Ramiro d'Orco sat in his own splendid room while rumours of the death of the unfortunate Duke of Gandia spread consternation through the city; but he had before him a parchment with a large pendant seal, which gave him the important ecclesiastical fief of Imola, and he thought of little else. The first great step he had ever been able to take in that high road of ambition which he had so long been eager to follow was now taken. He saw before him along career of greatness, and he calculated that, step by step, as Cæsar Borgia rose, he must rise with him. He did not over-estimate at all the abilities of that very remarkable man; and it was no wild calculation to presume that, with such abilities, with such courage, with such ambition, and without a scruple, Cæsar Borgia, in that unscrupulous age, must rise to the highest point of power and dignity.
True, the town of Imola had its own lords; true, it was strongly garrisoned; but the barony had been declared forfeited to the Holy See, and the fortifications were too much decayed to withstand a siege. Linked as he was now with Cæsar Borgia, and knowing that his services, especially with the hostile Cardinal of St. Peter's, were necessary to the Holy See, he doubted not that the forces of the pope, which were soon to be employed against Forli, in the immediate neighbourhood of Imola, would be permitted to place him in possession of the vicariate. He was resolved, however, to make sure of that point as early as possible, and if not successful in his application, to raise troops himself and endeavour to surprise the place.
The second day after the assassination of the Duke of Gandia, Ramiro d'Orco, with more splendour than he had yet displayed in Rome, presented himself first at the Vatican, and then at the palace of the cardinal. At the Vatican he was refused admittance, and the attendants told him the dreadful sufferings of the father for the loss of his eldest and best-beloved son. They assured him, and assured him truly, that the pope, shut up in his cabinet, had neither seen any one, nor tasted food of any kind since the death of the duke had been ascertained. At the Borgia palace he was admitted, and he found in the gorgeous saloons a number of the high nobility of Rome, brought thither by the same motive which he himself professed, namely, to condole with the young cardinal upon his brother's death. With a grave air and a sad look, he advanced slowly toward Borgia, and expressed in graceful and well-chosen terms his regret and horror at the event which had occurred.
The drama was well played on both parts, although, to tell the truth, Cæsar was so much amused at the farce, that, had he not been the most complete master of dissimulation in the world, he must have laughed aloud. He looked grave and sad, however; and when Ramiro, after having stayed for some time in the hope that the other visitors would depart, rose to do so himself, Cæsar said to him, in that bland and caressing tone which he knew so well how to use--
"Stay with me, my Ramiro. Your company will give me consolation. You must partake my poor dinner, though, to say truth, I have no stomach for aught."
One by one the barons departed, and if any one suspected that the cardinal was not so much grieved as he appeared to be, they took care not to express their doubts to any one--no, not to their dearest friends or most trusted confidant. When they were gone, a quiet smile passed over Cæsar Borgia's lips, but neither he nor Ramiro made the slightest allusion to the events of the past.
The cardinal, however, was in the most benign and generous humour. His appetite at dinner showed no signs of decay, nor did he altogether avoid the wine-cup. Ramiro knew that he was necessary to him, and therefore ate and drank with him without fear, although it was not always a very safe proceeding. In the course of the dinner Ramiro alluded to the difficulties he might have in obtaining possession of Imola; but Cæsar cut him short with a kindly smile, saying--
"I have thought of all that, and that will be easily arranged, I trust. My journey to Naples once over--and it will only take ten days--I march against these traitor vicars of the Holy See, and will expel them from the possessions they unjustly retain. The pope, my friend, does not bestow a fief without putting the recipient in possession of it. The first occupation of his forces under my command will be to establish you safely in your city, trusting that I shall have your aid and good counsel in dealing with the others which I have to reduce. Ramiro," he continued, changing his tone and speaking abruptly, "you have done me vast service, and those who serve me well are sure of my gratitude. You have rendered great services, too, to the Holy See, and can render greater still, for there is only one enemy we have to fear, that fierce Julian. Continue to keep him in check for my sake, and as long as my father lives you may count upon me as your friend."
"I hope, indeed, to be able to do still more," and Ramiro; "for when my daughter is united to a cousin of the King of France, his companion and his friend, I shall have a mouthpiece at that court which can whisper a word in the king's closet more potent than all that Julian de Rovera can say at the council table."
