Under a wide-spreading and drooping fig-tree in the lower part of the gardens of the villa on the hill was seated a man who kept his eyes steadily fixed upon a certain spot at the end of the terrace far above. The distance in a direct line to the object toward which his eyes were turned was some two hundred and fifty yards; it might be a little more, but at all events, he could see distinctly all that passed above.
At first it seemed as if there was but little to be seen. A lady was seated, reading, in a small plot or garden, close by a highly-ornamented doorway which led into the interior of the villa. It was in an angle of the building, where a large mass of architecture protruded beyond the general façade. Thus, when the sun was in the west, a deeper shade was cast there than upon any other point of the terrace. It was, perhaps, that the sun had nearly reached the horizon, and that the shades of night were coming fast, which caused the lady to lay the manuscript book upon her knee, and, looking up to the sky, seem to contemplate a flight of tinted clouds, which looked like the leaves of a shedding rose blown over a garden by the rifling wind.
But hark! what is that sound that strikes his ear? the fast footfalls of horses coming along the road beneath the stone walls of the garden. They pause close by him.
"Here! hold the horse, and wait till I return," said a voice, and the next moment a cavalier vaulted over the wall, and stood within twenty yards of where the watcher sat.
For a moment the stranger seemed uncertain which way to turn, but then he forced his way through the vines to a path which led up to the main entrance of the villa on the terrace. He looked up and around from time to time as he ascended; but suddenly an object seemed to meet his eyes to the right, and, striking away from the path, he took a course direct toward it, regardless of any obstacle. The watcher kept his eye upon him while he climbed the hill, mounted the steps of the terrace, and stood by the lady's side.
Who can tell what words were spoken? Who can tell what feelings were expressed! Who can tell what memories were re-awakened? Who can tell what passions had power in that hour?
The watcher saw him stand beside her talking for several minutes, then cast himself down on the ground by her side. A moment after, his arm glided round her; and one could almost fancy that wafted on the air came the words, "One--one kiss before we part."
Their lips evidently met, and God forgive them if it was a sin! The next instant Leonora rose from her seat, and, hand in hand, they entered the building by the door which led to her own saloon.
"Ha! ha!" said the watcher, with a bitter laugh. But two minutes had not elapsed before lights flashed from the windows of that very room, and the shadows of three figures passed across.
"What means this?" said the man who sat beneath the fig-tree; and, creeping forth from his concealment, he stole up the hill. He reached the terrace at some distance from the little garden, and then walked along in the direction of the spot where he had seen Lorenzo and Leonora. His sandalled foot made very little noise; and he kept so close to the building that his gown brushed against the stone-work. When he reached the first window of Leonora's saloon, he paused for an instant, and by an effort--for he was short of stature--raised himself sufficiently to look in. It was enough. Seated side by side were those whom the Count de Rouvri had well termed the two most beautiful persons in Italy. But at the farther side of the saloon was one of Leonora's maids busily plying the needle.
Had Eve refused to taste the forbidden fruit in Eden, Satan could hardly have felt more rancorous disappointment than that friar experienced at what he saw.
That night passed, and the following day; but when evening came, the villa on the hill blazed with lights; the gardens were illuminated, and gay groups were seen in the long saloons and on the terrace, and in many a part of the gardens. Many a tale of love was told that night, and many a whispered word was spoken that decided fates for ever. There was much pleasure, much joy, some happiness; but there were pains and heartburning also.
It was toward the end of the entertainment that Eloise, passing along with the young Marquis de Vibraye at her side, came suddenly upon her husband leaning against one of the pillars of the door which led out upon the terrace. De Vibraye was one of those peculiarly obnoxious to Lorenzo, for there was a braggart spirit in him which sported with woman's fame in the society of men with little heed of truth or probability. There was a look of triumph on his face as he passed Lorenzo with hardly an inclination of the head. But he went not far; for his foot was not on the terrace ere Lorenzo's hand was on his shoulder.
"A word with you, seigneur," said the young prefect, and drew him to some distance.
"Well, my lord," said De Vibraye, with a cheek somewhat pale, "what do you want with me?"
"But little," replied Lorenzo. "I gave you a sufficient hint in Rome that your society was not desired within my doors. I find you here. If you are in Imola to-morrow at noon, I will out off your ears, and turn you out of the gates as a worthless cur. You had better go while you are safe."
He waited no answer, but returned to the side of his wife, who greeted him in a fretful tone, saying--
"Well, this is courteous in you two gentlemen to leave me standing here alone like a chambermaid!"
"Madame, you shall be alone no longer," answered Lorenzo, drawing her arm through his, and leading her back into the great saloon.
She did not venture to resist, for he spoke in a tone she had heard once before, and she knew that when he used it he would bear no opposition. But a few minutes after, a cry ran through the rooms that the Countess Visconti had fainted.
"Bear her to my daughter's saloon!" cried Ramiro d'Orco, as Lorenzo caught up Eloise in his arms; "bear her to my daughter's saloon! She will soon recover. Here, follow me--make way, gentlemen! All the lady requires is cooler air; the rooms are too crowded."
