Grifone must now be lifted into the piece, Grifone the grey-eyed,
self-contained little Secretary, whose brain seemed quicksilver, whose
acts those of a deliberate cat, whose inches were few, whose years only
tender. One of Amilcare's rare acts of unpremeditated humanity had been
to snatch him, a naked urchin of nine, from Barga, when (after a night
surprise) he was raining fire and sword and the pains of hell upon that
serried stronghold of the hills.
"Eh, Signore, Signore!" had whined the half-famished imp, padding by the
condottiere's stirrup.
"Va via, vattene al diavolo!" a musketeer growled at him, and tried to
club him down.
Amilcare looked, as one might idly glance at a shrew-mouse in the path.
He saw a brown body pitifully lean, a shock black head, a pair of
piercing grey eyes. Further, he saw that the child had not on a stitch
of clothing, and that he was splashed to the knees with drying blood.
"What now, Baby?" he asked.
"Lift me into the saddle, Signore," said the boy, with a propitiating
grin; "I am getting my feet wet."
The little dog had a humorous twist to his eyebrow, and it was true
enough that the kennels were running red.
"Whose blood is that on your legs, my lad?" Passavente stayed his
charger.
Grifone shrugged. "Misericordia! Who knows? My father's perhaps; my
mother's more certainly, since my father ran away. My mother would have
run too, but she had no time. Eh, take me up, Signore! I cannot swim."
Amilcare swung him up by the hand, so saved his life. Next day Grifone
saved his.
They burnt a monastery in the plain and ransacked a chestful of
correspondence.
"Death of Christ!" swore Passavente, "I can't read this Latin. Go and
fetch me a monk and a rope."
The monk, a plausible rogue, began to read: little Grifone stood by the
table. At a certain point he broke into the recital with an emphatic
word: "Liar!"
"What the deuce does this mean?" fumed Amilcare in a rage.
"The monk is deceiving your Lordship," said Grifone; "the sense is the
opposite of what he reports."
It seemed that the boy knew Latin--at any rate enough to hang a few
monks. Hanged the poor devils were, and after that very much was made of
Grifone. Amilcare took him through all his campaigns, had him well
taught, gave confidence for confidence, and found by the time he was at
Nona, making his "Gran Tradimento" of Farnese, that he could not get on
without him. The accepted remedy for such a state of the case was to
kill the youth at once. Amilcare did not do that, and at first was able
to bless himself for his second forbearance. Grifone was privy to all
his master's hopes and safeguards; Grifone wrought upon the Signoria,
cajoled the clergy, bamboozled the _popolani_, descended even to the
ragamuffins in the gutters, and taught them how to shout "Duca! Duca!"
when his master went proudly a-horseback, or to scribble his effigy in
great chalk circles on the city walls. Though it may be true that
Molly's graces brought Amilcare the crown of Nona, it must be added that
neither Molly nor her Duke could have got in at all if Grifone had not
been there to oil the hinges of the gates.
He had the soft purring ways of a cat, the tact of a Jesuit, the
penetration of a money-lender, the sensibility of a musical amateur, and
the morals of a maid-of-honour. He had extraordinary command over
himself; he seemed able to do everything, and wishful to win nothing.
There never was a young man (as a matter of fact) who wanted so much or
asked so little. It was the very boundlessness of his desires which
reined him in. The appetite of the Cæsars would not have represented
his, all the gratification they could have commanded would have been for
him but a whet. If he had a weak side it was his own astuteness: he
could not always see how unutterably foolish a man might be if he were
let alone. Another foible he had--intellectual appreciation of beauty
pushed to fainting-point. His senses were so straitly tied to his brains
that to pluck at one was to thrill the other. Made on a small scale, he
was pretty rather than handsome, had quiet watchful eyes, a smiling
mouth, very little hands and feet. He seldom dressed out of black
velvet, and if he wanted a man assassinated had the thing done at so
many removes that it was always entered "private quarrel" or "love
affair" in the reports of the City Watch. He generally chose friars for
business of the sort, because they could be about at night without
suspicion, and their hanging sleeves gave them such a pull. For cup or
fruit work he found ladies the only possible agents. No one in Nona
would dream of taking wine from a man; and as for presents of figs,
Grifone was maturely of opinion that the last and present Pontiffs had
exhausted that pretty artifice. Finally, you can easily understand how
useful Duke Amilcare found a demure lad of this kind in the matter of
moulding his new State.
