At the coming out from church the two Dukes (mentally at least)
separated; their paths coincided, but not their thoughts, nor their
behaviour. By common consent, as it appeared, Amilcare at once resumed
the obsequious, Cesare the overbearing part. Amilcare talked
profusively, smirked, grimaced, pranced by the other's side, writhed his
hands, in copious explanation of nothing at all. Cesare shrugged. The
amount of disdain an Italian can throw into a pair of dull eyes or an
irritable shoulder, the amount of it another will take without
swallowing, can still be studied whenever a young lieutenant of the line
sits down to breakfast in a tavern, and the waiter slaves for his penny
fee. Yet, depend upon it, the cringer has balanced to a nicety the
sweets and sours of boot-blacking against the _buona mano_; the rest is
pure commerce. So now, the deliberate insolence of the flushed Borgia
towards his host was a thing to be dumb at; yet Passavente redoubled his
volubility.
Going up the steps of the Palazzo Bagnacavallo, the guest plumply told
his entertainer to bring out the woman and go to the devil with his
cackling. Amilcare laughed all over his face at the best joke in the
world, and bowed to the earth. Thus humoured they went in to dinner.
Molly, in fold over fold of silk gauze which let every lovely limb be
seen as glorified in a rosy mist, met them in the ante-room, and
thenceforth the Borgia had eyes for nothing but the beauty of her. The
moment he saw her, he drew, as once before, a sharp breath; she greeted
him in her fashion; he was moved to a fit of trembling.
From that time forth Amilcare was as though he were not. The Roman
waited for no invitation and disregarded those he got. Would his Grace
be pleased to dine? His Grace went on pouring out his talk to the
wonderful rose-coloured lady. Amilcare, patient to excess, watched.
Presently Cesare said, "Madama, shall we go to dinner?" and to dinner
they went, Amilcare rubbing his hands behind them.
They found the table prepared--a very low one; divans to sit upon; none
but Grifone, pale and respectful, in the little painted chamber.
All this had been carefully provided. The Duke's suite dined in another
wing of the palace; the choir of minstrels, who held the passage between
them, had mail under their cassocks, and two-edged swords made for
thrusting. They were fifty strong. Every page-in-waiting in the hall and
long cool passages was a "Centaur" armed to the teeth. Don Cesare, it
seems, had walked into a steel trap at last. Do you wonder that Amilcare
could afford a supple back?
But as the delicate meats succeeded each other--each duly tasted by
Grifone before a morsel went to plate--there was one, in the surge of
her terrors, struck dumb with what was, rather, wonder. The magnificent
Cesare went his road over the feelings of his host; the host bowed and
waved his hands. Why should he not? Never one word of answer, never a
gleam of attention did he win from the Roman. Why should he care? His
wife was doing her duty, his enemy was webbed: what else could matter?
The Italian shrug goes deeper than the shoulders; sometimes it strokes
the heart of a man. The very indignities heaped upon the adventurer made
his revenge the sweeter nursling.
But Molly, the tall English girl, burning in her shameful robe, saw it
vastly otherwise. That a man could bend so low! That she should ever
have loved a man with such a stooping back! To think of that made (for
the moment) every other degradation light. Her part as yet was one of
sufferance: to look handsome, languid with the excess of her burden of
beauty; to smile slowly, to keep her eyes on her lap. Pure passivity all
this, under which the miserable soul could torture in secret. As she
often had a back-ache, it was easy to wilt among her cushions; as she
was always mute before flattery, to smile was as simple as to frown and
meant no more; as she was ashamed of herself and her husband, she could
hardly hope to lift her honest eyes, or temper her furious blushing.
It would be untrue to say that the Borgia's eager under-current of
love-language stirred her not at all. Even to her the man's fame made
his homage a tribute; something it was, beyond doubt, to be courted by
the greatest prince in Italy. And he had not touched her yet. Amilcare,
whose desperate grinning made his jaws ache, noticed so much as he
watched her, fidgeting in his place. His nails were for ever at his
teeth: when the fruit should come in he was to slip out, and Grifone to
crown the work. Meanwhile, the flagrant unconcern for his whereabouts
shown by the victim might have stung a blind worm to bite, or excused
any treachery. Amilcare had no rage at all and felt the need of no
excuse. All his anxiety was that Cesare should enmesh himself deep
enough; and then--! The thought of what should happen then set his head
singing a song as mad as Judith's.
The still Grifone stood behind his mistress and saw Cesare's golden head
sink near and yet nearer to her shoulder. He watched his arm over the
back of her seat, and how his other hand crept towards the lady's idle
pair. The room held those four, and them not long. In his time Amilcare
muttered some excuse and tiptoed out.