"This way, Signor Visconti," said Leonora; and in a few moments Eloise was laid upon a couch, and the door closed to prevent the intrusion of the crowd.
It was very like death; and Lorenzo and Leonora looked upon her with strange and mingled sensations. There lay the only obstacle to their happiness, pale and ashy as a faded flower. Seldom has the slumber of the grave been better mocked; and yet the sight had a saddening and heart-purifying effect on both. So young--so beautiful--so sweet and innocent-looking in that still sleep! They could not, they did not wish that so bright a link in the chain which bound both to the pillar of an evil destiny should be rudely severed. The maids who had been called tried in vain to bring her back to consciousness; and Ramiro d'Orco, who had been gazing too with sensations differing from any in the breasts of those around him, called the girls aside, and bade them seek the friar.
"He is skilled in medicinal arts," he said; "fetch him instantly."
Leonora pointed to the inanimate form of her lover's wife, and said in a low tone--
"Look there, Lorenzo! Is it not sad? There is but one thing to be done. I will take refuge in a convent, lest evil dreams should come into our hearts."
"O forbear! forbear yet awhile!" said Lorenzo; but, ere he could add more, Ramiro d'Orco had returned to their side; and a few minutes after, Friar Peter was in the room. He approached the couch with a quiet, stealthy step, gazed on the face of Eloise, laid his hand upon the pulse, and, taking a cup of water from one of the maids, dropped some pale fluid into it from a phial, and, raising the head of his patient, poured it into her mouth.
"She will revive in a moment," he said; "that is a sovereign cure for such affections of this bodily frame. Oppression of the spirit may be harder to reach, and, I should think, in this case there is something weighing heavy on the heart or mind."
Lorenzo kept silence, though he thought that the friar had perhaps divined aright.
At all events, his remedy, whatever it was, proved effectual. After about a minute, Eloise opened her eyes, and looked around her faintly. "Where am I?" she said. "Oh, is that you, Leonora?"
"How are you, madame," said Ramiro d'Orco; "you have swooned from the crowded rooms and overheated air. I trust you will be quite well shortly."
"I am better," she said, "much better, but very weak; I would fain go home. Let some one bring my litter."
"I will go with you," said Lorenzo. "I beseech you, signor, have my horses ordered. But, ere we go, I must thank this good friar for his most serviceable aid. That for your convent, father," he said, drawing him aside and giving him money. "I thank you for your skilful tendance on my wife; but I think that perhaps your counsels might, as you hinted even now, be as good for her mental condition as your drugs have been for her bodily health. I will pray you, therefore, good father, visit her tomorrow towards noon. You can explain your coming as a visit to a patient rather than a penitent; but if you can inspire her with somewhat more careful thought regarding her demeanour in the world, you will do well."
"But the lady knows not yet that I tended on her," said Mardocchi; "let me speak with her again before she goes."
He then approached the side of Eloise, and once more laid his fingers on her pulse.
"Not quite recovered yet," he said, with a grave air; "give me some water. A few more drops will, I trust, complete the cure, daughter;" and he took the phial from his gown.
"Not here, friar--not here!" whispered Ramiro d'Orco.
But Mardocchi put him back with his hand, dropped out some more of the liquid, and gave it to Eloise, saying:
"This will restore you perfectly for to-night. To-morrow I will see you again, to know how you are then."
It was on the following day toward noon that Friar Peter entered the Episcopal Square, and approached the palace which had been hired for Lorenzo Visconti. He walked with downcast eyes and a thoughtful look, but none of the townspeople who passed him attributed any very high or holy meditations to the friar; for the Italians, especially of the lower class, are the most clear-sighted persons in the world into the depths of human character. "What is he calculating?" they thought; "what is he scheming now?"
With a quiet, almost noiseless step, he approached the wide gates of the palazzo, and asked for the signora.
"She is in the hall above with some French cavaliers, father," replied the janitore; "you can go up."
"I would rather see her alone," answered the friar; "I attended upon her last night when she fainted at the Villa Ramiro, and wish to speak to her about her health. Can you not call her out of the hall for a moment?"
The porter led him to the door of the hall, and, leaving him there, entered alone. He was gone but a moment, and then returning, led the friar up another flight of stairs to Eloise's chamber, where he left him, saying that his lady would be up in a few minutes.
He closed the door when he departed, and Mardocchi gazed around him with no small curiosity and interest. There were many ornaments scattered round the room--little works of art, beautiful trifles and invaluable gems. Mardocchi remarked all, examined all, and handled not a few. Among the rest he took up the small picture of Lorenzo's mother, which the young prefect had left there on the night of his arrival. He gazed at the face for a moment or two, seeming to have some faint remembrance of the features, and then examined the case with some curiosity. He was not long in discovering the spring by which the back opened, and the powders and inscription were exposed to view.
