We buried our dead; and madame slept beneath the ilex, in the courtyard of the castle, below the north wall. Over her nameless grave we raised a rude cross, and after it was done, Carillon bade me farewell. He was going, he said, to bear the story to St. Armande, and when he reached it, I wit there was sorrow in the Picard chateau, whence madame took her name. It was with a heart of lead that I rode into Sassoferrato, and there, as arranged, made over my prize to Hawkwood. The tale of the ducats was complete, and the Englishman, giving me my quittance, held out his hand, saying bluntly--
"I wronged you, Di Savelli; but I know now. We all know, for Bayard has told us."
I hesitated. Many memories came to me, and there was bitter resentment in my soul. They had all been too ready to believe. They had flung me forth as a thing too vile to touch, and now--it was an easy matter to hold out a hand, to say, "I am sorry," to think that a civil word would heal a hideous wound. The kind world was going to forgive me, because it had wronged me. Such as it was, however, it was the world, and things had made me a little humble. After all, if the positions were reversed; if I stood in Hawkwood's place, and he in mine, how should I have acted? I would not like to say.
"Come," said Hawkwood, "let the past be covered. Come back--we want you."
"As you will," and I took his grasp; "I will come back in a little time. Till then adieu!"
"Good-bye!" and we parted.
Five minutes later, I was spurring to Rome, my following at my heels. It was, in a manner, putting my neck on the block, for Bozardo was probably making his way thither with all speed, and doubtless D'Entrangues as well. Recognition was almost certain; but risk or no risk, I was bound to see the cardinal, and tell him my task was done. Little did I think, however, as Castor bore me, with his long, easy gallop, across the oak forests of the Nera, that the face of affairs in Rome had been changed in an hour, and that, had I so wished, I might have, in safety, proclaimed what I had done from the very house-tops. As we came nearer the city, it was evident that there was some great commotion within, for, from every quarter pillars of dim smoke rose up in spiral columns, and then spreading out like a fan hung sullenly in the yellow of the sunset. It was clear that houses were burning, and swords were out. We soon began to meet parties of fugitives, hurrying from the city, and making across country in all directions. They avoided us like the plague, and the mere glint of our arms was sufficient to make them scatter to right and left, leaving such property as they could not bear with them, to the tender mercies of the road-side. Some of my men were eager to ride after the runaways, and question them; but I forbade this, knowing we should hear soon enough, and that if there were danger, it would be best to hold together.
"Per Bacco!" and Jacopo, riding up beside me, pointed to a black cloud, which slowly rose, and settled above the vineyards of the Pincian Hill, "we had best go with a leaden boot, excellency. There is a devil's carnival in Rome, or I am foresworn."
At this juncture, we turned an abrupt corner of the road, coming upon a crowd of fugitives, who seemed to be running forwards, caring little where they went, so that they put a distance between them and Rome. Amongst the throng was a figure I recognised; and in a mean habit, mounted on a mule, which was seized with an obstinate fit, and refused to budge, although soundly thwacked, I saw the Cardinal of Strigonia. Bidding Jacopo keep the men together, I rode up to him, and asked--
"Can I render your eminence any aid?"
His round eyes, starting out of his head like a runaway hare's, glanced at me in fear, and the stick he bore dropped from his hand, no doubt much to the satisfaction of the mule. At first he was unable to speak, for my words seemed to fill the man with terror, and I had to repeat the question, before he stammered out--
"You are mistaken, sir; I am no eminence, but a poor brother of Mount Carmel, on my way to Foligno, out of this hell behind me," and he glanced over his shoulder towards Rome.
"I see," I answered with a smile, "but if the poor brother of Mount Carmel will look more closely at me, he will see a friend. In short, your eminence, I am Di Savelli."
"Corpo di Bacco!I mean our Lady be thanked. And so it is you, cavaliere! Take my advice, and turn your horse's head to Foligno. On beast!" and he kicked at the mule, which moved not an inch.
"I am for Rome, your eminence; but what has happened?"
