features and over his emotions would indicate to those who knew him well, an unusual degree of excitement. His voice was calm, however, his tone courteous, and from time to time a quiet smile belied the aspect of his brow.
"My lord," he said, "I must have some security. Not that I doubt your Eminence in the least. Heaven forbid! But all wise men like to have some guarantee for anything that is promised to them, and are always willing to give guarantees for that which they really intend to perform."
"I swear by my soul and my salvation," answered Borgia, "that if you will aid me in this matter--aid me in its consummation--I will molest her in no shape. She shall be to me as sacred as a nun."
"I am sure your lordship is sincere," replied Ramiro, "but if oaths were to be accepted at all, I would prefer that you swore in something you believe in, rather than by your soul and your salvation. Then as to your looking upon her as sacred as a nun, I have never heard that you regarded nuns as sacred at all. It is better we should understand each other clearly. I find, during your pleasure tour in Tuscany, you entered the Villa Morelli, had very nearly caught and carried her off, had she not been somewhat too light of foot for your gentlemen-in-armour, and that you then set fire to the villa in order to 'smoke her out,' as you expressed yourself. I have all the information, my lord, and although you are pleased to pass the matter off as a wild caprice to gratify your soldiery with a few fair captives, without any cognizance of her being in the villa, yet the answers to the inquiries you caused to be made at Florence should have satisfied you that she could be nowhere else. Now I believe I can aid you to the very man you want; and, as you are somewhat impatient, can do it without delay; but I must, in the first place, have some strong place put in my possession, where my daughter can be more safe than she was in the Villa Morella, until such time as her lover becomes her husband, and she leaves Italy for a somewhat quieter land."
Cæsar Borgia laughed low and quietly.
"Now what a strange thing is this that men call morality and virtue!" he exclaimed, with a bitter sneer. "Not the chameleon changes colour more frequently, and more completely according to the things around. But we have no time for philosophical reflections, my dear Ramiro. Tell me, are these men near at hand?"
"They are here in Rome," replied Ramiro d'Orco. "In fact, my lord, being a man of no great wealth and no power, I judged it expedient in coming here in order to seek for both, to gather round me at times serviceable men from various states of Italy, who might supply men with a kind of authority tantamount to that which I did not possess. Your Eminence's people, it seems, fail you at this step, although, God wot, I should have thought they had few scruples left by this time. I am willing to aid you with mine, provided you insure me against some little frailties of your Eminence, which might lead to things displeasing to me."
"Well, well, send the men to me," said Cæsar Borgia; "it shall be done."
"It must be done before they come here, my lord," replied Ramiro d'Orco.
A flush passed over the young cardinal's countenance; but he said, starting up suddenly--
"Well, wait here till I return. I must get the donation from his Holiness."
"Remember, I must have all rights and privileges--of high and low justice--of war and of defence, with only reservation of homage of the Holy See. I know not what it is exactly that your Eminence requires these men to do; but they have strong stomachs, and are not likely to be nauseated by trifles."
"I doubt not they are by no means dainty," replied Borgia, and he left the room.
Ramiro d'Orco remained alone for more than an hour, during which he hardly moved his position. One sentence did escape his lips just after Cæsar Borgia left him. "This man is angry," he said, "and his anger is dangerous." What he thought afterward I know not; probably it was of self-preservation, for he drew his dagger, and looked all along the blade, examining most carefully a small groove which extended from the hilt to the point, then sheathed it again, and seemed to fall into quiet meditation.
At length, when it was well-nigh dark, the door opened again, and the cardinal re-entered with a parchment in his hand. His face was now all placid and benign, and advancing toward Ramiro, he said, "I have been long, my friend; but if you knew how much I have had to do in one short hour, you would say I had been expeditious. There--that paper gives you Imola and its dependencies, with all the rights and privileges you require. It took me one half the time to persuade his Holiness to grant it. Had he known to what it tended, he would have cut off his right hand ere he signed it."
"I thank your Eminence sincerely," replied Ramiro, taking the parchment; "mutual benefits bind men together. They must never be all on one side. Either I miscalculate my own powers, or you shall have the worth of this gift in a few hours in services of the most acceptable kind. Now let us know what you want done."
