five years ago, rose clearly before him; a massive castle, frowning from
the rocks above Modena, and on its steps a fair girl who stood there and
laughed to see him ride away back to Milan, his offer of the Visconti's
friendship scorned and flung in his face by her proud family, the
haughty Estes. Visconti's face grew dark as he remembered her; almost
more than Della Scala, her dead husband, did he hate Isotta, Della
Scala's wife. And she was in his power. Greatly would it have soothed
him to know her death was in his power too, but the lust of ambition was
greater with this man even than the lust of pride or hate.
Isotta d'Este was a valuable hostage to be used against her family,
should they think of avenging their fallen kinsman.
"Where hast thou finally placed her, my lord?" asked Giannotto, with his
stealthy glance. The Duke started from his reverie.
"In the West Tower," he smiled. "Every day I go to gaze on the room that
holds her to make sure it is not a dream; to see and feel with my eyes
and my own hands that her prison is doubly sure. If Isotta d'Este
should now escape me--but she will not!"
He crossed the room to leave it, but paused at the door.
"Be watchful, Giannotto, the Princess Valentine may try to leave the
palace. I have spies on her every movement; still, thine eyes upon her
also will do no harm--to _me_!"
He laughed an instant. A rustle of the hangings and he was gone.
Giannotto sat on silently, looking in front of him. His thoughts were
with Valentine Visconti, Gian's unhappy sister, whom he had been told to
watch; from her they traveled to the German Count, who, five days ago,
had left the palace.
"I wonder if she loved him," he mused. "I do not think she did. Dear
God, she did not need to wait to love a man, her life was not such that
she could pick and choose her way of escaping from it. Conrad offered
one and she was ready to take it--now--_five days ago!_ Yes--Count
Conrad is dead, and she will marry the Duke of Orleans! Ah, well! The
German was a fool, he deserved no better fate than a fool! I do not
think she'll break her heart if she can find some other way."
He returned to his papers, pausing now and then to glance toward the
door, as if to keep himself on the alert for the Duke's noiseless entry.
But Gian had bent his steps elsewhere. Plainly dressed, he passed almost
unnoticed across an inner courtyard to a dark angle of a wall where a
secret door anew admitted him. The whole Visconti palace was a somber
and gloomy place; men crept about it on tiptoe, glancing fearfully
around them, afraid of their own shadows. Visconti smiled to himself at
sight of fear; he loved to be feared, to hold lives in the hollow of his
hand, and play with them and death.
The door let him into a long narrow passage flagged with stone, and lit
by diamond-shaped holes left in the walls; the air was damp and chill,
and Visconti drew his cloak around him. Unlocking a second door, he
ascended a flight of stone steps, pitch dark, from which he emerged into
a large circular chamber with a thick pillar in the middle from which
the groined ceiling sprang. Save table and high-backed chair of
blackened wood, there was no furniture. This chamber was the outer
guard-room of the prison-wing, and a gloomy-faced man leaned against the
pillar, his eyes fixed upon the opening door. It could be no other than
the Visconti entering thus, and he crouched almost to the ground.
"What is thy guard?" said Visconti.
"Twenty men in each guard-room my lord, and each one picked for size and
trustworthiness, and I myself keep watch upon the door. Escape is
impossible."
"By so much the more that thy head will answer for it."
As he spoke, Visconti flung wide one of a ring of doors opening from the
chamber, and stepped into a posse of soldiers. No one spoke. Glancing
keenly to the right and left, Visconti passed through their ranks into
the room beyond,--a small apartment, dim lit and hung with arras. An old
woman sat at a tapestry frame with her back to the door, but at
Visconti's entrance she rose, as at something expected, and sank in a
deep obeisance.
Gian Maria closed the door behind him.
"How is she?" he said. "How does she bear her change of prison?"
The old woman glanced toward an inner door, massive and iron-clamped.
"When I am with her, my lord, she sits in silence, her eyes forever on
her missal; indeed she has not spoken since we brought her here; but
when she is alone, she weeps. I have heard her through the door; she
weeps passionately, and calls wildly upon her husband to save her."
"I would I had him, to stand him gagged against the door to hear her,"
said the Duke.
"By the look of her she will die of it," continued the old woman. "But
if I know anything of prisoners, and I have seen a few, thou wilt never
break her spirit, my lord."