"Oh, that I had a horse!" he groaned. "What has happened? Everything has happened. Alexander is dead or dying. Cesare dead, they say, and burning in Hades by this. Orsini and Colonna at the old game of hammer and tongs----"
"And the Cardinal--D'Amboise?"
"Safe enough I believe, as the Orsini hold the Borgo, and have declared for France."
"Trust me, your reverence, you will be safer in Rome than out of it. The whole country will rise at the news, and the habit of Mount Carmel will not save the Cardinal of Strigonia. Turn back with me, and I will escort you to the Palazzo Corneto."
To make a short story, D'Este agreed after a little persuasion, and the mule was kind enough to amble back very willingly to Rome. We placed his eminence in the centre of our troops, and went onwards, entering the city by the Porta Pinciana, riding along leisurely in the direction of S. Trinita di Monti, and thence straight on towards the Ripetta. It was a work of no little danger to make this last passage, for everywhere bands of plunderers were engaged in gutting the houses, many of which were in flames, and we continually came across dead bodies, or passed houses from which we heard shrieks of agony. We could help no one. It was all we could do to keep our own heads on our shoulders; but by dint of shouting, "A Colonna!" with the Colonna, and "Orsini!Orsini!" with their rivals, and sometimes hitting a shrewd blow or two, we crossed the Ripetta, and in a few minutes were safe in the Palazzo Corneto.
Here we were received by Le Clerc, who comforted the trembling Strigonia, with the assurance that an excellent supper awaited him, informing me, almost in the same breath, that D'Amboise was in the Vatican. I lost no time in repairing thither, which I did on foot, accompanied by Jacopo alone, and made my way without let or hindrance to the Torre Borgia. Here everything was in the wildest confusion, and the Spanish soldiers of the Pope were plundering right and left. I stumbled across De Leyva, who, with a few men at his back, was trying to maintain order. He gladly accepted the offer of my sword, and we did what we could to prevent the wholesale robbery from going on. In a brief interval of rest, I asked,
"Do you know where D'Amboise is?"
"In the Sistine Chapel, with half-a-dozen others; De Briconnet guards the entrance."
"And Alexander?"
"Dead or dying--I do not even know where he is; Don Michele has seized as much as he can, and carrying Cesare on a litter, has escaped to Ostia."
"Then Cesare is not dead----"
"No. Cross of St. James! see that?" and he pointed to a reeling drunken crowd, full with wine and plunder, who passed by us with yells, into the great reception rooms.
Followed by the few men who remained steady, De Leyva dashed after them, and with Jacopo at my heels, I made for the Sistine Chapel. I reached the Scala Begia, and although I knew the Sistine Chapel was but a few feet distant, yet, owing to the darkness that prevailed, I missed the way, and Jacopo was of course unable to help me. Groping onwards we came to a small door, and pushing it, found it to open easily. It led into a narrow, vaulted passage, where the darkness was as if a velvet curtain of black hung before us. "I like not the look of this, excellency," said Jacopo, as we halted in front of the door.
"Keep a drawn sword," I answered, "and follow me."
We could only go in single file, and picked our way with the greatest care, our feet ringing on the stone floor. Except for this, the silence was intense, and we could hear no sound of the devilry outside. The passage continued, until we almost began to think it had no end, but at last the darkness gave way to a semi-gloom, and a faint bar of light gleamed ahead of us. At this we increased our pace, finding a sharp corner, a little beyond which rose a winding flight of stairs, ending before a half-open door, through which the dim light came. I put my foot on the first of the steps, and was about to ascend, when we were startled by hearing a moan of mortal agony, followed by a laugh, so wild and shrill, so exultant, and yet so full of malice, that it chilled us to the bone. It pealed through the door, and echoed down the passage behind us, until the horrid cadence became fainter and fainter, finally dying away into the black darkness.
"God save us!" exclaimed Jacopo, "it is a fiend laughing its way to hell."