"Good--good," said Cæsar Borgia; and then they proceeded to discuss many points in regard to their future proceedings, which would not interest the reader. Suffice it to say, a few weeks after this conversation, a strong body of the papal troops appeared before the gates of Imola, and summoned the garrison to surrender. Merely a show of resistance was made: but at the first mention of terms the garrison agreed to capitulate, and before night marched out. On the following morning Cæsar Borgia pursued his way toward Forli, and Ramiro d'Orco, with a splendid train and a considerable band of armed men, whom he had engaged in Rome, made his public entry into the city. The people, who had suffered some oppression from their late lords, shouted and rejoiced, and all his first acts gave promise of a gentle and paternal rule.
Only two days had passed after he became Lord of Imola, when Father Peter, as he was now called, was summoned to the presence of Ramiro d'Orco, and told to prepare for an immediate journey to Florence.
"I send a noble lady of this place," said the baron, "with twenty men-at-arms and some women servants, to bring my daughter hither; but you, my good Mardocchi, have an especial part to play in this business. You will hand her my letter; tell her, her presence is needful to me, and that the dangers she feared in Rome do not exist at Imola. You have told me, I think, that you have seen and known the young Lord Lorenzo Visconti. He is expected in Florence soon to wed my daughter, and will go at once to the Casa Morelli. You must remain behind after the Signora Leonora has set out, and wait for his coming. When he arrives you must immediately see him, and induce him to come hither. Tell him that I found it expedient for many reasons that Leonora should be with me until he came to claim her hand, but for none more than this: I have certain information that my good cousin, Mona Francesca Morelli, having lost her beauty from the effects of injuries she received some months since, is about immediately to enter the convent of San Miniato. Leonora will then be without protection in Florence, unless she goes with Mona Francesca to the convent, which would not please me, as I fear the influence of the sisters upon her mind. You will tell Signor Visconti, however, that I am forgetful of no promises, and that I am ready to bestow upon him my child's hand as soon as he arrives at Imola."
"But how long am I to wait for him, noble lord?" asked Mardocchi: "young gentlemen are sometimes fickle, and perchance he may not come as soon as you expect."
A sudden flush passed over Ramiro's face, and his brows contracted; but after a short pause he answered, in his usual tone:
"He is not fickle, my good friend. He will be there within a month after you reach Florence; the ways are all open now, and there is nothing to impede him; but even if, from some accident which we cannot foresee, he should be delayed a fortnight or three weeks longer, I would have you stay for him. Few men, my good Mardocchi, are likely to be fickle withmydaughter."
He laid an emphasis on the word "my", but yet there was something of paternal pride and tenderness in his tone.
"I should think it would be somewhat dangerous," said the friar with a laugh; "however, I will be ready, my lord, at your command, and will obey you to the tittle."
"Dangerous!" said Ramiro, after the man left him. "But this is nonsense; he dare not slight her."
In some eighteen days' time Leonora appeared in Imola, more beautiful, perhaps, than ever, and many of the young nobles of the neighbouring country would willingly have disputed her hand with any one; but Ramiro d'Orco took care to make it known that her heart, with his approbation, had been won by another, whose bride she was soon to be. Toward her he was, perhaps, in some degree, more tender than he had shown himself before, yet there was but little difference in his manner or his conduct; there was the same indulgence of her slightest wishes; the same grave, almost studied reserve. He told her more as a command than a permission, that she would be united to Lorenzo as soon as he arrived; and Leonora's heart beat high with hope and expectation.
Week passed by after week, and still Lorenzo did not come. One letter arrived from Florence informing Ramiro and his daughter that Mona Francesca, deprived of Leonora's society, which had of late been her only solace, had retired from the world even earlier than she had intended; but nothing was heard of Mardocchi, though he was known to be a good scribe.
Six weeks--two months passed, and fears of various kinds took possession of Leonora's heart. Ramiro d'Orco said nothing, but he appeared more grave and stern than ever.
At length a carrier passing by Imola brought a letter from Mardocchi. It was merely to ask if he should return. He made no mention of Lorenzo, but he merely laconically remarked that he thought he had stayed long enough. Ramiro d'Orco laid the letter before his daughter without remark, but he took advantage of a messenger going to France from Cæsar Borgia to order Mardocchi to return.
And what did Leonora do? A tear or two dropped on the villain's letter. She had no doubt of Lorenzo's constancy. His heart was imaged in her own, and she saw nothing fickle, nothing doubtful there. She thought he must be ill--wounded, perhaps, in some encounter--unable to come or write, But she had heard of the courier's passing too, and she longed to write. There had been something in her father's manner, however, that made her hesitate, and, after long thought she went boldly up to his private cabinet. He was seated, signing some official papers, but he looked up the moment she entered, saying--
"What is it, Leonora?"