When his master brought him a mistress he gave her great attention. Like
all clever fellows, he was at first disposed to set down her simplicity
to her credit; but after watching her for some time, he decided that
here was actually a soul clear as glass--thing of inestimable value in a
country where lying was an axiom of politics--and his respect for her
quickened into something more. If she had been only beautiful she would
never have attracted him as she did. There were plenty of women in Italy
handsome enough for his needs (the flower of whose amours were mostly
for the mind); but simpletons were rarer. This tall wistful girl told
the truth--but told it incredibly! Think of this. Shortly after the
coronation, Bentivoglio, the chalk-faced tyrant of Bologna, came with an
army on his way to Forlì. He had an old grudge against Nona. Finding
himself within a league of its walls, his men lusty and well-fed, his
artillery in great train, Nona (as he judged it) in ferment--he
blockaded the place, and in due time summoned it to surrender. Amilcare
laughed at him, told his wife (in secret) that he would attack on the
morrow, and went to the Council. While he was there came a new summons
from Bentivoglio, a messenger with a white flag. Word was sent to the
Duke; the Duke could not be found. "Oh," said one, "seek Madonna for
answer." This was done.
"Tell the Lord of Bologna," says Molly, "that we attack to-morrow."
The man bowed himself away. You should have seen Amilcare's face when
this was reported to him; he rated his lovely Molly like a fish-fag.
Then he had an interview with Grifone; told him the whole story.
Grifone stared. "Ebbene, Monsignore," said he, "your Grace will do well
to attack."
"Attack, man? when the fellow knows we are coming! Are you mad?"
"Not so, my lord," replied the Secretary. "Bentivoglio does not know you
are coming. What he knows is that you have _said_ you are coming."
Well, at last Amilcare saw what Grifone had seen from the first, the mad
results which might be won by a truth-telling Duchess. The Nonesi did
attack. Bentivoglio, of course, not expecting them, was scattered over
the maize fields, and never collected his force again until his own
territory was reached. That was why he could not help the Lady of Forlì.
"Per Bacco," said Grifone to himself, "truth in Italy is soused in the
mud at the well's bottom; in England it seems to lie in a pan. This
pretty creature is as shallow as a crystal cup, where you may study
Truth, like a blue jewel, in an inch of water." He went about
thoughtfully the rest of that day. This new-discovered quality of
Molly's was a thing very beautiful in his eyes. The conclusion he came
to was that he was about to fall in love with the lady. "And that, after
all," was his comment, "might not be a bad thing, if (as is probable) it
become necessary to make her my consort." Then he went happily to sleep.
Grifone's proposals to himself were still very simple. Shortly, they
were to get a throne for his master in order that he might the more
easily acquire one for himself. "My legs," he said frankly, "are too
short to get up without a footstool." Amilcare was to have been the
footstool. But then Molly came into play. At first she seemed to make
the simple thing simpler. Amilcare was a strong man, but stiff. Grifone
was sure he would bungle in his handling of Molly; this truth-telling
beauty, this flawless jewel in a cup, would baffle him; he would neither
see it the fine nor the delicate tool it was. He worked best with a
bludgeon which, as it did brute's work, might be brutishly handled. So
far well--he might trust Amilcare to wreck himself. Unfortunately, it
seemed only too likely he might involve Molly in the mess. That danger
was looming; already he set her to decoy-work which the girl herself
(Grifone could see) did not relish. The ladies of Nona were gay and
free--too free. Molly recoiled visibly, more than once. The men were
worse. Incredible as it seemed to Grifone, they actually ravaged this
tender honeysuckle spray to drench themselves with the scent. Molly,
beautifully patient, courteous, meek as she was, cast a scared, paling
face about the assembly now and again: some of the talk, too, cut her
very deep. Grifone was already too much interested in her to stomach
this. He decided to make discreet love to his Duchess by a way of his
own. The Nonesi (gluttons!) abused her favours; he would refuse them. He
would fast where Nona feasted, and be the only unkissed guest at her
receptions.