He went on, with chattering teeth, to adjure me to go no further; but crossing myself, I bade him be silent, and stepped forwards. Since that moan of agony, and terrible laugh of triumph, there was no sound, and I could almost hear my heart beating, as I reached the door. Jacopo had nerved himself to follow me, and stood pale and trembling at my shoulder, his sword quivering in his shaking hand. I was myself not free from fear, for no man may combat with spirits, but after a moment's hesitation, I looked cautiously in. I saw before me a room of great size, dimly lighted by two tall candles, burning on each side of a massive bedstead, on which lay a man bound, and writhing in the throes of death. The light, though faint around the room, fell full on the face of the man, and horribly as the features were changed, distorted as they were, I saw they were those of Alexander, and that he was in his last agony, alone and friendless in his splendid palace. Yet not alone, there was another figure in the room. As I looked, it stepped out of the gloom of the rich curtains at the window, and standing over the bed, laughed again, that terrible laugh of devilish joy. At the sound, the dying man moaned through his black, foam-clothed lips, and Corte, for it was he, bent over the body and mocked him.
"Roderigo Borgia, Vicar of Christ, hell yawns for you; but a few moments, Borgia, but a few moments of life; think you, that you suffer now? There is more coming--things I even cannot dream of." In the face of Alexander came so awful a look of entreaty that I could bear it no longer. I stepped into the room, and putting my hand on Corte's shoulder, said,
"Come, let him die in peace."
He turned on me with a snarl, but recognising me, laughed again.
"Ha! ha! Let him die in peace. Why, man, you saw her die, and can say this? But he is going too. It is a week since his doctor, Matthew Corte, bled him for an ague, and touched him with a little knife, just a little pin-prick. He began to die then; but hell is not yet hot enough for him. He dies in too much peace. Why, my dog died in more agony! But he has felt something. See those torn curtains! See this disordered room! He tore those curtains in his madness. He bit at the wood of the chairs, he howled like a dog at the moon, and they tied him here, and left him. I alone watch. I will let him die in peace. Ha! ha! It is good. I do not want him to die yet. I give him food, and he lives. In a little while perhaps he will die. But in peace! ha! ha! I could almost die with laughter, when I hear that. It is too good! Ha! ha!"
I saw it was hopeless to do anything with Corte, and the Pope was beyond repair. I might have cut down the madman, but it would have served no purpose. For a moment I thought I would pass my sword through the Borgia, and free him from pain. It would have been a mercy, but I luckily had the sense to restrain myself. Again, Alexander deserved his fate, and a few minutes more or less would make no difference. So I left the wretch to die the death of a dog, that befitted his life, and turning on my heel, went back through the passage.
Jacopo heaved a sigh of relief as we came out, and I felt a different man as I ran down the steps of the Scala Regia. Here I met with De Leyva again, and told him what I had seen.
"The Camerlengo has just gone to him," he answered, referring to the Pope, "and you have missed D'Amboise. He has returned to the Palazzo Corneto. I can do nothing here, and am going myself. Do you walk or ride? I have no horse."
"Walk," I answered, and the Spaniard linked his arm in mine, as, followed by Jacopo, we took our way back to the cardinal's house.
On reaching I sought D'Amboise at once. He had heard of my arrival, and was awaiting me. After a brief greeting, I told him his business was done, and handed him the quittance I had received from Hawkwood. He was mightily pleased, as may be imagined. I felt it my duty to inform him of the death of St. Armande, telling him how it occurred, without in any way disclosing my knowledge of the secret. He was much affected.
"It is a sad business," he said, "but we have other things to think of now.Mon Dieu!mon Dieu!" And to this day I am unaware if he knew or not.