A new spirit had entered into her with her love for Lorenzo Visconti, and she answered no longer with the timidity, nay, with that fear which at one time she felt in speaking to her father.
"Lorenzo must be ill, my father," she said. "I am told that there is a courier going to France, and I long to write by him. I feel it would be better, wiser, to have no secrets from my father--to let him know my whole heart and all my acts. I, therefore, will not write without your permission."
"Write--write, my child," said Ramiro d'Orco, with a more beaming look than usually came upon his countenance. "God grant that this young man's disease may be more of the body than the mind. His conduct is strange, but yet I will lose no chance. I cannot write to him, but you may. Woman's love may pardon what man's harder nature must revenge. Perhaps this letter may be explained. God grant it!"
Leonora retired to her chamber and wrote:
"My spirit is very much troubled, dear Lorenzo"--such were the words--"You promised to return in two months after we parted. Five have passed; and you have neither come nor written. I know you are ill. I entertain no other fear; but my father, I can see, has doubts that have never entered into my mind. I beseech you remove them. A messenger has been waiting for you at Florence to explain to you that my father has become Lord of Imola, and that I have joined him here. It is probable that this good man, Father Peter, may not be able to remain waiting for you any longer, and I therefore write to let you know where you will find me. That you will seek me as soon as it is possible, or write to me if it is impossible for you to seek me soon, no doubt exists in the mind of your
Leonora."
She folded and sealed the letter, and took it at once to her father; but Ramiro remarked on the green floss silk with which it was tied.
"Take some other colour, my child," he said; and, stretching across the table, he threw before her a small bundle of those silks with which it was customary to attach a seal to letters in that day. "There is crimson," he said; "that will suit better for the occasion."
There seemed a meaning lurking in his speech which Leonora did not like; but she obeyed quietly, and was about to leave the letter re-sealed with him, when he suddenly said--
"Stay! better put in the corner, 'To be shown to the Reverend Father Peter, at the Casa Morelli, Florence, in case the Signor Lorenzo Visconti should have arrived.' If he be there, it would be useless to send the letter on to France; if not there, Father Peter will forward it."
Leonora obeyed willingly, for during the short time she had been in her father's house she had found that the friar was high in Ramiro's good opinion, and that all the attendants, taking the colour of their thoughts from those of their lord, spoke well of Father Peter. Nor had the little which she had seen of him in Florence at all enlightened her as to the real character of the man. To the eyes of children fragments of coloured glass look like gems, and Leonora was too young to distinguish in a moment, as one old and experienced can sometimes do, the false from the true stone.
The direction was written in the corner with her own hand, which prevented the letter from ever reaching her lover.
No sooner was it shown to Mardocchi than he told the messenger he would keep it, as he had certain intelligence that the young cavalier would be in Florence in three days. Lorenzo Visconti had been in Florence long before, and from the old porter at the Casa Morelli had heard the story which Mardocchi had put in the man's mouth; that Leonora had gone to join her father at Imola, thence to proceed immediately to some distant part of Italy, no one knew where. The deaf old man's kindly feeling prevented him from telling all that Mardocchi suggested, namely, that it was Ramiro d'Orco's intention to wed his daughter to some of his new friends in the south, and that Leonora made no opposition. That was the tale which reached Lorenzo afterwards, for it was diligently spread; and as more than half of the intelligence of Europe was in those days conveyed by rumour, it passed current with most men, though it came in no very tangible form.
No sooner had Cæsar Borgia's courier departed from Florence than Mardocchi set out for Imola. He was engaged in a somewhat hazardous game, and it was necessary for him to be on the spot where it could most conveniently be played. The one predominant passion, however, was as strong in his heart as ever, and, had it cost him his life, he would have played out that game for revenge. The circumstances of the time favoured all his machinations. There were no regular posts in those days. Communication was slow and scanty. An armed horseman carried the letter of this or that great lord or merchant from town to town, and sometimes was permitted, if his journey was to be a long one, to take up small packages from private citizens in the places through which he passed. It may easily be conceived that, in such circumstances as these, it was easy for a villain, shrewd and determined in his purpose, to intercept what communication he pleased. A flagon of fine wine, a golden ducat, readily brought all ordinary couriers to reason; and the dangerous secrets he possessed gave Mardocchi, even with his lord, an influence denied to any other man in Imola.
