Intrigue and Counter-intrigue of Courts.
Giles, (or Egidio, (Egidio is the proper Italian equivalent to the
French name Gilles,--but the Cardinal is generally called, by the
writers of that day, Gilio d’Albornoz.)) Cardinal d’Albornoz, was one of
the most remarkable men of that remarkable time, so prodigal of genius.
Boasting his descent from the royal houses of Aragon and Leon, he
had early entered the church, and yet almost a youth, attained the
archbishopric of Toledo. But no peaceful career, however brilliant,
sufficed to his ambition. He could not content himself with the honours
of the church, unless they were the honours of a church militant. In
the war against the Moors, no Spaniard had more highly distinguished
himself; and Alphonso XI. king of Castile, had insisted on receiving
from the hand of the martial priest the badge of knighthood. After the
death of Alphonso, who was strongly attached to him, Albornoz repaired
to Avignon, and obtained from Clement VI. the cardinal’s hat. With
Innocent he continued in high favour, and now, constantly in the
councils of the Pope, rumours of warlike preparation, under the banners
of Albornoz, for the recovery of the papal dominions from the various
tyrants that usurped them, were already circulated through the court.
(It is a characteristic anecdote of this bold Churchman, that Urban V.
one day demanded an account of the sums spent in his military expedition
against the Italian tyrants. The Cardinal presented to the Pope a wagon,
filled with the keys of the cities and fortresses he had taken. “This is
my account,” said he; “you perceive how I have invested your money.” The
Pope embraced him, and gave him no further trouble about his accounts.)
Bold, sagacious, enterprising, and cold-hearted,--with the valour of the
knight, and the cunning of the priest,--such was the character of Giles,
Cardinal d’Albornoz.
Leaving his attendant gentlemen in the antechamber, Albornoz was ushered
into the apartment of the Signora Cesarini. In person, the Cardinal
was about the middle height; the dark complexion of Spain had faded by
thought, and the wear of ambitious schemes, into a sallow but hardy hue;
his brow was deeply furrowed, and though not yet passed the prime of
life, Albornoz might seem to have entered age, but for the firmness
of his step, the slender elasticity of his frame, and an eye which had
acquired calmness and depth from thought, without losing any of the
brilliancy of youth.
“Beautiful Signora,” said the Cardinal, bending over the hand of the
Cesarini with a grace which betokened more of the prince than of the
priest; “the commands of his Holiness have detained me, I fear, beyond
the hour in which you vouchsafed to appoint my homage, but my heart has
been with you since we parted.”
“The Cardinal d’Albornoz,” replied the Signora, gently withdrawing her
hand, and seating herself, “has so many demands on his time, from the
duties of his rank and renown, that methinks to divert his attention for
a few moments to less noble thoughts is a kind of treason to his fame.”
“Ah, Lady,” replied the Cardinal, “never was my ambition so nobly
directed as it is now. And it were a prouder lot to be at thy feet than
on the throne of St. Peter.”
A momentary blush passed over the cheek of the Signora, yet it seemed
the blush of indignation as much as of vanity; it was succeeded by an
extreme paleness. She paused before she replied; and then fixing her
large and haughty eyes on the enamoured Spaniard, she said, in a low
voice,
“My Lord Cardinal, I do not affect to misunderstand your words; neither
do I place them to the account of a general gallantry. I am vain enough
to believe you imagine you speak truly when you say you love me.”
“Imagine!” echoed the Spaniard.
“Listen to me,” continued the Signora. “She whom the Cardinal Albornoz
honours with his love has a right to demand of him its proofs. In the
papal court, whose power like his?--I require you to exercise it for
me.”
“Speak, dearest Lady; have your estates been seized by the barbarians of
these lawless times? Hath any dared to injure you? Lands and titles, are
these thy wish?--my power is thy slave.”
“Cardinal, no! there is one thing dearer to an Italian and a woman than
wealth or station--it is revenge!”
The Cardinal drew back from the flashing eye that was bent upon him, but
the spirit of her speech touched a congenial chord.