But the night was not yet over, and late as it was, there were yet things to be done. About midnight we heard that Alexander was dead, and a few minutes later Gentil' Orsini hurried to the cardinal. They held a hasty council, and De Briconnet and I were summoned. News had come that Cesare had not yet left Ostia, that he was too ill to travel, and D'Amboise and Orsini resolved on a bold stroke. It was nothing less than the capture of Borgia. Orsini offered to lend two hundred lances for the purpose, but a leader was wanted. He could not go himself, as his archenemy, Fabrizio Colonna, held all Rome on the left bank of the Tiber, and was in sufficient force to make a dash for the Borgo at any moment. The short of it was, that at the cardinal's recommendation, I received the command, and about two in the morning set out for Ostia. If the ships Cesare had hired had arrived the matter was ended, and we could do nothing; but if not, there was every chance of his surrendering without a blow, as although he had about five hundred men with him, they were not to be relied on, except the half-dozen cut-throats who formed his personal guard, and who might be trusted to fight to the last. The luck which had followed me so far favoured me again, and pressing on as fast as our horses could bear us, we came up with the fugitives in the early morning. Only one ship, too small to hold all, had come, and they were crowded on the banks of the Tiber, making every effort to embark. The river-shore was strewn with the enormous quantity of baggage they had with them, and a scene of the utmost confusion took place on our arrival. The ship was drawing up to the quay, and we could see the litter of the Borgia, surrounded by the few men who meant to fight. The affair was over in five minutes, and Cesare was my prisoner. Seeing how matters stood, the master of the ship anchored in midstream, heedless of the yells and execrations of the followers of the Borgia, who were not spared by my men. Indeed, I had great difficulty in keeping Cesare from harm. He was in truth very ill, but was able to gasp out as he yielded:--
"Maldetto!It is my fate. I had prepared for everything except being ill." He then lay back in his litter, and spoke no more.
One short and desperate attempt was made to rescue him. About a dozen horsemen charged right at us, and for a moment it appeared as if they would succeed. But we were too strong, and although they inflicted severe loss on us, killing Bande Nere amongst others, they were cut down, all but one, who led them. This man, seeing all was lost, and determined not to be taken himself, galloped to the quay, and striking his spurs home, leaped his horse far into the river, and made for the vessel. The stream was running fast and strong, but the good beast, despite his burden, struggled bravely against the flood. To relieve the horse, the cavalier, having torn off his morion, slipped from the saddle, and with his hand on the pommel, attempted manfully to swim beside the animal. The weight of his cuirass, however, bore him down. Twice his head sank below the water, twice he rose again and battled with the flood. Those on the ship made no effort to save him, and we on shore could do nothing. He had now, fighting every inch of his way, drifted astern of the vessel, and someone flung a rope at him. His hand reached out to clasp it, but missed, and then the under-current caught man and horse and dragged them down. He rose yet once again, his white despairing face turned towards us, and with a supreme effort of hate, shook his clenched hand at me, and was gone.
So died Crépin D'Entrangues, the death of a brave man, unyielding and fighting to the last. The yellow Tiber hissed in white foam over the spot where he sank. Perchance the mad currents dragged his body down to the slime of the river-bed, picked it up again in their swirl, tossed it in sport from one to another, and finally flung it to rot on some lonely bank, where the gulls screamed above it, and the foxes of the Maremma gnawed at the rusty armour, and snapped and snarled over the white bones in the moonlight.
Everyone knows the history of the times, and it is not my intention to dilate on this, but merely to set down, without comment, those matters of state in which Fortune allowed me to play a part. When Cesare surrendered at Ostia the Borgia were broken for ever, and Valentinois allowed, after a short confinement, to escape to Spain, where he died like a soldier. Now that the game was in their hands, the allies began to quarrel amongst themselves, the French king to drivel away his opportunities in gaiety, and the Venetians to step in, in their Most Serene way, and claim a share of the spoils for the Lion of St. Mark. Events moved quickly, the genius of the Great Captain won victory after victory for Spain, the death of Francis Piccolomini paved the way for the accession of Rouvere to the Papacy as Julius II., and the Holy League was formed, by means of which the French were finally driven from Italy. Thus, in a few years, the work of D'Amboise was scattered to the winds, but long before that time I had sheathed my sword, and concerned myself no more with war.
