eyes. His attire was the plain garb of a student. To-day his right hand
was hanging in a sling, while in the other he carried a roll of
drawings.
"Still alive!" said Agnolo pleasantly. "Graziosa was fearing thou hadst
spitted thyself on Visconti's sword in the recovery of her bracelet."
Ambrogio took little heed of the painter, but closing the door softly
behind him, turned with a tender glance to Graziosa.
"Wert thou grieving for me?" he said gently. "I am safe, my beautiful,
and see, I have kept my word."
As he spoke he drew out the emerald bracelet from his robe, and handed
it with a smile to the girl who stood there, blushing with pleasure and
astonishment.
"Thou hast got it back," she cried; "from the Visconti palace!"
Ambrogio smoothed her bright hair tenderly.
"The bracelet was thine," he said, "therefore I went there for it, and
have brought it back to thee, even from the Visconti palace."
Agnolo was staring at him in amazement.
"How didst thou do it!" he exclaimed.
Ambrogio touched his bandaged arm with a smile.
"With only a small injury," he said, "since 'tis not the hand I paint
with."
And now Graziosa broke in with passionate exclamations of pity for his
wound, or admiration for his courage, covering the injured hand with
caresses.
"Thou hast recovered it--by force?" asked Agnolo again, incredulous.
"Call it by force or what thou wilt," returned Ambrogio. "There is no
need to speak of it more. It is enough you are in no danger. No one will
follow me here to regain it."
Graziosa kissed her recovered treasure and clasped it on her arm again.
"I shall never dare to wear it save within these walls," she said.
Ambrogio took her hand in his, and led toward the house.
"Do not fear, sweet," he returned, looking down at her with a smile.
"Wear it where and how thou wilt. Tisio Visconti will not annoy thee
more."
The girl glanced up, startled by the authority of his manner.
Ambrogio, noticing the questioning look, turned it aside with a pleasant
laugh.
"The Duke is tired of his whims, and is putting him under a closer
watch," he said. "From now on he will not often ride the streets."
"I am sorry for him," said Graziosa impulsively. "I am very sorry for
him."
They were at the house door, and Agnolo, stepping ahead into the dark
entrance, led the way up a flight of shallow wooden stairs.
"This is stirring news, Ambrogio," he called over his shoulder. "About
the Duke of Verona's escape, I mean. Do you think there will be war?"
"I am a man of peace," returned Ambrogio softly, his eyes on Graziosa.
"How should I know? Still, I do not think Della Scala will trouble the
peace of Milan much."
And now Agnolo, at the top of the flight of stairs, was holding open a
wide door through which they passed into Agnolo's workshop, filled with
the pleasant litter of his occupation. "I do not agree with thee," he
said. "Della Scala's is a great name. Were I Visconti, I should not feel
secure."
Graziosa and Ambrogio entered the long room, high and light, its windows
opening wide onto the street.
And Ambrogio, seating himself near one of the large easels, turned to
Agnolo, the while he drew Graziosa gently down beside him.
"What has the Duke of Milan to fear from Della Scala?" he asked.
"Everything," cried Vistarnini excitedly, for keenly did the little
painter love to air his views. "Everything. Mark me, Ambrogio, if the
Duke of Verona do not suddenly fall on one of Visconti's towns."
"He has no army," said the student. "He cannot rouse the d'Estes."
"He will!" cried Agnolo. "He will--he and Count Conrad. Didst thou not
rejoice, Ambrogio, when Count Conrad escaped? We heard of it from the
soldiers. Graziosa was glad at heart, as every man or woman or child
must be. Such a fate! Didst thou not rejoice he had escaped it?"
Ambrogio was mixing colors in a china saucer, and tapped his foot a
little impatiently.
"Why should we talk of Della Scala--and Visconti?" he said.
"Visconti! who wishes to talk of him?" returned the little painter.
"Tales have come to me about him, too terrible to repeat before our
Graziosa," he added, lowering his voice.
"You gossip too much with the soldiers, father," said Graziosa. "I do
not love the soldiers, nor should you listen to their tales about
Visconti."
"They would seem to tell them a little too freely," murmured her lover,
and drew his brows together.
"What dost thou mean, Graziosa?" cried her father, "as if it were only
from the soldiers we hear of the Duke. Lately some fine tales have got
about, and on no soldier's authority."
"Shall we not set to work on the pictures?" interrupted Ambrogio. "You
said, methinks, these tales were not for Graziosa's ears."
"Indeed, 'tis true," and the little painter bustled to the second easel
and drew the curtain that hung before the large panel, revealing an
almost completed picture of St. Catherine in scarlet robes.
"Thy work looks well, Ambrogio," he said, and removing a similar
covering from the easel by which Ambrogio sat, gazed at the companion
panel on which was depicted the archangel Michael. "But mine is better,"
he added, "as it should be: thy work will improve with thy years."
"'Tis as fine work as thy St. Michael, father," said Graziosa, "and a
good likeness."