I may well, therefore, pass over all the details of those means by which he worked the misery of Lorenzo Visconti and Leonora d'Orco. Only two facts require to be mentioned. He soon found, or rather divined, that it would be needful to stop Leonora's correspondence with her cousin Blanche; and after the first two or three, no letters, addressed to the latter, left the castle of Imola. They were, in general, burned immediately; but, in carelessly looking through one of them, the traitor found a few words which he thought might answer his purpose at some future time.
Leonora's pride, in writing to her cousin, had somewhat given way on hearing of the approaching marriage of Blanche and De Vitry, and she alluded sadly to her own disappointment. "For once," she wrote, "an early engagement has been crowned with happiness. Oh! what a fool I was to cast away the first feelings of my heart, without knowing better the man to whom I gave them."
These words were carefully out out, and when at length a letter from Lorenzo came, sent from Rome by Villanova (the new ambassador of the French king to the Papal court), it did not share the fate of the rest. It was a last effort to draw at least some answer from Leonora; and it had very nearly reached her for whom it was intended, the courier having arrived at a very unusual hour. But Mardocchi was all ears and all eyes, and he stopped the packages at the very door of Ramiro d'Orco's cabinet.
"The good lord slept," he said; "he had been exhausted by long labours in the service of his people. The letters should be delivered as soon as he woke."
In the meantime he held them in charge; and when they were delivered, one was missing. That one was sent back again to France some few months before the death of Charles VIII., and into the cover was slipped the scrap of paper containing those words in Leonora's own hand, "Oh! what a fool I was to cast away the first feelings of my heart without knowing better the man to whom I gave them!"
Mardocchi laughed as he placed the writing close under the seal. Whether he saw the extent of the evil he was working, who can tell? Vague notions might flit before his imagination of dark ulterior consequences--of Ramiro d'Orco's seeking vengeance for the slight shown to his daughter--of Lorenzo's fiery spirit urging on a quarrel--of his own power to direct the dagger or the poison, though he had vowed to use neither with his own hand; but certain it is that no result could be too terrible for his desires.
Two years had passed, and Leonora d'Orco had changed with everything around her. Alliances had been formed and broken; great commanders had won victories, and yielded to the stronger hand of Fate. Kings had descended from the proud pitch of power and betaken themselves to the humblest of beds; new combinations had been formed over the whole earth; enemies had become friends, friends enemies; love was burning soon to become cold; and there was coldness where the most ardent passion had once been felt.
I must be pardoned if I pause in my simple tale to show how the strange transforming-rod of time had affected Leonora d'Orco. Anguish, disappointment, anger--yes, I may say anger--had produced for a time those results which mental excitement almost of any kind fails not to work on the human frame.
When a whole year had elapsed without tidings or explanation from Lorenzo Visconti, her cheek might be seen to become paler and paler every day. Her limbs and form could not lose their grace, but they lost their beautiful contour. She became thin as well as pale; her bright eyes, too, lost somewhat of their lustre. She was still a young girl, and it was painful to see how her loveliness faded as her best hopes faded. She sought solitude; she avoided all society; she shunned especially that of men. Her father's was an exception. Parent and child seemed drawn closer together by the events which had inflicted a different kind of pain upon the heart of each. Often, after gazing at her for a while, cold, stern, remorseless Ramiro d'Orco would suddenly seek his cabinet, and, pressing his hands together till the fingers grew white, would utter but one word--"revenge!"
This state of things lasted but a few months, however, when suddenly a new change came over the beautiful girl. She had been studying hard and diligently, and strange books fell into her hands. It seemed as if from intellectual culture, new sources of happiness became opened to her. It might, indeed, be that pride came to her aid--that she resolved to cast away all thoughts of a man she deemed unworthy of her. It might be that she sought to cheer and solace her father. And yet there must have been something more, some stronger power at work within, for she showed that she was not one of those "to love again and be again deceived." Oh, no, she would not hear the very name of love.
The gayest, the brightest, the noblest, the most handsome strove for one smile, one token of her favour, but in vain. Yet she came forth from her solitude--she became the star of her father's little court. Amid admiring eyes and looks that seemed almost to worship her, she moved in beauty, but as cold as ice. Colour came back to her cheek, light to her eye, roundness and symmetry to every limb. The sweet, arching lips regained all their redness, but the heart seemed to have lost its warmth for ever.