But on the day that I surrendered my prisoner to D'Amboise and Orsini, the former already in thought sat in St. Peter's Chair, and the latter, at the very least, imagined himself the Lord of the Romagna. I sent forward couriers, with the news of my success, to the cardinal, and ere we reached Malafede, met with a return messenger from D'Amboise, bearing a brief note of congratulation, and adding that Colonna had made terms to evacuate the portions of the city he held. The messenger informed me, that the Bailly of Caen had already entered Rome by the Porta Pia, and that, finding himself between two fires, old Fabrizi Colonna had made a virtue of necessity, and by yielding now, reserved himself for another day. This enabled me to go back by an easier route than we had come, and as we rode through the Ostian Gate, I could not help contrasting my present entry to the day when Jacopo and I had reined in our weary steeds to let the Borgia pass, and give his following the road. At the Ponte S. Angelo, I surrendered my prisoner to Orsini in person, and truly thought he would have but a few hours more to live, for Gentil' Virginio had a long score to settle with the Borgia, and a longer memory for a wrong. The blood, too, of Paolo, whom Cesare strangled at Sinigaglia, and that of the Cardinal Orsini, whom he brutally murdered in Rome, called aloud for vengeance. Cesare himself seemed to be aware of this, for whereas up to now he had remained in a sullen silence, he found tongue to implore me, in the most servile manner, not to deliver him to Orsini, and when I told him I had no option, he tried to creep out of his litter, and lay his cap at the feet of his enemy. Orsini spoke nothing, merely ordering him to be borne to S. Angelo; but as the Borgia shrank back into his litter, he said with a grim smile that he trusted the duke would find his entertainment to his liking. How it happened that Cesare came off with a whole skin I never knew, but he did, as I have mentioned above, and it surpasses belief. He turned cur at the last, and the low blood showed in him; but he was one of those men who knew how to be thoroughly bad. Orsini took back his lances, saying he had need of them, so that it was with my own few men that I reached the Palazzo Corneto. I must except Bande Nere from this number, and I was truly sorry for his death, for his was an honest sword. The cardinal received me in the little chamber where we had supped with Machiavelli. He had thrown aside his clerical habit and was in mail, but wore his barettina on his head. He was more than kind, congratulating me heartily on my success, going so far as to say that by capturing Cesare I had given a kingdom to France. I then left him with further assurances of his goodwill towards me, and saw him no more for the day.
Towards the small hours of the next morning I was aroused from a deep sleep by Jacopo. Starting up, I inquired what was astir, and was told that Defaure, the page, was waiting to see me. I gave orders for his instant admission, and, on coming in, he informed me that his eminence desired my immediate attendance. Telling Jacopo to have Castor saddled, for I smelt work afoot, I flung myself into my clothes, and hastened to D'Amboise.
He had evidently not slept all night, and was pacing the room in agitation.
"St. Dennis!" he burst out, as I entered, "do you know what they have done? The king holds a tourney at Arezzo instead of marching on at once. What is worse, he has granted an extension of the truce to Spain, and Tremouille and the rest of them are off to the junkets. They are making a May-day with those ducats you captured. By God! they would dance away a kingdom."
"Your eminence has no doubt sent news of the capture of Cesare?"
"That was only yesterday, man," he snapped, "and De Briconnet is riding for his life to the king. But it is about this I sent for you," he went on rapidly. "De Briconnet may come to harm. Here are other despatches. Take them and follow him; overtake him if you can. When can you start?"
"Now."
"Good--here are the papers. And this for Tremouille. Adieu!"--and he held out his hand--"Monsieur le Compte."
I started a little at the last words which he uttered in French, but had no time to ask for explanation or make inquiry. I hurried to my apartments and found Castor ready. Bidding Jacopo follow me to Arezzo with my men as soon as possible, I gave Castor the rein and rode out of Rome. At Citta del Pieve I got my first news of De Briconnet. At Cartona he was but two hours ahead of me, and when on the afternoon of the second day I reined in the staggering Castor at the gates of the Villa Accolti, where the king was, I saw in the courtyard a dead horse, his sides still bleeding from the spur marks, and judged that De Briconnet had barely beaten me by a head for all his twelve hours' start. So once again had I entered the Villa Accolti! And as I sprang to the ground, loosed the girths over Castor's heaving flanks, and resigned the reins to a willing groom who led the poor beast to rest, all the past came back to me with a vivid force, and I looked around, almost expecting to meet again the glances of scorn and contempt, to hear once more the hisses, the mockery, and the foul reproach of that day.