"A cure for the ills of life!" he said: and then, as if something which required thought suddenly struck him, he seated himself, and with his eyes fixed upon the case, fell into profound meditation.
The reader will remember that there was a smaller chamber next to that of Eloise; and a door of communication between the two. As the friar sat there thinking, that door moved slightly on its hinges, and a chink appeared through which one might have passed a Spanish crown piece,--no larger.
A few minutes after, the countess entered. Mardocchi had the picture with the case still open in his hand; but he laid it not down as might have been expected. On the contrary, he rose from his seat, and, bowing his head, said, with a humble air:
"I have committed a great indiscretion, Madonna, I took up this beautiful portrait to look at it, when suddenly, I know not how, it came open as you see."
"Oh! that is the picture of my husband's mother," said Eloise carelessly; "I found it here two or three days ago. I cannot tell how it came here, for he carries it usually in his bosom. But what is that little box behind? I was puzzling over these powders and the inscription only yesterday, but could make nothing of them."
"Let me see," said Mardocchi, carrying the case to the window, as if for a better light.
He remained for a moment or two with his back to the lady, apparently examining the powders, and then brought the case back, saying:
"They are apparently love powders."
"Then I will take one of them," said Eloise, laughing; "I am sure I need them."
"For Heaven's sake, forbear, Madonna," said Mardocchi; "I don't, know what they are--I only guess. God help us! they may contain poison, in this wicked age."
"Well, well, I will put the case back in his dressing-room," said Eloise; but the friar stayed her, saying, "Better leave them where he left them, my daughter. I have but a few moments to stay, and I wish to inquire after your health.
"Oh! my health in excellent, good father," replied the lady, lightly, "thanks to your skill; I believe it never was better."
"Permit me to feel your pulse, Madonna," said Mardocchi. "Let me see. This is the ninth day of the moon; and, from the eighth to the fourteenth, some mild and calming remedies are useful. Your pulse is somewhat agitated."
"Well it may be," said Eloise; "my husband is in a mighty sweet humour, father. He takes offence at the slightest trifles; and, on my life, if I did not know him noble at heart, I should think, as you said, that these papers contained poisons, and that he had left them here that I might try their virtues myself."
"That were easily tested," said Mardocchi, with an eager look. "Give one of them to some of your maids; bid them put it in a piece of meat, and throw it to a dog. If they be venomous, the venom will soon do its work. Here, give her this one at the top;" and, taking one of the powders out of the case, he laid it down on the table.
"And, now again, Madonna, as to your health," continued Mardocchi; "you are not so well as you think yourself. A malady affects you proceeding from some shock to the spirits, which will return at intervals of sixteen hours, unless you do something to arrest its course. It may be very violent indeed, and attended with sore pains and terrible suffering; but I can prevent its having any fatal effect. Let me calculate. Last night you had the first slight attack at about ten o'clock; a stronger one will seize you at two to-day. It is now too late to avert it entirely; but if in an hour's time, you will take this powder which I now give you--mind! do not confound it with the other, which is to be tried upon the dog--you will find the paroxysms much mitigated. Do not be alarmed, though you may suffer much, for at the moment when the convulsion seems most strong, it will suddenly cease, and you will sleep quietly."
Eloise gazed at him with surprise and even alarm.
"I feel quite well," she thought; "what can this mean? And yet I felt quite well five minutes before I fainted last night. Well, the monk soon cured me then, and I will follow his counsel now. In an hour, father, did you say?" she asked aloud.
"Ay, in an hour," replied the friar; "that will just give me time to try one of those other powders on a dog. I shall like to hear the result, and will see you again to-morrow, when I trust I shall find this malady is quite vanquished. You then can tell whether those in the case are safe. They are probably very idle drugs."
"I will have them tried, good father," replied Eloise; "and now farewell."
"Shall I send one of your women to you, Madonna?" asked the friar; and then he added with apparently a sudden change of thought, "It may be as well not to say how you came by the powders, or why you wish this trial made. It might lead to injurious suspicious."
"True--true," said Eloise, in an absent tone. "I will say nothing. Send one of them here. You will find them in the end room of the suite. Farewell."
Mardocchi left her, and speedily found the chamber where her women were at work. His quick eye glanced over them, and fixed upon one he thought suited to his purpose.
"I wish to speak to you, signora," he said, beckoning her into the corridor; and when she laid down her work and followed him, he added in a low tone, "The countess wants you in her chamber. She may say little to you in her present mood, and therefore I wish to warn you to be careful what you do. Her husband has left her some powders to take. She is doubtful of what they are, and wishes to have one of them tried upon a dog before she swallows them. Give it in some meat, and don't lose sight of the animal till you see the effect. Then return to your lady, and tell her what you have seen. But talk with her as little as possible, for she is unwell."
In the meanwhile, Eloise sat alone in somewhat sad and solemn meditations. If there be sympathies between the beings of this mortal world and those unclogged with clay--if there be warnings conveyed without voice, or impulses given from a higher sphere, it is natural to suppose that they are more clearly heard, more keenly felt, when we are approaching near the world from which they come. Eloise was very sad--the lightness of her character was gone. She was serious now for once, and thoughts unwonted, undesired, had full possession of her.