The tenderness of the young girl, too, had apparently gone--the timidity, the shyness of youth. Not that she was hard, unkind, or harsh--oh, far from it. She was an angel of mercy in that city of Imola. She pleaded for the prisoner, turned often aside the blow from those appointed to die, solaced the sick and the needy. Her own great wealth, left solely to her disposal, raised up many a drooping head, cheered many a despairing heart. But now she dared to do what she would have shrunk from in the years passed by. She would approach her father, fearless, in his sternest moods, entreat, argue, remonstrate, and often, by the power of her will, bend him from his most settled purposes. Her beauty had acquired something of the character which her mind now assumed, and it must have been now that those pictures we have of her were taken. Though it was of the finest, the most delicate, the most exquisitely engaging style both in line and colouring, there was a dignity in the expression and in the whole air which the canvas can but faintly convey; and yet who could gaze upon her eyes, those wells of light, without seeing that there was some marvellous self-sustaining power within.
Leonora became fond, too, of the decoration of her person. Jewels, and cloth of gold, and rich embroidery decked those lovely hands and arms, or were wreathed in the clustering masses of her jetty hair, or arrayed those graceful limbs; and her tire-women had no longer reason to complain that she forgot her station or neglected her apparel as they had once done. To them she was gentleness itself; but the suitors who still would ask her hand could not but feel that their dismissal had something of the sting of scorn in it. She strove to soften it, but she could not; and the beautiful lip would curl, however mild the words might be, as if she thought it strange that any man could think she would condescend to bestow herself on him.
It must be said, however, that no one had any right to complain of having been led on to love merely to be refused. No approving smile ever encouraged the first advance; and if the attentions were too marked to be misunderstood, a sudden coldness gave the answer without a word. Once only she showed her contempt plainly. It was when a nobleman of pride and power declared he would appeal from her decision to her father. She told him her father had no power to wed her to a man whom she despised, and, if he ever had possessed it, he had given her fate into her own hands long before.
"I have his promise," she said--"a promise that, for good or bad, has not yet been broken to human being--that he will never, even by word, urge me to wed mortal man. So now go, my lord, and appeal to whom you will, but let me not see you any more. I am no man's slave, not even a father's."
There were violent things done in Italy in those days; and I know not whether it was some idle but threatening words, muttered by this bold lover as he left her, or the rumour that Imola was soon to be visited by Cæsar Borgia--the only being on earth she seemed to fear--that had led her to a step which must be told.
There was a monastery of Cistercian monks upon a hill some five miles distant from Imola, and, in the early morning of a summer's day, a gallant cavalcade of some eight horsemen and three women, with Leonora at their head, stopped at the gates. She dismounted, and, bidding the attendants wait, went in alone. She asked the porter to call Father Angelo to her; but the old man, when he came, evidently knew her not. He was a servile-looking, shrewd-eyed man, and her air, as well as her attire, impressed him. "What is it, daughter?" he said. "Can I give you any spiritual aid?"
Leonora fixed her lustrous eyes upon him, and seemed to look into his very heart. "No, father," she answered; "I have my own confessor, and a holy and good man he is. It is aid of another kind I seek from you. I have heard that you have cultivated much the natural sciences, know all the secret virtues of herbs and minerals, and have prepared drugs which will remove from earth a dangerous friend or a potent enemy."
"But, daughter," said the monk, interrupting her, "these drugs are not to be intrusted to girls and children, and----"
"Hear me out," she said; "I seek none of these. What I demand, and what I must have, is for my own defence. One I loved very well was once injured by a poisoned weapon, and it took much skill and deep knowledge to save his life. It struck me then, and it has often occurred to my mind since, that a weapon so anointed were no poor defence, even in a woman's feeble hand. Nay, more, that if placed beyond all hope of safety, she might preserve herself from wrong by a slight scratch, when her coward hand might fail to plunge the weapon in her own heart. Once such a means might have been needful to me, but, thank Heaven, another mode of escape was found. See here. I have bought this dagger against time of need. The groove, you see, is perfect, but I want that which makes it efficacious. That you must give--sell me, I should have said, for you shall have gold enough; and if any scruple linger in your mind, I promise you, by all I hold most sacred, never to use it but in my own defence."
"Well, there may be truth in what you say," replied the monk. "Rome is not far off, and there are strange things, they tell me, taking place in Rome. But you are a strange lady, and approach boldly matters that even men treat with some circumlocution."
