While the conversation which I have narrated in the preceding chapter was going on in the rooms above, one of a very different character, though relating to the same topic, took place below. We need not be very long detained in its detail, but there were certain parts therein which must be related. The scene was a small room near that sort of buttery window at which Italian nobles have in all times been accustomed to sell or retail the produce of their estates. The interlocutors were our friend Antonio and the pretended friar Mardocchi, and after the first greetings, the substantial conversation began, by the former gently reproaching him of whom he had aided to cheat the cord, with not having visited him when in the French camp at Vivizano.
"Ah! how did you know I was there?" asked Mardocchi. "Why, I was only one night in all."
"I know everything that happens within a hundred miles of me," replied Antonio, who had discovered the great benefit of assuming more knowledge than he possessed, "you had not been five minutes in the camp before I knew it. But why did you not come?"
"I have told you already," answered Mardocchi. "I was but one night in the camp, and I got such rough usage from that old cardinal of the devil, that I was glad to get out by daybreak."
"Ay, he has no smooth tongue, I wot," answered Antonio; "if he licks his cubs with that when they are born, they will go into the world skinless. But how liked the excellent Signor Ramiro the answer he got to his letter?"
"I know little of his liking," answered the other. "He is not like my good deceased lord, Buondoni, who would tell me this or that, or swear or stamp in my presence as if there were no one there but himself. This man keeps all, or thinks he keeps all, to himself; but one thing I have found out, and that I like him for, because in that he is like myself. If a man does him a good turn he never forgets it; and if a man does him an injury he does not forget that either."
"I suppose not," replied Antonio, "he is a good lord in many things, and all the wiser for keeping his secrets to himself. In all the world he cannot find any one who can keep them as well. Then he did not show any anger when he found the Signora Leonora was not coming?"
"Not a whit," answered Mardocchi; "he only said, 'it is well; it is very well.'"
The conversation was then turned to other subjects by Antonio demanding if his companion did not think that the Signor Ramiro had laid his egg in a wrong nest when he attached himself to the Borgias.
"Not at all," answered Mardocchi; "they are men who are not afraid of doing anything; if one way does not answer they take another; and such men are sure to succeed."
He then went on to give his view of the situation of the Pope and the King of France, to which Antonio, who had come for the purpose of learning all he could, listened attentively. It was somewhat different from the view of Cæsar Borgia, and to say the truth, somewhat more extended; for he contemplated amongst the pope's resources both poison and the dagger. Indeed he had not studied under Buondoni without improvement; for he clearly showed Antonio that it would be perfectly possible to destroy almost all the king's army in Rome by poisoning the wells.
"But, good Heaven! you would poison all the people likewise!" cried Antonio.
"And no great harm either," said Mardocchi, gruffly: "did you not hear how the beasts last night were cheering and vivaing those French heretics? But if the Holy Father in his mercy chose to spare them, he could easily do it by sending the monks and priests amongst them to tell them which wells were poisoned and which not."
"I forgot that," said Antonio, "and the scheme does seem a feasible one. But I hope, my dear friar, that if you have recourse to it, you will let me know where it is safe to drink. I, in return, will promise that when those who are left of the French army--for I must tell you that one half of them have had no knowledge of water since their baptism--when those that remain sack and fire the city, I will bring you out as my own particular friend, and save you from being impaled or burned. These French gentlemen who drink nothing but wine are not tender, I can tell you, and if they found their friends die poisoned, you would soon see a pope dancing in the middle of a bonfire, and the whole College of Cardinals writhing upon lance-heads."
"Oh! they will not try the trick," said Mardocchi, with a countenance somewhat fallen, "at least, they would try all other measures first. I doubt not that if his Holiness will give up Zizim to King Charles that will settle all differences."
"And who is Zizim?" asked Antonio.
"Why, do you not know?" exclaimed Mardocchi; "that shows the king's secrets are well kept in his own camp. Hark ye!" and lowering his voice he went on to explain to his companion not only who the unfortunate Zizim was, but the object which the King of France was supposed to have in view in seeking to obtain possession of his person. The tale was full of scandal to Christian ears, but seemed to shock Mardocchi not in the least; and as it was somewhat long, as he told it, it shall be abridged for the reader's benefit. Zizim was the brother of the Sultan Bajazet, some indeed say, his elder brother. At all events he was his competitor for the throne of Turkey. Their respective claims had been settled for a time at least by arms. Zizim defeated, was fortunate enough to escape from the vengeful policy of the Ottoman race, and first took refuge, it would seem, with the Knights of St. John at Rhodes. He thence sailed to France, and appeared for a short time at the court of Charles. The pope, however, who was alternately the ally and enemy of every prince around him, at that time actually contemplated a new crusade, and believed, or affected to believe, that Zizim, appearing in his brother's territories, supported by a considerable force, might subserve his plans, by destroying the Ottoman dominions. This at least was his excuse for inviting the unhappy prince from Paris to Rome. Charles consented to his departure, but upon the express stipulation that Alexander should give him up to France whenever he was required. With the usual mutability of the Papal councils at that time, however, but a few months elapsed ere Alexander was the friend and ally of Bajazet, and the life of Zizim was placed in no slight peril. Charles had in vain required that the pope should fulfil his engagement by sending the Turkish prince back to France. It must not, however, be supposed that the French king was actuated solely by compassion for the unfortunate exile. He too had ambitious ends to attain, and he too imagined that Zizim might assist in the execution of his schemes. History leaves no doubt that the conquest of Naples, though the primary, was not the ultimate object of Charles's expedition into Italy. The wildest of chimeras possessed his brain, and he imagined that the whole Turkish empire was destined to fall before his inefficient means and inexperienced sword. Naples was to be, in fact, but a step to Constantinople. Flatterers and poets combined to raise the young king's vain intoxication to the highest pitch, and we find one of the latter singing of the conquest of Turkey as an event almost accomplished.