Who is there that can review even a few years of his past life without finding many things to regret? And oh! what a sad retrospect did the last two years afford to Eloise Visconti! How many an act worthy of penitence, if not remorse--how many a blessing cast away--how many an opportunity neglected!
She tried to shake off that painful, self-reproachful mood; but it clung to her; and when the woman entered, she hardly saw her.
"What are your commands, Madonna?" asked the girl.
Eloise started, and then, taking one of two small packets which lay at some distance from each other on the table, she held it out, saying--
"Put that in a piece of meat, and give it to one of the dogs. Come back and tell me if it lives or dies."
The girl took the paper and departed, but not without remarking that there was another packet of much the same shape and size upon the table.
Eloise fell into thought again, and was soon as completely absorbed in meditation as ever. She knew not how long the girl was absent; but at length she returned, saying, with a look of some consternation--
"Madam, the poor dog fell into great agonies and died in about three minutes."
"Ha!" said the young countess; "thank God! I now know what they are."
"I thank God too, Madonna," answered the girl; "how can any one be so cruel?"
"Cruel or kind, as the case may be, Giovanetta," replied her mistress, "when life is a burden, he is kind who takes it off our shoulders."
"But oh! Madonna, for a husband to----!" said the girl.
But Eloise waved her away, saying, "Go, girl, go; you know not what you talk of. Leave me!"
The girl went unwillingly, for she liked not the change from light-hearted mirth to stern sadness in her gay mistress; and she would fain have taken the other powder with her, but she dared not disobey.
"What means this deep gloom that is upon me?" said Eloise to herself, as soon as the girl was gone. "It must be the approach of the attack the friar mentioned. It is time to take the medicine--nay, more than time, I fear. I will swallow it at once, though I love not drugs. This at least has life in it--not death;" and, with that conviction, she mixed the powder Mardocchi had left with some water, and drank it.
"It is very sweet," she said, "but it burns my throat;" and, seating herself, she took up a book of prayers and began to read.
Ten minutes after the silver bell rang violently once and again, for the maids heard not the first summons. At the second, Giovenetta started up and ran to the chamber of her mistress; but, as she approached, she heard the sound of a heavy fall, and when the door was opened, she and another who followed found Eloise upon the floor in strong convulsions.
"Oh, she is poisoned!" cried Giovanetta, wringing her hands.
"My husband! my husband!" murmured Eloise, with a terrible effort: "my husband; tell him I never sinned against him as he thought--tell him I have been faithful to him--oh, girls, raise me up! I am choked--I cannot breathe."
They raised her and laid her on her bed, and for a moment or two she seemed relieved; but then a still more terrible paroxysm succeeded, and, ere any assistance could be sought, the light, thoughtless spirit passed away to seek mercy at the throne of God.
In the court-yard of the castle of Imola were many horses and attendants, and in the great hall various personages of high and low degree. A scene very frequent in ancient and modern time, and which never loses its terrors, was there going on. It was the trial of a man accused of a capital offence. The Lord of Imola, possessing, as he had stipulated, what was then called high and low justice, sat upon the raised seat at the end of the hall, and by his side appeared the young Prefect of Romagna, whom he had asked to assist him by his advice in a case which seemed to present some difficulties. The hour was about twenty minutes after noon, and the testimony had all been taken.
Before the tribunal stood a man, between two guards, of some forty years of age, and of a ferocious aspect. But his cheek was pale, and his eye dim with fear; for he had heard it distinctly proved that he had been taken in the act of a coldblooded brutal assassination of a young girl.
"I refuse this tribunal," he cried, hoarsely. "I do not acknowledge the power of this court. I am of noble blood, as every one here knows; and you have no authority to sentence me, Ramiro d'Orco."
"What say you, my lord prefect?" asked Ramiro, in his cold, quiet tones. "I leave you to pass sentence."
"I can but give an opinion, my lord," replied Lorenzo; "I presume to pass no sentence within your vicariate. You have, I know, power of high justice; therefore his claim of nobility in your court can avail him nothing, except in giving him the right to the axe rather than the cord. His guilt is clear. His sentence must, I presume, be death."
"I will order him at once to the block," said Ramiro, sternly.
But Lorenzo interposed.
"Nay, give him time," he said; "I beseech you give him time. Death is a terrible thing to all men, even to those who have lived the purest lives; but, from what we have heard, this unhappy man's soul is loaded with many a crime. Give him time for thought, for counsel, for repentance. Abridge not the period of religious comfort. Send him not hot from the bloody deed before the throne of the Almighty Judge."
"How long?" asked Ramiro, somewhat impatiently.
"Allow him four-and-twenty hours for preparation," said Lorenzo. "It is short enough."