The cardinal was right enough when he said that high junkets were to be held. And the day seemed to be one of merry-making. Flags were flying from all parts of the villa, and the wide grounds were full of the followers of the court, and the townspeople either watching, or engaged in sports of wrestling, archery, and other games.
For the great ones, however, the out-of-door amusement of the day came to an end with the dinner-hour, and they were now disporting themselves within. From the open windows strains of music floated out into the sunlight and gay figures passed and repassed, or moved in and out of the balcony overhanging the grand entrance which seemed, from the constant movement and the brilliant dresses of those who crowded thereon, to be like a bed of flowers stirring in the wind. As I came below the balcony, I did not dare to look up, but with my sword in the loop of my arm and my despatches clenched in my right hand, walked up the marble steps.
"Post from Rome! Post from the Lord Cardinal!"
The sonorous voice of the ushers pealed this out, and I found myself at the entrance to the gallery leading to the great hall where I had been tried.
"Not here, sir--to the left." My way was barred by an equerry in violet and gold.
"Not so, De Brienne, the king receives these despatches in person," and Bayard had linked his arm in mine.
"But, my lord!"
"I take the blame," and Bayard, blazing in full mail, led me through the gallery whose sides were lined with the archers of the Scottish Guard. Archers in name only now, and little as my time was, I could not forbear glancing at these fine troops, who, although few in number, bore an unequalled reputation for service in the field. The doors at the entrance to the hall, which were guarded by two gigantic men-at-arms, were opened only at fixed intervals to let people in and out, and by this means an attempt was made to avoid overcrowding. There were a considerable number before us, and having to go slowly, we had time to exchange a few words.
"I suppose De Briconnet has passed in?" I asked, "he could only have just arrived, for his horse lies dead at the gates."
"I doubt it. All posts are received by De Vesci, whose wrath we are going to brave. If De Briconnet came in here direct, he was probably stopped and sent to the seneschal's apartments."
"If so, as he was the first-comer, he should present the despatches," I urged; "I bear but duplicates?"
"There is no time to think of that now," replied Bayard, and as he spoke the doors unfolded, and in a crash of music and the murmur of voices, above which now and again trilled a peal of clear feminine laughter, we entered the hall. At first we were unobserved, for the interest of every one was gathered to the centre of the room, where to the strains of music a game of chess was being played with living figures. The king himself took part in it, and I had good opportunity of observing him. Time had not changed Louis much, although his reckless life had enfeebled his constitution. He had the features of his house, the wide forehead, the oval face, the pointed chin, below which his short brown beard was neatly trimmed. His grey eyes were set somewhat wide apart, and his hair, which was naturally straight, he wore carefully curled, in a length that all but touched his shoulders. He was dressed in a tight-fitting surcoat of green, with green trunk-hose and stockings of the same colour. A short cloak, also of green, fell from his shoulder, and below his left knee was bound the ribbon of the English Order of the Garter, of which he was very proud. On his head was a velvet cap lapelled in front and on either side, and alive with the light of jewels, with which it was studded. He was playing king in the game, Madame de la Tremouille acting as queen, and the rival king was Tremouille himself, who had for his partner Isabel the Good, the wife of Gonsaga of Mantua, a princess distinguished alike for her beauty and her virtue. A little apart from the players, and watching the game with a grave interest, stood Etienne de Vesci, the Seneschal of Beauçaire, who was, after the cardinal, the most powerful man in France, and, indeed, was supposed by many to have more of the king's ear. Close by him were a number of ladies, and I ran my eye amongst them and around the hall, hoping in vain to catch sight of the one face I longed to see. Whilst so engaged De Vesci observed me, and seeing the papers in my hand, made an imperious gesture, beckoning me towards him. This I pretended not to observe, and the seneschal, biting his lip, edged his way towards me. It was easy to see from my travelled and stained appearance, the red on my spurs, and the packet in my hand, that I was the bearer of news.