"I want a man removed from my path," said Borgia, abruptly; "one whose shadow is too tall for me--who stands between me and the sun."
"That is easily done, my lord," replied Ramiro d'Orco, "there is such a river as the Tiber, and men will fall in at times, especially when they are either drunk or badly wounded."
"You catch my meaning readily," replied Borgia. "It were done easily, as you say, Ramiro, were this a common case, but there are men upon whom vulgar assassins would fear to try their steel."
"They must have faint hearts or poor brains," replied Ramiro. "A man is but a man, and a fisherman's life is as good to him as a cardinal's. It is as valuable, too, in the eye of the law; and he who can conceal one deed can conceal another. May I know at what quarry you wish me to let loose the hounds?"
Cæsar Borgia rose, and walked slowly up and down the room. There was something that moved him--that troubled him. What could it be? Remorse? No, he knew no remorse nor pity. The human heart will sometimes, in its dark recesses, conceive things so horrible, that, though it will retain and nourish them as its most cherished offspring, it will dread that any other eye should see them, and long to build around them, like the Cretan queen, a dark and intricate edifice, to hide them for ever from man's sight. It might be this that moved him. He had need of aid; he had need of instruments; he was obliged to speak that which he fain would have had done but never uttered. His beautiful countenance was overshadowed by the expression of a demon--not a triumphant, but a suffering demon; his eyes were fixed upon vacancy, and his broad, tall forehead was covered with a cold dew. At length he seated himself again close to Ramiro d'Orco, and in a voice low but distinct, said--
"My friend, whoever will attain great power must not suffer impediments to be in his way. He must remove them, Ramiro. Nor must one prejudice of man, one canting maxim of priests--not even of those habitual weaknesses which are implanted in us during childhood, and reared and nourished by women and servants, remain to stumble at. Who, think you, has most kept me from the light since I was born? Who, without striving, has won all the prizes in the games of life, and left me nothing but the fragrance of his banquet?"
It was nearly dark, and they could hardly see each other's faces, so that the paleness which spread over Ramiro d'Orco's face escaped the eyes of his companion. Ramiro answered nothing, and Borgia went on.
"When this mighty city was founded, two brothers, equal in power, laid it out and planned it. One was feeble as compared with the other, and the stronger mind soon saw that there was not room for two. Had Remus lived, what had Rome been now? A village in a marsh. But his great and glorious brother knew well what course to take in founding a new dominion, and he took it. Nor is such conduct uncommon nowadays with those who have strong hearts and seek great objects. Look at that mighty people whom we poor fools fear and call infidels. Have we ever seen, since the days of Rome's greatest glory, a more powerful, energetic, conquering race than the Saracens? Does the sultan, or caliph, or whatever he may be, suffer his power to be shaken or his course to be impeded by a weak horde of brothers? No, no. He sends out of the troubles of life those who are not gifted for life's mighty contests. Why, this man Bajazet has paid three hundred thousand ducats for the dead body of his brother Zizim, lest perchance he should some day trouble his repose. Shall I be more scrupulous when the Duke of Gandia builds up a wall between me and my right course? No, Ramiro, no! I am about to cast off these priestly robes, that only trammel me, to pursue the path which nature by a mistake opened him; to strive in arms and policy for the great designs of ambition; and I would have the course cleared before me. Do you understand me now, Ramiro?"
"I think I do, my lord," replied Ramiro d'Orco; but Borgia went on without attending to him.
"A mistake of nature, did I say? a blunder--a gross blunder. Had I had Gandia's opportunities, should I have neglected them as he has done? What should I have been now? What would my friends have been? This miserable cardinalate, what does it give me? Not enough to reward a horse-boy. Give me but room, and I will make sure to carve me a principality out of this land which will enable me to raise my name on high, and recompense all who serve me. I will so work the dissensions of these States, that if I bring them all not under my heel, I will bind a sufficient number in a fasces to render my power unassailable. But I must have room, Ramiro, I must have room; and I must have it quickly. Between this hour and my father's death, who can say what time will be allowed me? Yet all must be done within that space; and if I pause and hesitate at the first step, the precious moment will have slipped by. Gandia must die, my friend. He bars my way, he extinguished my light. An accident made him my elder brother; we must have some accident which shall leave me without one. Now, then, you know all. Can you help me? How can you help me?"