“There,” said he, after a little hesitation, “there spake high descent.
Revenge is the luxury of the well-born. Let serfs and churls forgive an
injury. Proceed, Lady.”
“Hast thou heard the last news from Rome?” asked the Signora.
“Surely,” replied the Cardinal, in some surprise, “we were poor
statesmen to be ignorant of the condition of the capital of the papal
dominions; and my heart mourns for that unfortunate city. But wherefore
wouldst thou question me of Rome?--thou art--”
“Roman! Know, my Lord, that I have a purpose in calling myself of
Naples. To your discretion I intrust my secret--I am of Rome! Tell me of
her state.”
“Fairest one,” returned the Cardinal, “I should have known that that
brow and presence were not of the light Campania. My reason should have
told me that they bore the stamp of the Empress of the World. The state
of Rome,” continued Albornoz, in a graver tone, “is briefly told. Thou
knowest that after the fall of the able but insolent Rienzi, Pepin,
count of Minorbino, (a creature of Montreal’s) who had assisted in
expelling him, would have betrayed Rome to Montreal,--but he was neither
strong enough nor wise enough, and the Barons chased him as he had
chased the Tribune. Some time afterwards a new demagogue, John Cerroni,
was installed in the Capitol. He once more expelled the nobles; new
revolutions ensued--the Barons were recalled. The weak successor of
Rienzi summoned the people to arms--in vain: in terror and despair he
abdicated his power, and left the city a prey to the interminable feuds
of the Orsini, the Colonna, and the Savelli.”
“Thus much I know, my Lord; but when his Holiness succeeded to the chair
of Clement VI.--”
“Then,” said Albornoz, and a slight frown darkened his sallow brow,
“then came the blacker part of the history. Two senators were elected in
concert by the Pope.”
“Their names?”
“Bertoldo Orsini, and one of the Colonna. A few weeks afterwards, the
high price of provisions stung the rascal stomachs of the mob--they
rose, they clamoured, they armed, they besieged the Capitol--”
“Well, well,” cried the Signora, clasping her hands, and betokening in
every feature her interest in the narration.
“Colonna only escaped death by a vile disguise; Bertoldo Orsini was
stoned.”
“Stoned!--there fell one!”
“Yes, lady, one of a great house; the least drop of whose blood were
worth an ocean of plebeian puddle. At present, all is disorder, misrule,
anarchy, at Rome. The contests of the nobles shake the city to the
centre; and prince and people, wearied of so many experiments to
establish a government, have now no governor but the fear of the sword.
Such, fair madam, is the state of Rome. Sigh not, it occupies now our
care. It shall be remedied; and I, madam, may be the happy instrument of
restoring peace to your native city.”
“There is but one way of restoring peace to Rome,” answered the Signora,
abruptly, “and that is--The restoration of Rienzi!”
The Cardinal started. “Madam,” said he, “do I hear aright?--are you not
nobly born?--can you desire the rise of a plebeian? Did you not speak of
revenge, and now you ask for mercy?”
“Lord Cardinal,” said the beautiful Signora, earnestly, “I do not ask
for mercy: such a word is not for the lips of one who demands justice.
Nobly born I am--ay, and from a stock to whose long descent from the
patricians of ancient Rome the high line of Aragon itself would be of
yesterday. Nay, I would not offend you, Monsignore; your greatness is
not borrowed from pedigrees and tombstones--your greatness is your own
achieving: would you speak honestly, my Lord, you would own that you are
proud only of your own laurels, and that, in your heart, you laugh at
the stately fools who trick themselves out in the mouldering finery of
the dead!”
“Muse! prophetess! you speak aright,” said the high-spirited Cardinal,
with unwonted energy; “and your voice is like that of the Fame I dreamed
of in my youth. Speak on, speak ever!”
“Such,” continued the Signora, “such as your pride, is the just pride of
Rienzi. Proud that he is the workman of his own great renown. In such
as the Tribune of Rome we acknowledge the founders of noble lineage.