"Is not monsieur aware," he said in a harsh voice, speaking in French, "that papers for the king should be brought to me?"
"These are for the king's hand," I answered.
"It is enough. Give them to me," and he held forth his hand.
"I have said, my lord, that they are for His Majesty's own hands."
Bayard, who was watching the game now drawing to a close, turned round at this, and grasping the matter, cut in.
"Ciel!My Lord, let the cavaliere deliver his packet. It will come to you soon enough. Take a holiday for once."
De Vesci frowned, and was about to make a hot answer, when there was a sudden shout and a clapping of hands, and Louis, who had won the game, came forward leading Madame de la Tremouille in triumph. The last move was made but a few feet from us, and as the king faced round with his partner he caught sight of our group and called out as he advanced--
"Victory! We have won. Why those black looks, De Vesci? Come and congratulate us."
With an effort the seneschal smoothed his face, "Victory always attends your majesty, and with so fair a partner defeat would be impossible," and he bowed with a courtly grace; but the wrinkles of his frown were still on his forehead. The duchess grew red with pleasure at the compliment, and Louis clapped his hands like a boy.
"Excellent! Trust a courtier's lip for a soft speech;" and then, observing me, "but what have we here?"
"From Rome, your majesty," and dropping to my knee, I presented my papers, which the king took irresolutely in his hand.
"Diable!" he exclaimed, with an impatient gesture, "from my lord cardinal no doubt?" And he glanced at me.
"Your majesty, and of the most vital import," and I rose.
"I must read them, I suppose. A plague on the cardinal! We were just going to the minuet----"
"I will deal with the matter, sire. The papers should have come to me," and De Vesci, saying this in his harsh, grating voice, reached forth his hand. Usually a perfect master of his temper, he had somehow, for once, let it get the better of him; and his closing words and manner were almost those of command. Louis, though a brave man, had a weak nature and a hasty temper. A temper that was often aroused to fits of obstinacy, little short of mulish. He caught the seneschal's tone, and perhaps also the suppressed smile that nickered on the faces of his courtiers. His forehead darkened, "You mistake, my lord, these papers come rightly to me," and turning his back on the seneschal, he tore open the packet.
De Vesci stepped back, white to the lips, and the court gathered round the king in silence. Seeing Tremouille at hand, I made bold to step up to him, and give him D'Amboise's note. He glanced at it, and turning to me said, "I gave my word, and it shall be kept. The honour of Tremouille is pledged."
I was at a loss to understand; but had no time to think, for Louis suddenly called out, "Tremouille--Bayard--gentlemen! The Borgia is taken! Rome is ours!"
At once there was a buzz, and a murmur of voices, in eager congratulation at the glad tidings. Standing alone and apart from all, I could barely see Louis, so closely did the court press around him; but it seemed that Tremouille was urging something on him, and the duchess too, for I caught the flash of the jewels on her fingers, as in her eagerness she laid them on the king's arm. Then Bayard's deep voice came to me clearly, "If done, 'twere well done quickly, sire."
I do not exactly know how it happened; but I found myself kneeling before the king, who stood above me, his drawn sword in his hand.
"M. di Savelli," he said, "one king of France owed you his life, another all but owes you a kingdom. Wear again your cross. It was nobly won. Take back your knighthood." He laid the blade gently on my shoulder, "for God, for your King, for your Lady. Arise, Sir Knight!" He stretched forth his hand to aid me to my feet, and I stood up again, with my honour white, in the very hall, almost on the very spot, whence I had been cast out in ignominy and shame.
I could not speak--I was choked--my eyes were wet with tears. Seeing my emotion, Louis placed his hand kindly on my shoulder.
"Remember, Di Savelli," he said, "France needs you yet. To the minuet, my lords and ladies--to the minuet!"