"I do so because my purposes are holy," replied Leonora. "I have nothing to conceal, because I have nothing to fear, good father. But let us not waste time. Will a hundred ducats satisfy you?"
"It should be a hundred and fifty," said the monk. "Such things are dangerous, and our good father the pope has strictly forbidden the sale of these drugs to anybody out of his own family."
"Well, take the hundred and fifty," said Leonora. "Bring the poison quickly, for my attendants will grow impatient."
"But I must mark the phial 'Poison,'" he replied; "then, if you misuse it, the fault is yours."
"Mark it what you please," she answered. "Here is the money in this purse when you bring the drug; but be speedy."
The old man gazed into her eyes for a moment as if to read her real purposes; then bidding her remain beneath the arch, he hurried away. In a few minutes he returned with a small vial containing a white powder, and not only gave it to her, but showed her how to apply it to the blade of the dagger so that the slightest scratch would prove fatal. "Mix it with water," he said, "and then a drop not bigger than a drop of dew will do; and remember, daughter, this is no common drug, such as vulgar, unlearned assassins use. Its effects are instant, either taken by the lips or infused into the veins. Be cautious, therefore; and mind, when you apply it, use a thick gauntlet."
"There--there--there is the money," said Leonora, taking the vial eagerly; and then she added, speaking to herself, "Now, man, I defy you. I have my safety in my own hands," and, paying the monk the money, she remounted her horse and rode down the hill.
The old monk, while he counted the money carefully, gazed after her, muttering to himself, "Now that is for some fair rival, belike, or else for some faithless lover. Mayhap her husband has played her false. Ay, Heaven help us! we have always some good excuse for covering over our real intentions from the eyes of others. To save her honour at the expense of her life! That is a likely tale indeed! We have no Lucretias now-a-days except the pope's daughter, and she is a Lucretia of another sort."
Whatever the old man in his hardened nature might think, Leonora d'Orco had no purpose but the one she stated. She had long felt the necessity of the means of self-defence. She had long known that the only dread she ever experienced now, would vanish if she possessed the immediate power of life or death over an assailant or over herself. The dagger she had bought in Florence some weeks after the burning of the Villa Morelli, but she doubted her strength--not her courage--to use it with effect. But when the least wound would prove fatal, the weapon had a higher value. "One scratch upon my arm or upon his hand," she said to herself, "and I am safe from worse than death."
It must have been a terrible state of society which led a young girl to contemplate such a resource as a blessing. I cannot venture to give anything like a picture of that state. Suffice it that the fears of Leonora d'Orco were not superfluous, nor her precautions without cause.
I have heard it said that the world is weary of the picturesque in writing, tired of landscape painters, eager only for the tale or for the characters--the pepper and salt of fiction. So be it. But yet there is something in a scene--in the place, in the very spot where any great events are enacted, which gives not only an identity, but a harmony to the narrative of these events. Imola, with its old castle and its sombre walls, now repaired and strengthened by the care of Ramiro d'Orco, lay, like the hard and rugged stone of the peach, in the centre of more sweet and beautiful things.
That was the age of villa building in Italy, and, as I have shown in a previous part of this work, some of the noblest architects that the world ever produced had already appeared, and produced specimens of a new and characteristic style, unsurpassed by any other efforts. Imola was surrounded by villas, but there was one more costly and extensive than any of the rest, which hung upon the hill-side, with gardens, and terraces, and fountains round about. The villa now belonged to Ramiro d'Orco, and thither he would often retire, after the labours of the day were over, to walk, solitary and thoughtful, as was his wont, under the great stone-pines which lined the avenue.
It was the favourite home of Leonora; for, though she was so much changed in every habit, if not in every thought, there was one exception--she still loved to sit beneath the trees or upon a terrace, whence she could see over a wide landscape. She no longer sought absolute solitude, it is true; she suffered herself not to be plunged into those deep fits of thought, which had been her only comfort during Lorenzo's long absence at Naples. Usually she had one of her maids with her, well-educated girls, who could converse, though not very profoundly; and their light talk, though it did not always wean her mind from the subjects on which it was bent, just sufficed to ripple the too still waters of meditation.