Ancestry makes not them--they make ancestry. Enough of this. I am of
noble race, it is true; but my house, and those of many, have been
crushed and broken beneath the yoke of the Orsini and Colonna--it is
against them I desire revenge. But I am better than an Italian lady--I
am a Roman woman--I weep tears of blood for the disorders of my unhappy
country. I mourn that even you, my Lord,--yes, that a barbarian, however
eminent and however great, should mourn for Rome. I desire to restore
her fortunes.”
“But Rienzi would only restore his own.”
“Not so, my Lord Cardinal; not so. Ambitious and proud he may be--great
souls are so--but he has never had one wish divorced from the welfare of
Rome. But put aside all thought of his interests--it is not of these I
speak. You desire to re-establish the papal power in Rome. Your senators
have failed to do it. Demagogues fail--Rienzi alone can succeed; he
alone can command the turbulent passions of the Barons--he alone can
sway the capricious and fickle mob. Release, restore Rienzi, and through
Rienzi the Pope regains Rome!”
The Cardinal did not answer for some moments. Buried as in a revery,
he sate motionless, shading his face with his hand. Perhaps he secretly
owned there was a wiser policy in the suggestions of the Signora than he
cared openly to confess. Lifting his head, at length, from his bosom,
he fixed his eyes upon the Signora’s watchful countenance, and, with a
forced smile, said,
“Pardon me, madam; but while we play the politicians, forget not that
I am thy adorer. Sagacious may be thy counsels, yet wherefore are they
urged? Why this anxious interest for Rienzi? If by releasing him the
Church may gain an ally, am I sure that Giles d’Albornoz will not raise
a rival?”
“My Lord,” said the Signora, half rising, “you are my suitor; but your
rank does not tempt me--your gold cannot buy. If you love me, I have a
right to command your services to whatsoever task I would require--it is
the law of chivalry. If ever I yield to the addresses of mortal lover,
it will be to the man who restores to my native land her hero and her
saviour.”
“Fair patriot,” said the Cardinal, “your words encourage my hope, yet
they half damp my ambition; for fain would I desire that love and not
service should alone give me the treasure that I ask. But hear me, sweet
lady; you over-rate my power: I cannot deliver Rienzi--he is accused
of rebellion, he is excommunicated for heresy. His acquittal rests with
himself.”
“You can procure his trial?”
“Perhaps, Lady.”
“That is his acquittal. And a private audience of his Holiness?”
“Doubtless.”
“That is his restoration! Behold all I ask!”
“And then, sweet Roman, it will be mine to ask,” said the Cardinal,
passionately, dropping on his knee, and taking the Signora’s hand. For
one moment, that proud lady felt that she was woman--she blushed, she
trembled; but it was not (could the Cardinal have read that heart) with
passion or with weakness; it was with terror and with shame. Passively
she surrendered her hand to the Cardinal, who covered it with kisses.
“Thus inspired,” said Albornoz, rising, “I will not doubt of success.
Tomorrow I wait on thee again.”
He pressed her hand to his heart--the lady felt it not. He sighed his
farewell--she did not hear it. Lingeringly he gazed; and slowly he
departed. But it was some moments before, recalled to herself, the
Signora felt that she was alone.
“Alone!” she cried, half aloud, and with wild emphasis--“alone! Oh, what
have I undergone--what have I said! Unfaithful, even in thought, to him!
Oh, never! never! I, that have felt the kiss of his hallowing lips--that
have slept on his kingly heart--I!--holy Mother, befriend and strengthen
me!” she continued, as, weeping bitterly, she sunk upon her knees; and
for some moments she was lost in prayer. Then, rising composed, but
deadly pale, and with the tears rolling heavily down her cheeks, the
Signora passed slowly to the casement; she threw it open, and bent
forward; the air of the declining day came softly on her temples; it
cooled, it mitigated, the fever that preyed within. Dark and huge
before her frowned, in its gloomy shadow, the tower in which Rienzi was
confined; she gazed at it long and wistfully, and then, turning away,
drew from the folds of her robe a small and sharp dagger. “Let me save
him for glory!” she murmured; “and this shall save me from dishonour!”