The pope, however, had very different views. So long as he detained the Turkish prince in a sort of honourable imprisonment, a pension of forty thousand gold ducats was his from Bajazet, and as soon as he thought fit to capitalize that annuity by putting Zizim to death, three hundred thousand ducats were promised to him. To take the prince from him was like tearing out his entrails; but upon that point Charles was resolute, and Mardocchi, as well as Cardinal Borgia, was wise enough to see that the time was come when the monarch's demand must be granted.
Such was the tale which had been poured into Antonio's ear, when steps were heard slowly descending the great staircase, and, on looking out, he perceived his young lord just about to issue from the gates.
So deep was the fit of thought into which all he had heard and seen that morning had thrown Lorenzo, that he was not aware for some time that Antonio was near him. He turned over and over in his mind the statements of Cardinal Borgia. He tried to discover a flaw in his reasoning--an improbability in his assertions; but all was reasonable, all was probable; and the peril to the king and his army was so clear that he felt himself bound, even at the risk of being thought intrusive, to lay the whole picture, which had been given him, before the monarch.
From such thoughts he turned to the consideration of the character of Borgia himself. Strange to say, although he had been at first both offended and disgusted by the cardinal's demeanour, the impression now was favourable rather than otherwise. Indeed, such was the case with all men brought for any length of time under his fascination. The most clear-sighted, the most wise, those who knew him best, those who had most cause to shun and dread him, fell an easy prey to his serpent tongue, if once they could be brought to listen. Witness the Vitelli and the Orsini, Gravina, and Oliverotto da Fermo, all lead to death by his specious eloquence.
It is no wonder that one with so little experience as Lorenzo, and who had no reason to fear or doubt him, but the vague rumours and insinuations which were current in the various cities through which he had lately passed, should feel the influence of his extraordinary powers when brought to bear upon him.
"It is a pity," he thought, "that a man of such boundless energy and ability, should give himself up at any time to the effeminate and luxurious habits which he seems to indulge in when not roused to action."
But Lorenzo little dreamed that the effeminate and luxurious habits went hand in hand with the darkest vices and the most fearful crimes. The character of the man might puzzle him: it might, and did perhaps, inspire doubt, and even suspicion; but the doubt was unmingled with horror, the suspicion had no definite form.
He was still deep in thought when a voice close behind him, said:
"You are going wrong, my lord, if you are seeking either your own quarters or the king's."
"Oh, is that you, Antonio?" said Lorenzo; "I did not know you were so near. Which way then?"
"To the right, my lord," replied the man; "but indeed, my lord, in this city you should always know who is so close behind you. I have been within stiletto length of you for the last ten minutes."
"But no one will try to hurt me here, Antonio," said his lord. "Ay, here we are! Glide quickly in, see if you can ascertain whether the king has heard mass yet, and if he has, find out if he is alone."
Antonio passed the guard and entered the palace, while Lorenzo spoke a few words with the officer on duty. In a minute or two the man returned, and answered that the king was quite alone.
"He is waiting for the bishop in his cabinet," said Antonio, "but the prelate is always either long at his sleep or at his prayers, and the chamberlain says he won't be there this half-hour."
"Wait here for me, then," said Lorenzo, and entered.
The young King of France sat in a small room dressed in a gown of black velvet, with a bonnet or toque upon his head, for the winters were now cold, and, to tell the truth, Roman houses were then, as now, better fitted for the summer than the winter months of the year. Beside him stood Lorenzo Visconti, listening rather than speaking; for although, when he craved through the chamberlain a private audience, he had said that he had matters of great moment to communicate to the monarch, Charles, as was not unusual with him, had begun the conversation with tales of his own griefs and annoyances.
"Upon my life, Visconti," he said, "I am of the mind to trust old men no more, for what they have in wisdom and experience is drowned in selfishness and ambition. A very young man may be a fool, but he is rarely a scoundrel; and it is a sad thing, cousin, to be always doubting whether a man in a grey beard is advising you for your interest or his own. Look you now! they promised me that if I but entered Rome, the pope would be brought to terms at once; and now there he sits up in the castle there, looking down upon us like an eagle from his eyrie, without showing one sign of a desire to treat. I have ordered ten bombards to be brought to the bridge and pointed at the gates, and, on my life, they shall fire unless he shows signs of life before noon."
"I think, sire," replied Lorenzo, "you will not have to give the order. His Holiness may have shown no open signs of a desire to treat, but he seems of your Majesty's opinion, that young men are the best counsellors. In a word, sire, I have had a long interview, unsought and unexpected, with Cardinal Borgia this morning, and it is on that account I have intruded on you thus early."
Charles's attention was now fully aroused. "What!" he exclaimed, "have you been admitted to the castle?"
"No, sire," answered Lorenzo; "I last night received a note from Signor Ramiro d'Orco, appointing a place of meeting, and, judging that his object had reference solely to his daughter, I went. We had not conversed five minutes when we were joined by the Cardinal Don Cæsar Borgia, and he gave me, expressly for your Majesty's hearing, his views of the state of affairs in Italy, and hinted very distinctly what are the terms which his Holiness is inclined to concede."
"Speak! speak! tell me all!" cried the king. "By heaven, I hope we shall not be interrupted. Call in the chamberlain or his page. That bishop comes here about this hour; he should, indeed, be here now; but he is somewhat negligent and unpunctual. He shall have to wait, however, for I will not admit him till your tale is done."
The chamberlain was called in, the king's orders given not to admit even his council, and Lorenzo went on to tell his tale. His memory was good, the words of Cæsar Borgia had impressed themselves deeply on his mind, and Charles lost hardly anything by hearing from another mouth.