She was thus seated one afternoon, just in the beginning of the autumn, in an angle of the gardens, whence she could see on all sides around but one, with a girl named Carlotta at her feet. If there be aught on earth which deserves the name of divine, it is the weather in some parts of Italy when the summer has lost its full heat, and the autumn knows nothing yet of wintry chill, when the grape is just beginning to grow purple, and the cheek of the fig looks warm. Such was that day, and it would seem that the balmy influence of the air and the brightness of the scene had their influence upon poor Leonora, bringing back some of the gaiety and sportiveness of other years.
"So, foolish Carlotta," said her mistress, "you must needs go down to the dusty town this morning--to see your lover, I warrant, and arrange for this wedding I have heard of."
Carlotta blushed and smiled, and said "Ay;" and her mistress gave her a tap upon the cheek, exclaiming--
"Out upon you, silly girl! can you not be content without making yourself a slave?"
"It is woman's nature, lady," replied the girl; "we all like to be slaves to those we love. I do believe that there is no woman who does not wish to marry; and do you know, lady, that people wonder that you have never given your hand to any one."
"I!" exclaimed Leonora, with a start, and an expression almost of pain upon her face; "I marry any one! I wish to marry any one! to be the passive plaything of a rude boor--to be sported with at his will and pleasure--to have the sanctity of my chamber invaded by a coarse man! When I think of it, I cannot but marvel that any woman, with the feelings of a woman, can so degrade herself."
"The feelings of the woman prompt her, lady," said Carlotta; "but, do you know, I saw a man at Mother Agostina's--that is, my Bernardino's aunt--a courier just returned from France, and he told me that all the people there say that you are married."
"More likely to be buried, my Carlotta," replied Leonora; "but what have the people of France to do with me?"
"Why, they seem to have a great deal to do with Italy now," rejoined the girl. "Since the pope's son has been to the place they call Chinon, and has been made Duke of Valentinois by the new King of France, that monarch seems to be as much pope in Rome as the Holy Father himself. Have you not heard, lady, that a whole crowd of Frenchmen--lords and knights, and such like--are coming over with some chosen troops to help Alexander and the new duke to make up a great duchy here in Italy for him who used to be a cardinal, and who is now a soldier?"
"No, I have heard nothing of it," replied Leonora; "doubtless my father has, if the gossip be true."
"Oh! it is quite true, lady," replied the girl; "all was in preparation when Giacomo came away, and, besides, at the King of France's desire, the pope has made one of these young lords Prefect of Romagna. But he is Italian by birth, they say, and a cousin of the King of France, and brings his beautiful young wife with him."
Leonora rose from her seat and gazed into the girl's eyes for a moment in silence, with a look that almost frightened poor Carlotta. "Did you hear his name?" she asked, at length.
"It was Lorenzo something," replied the girl; "Visconti, I think."
Leonora turned away abruptly, and with a quick step climbed the hill, entered the villa, and sought her own apartments. She passed through the ante-room, and through that where her maids sat embroidering, without speaking a word, and entering her own chamber, cast herself down upon her bed and wept.
"Fool! fool! fool that I am!" she cried, at length, starting up. "I thought I had torn it out by the roots; but it is there still."
She drew the dagger, in its sheath of velvet and gold, from her bosom, gazed at it for a moment and murmured,
"Only this, or what this gives, can root it out; but no, no, I am not mad. This will all pass away. I will conquer it now--even now. I may have to see him again! Then I will look upon him now, as he was when I believed him faithful and true, as he was when he seemed all that was noble and just," and, opening a drawer in the table, she took forth a small, beautiful gilded frame, in the centre of which appeared the sketch of Lorenzo which had been drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. "Ah! picture," she said, gazing at it, "how often hast thou been my comfort and solace in other hours--ay, even to the last; for who could gaze upon that noble face and think the soul so base! Lorenzo! Lorenzo! you have made my misery! Pray God that you have not made your own too. What has become of good Leonardo's auguries? what of his dream, that by the features you could read the spirit? But it matters not. I will steel myself to meet you, should you come--to gaze upon this fair wife you have preferred to Leonora, and who, men say, is so light, and so unworthy of the man I thought you. Perhaps she may suit you better than I should have done; for God knows she cannot be more fickle than you are. Yes, the momentary madness is passing away. I shall soon be myself again, and will play my part to the end, let it be what it may."
"Madam, a cavalier below desires to see you," said a servant, opening the door abruptly. Leonora started with a look almost of terror, for her mind was so full of one object that she thought the stranger could be no other than Lorenzo; but the servant went on: "He says his name is Leonardo da Vinci, and that you know him."