"Nay, not so fair by half as thou art," murmured Ambrogio. "Thou art not
easy to copy, Graziosa."
Agnolo was studying his picture intently.
"'Twas an idle fancy to take thee as my model for St. Michael," he said
at length. "Thou dost not inspire me as St. Michael, Ambrogio."
"As what then?" asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness.
Agnolo laughed.
"As no saint at all," he said. "He is like nothing but the wicked young
man reclaimed in the legend of St. Francis, and not very reclaimed
either!"
Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his
lip.
"Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time," he said.
"Meanwhile, I will work on my St. Catherine's robe."
And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing
herself on the floor at his feet.
Agnolo scrutinized the St. Michael once more, but finally drew the
curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling
himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other
two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still,
and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the
young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of
St. Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious
monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What
could he know of the city's news?
"We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio," he said. "The Duke of
Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out
to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we
live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and
yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and
will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would
love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like."
Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made
small difference to the talkative little man, who continued:
"He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French Prince,
who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I
thought him well-looking enough."
"His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish," said Graziosa; "and
since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine."
"Thou art always sorrowing for some one," said her father. "A princess
never marries for love."
"Then I am glad I am no princess," smiled Graziosa, looking up at her
betrothed.
Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence.
Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again
with renewed glances from the window.
"A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant
as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular--some weeks
ago--we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode
to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's
work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio."
There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the
darkening sky.
Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face.
"I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary."
His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told
it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but
Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely
cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and
overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now
but his pale face.
"No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St.
Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food."
Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.
"And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with
a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy
bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I
come never to return."
"Finished," murmured the girl, her head against his arm. "When?"
"By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?"
"I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier;
still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished."
Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly.
"If I could only stay," he said, and kissed her again.
"Surely it is still early, even for St. Joseph?" said Agnolo.
Ambrogio glanced out into the dusky street, where several gayly attired
horsemen were riding.
"The Prior begged my early return," he said. "And so farewell, my
father, for a little while, farewell!"
"Well, if it must be, it must," said Vistarnini cheerfully, "thou wilt
never fail for lack of industry. Still, Graziosa, even if thy lover
goes, there is something left to amuse us. This evening the nobles ride
in to attend the feast Visconti gives to-night to the French Duke.
'Twill be a noble feast, yet I doubt if the Lady Valentine be as happy
as thou art, Graziosa."
But his daughter returned no answer, for she was not there, but at the
top of the dark stairway: she was saying farewell to her betrothed; and
when Agnolo turned from the window, she was leaning on his arm across
the courtyard, for a last word at the gate.
"When comest thou again?" she whispered.
"Thy father jeers me for my industry, yet heaven knows what it costs me
to leave thee, sweet. In two days' time I will again be with thee."
They were at the door, but still he lingered, gazing on her gentle face.
"Farewell," he said at last, with a smile. "For two days, my beautiful
Graziosa." He took her face between his hands and kissed her.
"Farewell," she smiled, and with a sudden effort he was gone.
But once well clear of the house, Graziosa's lover paused as if
undecided, then drew his hood, and wrapped himself closely in his mantle
and walked rapidly into the city, keeping close to the wall. After some
time he drew the bandage from his hand and flung it aside.
His left hand was as whole as his right.
Again he walked on rapidly, until, at the corner of a quiet street, a
man with bent shoulders and dressed in black stepped from the shadow of
a building.
It was Giannotto.
"News, Giannotto?" asked Graziosa's lover in a whisper.
"I am waiting for you, my lord, to tell you they are growing impatient.
Your absence is causing surprise."
Two horsemen passed, and Ambrogio drew his mantle closer around him.
"No one has seen thee waiting here?" he asked.
"No, my lord, I am too careful."
"'Tis well," said the other. "Lead on toward the palace, Giannotto. I
will follow."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST
The Visconti palace was brilliant with lights and gay with the hum of
voices.
Splendidly attired, in all that wealth or taste could desire, the French
guests seemed to diffuse some of their own light-hearted gayety over the
somber abode of the Visconti.
The entrance stairs of fine white marble were spread with a purple silk
carpet, the golden balustrades intertwined with roses emitting their
fragrance, and the long gallery opening from the stairway and lit by
wide windows, deep set in the stone, showed the long, low balcony
smothered in myrtles, lemons, citrons, oranges, and gorgeous flowers,
scented and abundant, filling the corridors with the sense of summer and
mingling their slender trails with the stiff folds of the rare and
costly tapestries that covered the walls and were laid upon the floor.
At intervals stood statues, masterpieces of ancient art, faintly lit by
the golden glimmer of the swinging lamps.
And all the stairs and corridors and gallery were alive and brilliant
with the magnificent guests of the Visconti--lords and ladies, the
finest the dismantled court of France could boast. Yet, used to
splendors as they were, coming from the most refined court of Europe,
the costly display made by an Italian usurper impressed them with
wonder, almost with awe.