The monarch was evidently much struck with the new view of his own situation now presented to him. The old adage that "one story is good till another is told," is constantly applicable to every view we take of ourselves, our fate, our circumstances. Whoever told the other story, it would always be found very different from our own. Charles paused long and meditated in silence. His was neither a quick nor a comprehensive mind: and when the golden visions of glory and ambition have once entered into the brain, it is difficult to displace them; but yet he saw obstacles he had never dreamed of, impediments which had been suggested neither by his own judgment nor by the sagacity of his counsellors, dangers which were more than probable, imminent and menacing. His courage was too great, his ambition too deeply engaged, his honour too much implicated for him to recede from his enterprise against Naples. But he saw strong good sense in the plan suggested and the advice given by Cardinal Borgia, and he concluded that they would not be furnished by an enemy, or that if they were, they could not be furnished in an inimical spirit.
He pondered these matters more at length, and perhaps more profoundly than he had ever considered anything before. Steps were heard in the adjoining chamber, a hand was placed upon the latch, words were spoken, some in a tone of remonstrance, and some almost in that of anger, but they did not rouse the young king from his reverie.
At length the king woke, as if he had suddenly come to some resolution. "I will demand only what must absolutely be granted," he said, looking up--"only what is absolutely needful. We must not, by asking too much, risk the loss of all. Now tell me, cousin--you alluded to certain conditions to which the cardinal said his uncle, or rather his father, would agree. Let me know them distinctly, and be sure that you remember them aright."
Lorenzo repeated as closely as possible the words of Cæsar Borgia, giving something even of his manner and intonation. The king listened with fixed attention; but when Lorenzo came to that part of the offer by which it was promised that Zizim should be given into Charles's hands, the words did not produce the effect which the young knight had expected. The monarch remained almost entirely unmoved; the vision of Constantinople had passed away. In showing him his real situation at that actual moment, Borgia had taught the young king the vanity of his schemes for the future.
"Well, then," said Charles, when Lorenzo had concluded, "almost all is offered which I could reasonably demand. There is only one thing left vague, and that is the security to be given that the Roman territory shall be kept open when it either suits me to return or when I see fit to bring reinforcements from France; but the details of that question can be settled by negotiators on both parts. It may give my ministers an opportunity of making something for themselves, and when it can be done with honour, my good cousin, I do not object to advance the interests of those who serve me well."
"Perhaps this little packet, sire, may serve to smooth the way with your Majesty's ministers," said Lorenzo; "I promised to give it to my reverend lord the Bishop of St. Malo some time when he was alone if I could, but I did not engage not to ask your Majesty's permission."
"Oh, give it to him, give it to him," said the good-humoured king; "but he should have been here long ere this. He is becoming sadly tardy."
"I think, sire, he has already come, but your Majesty ordered no one to be admitted."
"True! true!" replied Charles. "Well, then, go, good cousin, take him aside, and give him the packet; then send him in to speak with me."
Lorenzo, as he expected, found the king's minister in the antechamber; but the good bishop was in no very placable mood. He eyed the young cavalier, as he came forth from the king's closet, with a glance that can only be given by a courtier who sees another receive high honour from his sovereign, and he had almost turned on his heel when Lorenzo approached him.
"I wish to speak with you alone for a moment, my lord bishop," said the young man, respectfully.
"I cannot imagine what you can have to say to me, Signor Visconti, nor with the king either," said the minister, tartly; "but, as I have been kept long enough among pages, I may as well gratify you. This way, sir."
Lorenzo followed him with a smile, and the bishop led him to a vacant chamber, saying, as soon as they entered, "Now, sir?"
"I have the honour, my lord," said Lorenzo, "of delivering this into your hands from Cardinal Borgia--"
"Who! what!" exclaimed the prelate, interrupting him, in a tone greatly altered.
"He directed me, reverend sir," continued the young man, not noticing his exclamations, "to place the packet in your hands when you were alone. This must plead my excuse for so venturing to occupy your time and detaining you from the king."
But before Lorenzo had finished the sentence the bishop had torn open the packet, and was gazing in admiration at what it contained. Lorenzo did not wonder at the surprise and satisfaction which had shown themselves on the prelate's face when he saw in his hands the largest and most beautiful diamond he had ever beheld, except among the jewels of the King of France. But there was something more; for the bishop gazed at some words written in the cover, and he murmured, loud enough to be heard, "And a cardinal's hat!" Apparently that was all that was written, for he repeated the words again, "And a cardinal's hat! I understand."
Those few words were quite sufficient, however, for Cæsar Borgia knew his man, and was aware that no long explanations were needed.
Lorenzo was then about to retire, but the bishop stopped him with a very gracious look, saying, "Stay, Signor Visconti, stay! Then you know his Eminence, and have seen him lately."
"My lord, I must not detain you with explanations," said Lorenzo, "for I know his Majesty wishes to consult you on matters of deep importance."
"At all events, I trust, from your bringing me this little token," said the bishop, moving toward the door, "that, notwithstanding your intimacy with the Cardinal of St. Peter's, you are not one of those who will counsel the king to deal hardly with the Holy See."
"My counsel will never be asked, my lord bishop," replied the young nobleman, walking by his side; "but if it were, I should undoubtedly advise his Majesty to come to an accommodation with his Holiness as speedily as possible, and upon as generous terms as may be compatible with his own dignity and security."
"That is well! that is well!" said the bishop, with a gratified smile. "My son, you have my benediction. Blessed be the peace-makers!"
Thus ended their interview; but the following day, to his great surprise, Lorenzo found that the bishop had requested to have his presence at a conference with some negotiators on the part of the pope, alleging that it would be better to have the assistance of some Italian gentleman.
In truth, several military men had been joined with him in the commission, and the good prelate feared that counsels opposite to his own wishes might prevail unless he had the support of some one of whose opinions he had made sure.