"So be it," said Ramiro d'Orco; "take him hence. Let him have a priest to admonish him; and at this hour to-morrow, do him to death in the court-yard by the axe. My lord prefect, will you ride with me? Our horses are all ready, and I have again to leave the city for a few hours. There are some curious things of the olden time by the road side."
"Willingly," answered Lorenzo, "if we can be back before night, for I expect, from day to day, intelligence from the Duke of Valentinois, now lying before Forli."
Ramiro d'Orco assured him that their return would be before sunset; and, descending to the court-yard, they mounted and rode out of the Ravenna gate. Each was followed by numerous well-armed servants, and, whether by accident or design, their trains were very equal in numbers.
In the meantime, the unhappy criminal cast himself down upon a bench, and fell into a fit of despairing thought. Even among the hardest and harshest of the human race, there lingers long a certain feeling of compassion for intense misery; but yet it is not probable that the guards and attendants of Ramiro d'Orco would have suffered the murderer to sit quietly there, had they not been moved by an inclination to talk over the various events of the day, and hear the scandal of the town and neighbourhood.
The Italian is very fond of scandal; but he loves it not for the sake of the coarse enjoyment which many others feel in feeding on the follies of their kind, but rather for the exercise of the fine-edged wit, the keen but delicate sarcasm of his nation, to which it gives an ample field. Even the hard men there present had each his slight smile, and his light and playful jest at the subject of their discourse. Alas! that subject was the fair wife of Lorenzo Visconti and her train of French and Roman cavaliers.
They had not been thus engaged five minutes, when suddenly a door just behind the seat of judgment opened, and the friar, Father Peter, entered, looking eagerly round. The wit and the jest ceased instantly, and the men looked at him in silence, with no very loving aspect. None had any tangible cause of dislike; but men have antipathies instinctive, deeply seated, not to be resisted.
With his still noiseless step Mardocchi advanced, stepped down, and asked where Ramiro d'Orco was. They told him that their lord had gone forth by the Ravenna gate, and his countenance fell. He said little, however, for he was very careful of his words; and, after having gazed at the murderer--the only one who seemed to take no notice of him--he withdrew by the great door. At the head of the staircase he paused and meditated for several minutes, then descended into the court and sought the great gates. He there halted again, and muttered to himself--
"Well, no matter? It may be as well that at first there should seem no suspicion. It will look more natural. Slight causes at first, and then graver doubts, and then formal inquiries, and then damning proofs. That were the best course. But this Signor d'Orco of mine is so thirsty for his blood, it has been difficult to restrain him hitherto, and he may hurry on too fiercely. As well he should not know the thing till night. She will be dead by two; by five or six they will be home, and in the interval between I shall have time to prepare the public mind for the tale of poison--without hinting at her husband, however. Let that come afterwards."
But Mardocchi's plans were destined to be disappointed, in part at least. He was not allowed time to prepare the public mind, as he proposed; for though, from a vulgar assassin, he had risen by skill and assiduous study to be something like a politician, and his schemes were often deep and well laid, yet the finest politicians must often be the slaves of circumstances, and sometimes their own cupidity frustrates their best devised projects.
Friar Peter reached what was called the little piazza, and stopped for a moment to speak with one of the Roman gentlemen who had followed Eloise Visconti to Imola. The nobleman asked the monk several questions in a low voice. "I really know not what is the lady's malady," said Mardocchi at length, following out his purpose; "I should say it is the effect of a slow poison, but that I know no one has any cause to put her out of the way."
"Be not too sure of that," replied the other; "she left us in a very sudden way to-day, and the servants told us, retired to her room ill. But as to causes, I could tell you what I overheard, just before she fainted last night. Hark, you, friar!"
But before he could add more, a man in a dusty dress came up and took Mardocchi by the arm, saying, "I wish to speak with you in private, father."
Mardocchi stepped aside with him, and the other continued, in a low voice, "Mount your mule instantly and speed to Forli. The duke sends you word he has need of you."
"What duke?" asked Mardocchi; "and what token does he send?"
"The Duke Valentinois, to be sure," replied the man; "do you not remember me? I have seen you at the Borgia Palace a dozen times three years ago. As for the token, he says, By the horse, and the month, and the Church of San Bartholomew, come to him!"
"Will not to-morrow do?" asked Mardocchi. "I have matters of importance to see to to-day."
"No," replied the other; "Don Cæsar says what has to be done must be done to-night. You have four-and-twenty miles to ride, and it is now near one hour past noon."
"Well, I will speed," said the friar; "I promised always to be ready at his bidding, and I never fail to keep my word. But I have a letter to write--nay, it is but short--ten words are enough. I will but step into this scrivener's and borrow pen and paper. Then I will go for my mule. It is a quick beast and enduring, and I shall reach Forli ere night."
Thus saying, he sped away, and, procuring the means of writing, considered for one moment, and then decided on the words he was to use for the purpose of conveying his meaning without betraying his secret.