"She _must_ be more humbled now," he said to himself. "She _must_ turn
and implore me for pity."
The huge door creaked and swung on its hinges, and he stood at the top
of two low stone steps, looking down into Isotta's prison. It was little
better than a dungeon of stone, lofty but dark, with one window deep
set, high out of reach, and thickly barred. The walls were hung with
faded tapestry, the gloomy, sad-looking folds drooping like torn,
captured standards. A huge chest of somber blackness leaned against the
wall; above it hung a horn lantern, which after dark gave all the light
that was obtained. For the rest, a few high-backed chairs stood stiffly
about the room. In his black dress Visconti, pausing at the head of the
steps, seemed part of its gloom. His wide-open gray eyes looked straight
across at the solitary occupant.
Isotta sat in one of the huge black chairs, her delicate hands resting
on the faded crimson velvet of the arms, her feet on a wooden footstool.
She was of a fair and noble appearance, but her face was marred by
sorrow and her eyes red from many tears. Her pale yellow hair was drawn
away under a white veil. Her long gray dress clung close about her
slender figure. On her knee rested a little book, and on this she kept
her eyes. Not by so much as a flutter of her hand did she show she knew
of the Visconti's presence.
He waited, raging inwardly, but words would not come easily to break
that silence. At last he slowly descended into the room, his eyes still
on her face.
She never stirred, nor raised her own. With his noiseless tread,
Visconti paced around the chamber, raising the arras, and testing with
his dagger every block of stone. It was a superfluous precaution; any
attempt to escape would have been simple madness, and Isotta d'Este was
not likely to give way to frenzy. Still it was joy to be sure and doubly
sure that she was safe. Every inch was inspected, every crevice
searched. Meanwhile from time to time he observed her keenly. But she
seemed not to know her solitude was broken, save that once, when he
passed her, she swept in the train of her gown, as she might have done
had a leper come too near. A simple thing, but it goaded him, and for a
moment she was near her death; rage almost overcoming prudence. But as
he stood behind her chair, half-inclined to strike, he noticed on her
hand a ring. His expression changed; he smiled; his hand dropped down.
The ring was of pearl, cut with the arms of Della Scala, and worn on the
third finger of her left hand; her wedding ring.
Visconti smiled again. Stooping, he raised her hand, and--"Will she bear
this in silence?" was his thought. For a moment it seemed as if she
might not. The delicate fingers stiffened and half-closed, then, as if
remembering anew, she left her hand passive in Visconti's hold, and only
by a faint quiver told she knew the ring had been withdrawn. The
despoiled hand fell back again on to the velvet arm, her eyes were fixed
immovably upon her book, and Visconti, turning away to the door, silent
as he came, looked back at her incredulous of such control. She was
sitting straight and slender, her delicate head poised high, but--ah
yes, he thought it must be so!--he noted with delight that her breast
heaved and the firm line of her mouth trembled ever so slightly. For a
second he stood thus, a ray of the pale prison light caught by the ring
he held, then the door clattered and shook back into its bolts, and he
was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
VALENTINE
Swiftly as he had come, Visconti returned to the palace, and the
banqueting hall beyond. He stepped in silently, and softly let the
curtains fall behind him.
The room was of enormous size, and overawed the gaze. The four large
entries, one in each wall, were curtained alike with gloomy purple. The
ceiling was domed and of immense height, showing a dim tracery of carved
wood, from which hung golden chains, suspending jeweled lamps. The high
and narrow windows were wrought with painted saints, splendid in
coloring. From domed ceiling to paneled floor the walls were carved with
men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in
simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate
workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved
gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of
two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the
center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat
two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners,
and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold
and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels.
As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as
if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he
waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains at
the far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was
Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown,
embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon
her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red
lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine
carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger
than her brother; she was as tall and as stately.
She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned
her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer.
"Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded.
"Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was
foolish not to spy on thee before."
Her gray eyes glinted.
"I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried,
"and I will try yet again!"
Visconti smiled.
"My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou
art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to
the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of
Orleans, and not a German fool."
But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes.
"I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee
upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast
chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy
palace gates."
"Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly.
Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness.
"I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the
altar."
"Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.
She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence.
"I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried.
"A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her
brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm;
the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself,
thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me
then, that I saved thee from a German Count?"