The negotiations were not so soon or so easily terminated as either Lorenzo or the king had expected. Though Cæsar Borgia for once acted in good faith, the pope vacillated and delayed, and the subject of the military guarantees was attended with great difficulties.
At length, however, it was agreed that Civita Vecchia, Terracina, and Spoleto, together with Ostia, which would seem to have been already in his possession, should be placed in Charles's hands as security; that the solemn investiture of the kingdom of Naples should be given; that Zizim should be delivered to him; and that Cardinal Borgia should accompany the royal army as a hostage.
On his part, Charles promised to show every outward sign of obedience and submission to the Holy See; and Alexander returned to the Vatican to receive the homage of the King of France for the kingdom of Naples, and to enjoy an apparent triumph over him who had invaded his dominions, set at nought his authority, and driven him from his palace.
Nothing can be more evanescent than the impressions of reason on a small mind. That of Charles VIII. might almost be compared to a looking-glass; it reflected only that which was before it; and, ere the conditions of accommodation between himself and the pope were completely arranged, he had forgotten his desire to march on speedily--he had forgotten the extreme peril of not doing so.
A whole month passed in fêtes and ceremonies, and found the French monarch and his army still in Rome; but there were persons in his camp and court both wiser and more impatient, and at length he was induced to name the day of departure.
Again he commenced his advance, with troops refreshed, and all the pageantry of war renewed and brightened. The order of march was made as it had been before; a few small bodies of cavalry in advance, then the Swiss and Gascon foot, then the great body of men-at-arms, and lastly, at some distance in the rear, the household of the king, escorted by his own guard, and followed by an immense train of courtiers, servants, and attendants.
In this part of the cavalcade appeared two groups of peculiar interest. Mounted on a splendid charger, and attired more like a warrior than a churchman, came the Cardinal Borgia, the hostage for the pope. An enormous train followed him, more in number, indeed, than that which attended upon the king. Led horses, with their grooms, mules and pack-saddles, litters, with curtains of crimson and gold, in which, it was whispered, were some of the flowers of the cardinal's seraglio, an immense quantity of baggage drawn slowly on in ox-carts, and a number of men on foot, tolerably well armed for the attendants of a cardinal, followed him in the march, and made his part of the cavalcade as brilliant as any other.
Still farther in the rear appeared a somewhat lugubrious troop, at the head of which was borne a square black banner on a gilded pole. Then came litter after litter with black curtains, followed by a small body of mounted men, whose turbans and cimiters betokened the race from which they sprang.
In the front litter, the curtains of which were in part drawn back, might be seen a man about the middle age, somewhat large and heavy in figure, but with a mild, intelligent face. This was the unfortunate Zizim, the brother of Bajazet, who followed the King of France rather as a guest than a prisoner, but who well knew that he was no more the master of his own actions than if there had been manacles on his wrists. Yet there was hope in his heart--hope which had not tenanted it for many a long month. He knew, indeed, that he was to be subservient to the will of a powerful monarch, but he knew also that, in the coming struggle, when, supported by French troops, he was to shake the throne of his brother, there was a chance, and a good one, of recovering what he rightly or wrongly considered as his own. His family followed in the litters behind him; and a few faithful servants and attendants who shared his fortunes in good and evil, made up the rest of the band.
With drums, and trumpets, and banners flying, and nodding plumes, and all-the pomp and pageantry of war, the French army marched forward, while the first breath of spring was felt in the air, and a slight filmy cloud here and there in the sky promised, like the hopes of youth, an early enjoyment of summer long before, in reality, it approached. Mirth and laughter reigned in the ranks of the French army, and the expedition seemed more like an excursion of pleasure than a great military enterprise.
The day's march was somewhat long, although it did not commence very early; but Charles had suddenly re-awakened to the necessity of reaching Naples speedily; and even the sluggish Duke of Montpensier, who rarely rose before noon-day, was eager to get forward, and had been in the saddle by nine.
At length the halt was ordered; lodgings were found in a small village for the king and the principal personages who attended him; tents were pitched in the fields and groves around; and, after one of those scenes of indescribable bustle and confusion which always attend the first night's encampment of an army, the gay French soldiery gave themselves up to revelry and merriment.
Couriers came from Rome during the evening, bringing delicious wines and delicacies as presents from Pope Alexander to the king; and, although it was somewhat dangerous to eat of his meat or drink of his cup, let it be said, none of the French court was injured that day by the bounties he provided.
On the following morning the march recommenced in the same order; the encampment again took place at night; the night passed away; but, while the army was getting under arms in the early morning, it was found that two of the king's honoured guests were gone.
Cardinal Borgia, the pope's hostage, was nowhere to be found; litters and rosy curtains, attendants on foot and on horseback, pack-horses and mules, had all disappeared, and it became very evident that Cæsar, not liking the position he occupied in the French army, had quitted it, and taken himself back to Rome.
Zizim also, the unfortunate Ottoman prince, had departed, but on a longer journey, and to a more distant land. He had been taken ill during the night; symptoms of poison had shown themselves at an early hour; the disease, whatever it was, had a rapid course, and ere day dawned the eyes of Zizim were closed in the night of death. It was shown that messengers from his friend Pope Alexander had visited him during the preceding evening, and a thousand vague stories ran through the camp not at all complimentary to the moral character of the pope; but Charles VIII., whatever might be his suspicions, sent back the family and the corpse of the Turkish prince to Alexander. The latter, indeed, was a valuable present, perhaps more so than any corpse ever was before or since; for, on delivering it to the agents of Bajazet, the messengers of the pope received three hundred thousand ducats of gold, as compensation for some act faithfully performed.