"This is strange," said Leonora to herself; and then turning to the man she added, "take him to my own saloon, and see that he and his servants be well cared for. I will be down in a few moments."
She washed away the marks of tears from her eyes, brushed smooth her hair, and then descended the short flight of steps which led as a private way from her chamber to the gorgeous room below, which was known and held sacred as her own saloon. She found the great painter standing in the midst, and gazing at some fine pictures which ornamented the walls.
"Welcome, signor," she said--"most welcome to Imola. No other house must be your home while you are here than this, or my father's palace in the citadel."
"Your pardon, bright lady," said Leonardo, gazing at her, "my home is ever an inn, and I cannot sacrifice my liberty even to you."
"You are wise, maestro," answered Leonora, somewhat gravely. "No man should sacrifice his liberty to a woman, nor any woman to a man. It is a new creed I have got, but I think it is a good one."
"Old creeds are best," replied Leonardo, seriously. "We can advance from one to another, as we can mount the steps of a temple to the holy of holies, but each step must be founded upon that which went before, and each must rest upon truth."
"Alas! where shall we find truth?" asked Leonora; and then she added, in a melancholy but sweet tone, "Let us not approach painful subjects, my good friend. We cannot meet without thinking of them. If we speak of them we shall think of them still more. I know that truth is in my own heart--where else I know not."
"Perhaps where you least think," replied the painter; "but you are right, lady. Could it do any good, I might speak even of the most painful things; but where the irrevocable seal is fixed it is vain to explain--vain to regret. You are as beautiful as ever, I see, but with that change which change of thought and feeling brings. I have come to paint your picture; and I can paint it now better than I could when we last met."
"Indeed! How so?" asked Leonora.
"Because it is easier to paint matter than spirit--angel or demon, as the case may be--which, transfusing itself through the whole frame, breathes from the face and animates every movement. Again, at other times, it leaves the human tenement vacant, or sits retired in a corner of the heart, pondering the bitterness of life. Mere animal life then acts and carries us through the business of existence; but the sentient, feeling soul is dead or entranced, and pervades not the face or limbs with that varying beauty which is so difficult for the painter to seize and to transfer. I can paint you better now than formerly; and the painting to the common eye will be more beautiful, but to mine and to the poet's there may be a lack of something--of that expression of soul which the features require for harmony--and yet it is not entirely wanting. When you first came in, there was a rigidity about your look, as if you mastered some emotion. Now there is more light, as if there were emotion still. You must have suffered agitation lately. Forgive me. I am a rough, plain-spoken man, too apt to give counsel where it is not sought, and to note feelings people would wish concealed."
"You see too deeply and too well," replied Leonora; "but still I say, maestro, let us not converse on such things. The past is dead. The present, alas! has no life in it for me. Emotion is the most transient of all things with me. Like a stone dropped by a boy into a still lake, it may go deep but ripples the surface only for a moment, and all is still again. If you wish my portrait, take it; but let not our thoughts be saddened while the work is beneath your hand by memories of other days, when happiness gave that spirit to my face which, as you judge rightly, has departed for ever. Let us talk of art, of science--what you will, in short; for I have studied much since last we met, and can encounter you with more knowledge, but not less humility; but let us speak no more of buried feelings, the very ghosts of which bring fear and anguish with them."
"Alas! that it should be so, sweet lady," replied Leonardo; "but, sad as may be your fate, there may be others, seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.
"Nay, I am not miserable," she answered; but then, recollecting the keen insight of the man she spoke to, she paused and added, "If I am, 'tis but in fits. As an old wound, I am told, long healed, will smart with a change of weather, so at times my heart will ache when something comes to weaken it. But enough of this, maestro. Look at those pictures on the wall. Those three are by one hand, and that the hand of a youth. Are they not beautiful?"
"Nay, they are sublime," replied Leonardo. "Who is the painter? He will one day be one of the mighty men of his day."
"His name is Buonaroti Simoni," replied Leonora, "I brought them with me from Florence. My father has two more, which he will show you."
She thus changed the subject to one of colder interest; but when Leonardo left her, some of his words lingered in her mind, and brought back to her thoughts things which had better been forgotten.
"'Perhaps I might find truth where I least thought,'" said Leonora to herself. "Those were his words. What can he mean? 'There may be those, seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.' There is something beneath all this; but it is vain--vain--all vain. I will think of it no more;" and yet she thought.