"Illustrious Lord," he wrote at length, "my part of the business is over. I have confessed my penitent and given her the viaticum. It is for you to discover whether she came to her present state fairly; and, I doubt not, if her chamber is closely searched, and her women examined, enough will be made manifest to fix the guilt upon the right person. Go slowly and go surely. I am called suddenly to Forli by commands I dare not disobey; but, if possible, I will be in Imola again ere to-morrow night."
He read the words over more than once, and then saying, "That discloses nothing," folded the paper and sealed it. His next consideration was by whose hands he should convey it to Ramiro d'Orco. The scrivener himself was an old acquaintance; and, after some thought, he decided to entrust the letter to him. Many were the injunctions he laid upon him to deliver it immediately on the Lord of Imola's return: and then he sought his mule and set out for Forli.
But the scrivener was fond of knowing every one's secrets--it was part of his profession in those days. Thus the seal of the letter was not very long intact. The contents puzzled the old man. He saw there was a double meaning; but he could not divise the enigma. "I will find out by-and-bye," he said; and, sitting down, he deliberately took a copy of the letter. Then, by a process still well known in Italy, he sealed it up again, so that no eye could detect that the cover had been opened.
About half an hour after all this had been done, people were seen hurrying through the streets, and symptoms of agitation and terror were apparent in the town.
"What is the matter? what is the matter, Signor Medico?" asked the scrivener, running out from his booth, and catching the sleeve of a physician who was walking more slowly than the rest.
"The Countess Visconti, the lady of the prefect, has been poisoned, they say," replied the physician. "I know no more about it, for they did not send for me, or perhaps I might have saved her."
"Then she is dead?" asked the scrivener.
"Ay, dead enough," answered the other, and walked on.
The scrivener had his own thoughts; but the name of Ramiro d'Orco had become somewhat terrible in Imola, and Mardocchi's letter was safely delivered as soon as that nobleman returned.
The air was balmy, the breeze was fresh and strong, the large masses of clouds, like spirit thrones, floated buoyant over the sky, followed by the dancing sunshine. The manes of the horses waved wildly in the wind, and their wide nostrils expanded to take in the delicious air. The influence of the hour and scene spread to the heart of Lorenzo Visconti, and seemed, for the time at least, to banish the thought of sorrow and of ill. Out of the city, with the wide country between Imola and Ravenna stretching in deep blue waving lines before his eyes, the wind refreshing his brow and fanning his cheek, and his noble horse bounding proudly under him, a sense of freedom from earthly shackles and the hard bond of fate came over him. It sparkled in his eye, it beamed upon his lip.
Ramiro d'Orco gazed upon him, and his aspect, more like what it had been in early youth, brought back the thought of other days. Did they soften that hard, obdurate heart? Did they mollify the stern, dark purposes within his breast? Oh, no! He only thought, "Soon--very soon!" And if there was any change in his feelings, it was but inasmuch that the momentary relief--the temporary joy in Lorenzo's aspect promised to give zest to his revenge, and add pangs to the sufferings he hoped to inflict.
Yet he was courteous, gentle--oh, marvellously courteous. To have seen him, one would have thought he was riding by the side of his dearest friend; no one could have dreamed that there was one rankling passion in his breast. Grave he was truly, but he was always grave. The expression of his countenance, shaded by the long, iron-grey hair, was even somewhat stern; but his words were smooth, and even kind; and there was a sort of rigid grace about him, like that of some statues, which gave force to all he said. They rode on (their two trains mingling together) for about ten miles from Imola, and then Ramiro, pointing with his hand to a low hill on the right, told Lorenzo that just beyond that rise there had been lately found a curious ancient tomb, apparently of an earlier date than any known Roman monument.
"We will go and see it," he said; "we shall have plenty of time. 'Tis but a quarter of a mile from the road."
Lorenzo willingly consented: but when they had passed the rise, and were turning from the road to the right, some white objects rose over the slope, and a few steps more showed several lines of tents, with sentries on guard, and horses picketed near.
"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed Ramiro d'Orco, with a look of displeasure manifest on his countenance.
"Troops of France, my good lord," replied Lorenzo. "Do you not see the banners? Probably your relation, the Lord de Vitry, with the auxiliary force promised to his Highness the Duke of Valentinois."
"It is strange, my lord prefect, that they should be camped on this side of Imola," said Ramiro; "they were more needed at Forli, methinks."
He had drawn in his bridle while speaking, as if hesitating whether he should go on or turn back; but Lorenzo spurred forward at once, and was already speaking to the sentries, when the other came up.
They were led almost immediately into the camp, and welcomed by De Vitry at the door of his tent.
"Come in, nobles," he said, "come in; you are just in time to crush a cup of right French wine with me. Good faith, I and the great maestro were about to drain the goblet. He has promised to paint me a portrait, Signor Ramiro, of your fair relation, my sweet Blanche; and I tell him if he wants the picture of an angel for any of his great pictures, he shall have the portrait to copy at his wish."