These events created much surprise and some uneasiness in the court of Charles VIII. The graces, the exceeding beauty, and the winning eloquence of Cæsar Borgia had dissipated all the doubts and suspicions which, even at that early period of his life, hung about him. At a distance, men abhorred and condemned him; once within the magic circle of his influence, fear and hatred passed away, and friendship and confidence succeeded in even the most cautious. But now, when he fled from the post he had voluntarily undertaken, when he set at nought the engagements which he had been the first to propose, suspicion was re-awakened; couriers were sent off in haste to the towns which Alexander had surrendered as securities to the king, and the officers commanding the garrisons were strictly enjoined to keep guard carefully against a surprise.
Before that day's march was ended, new causes of apprehension were added to those which already existed. Intelligence was received that Alphonzo, King of Naples, who had merited and won the hatred of his people, had abdicated in favour of his son Ferdinand, a prince universally beloved and respected. Gallant in the field, courteous and kind in his personal demeanour, constant and firm, as well as gentle, he boasted at an after period that he had never inflicted an injury upon any of his own or his father's subjects, and there were none found to contradict.
Such a prince might be naturally expected to rally round him all that was noble, generous, and gallant among the Neapolitan people; and whatever Charles himself might think, there were many in his council who knew well how difficult a task it is to conquer a united and patriotic nation.
They heard that he had assumed the crown amidst shouts and rejoicings, that voluntary levies were swelling his forces, and that he himself had advanced to the frontier of his kingdom, and had taken up a commanding position ready to do battle in defence of his throne.
The march of the King of France became much more circumspect; parties were thrown out in different directions to obtain intelligence, and no longer with gay and joyous revelry, but with compact array and rigid discipline, the host moved forward, and passed the Neapolitan frontier.
Where was the army which was to oppose its progress? Where the numerous and zealous friends of the young sovereign? Nowhere.
Some turbulent proceedings in the city of Naples, instigated, it is supposed, by French emissaries, recalled Ferdinand for a few days to his capital. When he returned to the army, he found it nearly disbanded, terror in the hearts of those who remained, and perhaps treachery also.
There was no possibility of keeping the troops together; and with disappointment, but not with despair, Ferdinand returned to Naples, in the hope of defending the city against the invader. Vain was the hope; misfortune dogged him still.
The volatile people, who had shouted so loudly as his succession, received him in dull and ominous silence; and he soon learned that he could neither depend upon their support nor upon the fidelity of the mercenary troops with which his father had garrisoned the two great citadels. Day by day from the various fortresses of the kingdom came warnings of what might be expected of the people of Naples.
Terrified at the approach of the French, the inhabitants of the various cities on Charles's line of march clamoured for immediate surrender even before they were summoned; and the governors and garrisons only delayed that surrender till they could make a bargain with the counsellors of the French monarch, not for safety and immunity, but for payment and reward.
It was an observation of the cunning Breconnel, that golden bullets shattered down more walls in the kingdom of Naples than any of the bombards of the army; but, as the finances of Charles were not very flourishing, he was obliged to be lavish of promises when he could not pay in money.
But I must follow a little farther the history of the gallant prince whom the French monarch came to dethrone. Left almost alone in his palace, Ferdinand saw nothing around him but desertion and treachery--heard of nothing but plots against his person or his power. Calmly, deliberately he took his resolution. He selected several vessels in the harbour, manned them with persons on whom he could rely, and then addressed the people of Naples, telling them, in a speech which may be apocryphal, but which is full of calm dignity and noble courage, that it was his intention to leave the capital.
He told them that he was ready to fight with them and for them, but that the cowardice of the soldiery and treachery of their leaders deprived him of the hope of success. He advised them, as soon as he was gone, to treat with France; he set them free from their allegiance to him; he exhorted them to live peacefully under their new lord. But he told them that he would ever be near them, and promised that, should the yoke of the stranger ever become insupportable, they would find him by their side, ever ready to shed his last drop of blood for their deliverance.
"In my exile," he said, "it will be some consolation to me if you allow that since my birth I have never injured any one of you, that I have done my best to render you happy, and that it is not by my own fault that I have lost a throne."
Some of the people wept, we are told, but the rest stole away to the palace, and at once commenced the work of pillage. Ferdinand drove them out at the point of the sword; but, finding that the garrison of Castel Nuovo had already conspired to seize his person and sell him to the French, he hurried on board his ships with a few friends, set fire to the rest of the vessels in the harbour, and sailed for the Island of Ischia.
There a new trait of human baseness awaited him. The governor of the island and of an old castle, built, as is said, by the Saracens, which then stood on the island, attempted to parley with the prince to whom he owed all, refusing to receive him with more than one attendant. Ferdinand sprang ashore alone, seized the villain by the throat, and, casting him under his feet, trampled upon him in presence of his own forces and the garrison. The castle was soon in his possession, but he remained not long in Ischia.
On the 21st February, 1495, the French monarch approached the city of Naples. The gates were thrown open, the streets hung with tapestry, the windows crowded with admiring groups, and Charles entered, as if in triumph, with an imperial crown upon his head, a sceptre in one hand, and a globe in the other, while heralds proclaimed him emperor, though it does not appear that they said of what empire.
The mercurial population went half wild with excitement, and shouted, and danced, and screamed before his horse's feet; and had Charles been St. Januarius himself, Naples could not have roared with more lusty joy.
Yet the two castles still held out, the one merely to make conditions for the benefit of the garrison, the other from nobler motives. The Castel Nuovo was bought and sold without a shot being fired; but in the Ovo was Frederick, the uncle of the dethroned king, and a faithful garrison. The French artillery advanced and opened fire; the guns of the castle replied boldly. Some damage was done in the city, and it became evident that many of the finest buildings might be destroyed.
Negotiation was then commenced, and to Frederick's high honour be it said, that he sought no terms for himself, although he knew that the castle could not hold out many days. It was his nephew alone that he thought of; and he strove hard to persuade the King of France to bestow upon Ferdinand the duchy of Calabria on condition of his abdicating the throne: but the council of the king would not consent to leave so popular a competitor in Italy. They offered large possessions in France, and drew out the negotiations to such a length, that Frederick, finding the Ovo could hold out no longer, withdrew with a small body of men, and, joining his nephew, took refuge with him in Ischia.