Valentine fell to weeping.
"What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever
turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has
become of him?"
"What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked
her brother calmly.
Valentine lifted her head.
"He is dead, then?" she said.
"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and
thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."
She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his
figure a shadow among the shadows.
The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called.
He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her.
"Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast.
The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that
fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art,"
she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our
parents, Gian?"
"They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step
toward her.
"They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died,
Filipo and Matteo----"
"Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily
still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco
well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away
unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a
bitter weeping.
Visconti left her noiselessly.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER
Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and
Francisco had found no means to enter Milan.
He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city,
watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,--his
errand to procure provisions.
The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned,
nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the
villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of
sight--the boy looking back often to renew his courage--Francisco's brow
was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear,
deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows
that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered
with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into
which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible
footway, toward the city.
Behind Francisco, separated from him only by the fosse, was the wall of
the villa, and, Vittore being lost to view, Francisco withdrew his gaze,
always roaming restlessly in quest of something that should aid him, and
glanced along it curiously. His eyes rested on a great tuft of yellow
lichen, brilliant with scarlet spikes; it was so huge and spreading he
could not but stare at it. From the lichen his gaze traveled slowly
upward, but not a foothold could he see. Spreading above the wall the
topmost boughs of a gigantic view showed a clear-cut black against the
sky, and on the broad, fan-like surface brooded a pair of doves, pink,
gray and white. The beauty of the scene, its calmness and repose,
exasperated the man's inaction. He stamped on the little flowers at his
feet, then, with a bitter curse at his folly, threw himself upon the
grass to watch for Vittore's return, and ponder, forever ponder, on his
purpose. Suddenly there shot into sight upon the stream a little boat,
with high curling prow and gaily painted sides. A blue sail was furled
above it, and it was impelled lightly forward by a delicate pair of
oars. The grounds of the villa formed a promontory, and coming around
the brow of it the boat broke upon his gaze and was within hail at one
and the same moment. It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first
impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome
intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the
genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple
pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on.
The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown
robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people
who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the
impression of restlessness; of the good humor common to the people too.
His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a
delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair
were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet
small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack young
figure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair
like a veil about her.
Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly
greeting.
"Good day, messer," he called. "So thou hast found our secret haunt.
Graziosa and I had thought this place our own," and as he spoke he waved
his hand around him at the water.
The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously
approached.
"I am a stranger here," he said.
The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little
friendly wonder.
"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee--this most beautiful part of
Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the
fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I
seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive
hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it
is?"
He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain
new sympathy.
"I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned
Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to
hold in time of need."
The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward,
laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter."
But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the
boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to
follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with
uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face
of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.
The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert,
and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing
out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight
of which had restored all his good humor.
"See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew--so
brilliant, yet so in harmony, so--you do not paint?"
"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I
did?"
The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and
mentally decided he did not.
"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I _am_ a painter.
Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He
swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.
"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can
see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.
"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here
awhile."
And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of
wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the
outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.
Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on,
dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was
wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.
"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the
slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the
model for my angels----"
"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.
Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.
"Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a
model for such found anywhere," he said.
"Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a
bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."
"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care!
Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou,
messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the
Visconti?"
"Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?"
The painter gazed at him in silence.
"But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di
Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti."
"In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause.
"The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in
Milan twenty days!"
These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to
understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed.
"Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered
Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer,
let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned.
I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little,
I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's
crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen
across _my_ house, and what one does not see one does not fear--but when
he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our
house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had
come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening--we
leaning from the window as did everyone--Alberic da Salluzzo comes
galloping to the walls--red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has
been slain--to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain
from the window, following the flash of his plumes--back he comes in
madder haste--the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some
cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's.
Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to
agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them
down--the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is
dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries
on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so
subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the
roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man
can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every
horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn
banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping
over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all
tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade,
wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light
streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between
two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of
the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!"
Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion.
But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his
hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having
allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a
dangerous theme.
"Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly,
and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve
Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince."
The stranger rose abruptly.
"Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name
as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure."
"Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought
he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know
little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by
craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man,
Messer Francisco."
"He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona."
"And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are
grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he
glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green
willows with lilies in her hands.
"For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an
altar-piece--for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine,
and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will
make the border."
He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.