Something common-place was said by Ramiro d'Orco in reply, and all three entered the tent, where they found Leonardo da Vinci seated with a cup of wine before him, but in dusty apparel, and with a very grave expression of countenance. The ceremonious salutations of the day took place, and some fine wine of the Rhone was handed round; but De Vitry was more abrupt and thoughtful than ordinary. At length he rose, and beckoned Lorenzo aside, saying:
"I want to speak to you, Visconti. How long are you from Forli?"
"But a few days," replied Lorenzo, following him; "I suppose you have stopped the intended succour?"
De Vitry made no answer to this half question, but whispered hastily----
"I understand it all; everything shall be done as he says. Devil take that Antonio! what has he gone away for, just at such an emergency?"
"My noble friend, I know not what you mean," replied Lorenzo; "where has he gone? what emergency?"
Ere De Vitry could answer, Ramiro d'Orco had risen, and, with a bland smile upon his lip, was approaching them.
"I crave pardon, noble lords," he said, "but if we pursue not our journey soon, signor, we shall not reach Imola ere dark."
"Do not let me detain you," said De Vitry, with his usual frank, soldier-like manner. "Tell the duke, Visconti, that I think all danger past, but that I will hold my ground till the last-named day has seen the sun set, and then retire to Ravenna. My lord of Imola, I ought to have paid my respects to you yesterday, but we were all tired with a long march. Tomorrow, when the sun is declining, I will be with you; but, I beg, no ceremony. I come but scantily attended, and form and display are needless. Will you not taste more wine?"
Both Ramiro and Lorenzo declined; and the former felt well satisfied when he saw the readiness with which the young prefect accompanied him, for evil purposes are always suspicious, and he had thought the few words spoken in private between Lorenzo and De Vitry must have some reference to himself.
"He suspects nothing," he thought, as they remounted and rode on; "but how could he? I am too eager. Like a boy chasing a butterfly, or a youth a woman, I fear the prize will escape me, even when it is within my grasp."
The rest of the journey was uninteresting. The two cavaliers soon reached the object to which their steps tended--a small town, or rather village, which Ramiro was fortifying, to command a pass through a morass. The Etruscan tomb was forgotten, and their return to Imola was made by a narrower and steeper, but much shorter path, which brought them to the gates just as the sun had set.
A single lantern, which hung from the vault of the arched gateway, gave them barely light to guide their horses, and as it fell upon the dark countenances of the guard, Lorenzo thought, "It feels like entering a prison."
At this moment a man stepped out of the shadow and handed Ramiro d'Orco a paper, with the one word "important."
"A light! bring me a light!" exclaimed the Lord of Imola; and, with some difficulty, a torch was lighted at the lantern, and held up so that he could read. The contents of the letter seemed to puzzle him for a moment, but gradually his pale cheek flushed, and his eye flashed with a triumphant light.
"Here we must fain part for the night, my lord prefect," he said. "You take to the bishop's square, and I, I am sorry to say, back to the castle, for business of importance will keep me there to-night. We shall meet again to-morrow. Good night."
"Good night," replied Lorenzo; and he turned his horse into the street just within the walls.
"Oh, my lord, my lord," cried a voice, ere he had ridden a hundred yards, "what news I have to tell you! Alas! alas! my lady is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Lorenzo, throwing his horse almost on his haunches by the suddenness with which he reined him up; "dead! The man is mad! Why, Bazil, what do you mean?"
"Too true, too true, my noble lord," replied the Frenchman; "she died at two o'clock--quite suddenly. But come up, my lord. 'Tis ill talking of such things here in the street."
Lorenzo spurred on his horse; and oh! what a tumult of wild feelings were in his heart; But there was one predominant. It was regret--almost remorse. He had spoken harshly, he thought--had acted harshly. She had felt it more than he believed she could or would, as her fainting on the previous night had shown. True, she had given abundant cause for harsh words, and even harsher acts than he had used. But the cause was forgotten in the thought of one so young, so beautiful, so full of happy life, being laid suddenly in the cold grave. A thousand times had he wished that he had never seen her; but, now that she was gone, he would have given his right hand to recall her to life. He reached the palace; he sprang from his horse and rushed in. He heard the confused tale of the servants, and he sprang up the stairs; but, as he went, his pace slackened. An awe came over him; and he trod the corridor as if his step could have awakened the dead. With a trembling hand he opened the door, and entered the chamber of death. There were lights at the head and at the feet of the corpse, with two of Eloise's maids--Giovanetta and another--seated one on either side. Late autumn flowers were strewed on the fair form of the poor girl, cut off in her young spring, and the painful odour of the death incense spread a sickly perfume through the room.
Lorenzo approached with slow and silent tread, uncovered the face, and gazed at it for a moment. Then kneeling by the bedside, he took one of her marble-cold hands in his and pressed his lips upon it. A few tears fell upon the alabaster skin, and rising, he beckoned Giovanetta toward the adjoining room.
At the door he paused, and said in a low voice--
"You may both retire; but be near at hand; I will watch beside her."
"You, my lord!" exclaimed the girl.