The city of Naples was now completely in the power of the French, but the kingdom was not so. Scattered over its various provinces were many strong places. Brindisi, Otranto, Regio, Galliopoli, held out for the house of Arragon, and the governors, too honest or too wise, would not suffer themselves to be corrupted. The French army, holding already several fortresses in Naples and the States of the Church, could not afford men enough either to form the regular siege of any of those places, or to garrison them if taken; and Charles and his court gave themselves up to all those enjoyments for which the city of the Siren has always been renowned.
In a small but richly-decorated room in Naples sat three gentlemen in the picturesque, the beautiful costume of the times. Two were mere youths compared with the other, and yet he was a man far on the sunny side of middle age. Before them was a table bearing upon it dried fruits and some wine; and many vases of fair flowers were placed upon the board and in different angles of the chamber. The expression on the countenance of each was somewhat grave, but it was more striking on that of the elder man, as his face and features were, even when at rest, of a playful turn, gay, frank, and beaming.
"I do not like this, my young friends," he said, in a very serious tone, "I do not like this at all," and he drank off another silver cupful of the wine.
"You seem to like it well, Seigneur do Vitry," said one of the young men--"that is to say, if you mean the wine; you have drunk more than I have ever seen you drink before."
"I have the drunkard's ever-ready excuse, De Terrail," answered De Vitry; "I drink to drive away care. But I did not mean the wine; it is good enough, I believe. What I meant was, I do not like this state of affairs here in Naples, and I asked you two boys to dine with me to talk with you about it. Why, I believe we three seated here are the only men left reasonable in this city--the only three Frenchmen, I should have said; but that will not do either, for one of us is not a Frenchman by birth; at all events, I may say the only three of the king's army."
"As for these Neapolitans, they are, I believe, all born mad, so there is no use taking them into the account at all. Now Lorenzo is reasonable. He is in love; it is the most sobering thing in the world. I am reasonable from perhaps somewhat the same cause; but as to you, De Terrail, I do not understand how you came to retain your senses when men with white beards lose theirs, unless it be something in your nature, for you are too perfect a knight not to be proud of your love, if you had one."
"Well, seigneur," replied Bayard, "it is not my place to find fault with my elders; my only business is to govern my men and my own conduct aright, but yet I cannot but say with you that I do not like this."
"And I as little as either," said Lorenzo; "his Majesty surely cannot know all that is taking place here. He cannot be aware that we are daily losing both the respect and affection of the people. Why, when first we arrived, they seemed almost ready to worship us, and now every man one meets is ready to lay his hand upon his dagger."
"Ay, that is natural and common in all countries," said De Vitry; "the common herd are always volatile, one day bowing down to their fellow-man as an idol, the next day trampling upon him as a dog. But the worst of it is, we have given them cause to change. We treat the men like dogs; we consider the women as harlots. We insult men's wives and their daughters, or do worse, and we kill the husbands and brothers, or fathers, if they show a regard for their own honour. Sometimes we get killed ourselves, it is true, and 'twere no pity if 'twas oftener, but for the thinning of the king's ranks, and there are few enough of us left, I can tell you. Then see, again, how we pillage and oppress the people? Why, I came suddenly yesterday upon a fellow of a sutler taking away a poor old man's fish without payment, and the old fisherman dancing out of his skin with anguish. I had the scoundrel tied up to the strappado, and made his back acquainted with the thongs; but what did that matter, when the same thing takes place every day unpunished."
"But what you say about their women is the worst," replied Bayard; "they are naturally a jealous people here in Naples, and we certainly do give them good cause for jealousy. We not only treat them as if we had conquered them, when, in truth, we have hardly struck a stroke or crouched a lance, but as if we had made them slaves."
"We should have respected them more if they had fought us better," said Lorenzo, who had listened without seeming to attend. "Have you heard what the pope says? He declares that King Charles has passed through Italy, not sword in hand, but chalk in hand. He means, I suppose, that we have had nothing to do but to mark out our quarters. That is a hard word for an Italian to speak or an Italian to hear."
"It is very true though, Visconti," said De Vitry. "I wonder what can have made such a change among the people. The Italian great companies used to fight us as well or better than any other men in the world."
"It was those great companies themselves which caused the decline of a warlike spirit in the land," said Lorenzo; "at least I think so, my lord. When the prince depends for support on his throne, and the peasant for protection in his cottage, upon the hands and arms of mercenaries, the social prospects of a country are very sad. Wealth may indeed grow up, luxury extend itself, arts be cultivated; but the hardy spirit, the power of endurance, the sense of self-reliance, are gone.
"For many years, here in Italy, the great companies formed the chief dependence of Italian states, and the company of St. George was the school of Italian chivalry; but, in the meantime, the people lost their skill and their courage in war, and when those great companies melted away, as they did but a few short years ago, they felt themselves, like the Britons when abandoned by the Romans, unable to defend themselves against their enemies or to protect their friends."
"Well, really, Lorenzo, I know not how the Britons felt, or when they were abandoned by the Romans," said De Vitry, laughing. "I am no great scholar in history, but I know the Britons make very good soldiers now, as we have felt in France. But let us talk of things not quite so far away. I fear that while we are enjoying ourselves here, and losing the love of the people, there are storms gathering in the north, which may break pretty hard upon us if we do not mind."
"I know it too well," replied Lorenzo; "I heard the facts first in Rome from Cardinal Borgia, and related the whole to the king."
"Ay, Cæsar Borgia! Cæsar Borgia!" said De Vitry. "I doubt much his good faith, and would sooner have him for an enemy than a friend."