And he turned down the hall, not waiting for my thanks. But friends sprang up everywhere. The first to give me her good wishes was the Duchesse de la Tremouille, then came the duke, old Ives d'Alegres, and others I can scarcely name. It was whilst in their midst that I saw a face I knew well, and Machiavelli came up.
"Late, but not the less warm in my congratulations," he said; "so the good ship is safe in port at last! We owe you too much for speech, and can never thank you enough."
"Your excellency is most kind. Is the Lady Angiola well?"
He was silent for a moment, and laughed to himself, as if something stirred him. "As well as ever she was," he answered at length, and added, "You must sup with us this evening. We lodge in the Borgo di San Vito, and never mind your attire. My wife longs to see you, and thank you in person."
Other friends coming up, our converse was brought to an end, and I managed to effect my escape, and take refuge in the pavilion of Bayard, who insisted on my being his guest. I would have willingly foregone the supper at the Borgo di San Vito, as I was weary; but having promised, borrowed a horse from my host, and set out. I reached the secretary's lodging, punctually to the hour, and was received by Gian, who, after a respectful inquiry concerning my health, ushered me into an apartment, where, on entering, I found myself alone. I had to wait some little time, and wondering at the strangeness of my reception, I walked towards a window, overlooking the private gardens of the house. As I reached it, I heard the rustle of trailing garments, and turning round beheld Angiola before me. She came up with outstretched hands, and I took them in mine, and looked into her eyes. Then I found words; they come to every man at the right time, and I spoke. She made no answer as I pleaded my cause, and fearing the worst, I dropped her hands, with a bitter reproach against my age and my scarred face. When I had done she remained still, with her eyes down, and there was a silence. Then she looked up again.
"Di Savelli," and her voice was very low, "you say your face is scarred by wounds. Do you know, cavaliere, I would I were a man, that I too might bear wounds on my face, and looking in my mirror, see how they became me." And the rest concerns not anyone.
We were married before the end of the truce, and on my wedding day, I received from His Majesty the King, the patents of the county of Fresnoy, in Guienne, a distinction that was extended to me in Italy, by His Holiness Pope Pius III., who, on my purchasing a portion of my ancestral estates back from Amilcar Chigi, confirmed to me the title in my native land. But the gift I valued most of all, was a tari of Amalfi, to which still clung a shred of the gold link, by which it had been attached to a bracelet. And this was from my wife!
Portion of a letter from the Countess di Savelli to hercousin Vittoria Ordelaffi of Forli.
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It is, as you know, gentle cousin, six years since my lord, having lost his sword-arm at the storming of Santa Croce, retired to his castle of Aquila in the Sabine Mountains, and ceased to help further in stirring the times. In truth, he has yielded to my wish in this matter, and although, in the war of the Holy League, he was offered a command, Di Savelli, at my entreaty, refused the honour.
The count, my lord, is well, but his wounds troubling him in the winter, he may no longer follow the wolf in our mountains, yet still hunts the stag in the Ciminian Forests of our kinsman, Amilcar Chigi, to whom we have been reconciled, and whom we visit yearly.
Last winter we spent in France, at the château of the Seigneur de Bayard, which lies on the Garonne, and met there, amongst others, Madame de la Tremouille, who is now a widow, the Duke having died of a tertian ague at Milan. There also was a very gay and noble gentleman, the Viscompte de Briconnet, who avers that my lord owes him a county for having forestalled him in bearing to the king the news of the surrender of Borgia. My Lord of Bayard, whom the Count thinks above all men, visits us in the autumn; and, gentle cousin, come you too, for we are to have a house full. The children are well, and Ugo grows a strong boy, but wilful. He has his father's features, but my eyes. They have just gone a riding, my lord on his great war horse Castor, and Ugo on his little white pony, bred on our farm in the Bergamasque. I see them as I write, going down the avenue.
Your namesake Vittoria, sends you a hundred kisses, and bids you come and be heartily welcome. I send this by a sure hand, that of my lord's esquire, Messer Jacopo Jacopi, a faithful servant and a good sword, though his tongue be ever wagging. Give him an answer, to say you are coming.
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