"I am too old to help you with my own hand, my lord," replied Ramiro d'Orco, "but I have those who can and will. You need not explain aught to them. You need never name the man, but merely designate him by outward signs. You know his haunts--his habits. Let them watch for him in some convenient place, and treat him as they would some gay gallant who has raised the jealousy of some noble husband."
"But it must be done quickly, Ramiro," replied the other. "In a few days I must quit Rome for Naples, and I would have it finished before I go."
"That is easy too," replied Ramiro d'Orco. "You must learn where he may be found. Give them but the hour and place, and they will spare you all future trouble."
Cæsar Borgia did not seem altogether satisfied. He sat silent, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, gnawing his lower lip; and, after a moment's pause, passed apparently in intense thought, Ramiro added,
"There is but one way, my lord, in which this thing can be done properly and well. You shall see the men yourself; you can be either incognito or not, as you please: but deal with them separately. Four will be enough, for I know that each man I send you is equal to a dozen common cut-throats. You have but to tell me where and when they shall come to you, and I will have them there, one by one, with a quarter of an hour between their visits."
"You are, indeed, a good deviser, my friend Ramiro," replied Borgia, with a well-pleased look. "No witness to my conversation with either. They can meet and arrange their plans afterward, but that commits not me. As to incognito it is hardly possible and hardly needful. My face is too well known in Rome, and my word better than any single bravo's."
"When shall I send them, my lord?" asked Ramiro d'Orco.
"This night--this very night," answered Borgia, eagerly; "no time is to be lost. Such things should be hardly thought of ere they be executed. The deed should tread upon the heels of the determination."
"And here?" asked Ramiro.
"Ay, even here," replied Borgia. "Strange people come here sometimes my Ramiro."
"Then I hasten to fulfil your lordship's will," replied his companion. "Lay not your finger on my household gods, and you will find no one to serve you better. I have already given you some proof of it by throwing such nets around my good cousin, the Cardinal Julian, that all his enmity toward your father has proved impotent as yet. In this matter you shall find that I can be serviceable too."
"As to your household gods or goddesses, dear Ramiro," replied Borgia, with a light laugh, "be under no fear. I was a fool about that business of the villa. I knew not that you would take the thing so much to heart, for I am too wise to risk the loss of a strong friend for a light love. You told me just now to swear by something I believed in. I swear by my ambition, Ramiro, that I will never seek your daughter, or trouble her again. May fortune never favour me if I do! You will believe that oath, Ramiro?"
"It is the most binding your Eminence could take," replied d'Orco, drily; "and now I take my leave, for I believe with you, that if this is to be done at all, it should be done at once. Yet one word more; as you seek no incognito, I will send you a man who knows you already, and whom you know. He is better and more trusty than one of those I thought of. He has been bred in a rare school for such operations. Buondoni of Milan was his tutor, and Ludovic the Moor the regent of the university where he studied."
"Ah! who is he?" asked Borgia, with a smile. "He should be a great professor if he have any genius."
"Oh, he is a ripe scholar, and a man of much ability," answered Ramiro. "He knows the course of the jugular vein, and the exact position of the heart, as if he were an anatomist. This is no other than our good friend, Friar Peter. He may come to you to-night without his robes on, but you will find Pierre Mardocchi as good a devil as any friar of them all. But we waste time, and again I take my leave."
What were the feelings of Ramiro d'Orco as he left the Borgia palace would be difficult to say. He was a man of few scruples, and hardened in that worst of all philosophies, which some even in our own day are so eager to teach, the main axiom of which is, that all men are equally bad, and bold crime is superior to timid vice by the great element of courage. It is hardly possible for a misanthropist to be anything but a villain. And yet, although he would not have shrunk from any ordinary crime, there was something in the calm determination of Borgia to murder his own brother--ay, and even in the arguments he had used to palliate, if not justify the act, which had sent the blood back from his cheek and from his lips, and it seemed to stagnate for a moment.