"Why so, seigneur?" asked De Terrail. "I would always have men my friends if I can, my enemies only when I must."
"I will tell you why, good friend," answered De Vitry. "If Cæsar were my enemy, I would cut his throat in ten minutes; if he were my friend, he would poison me in five. But this matter weighs upon my mind, and I thought that perhaps you, Lorenzo, might do something to awaken the king to the true state of affairs, being admitted so much to his privacy."
Lorenzo shook his head almost sadly, saying, "I can do nothing, my lord. As to the licence of our soldiery, the king gives orders which are not obeyed, and he loves not to hear complaints. As to the menacing state of things in our rear, he depends upon his Highness of Orleans being able to join us with strong reinforcements. He has already passed the Alps, I hear."
"With men enough to give us help were he with us, not to force a passage to us," said De Vitry; "and, by Heaven! it's just as well that he should not be here at present, for how the duke and the rufflers who are with him would take what has happened this morning it is hard to say."
"Why, what has happened?" asked Bayard and Lorenzo both together. "We heard of nothing particular when we rode in from Portici."
De Vitry smiled. "It is nothing very particular now-a-days," he said, "but, by my faith, such things did not often happen when I was your age, lads. Stephen de Vese, whom we all can remember, the king's valet de chambre, has been made a duke, and has got a nice little slice of the Kingdom of Naples to make up his duchy. I wonder what will come next?"
"But the worst of all is, these witty Neapolitans know all this; and though they are very sore at seeing every office, and benefice, and confiscated estate given to Frenchmen, they laugh to see the old nobility mortified by such acts as this. One saucy fellow said that he thought the king must be a necromancer, for he changed his swine into lions."
"By my faith," said Bayard, "it does not take much to make a Neapolitan lion. Heaven forbid, however, that any of us should grumble at what the king is pleased to do. But I cannot be so grave, my lord, as you and our friend Lorenzo seem to be. The Duke of Orleans will fight his way through to us, or we to him, depend upon it. Visconti has been as sad, as solemn all day as a crow in a rain-storm."
"No, no, De Terrail," said Lorenzo, "I have neither been sad nor solemn, though a little silent, perhaps. The fact is, yesterday was the day when my messenger should have returned from Florence, and I am anxious for his arrival."
"Ay, that fellow of yours, Antonio," said De Vitry, laughing, "has lost his way at length, I warrant. I had as near as possible thrown him into the river once for letting me mislead myself;" and he went on to tell the story of the broken bridge, much to the amusement of his two companions.
"Hark! there is a horse's feet coming at a gallop," said Bayard. "Nothing new going wrong, I trust!" and approaching the window, he looked out into the street; then, turning round his head, he said with a laugh, "The old story of the devil, my good lords. Antonio, on my life, Lorenzo."
Lorenzo turned a little pale with very natural agitation. Since his departure from Florence he had heard nought of Leonora, and if it is terrible even in these days of comparative security and peace, to be without intelligence of those we love--if treacherous imagination brings forth from the treasury of Nemesis all the dangers and misfortunes which surround mortal life, and pile them up on the head of the beloved, how much more dreadful must it have been in those times, when real dangers, perils, and misfortunes without number dogged the steps of every-day life, and were as glaring and apparent as the sun at noon?
It must be remembered, too, that he was very young; that his early life had been clouded with misfortune, teaching the young heart the sad lesson of apprehension; that, since fortune had smiled upon him again, he had found none to love till he had met with the dear girl who had given her whole soul to him, and to whom his whole soul had been given in return; that by the very intensity of their passion they stood, as it were, alone and separate from the rest of mankind, relying, dependent upon, and wrapped up in each other, and that for four long months they had neither seen nor held any communication with each other. It will be easily understood how, on the return of his courier from Florence, agitation shook him to the very soul. He would gladly have started up and run down to meet the messenger; but fear of the laugh of his companions restrained him, and he sat mastering his emotions as best he could.
Antonio was not long ere he ascended, however. His horse's bridle was thrown over the hook in the wall, a few brief words with the servant in the gateway followed, and then his light, agile step was heard coming up the stairs.
"God save you, my lord!" said Antonio, entering the room, "here is a packet from your fair lady."
"Did you see her? Is she well? Is she happy?" asked Lorenzo, cutting the silken threads, which bound the letter, with his dagger.
"I did see her, my lord, and she is quite well, but not happy, thank God!" said Antonio, in his usual quaint way.
"Not happy?" said Lorenzo, pausing just as he had begun to read; "not happy?"
"Yes, my lord, not happy. Heaven forbid that she should be over happy while you are away. Oh, she told me a long and very pitiful tale of how miserable she had been, thinking of how often you had been killed and wounded in the great battles and sieges that never took place between Rome and Naples. Seven times she dreamed you were dead, and had all the trouble of burying you over and over again."
"Hush, hush, my good friend Antonio; I am in no mood for such bantering just now," said Lorenzo, and turned to his letter again.
But the pertinacious Antonio, though he left his young lord to read, could not help pouring forth some of the joyful fun, which welled up in his heart whenever he was the bearer of good news, upon his master's young friend, De Terrail.
"By the bones of St. Barnabas!" he said, "the lady was looking sad enough when I first found her out, perched up on the high terrace overlooking the Mugnione, but when she saw me, she had nearly jumped out of the window with joy. But when I told her my lord was well, and that I had brought her a letter from him, I thought she would have kissed me--all for joy too. Well, she did not, or I should not have dared to come back again, for murder and kisses will come out some way."
Lorenzo's face, as he read on, lighted up with an expression of comfort and joy such as it had not borne for many a day, and many an emotion, though all happy, passed over his countenance, like the lights and shades of a bright spring day over a sunny landscape.
At length he laid the letter on his knee with a deep sigh, and paused for a moment in thought. As for his two companions, Bayard had smiled at Antonio's description of his meeting with Leonora, but De Vitry sat grave and almost stern, with his thoughts apparently far away.