"I," answered Lorenzo: "Why not I? But mark me, lock the door. I will watch here, and when the priests return, say I will have nothing farther done till to-morrow. She must lie as she is now. There is something strange here, girl, on which I must be satisfied."
"Ay, strange indeed," said Giovanetta.
"Well, it must be unravelled before a grain of earth falls upon her," replied Lorenzo. "Now leave me; I cannot talk more to-night."
"I must tell you my lady's last words," said the girl: "it was her command. In the agony of death, she cried, 'My husband! my husband! tell him I never sinned against him as he thought--tell him I have been faithful to him.' That is what she said."
"Oh, God! Do not torture me!" cried Lorenzo, waving her away. The girl returned into the chamber of the dead, and whispered a few words to her companion. Then both rose and retired, locking the door behind them.
Lorenzo seated himself in the large chair, so that he could see through the open door the bed and its inanimate burden. I will not attempt to trace his feelings. Twice he rose, went to the bedside, gazed upon the pale face, and returned to his watching-place; and often he covered his eyes with his hands. There were various sounds without--the return of priests--the movements of the servants; but he gave them no heed; and shortly all was silent again.
At length there came a nearer sound. It seemed in the room beside him--near, very near; and Lorenzo, starting, turned his head. Suddenly his arms were seized by two strong men, and a third put his hand upon the hilt of Lorenzo's sword to prevent him from drawing it. "You are our prisoner, my lord prefect," said one of the men, "charged with the murder of your wife. Come with us without resistance, for resistance is vain. The palace is in our hands."
Lorenzo gazed round from one to another, and perceived that there were several more figures at the door. He had no thought of resistance, however. Taken by surprise at a moment when his mind was overpowered with grief and horror, the fire of his character was quite subdued.
"The murder of my wife!" he said, "the murder of my wife! Who dares to charge me? Who is mad enough to accuse me?"
"Of that we know nothing, my lord," replied the man who had before spoken; "but you must come with us."
Silently, and without even caring to take his bonnet from the table, he accompanied his captors, looking round the vacant corridors and halls with a feeling of desolation words cannot convey. Not one of all his servants was to be seen; no familiar face presented itself; he was all alone in the hands of an enemy. The truth had flashed upon his mind at length, but how he knew not. Was it an instinct? was it the accumulated memories of many little incidents in the past, each next to nothing by itself, but swelling to a mountain by the piling of one small grain upon another, which showed him now, that Ramiro d'Orco was his foe, and had been compassing his destruction? Or was it that a dark and terrible--almost prophetic warning, which that same man had given him in the palace of Cæsar Borgia, came back to his recollection then?
That same man had said that he never forgave--that he never forgot--that years might pass, circumstances change, the chain between the present and the past seem severed altogether, and yet the memory of an injury remain the only adamantine link unbroken. Lorenzo remembered the words even then, as they marched him through the cold, dark streets towards the citadel. He remembered, too, that by a fatal error Ramiro had been led to think he had slighted his alliance, destroyed his daughter's happiness, and treated her with scorn and neglect. And now every courtesy he had received since he came to Imola recurred to his memory as a menace which he should have heeded, every smile as a lure which should have been avoided. How could he suppose, he asked himself, that such a man as that would forget so great an injury? how could he believe that he would so hospitably receive the injurer without some dark and deadly purpose beneath the smooth exterior?
Thought after thought, all painful, flashed through his brain. They were many--innumerable, and, ere he could give them any clear and definite order, the gates of the citadel were opened for his entrance, and a few minutes after, the low, damp dungeon of a murderer received him. They left him in solitude and in darkness to all the bitterness of thought; and then all that was to follow presented itself to his mind in full and terrible array--the trial; the death; the disgrace; the blighted name; the everlasting infamy. Oh! for the battle-field, the cannon's roar, the splintering lance, the grinding wound, the death of triumph and of glory!
Vain wishes: the heavy iron door was there, barring from every active scene of life; but that was not all he had to suffer that night. To the felon's dungeon was to be added the felon's chains. The door opened, the torchlight flashed in; fetters were placed upon his hands and ankles, and the ring of the chain was fastened to a ring in the wall. The guard withdrew, but left the door ajar, and a narrow line of light marked the entrance. It grew fainter and fainter as the torches receded, and then a human figure, like a dark shadow, crossed the light as it became broader while some one entered.
Could it be any one to bring him comfort? Oh no. The well-known voice of Ramiro d'Orco spoke in its cold, calm accents.
"Young man," it said, "you should beware when you are well warned. My lord prefect, you have to die to-morrow. Make your peace with God, for there is no help for you on earth. You shall have a fair trial in our court, that all the world may know the proud Lorenzo Visconti has not been condemned unjustly, but is truly guilty of the murder of a poor defenceless woman--his own wife--and that history may record the fact among the famous deeds of the great house of Milan. The proofs admit of no doubt; so be prepared; and when the axe is about to fall, remember me and Leonora d'Orcobr> "Man, you are deceived!" exclaimed Lorenzo. But Ramiro waited no reply, and the heavy key turned in the open door.