But short consideration was needed to show him that there was but one course left for him to pursue with any chance of safety. The dangerous confidence which Cæsar Borgia had placed in him did not admit of any choice but between death and crime. He must be an accomplice or he must be an enemy; and to be Cæsar Borgia's enemy, for any man unarmoured in mighty power, was to stand upon the brink of the grave. All remorse, all hesitation, therefore, were quickly done away. "I must serve him well," he thought--"must help him to accomplish the deed--must teach him he cannot do without me. Then his own interest will make him my friend in acts, if not in heart."
Not three quarters of an hour had passed ere a friar presented himself at the Borgia palace. He stayed some twenty minutes, and ere he left another man was admitted to the cardinal--a man of swaggering military air, who had lost one eye, apparently in fight. These two came forth together, crossed over to the other side of the street, and stood there conversing for some time under an archway. During the next half hour, two others, each of whom had previously visited the Borgia palace, were added to the group, and it must be admitted that four more consummate scoundrels have seldom been gathered together.
On the following night there was a great entertainment at the house of Rosa Vanozza, the mother of the Borgias, the concubine of the pope. Guest after guest departed, some with lights to guide their steps, some apparently not so willing that the course they took should be marked. There was a servant, richly dressed, who stood in the square opposite the house, who scanned every group as it came out, and at the farther corner of the square were three or four men, discussing, it would seem, some knotty point with Italian vehemence of gesture.
Though apparently indifferent to everything but their own conversation, the eyes of these men also ran over each group that came from the Casa Vanozza. All passed by, however, without their moving; the lights wound away through the narrow streets, and all became darkness in the square. The men then moved on towards the servant, who still remained where he had been stationed before, as if intending to pass him; but just at the moment they were doing so, he staggered some paces with a groan, and fell upon the pavement. The men returned to the spot where they had been previously standing.
A few minutes after, two gay-looking young cavaliers came forth from Vanozza's house, and walked partly across the square together at some distance from where the dead man lay. One of them looked round, saying, "Where can my valet be? The dog has grown weary of waiting, I suppose. Have you no servants with you, Cæsar?"
"No," replied the other, "I have no fear of walking the streets of Rome alone--I am so beloved, you know, Gandia," and he added a short bitter sort of a laugh.
"Well, I take this street to the right," said the Duke of Gandia. "I have some business down near San Jacomo."
"Good night," said the other. "I know where you are going, Gandia. You can't cheat me."
"Good-night, cardinal," replied the duke, laughing, and they parted.
The same night, a few hours afterward, a boatman upon the Tiber, watching a load of wood which he had landed near the church of St. Jerome, and lying apparently asleep in his boat, saw two men come forth from the narrow alley which ran by the side of the church, and look cautiously all round, up one street and down another, as if to insure that all were free from passengers. Everything was still about the city--no step was heard, no moving object seen--and the two men returned to the alley whence they had issued forth.
Shortly after, four men appeared at the mouth of the alley, one of whom was on horseback, and all approached at a quick pace toward a spot on the banks of the Tiber not more than ten yards from the boat in which the man was watching. When they came near he perceived that the horseman had the corpse of a dead man behind him, flung carelessly over the crupper, with the head and arms hanging over on one side, and the feet and legs on the other. When near the river, the horseman wheeled his horse and backed it to the brink. His companions then took the body from behind him, swung it to and fro several times to give it greater impetus, and then cast it as far as they could into the Tiber. The horseman then turned and gazed upon the shining surface of the river, upon which the moon was now pouring a flood of light.
"What is that black thing floating there?" he asked.
"It is his cloak," replied one of the others.
"Cast some stones upon it quick," said the horseman. His orders were obeyed, and the cloak disappeared.
When the boatman, many days afterward, told his story, upon being questioned as to whether he had seen anything particular on the fatal Wednesday night, he was asked with some surprise why he had not given information at once. He answered that within the last few years he had seen more than a hundred dead thrown into the Tiber, and had never considered it any business of his.
On the following day Rome was startled with the intelligence that the Duke of Gandia, the pope's eldest son--the only one, indeed, who possessed in any degree the love or respect of the people--was missing; and sinister rumours spread around.