At length Lorenzo woke up from his meditations, and raised the letter, saying, "Here are some lines for you too, Seigneur De Vitry."
"Then, in the fiend's name, why did you not tell me before?" exclaimed De Vitry, with a start, and looking really angry. "Here have I been sitting this half hour envying you that letter, and you never let me know that I have a share in it. Read, read, and let me know what it is."
"Tell the Marquis De Vitry," said Lorenzo, reading, "that I have heard from my dear cousin Blanche Marie, and that she wishes to know if he wears her glove still, and what fortune it has found. She says, if he has not forgotten her, and any couriers pass by Pavia, she would fain hear of his health."
"Is that all!" exclaimed De Vitry. "Bless her dear little soul, and her beautiful eyes, that look like two blue mountain lakes reflecting heaven; I have carried her glove wherever it could gain glory; but very little of that commodity is to be won in this mere marching war, and wherever it does occur, you must needs slip in, Visconti, and take it all to yourself. I shall have to cut your throat some day in order to get my own share. Well, I will write to her, though, by the Lord, it is so long since I have handled a pen, that I know not what I shall make of it. I would send a courier on purpose, if I thought he could make his way through that dangerous bit between Florence and Milan."
"He could not do it, my lord," said Antonio, "for the whole country there is up in arms, and a courier known to be from the French army could not pass. I only got through as far as Florence because I had an Italian tongue in my head. I told them I was a servant of Count Ascanio Malatesta; and, whether there is such a personage or not in the world, they let me pass on account of his good name."
"Then we shall have to march back ourselves, as I always thought we should," said De Vitry, "and I shall be the bearer of my own letter. Well, the sooner the trumpet sounds to horse the better. What say you, De Terrail?"
"The sooner the better, by all means," answered Bayard: "but let us hear a little more of this, my good friend Antonio. You must have seen a good deal by the way. Cannot you give us a notion how things are going?"
"Assuredly, my lord," replied Antonio: "I always wake with both eyes open, and sleep with only one shut. In the first place, I saw many fine men and pretty women, and many good towns and strong castles; but I remarked one thing, which was, that most of the men had harness on their backs, that the armourer's shops were very busy, and that the work the ladies liked best were embroidered scarfs and sword-knots. Moreover, in those good towns and strong castles the masons were very busy on the outside walls, and people with teams of oxen were hauling up long tubes, and piling up heavy balls beside them.
"Then, as I passed through Rome, I found that his pious and immaculate Holiness was holding a Consistory, in which, people said, he was proposing to the cardinals this knotty point, on which he had decided in his own mind already, viz. whether he should join the league against the King of France or not? I rode, moreover, with some messengers journeying from Venice; some addressed to our king from Monsieur de Commines, and some to the Venetian ambassador here."
"Could you obtain any intelligence from them?" asked De Vitry, eagerly.
"Oh yes, my lord!" said Antonio, with a laugh; "every man has a weak side somewhere, and if I can be but three days with him--as I was with these men--I have plenty of time to walk round him and find out where his weak side is. I pumped out of them all they had to tell when we were yet two days from Naples, and it amounted to this, that the Venetians joined the league some time ago; that the King of Spain is as far in as any of them; that the emperor is ready to attack the king on one side, and Burgundy on the other; so that we may expect a pretty warm reception if we march back, and a pretty hot house if we stay here."
"By Heaven! you must tell all this to the king," said De Vitry, greatly excited. "Lorenzo, can you--but no! I will do it myself. Why should I put upon another what it is my own duty to do? Hark ye, Antonio! be with me this night at seven. I must have audience just before hiscoucher, otherwise we shall have a pack of those lazy bishops and cardinals with us. On my life, I do think the Cardinal of Rouen must have two or three pretty mistresses in Naples, he is so unwilling to leave it. Can you come, man? speak! for it is true that every loyal subject should do his best to rouse Charles from his apathy. Something must be determined speedily."
"I can, of course, my lord," replied Antonio, more gravely than usual, "if it is Signor Visconti's pleasure to spare me. I shall only have to tell Jacques Gregoire to wake me up with one bucket of water, and bring back my scattered senses with another, for, to say sooth, I am mighty tired and somewhat stupid with riding so many hundred miles in such a hurry."
"Here, drain off the rest of the flask," said De Vitry; "there is enough there to besot a Fleming. It may bring you to life. Let us see you take a deep draught."
Antonio did not disappoint him, but saw the bottom of the vessel before he took it from his lips. As soon as he had done, however, he said, "Well, my lords, I will humbly take my leave, and wait in his antechamber, like other poor fools, till my patron comes back. I have certain little particulars for his own private ear, which----"
"About what?" asked De Vitry, gaily, resolved to pay Lorenzo back a smile he had seen upon his lips while he was reading Blanche Marie's message--"about what, Antonio. Speak out, or we shall think it treason."
"My lord, 'tis but about how much bacon the horses ate upon the road, and how much hay I consumed; how much wine they drank, and how much water I tippled; how I fell under the wrath of a magistrate for eating raw cabbages in a man's garden when I was tied by the bridle to one of the posts thereof, and how my horse had to do penance in a white sheet for certain vices of his which shall be nameless."
The whole party laughed, and De Vitry sent the man away, commending him for a merry soul, and telling him to bid the man at the door bring up more wine. Lorenzo, however, would drink no more. There was nectar enough in Leonora's letter without wine, and he was anxious to hear all those details--those never-sufficient details--on every word of which a lover pleases to dwell.
Antonio had not been gone five minutes ere Lorenzo rose and followed. A smile came upon the faces of both his friends, but De Vitry exclaimed, "Well, let those laugh who win, De Terrail: now I would give a thousand golden ducats to be just in his case."