But there was one man within the gates of Rome who knew the whole on the Wednesday night. Cæsar Borgia went not to bed when he returned from his mother's entertainment; but, dismissing all his train to rest, he waited for news of the events which he was well aware were to happen. I might give a fanciful picture of the agitation of his mind--of the listening ear and the straining eye, and the pallid cheek, and the quivering lip--and it might have every appearance of verisimilitude; for at that moment a brother was being murdered by his order. But it was not so. He sat upon velvet cushions, playing with a small, silky-haired monkey. He seemed as thoughtless, careless, and sportive as the poor beast itself. For half an hour he amused himself thus. He teased it, he irritated it, and then he soothed it. Again he teased it, and at length the monkey bit him, when, seizing it by the legs, he dashed its head against the floor, and the poor beast lay dead at his feet. He washed the blood from his hand with a handkerchief, and stood gazing at the dead brute with a face that betokened no grief or regret. At length he kicked the body into a corner, murmuring, "People must not bite me."
People! Did he think that monkey was his brother?
The only time when he showed some degree of agitation was when more than an hour and a half had elapsed since his return, and yet no tidings arrived. "Can they have failed?" he said, in a low voice; "can they have failed? Oh no, impossible!" and, sitting down again--for he had risen while the momentary fear crossed his mind--he took up a book and read some love songs of that day. Nearly another hour passed, and then a step was heard upon the staircase. The next instant a friar entered the room, and silently closed the door behind him.
"It is done your Eminence," said the man, approaching Borgia, and speaking low and quietly.
"What have you done with the body?" asked the cardinal.
"It is at the bottom of the Tiber," replied Mardocchi, "I am somewhat late, for we had to drag him into Michelotto's house, near St. Jerome's, and we did not like to carry him to the river bank as long as a single soul could be seen moving in the streets."
"Right--right," said Cæsar Borgia! "that might have been ruinous."
"Not an eye saw," said Mardocchi, "though he fought for a minute or two; for Michelotto missed his first blow, and it took nine wounds to dispatch him. Some one must have given him three. I only gave him two, but they were good ones. One was between the throat and the breast-bone; the other, which was the best, was in the middle of the left side; that brought him down, and he never moved or spoke after that."
"You are a good and faithful fellow," replied Borgia, "and have bound you to me for ever. You shall take away with you to-night the ducats I promised yourself and your companions; but that ring is for yourself, and engages you in my particular service."
Mardocchi took the ring and held it in his hand, apparently hesitating.
"I beg your Eminence to pardon me," he said, at length, "but I cannot quit the Lord Ramiro."
"Ha! do you love the good lord so much?" asked Borgia.
"No, your Eminence, I do not love him at all," replied the friar; "but--but--I have an object in staying with him."
"Speak out--speak out, Mardocchi," said Cæsar Borgia; "you have nothing to fear from me, and if I can help you, I will."
"It is a long story, my lord," replied the friar; "but to tell you as shortly as may be. The signor's daughter, it seems, is to be married shortly to young Lorenzo Visconti. Now I have an old grudge against that young man. I have promised not to practise against his life, and I will keep my promise, for I always do; but I have not promised not to do him all the harm I can, for revenge I will have, and I can only have it by staying with Ramiro d'Orco."
"That suits me well," replied Cæsar Borgia. "You shall be my servant, Mardocchi, but not quit the good lord. You may remain with him, go with him where he goes, serve him against all men except me; but you will remember you are mine, and be ready to serve me at a moment's notice. I need such men as you. You will receive a hundred ducats in the year from my treasurer, and I count upon you for any service, even should it be against Ramiro himself."
"I trust I may count upon your Eminence's countenance too," said Mardocchi, "in case I should get into any trouble on this Signor Visconti's matters, for my revenge upon him I will have."
"You shall have my protection, and those whom I protect are tolerably safe," said Borgia, rising and going to a small beautiful cabinet that stood in the room. "Here, take this bag of ducats; it is what I promised. Divide them equally with your companions, and say nothing about the ring I have given you. Come to me to-morrow, and we will speak further. I will now retire, and shall sleep better than I have done for weeks."
Mardocchi took the heavy bag, and as he did so, Cæsar Borgia saw that there was blood on the man's hand. It was his brother's blood; and the sight did for an instant touch his obdurate heart, which nothing else had reached. He did not sleep so well that night as he expected.