Tisio Visconti, most richly dressed and adorned with all his favorite
jewels, mingled in the throng, gay and happy, forgetful of everything
save the lights and the colors, the kindly respectful tones in which he
was addressed, unheeding the silent page that followed him.
The wide, usually so somber, entrance of the palace stood open upon the
street, and the red flare of torches, the gleam of richly-caparisoned
horses, the bustle of pages and men-at-arms, were visible to the
courtiers within, and blended city and palace in one splendor.
"I would the French were always here," cried Tisio, excitedly. "I love
the palace to be light and gay."
The gay flutter of silk and satin, the elegant grace of the strangers,
pleased him, and he smiled like a contented child. But suddenly all the
light was struck out of his face.
"Gian," he said dully.
"The Duke!" the courtiers behind him took up the word, and the tattle of
voices ceased.
Gian Visconti was approaching down the gallery, followed by several
pages in the Viper's silver and green livery.
He passed between the rows of bowing courtiers carelessly; there were
many there of the proud nobility of France who found it hard to stand
silent and respectful before this man, whose crimes alone were his
passport to sovereignty.
To them this marriage was a humiliation, a disgrace to the French crown,
but to Visconti it was a triumph, the successful crowning of ambition.
He was in a genial mood, and as he passed Tisio stopped and smiled,
telling him for to-night he might go where he pleased.
It was not too much to spare to the brother whose possessions he
enjoyed.
And as Visconti passed on, more than one Frenchman raised his eyebrows
and shrugged his shoulders expressively as the sweep of his scarlet
train disappeared.
Among the throng the ever-ready secretary waited for Visconti's eye to
fall on him, and the Duke, dismissing the pages, beckoned him forward.
"No news from Verona, or Mantua?" he asked.
"None, my lord."
"None? The messengers are late. But after all why should they haste?"
said Visconti. "Della Scala will hardly be in the field yet," he added
with a smile.
"If ever, my lord," replied the secretary smoothly.
The two had withdrawn into the embrasure of one of the great open
windows, and Visconti, glancing through it, turned his gaze there where,
clear in the blue summer night, rose the outline of an abutting
building, grim and dark and silent: Isotta's prison.
"See the guards be doubled there," he said. The secretary bowed.
"As to the Lady Valentine, my lord," he said insinuatingly, "she is safe
and well, and at her prayers with her women. I have kept guard upon her
slightest motion."
Visconti drew a ring from his finger. He was in a generous mood
to-night, a rare one enough, as Giannotto thought with bitterness.
"Take this for thy pains," he said. "And now I will relieve thee of thy
watch; she can hardly escape under my very eyes and with her bridegroom
waiting. Let the guests know I bring the bride, Giannotto."
Visconti withdrew the length of one of the corridors, and paused there
at a door before which stood two soldiers, the guard of his sister's
apartments. At his soft approach they stood back, and, opening the
folding doors, Visconti passed through, and quickly threaded the
deserted ante-rooms until he reached the chapel that the lady used.
The place was dim, lit by red lamps that cast more shadow than gave
light, and with high, stained windows, now scarcely showing color, and
seated on the floor under one of them, her head against a carved wall,
her hands listless in her lap, was Valentine.
She wore a dress of flame-colored satin, and her hair was elaborately
dressed with rubies and pearls. She made no movement at her brother's
entrance.
The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of some white roses that
faded across the altar steps.
"We wait for thee, Valentine," said Visconti.
A couple of her women moved forward from the shadows, and whispered to
the Duke they could do nothing with her. He motioned to them to
withdraw.
"Valentine, come! Think of the splendid life that opens before thee from
to-day." Visconti's tone had the gentleness of one who has gained his
point. "Thou may'st be Queen of France." But Valentine Visconti had too
much of her brother's spirit, too much of the ungovernable pride of
will, not to hate this yielding to the force of power. She hated her
brother's tyranny. She hated this marriage. What would life be for her,
with an indifferent husband, in an idle, impoverished court, among
foreigners, strangers, far from her own land? She would not be forced to
it. She rose to her feet, desperate.
Visconti watched her keenly, standing waiting.
"Come," he repeated, "the Duke of Orleans waits. The feast is ready."
For one moment a mad hate of him overmastered her, a wild desire to
refuse to stir, to cling to the altar, dash herself against the floor,
anything rather than obey. She knew his parricide; he was not the elder.
She would not obey.
Words of defiance were on her lips, but glancing at his face, the words
died away, and a sense of the useless folly of resistance, the useless
humiliation of refusal, surged over her. She was in his power. When she
spoke, it was humbly, in a faltering voice, with tears.
"Gian," she whispered. "Gian--I have never asked anything of thee
before. Gian--this marriage is hateful to me--" she paused, then stepped
forward with appealing eyes. "Gian--have consideration--have mercy!"
"The Duke of Orleans waits," smiled Visconti. "Will you not let me lead
you to him?"
Valentine drew back and steadied herself against the wall.
She thought of Conrad with bitterness and shame, of his vows of
devotion, how he had sworn she should never wed the French
Prince--and--he was free--had been so for many days, and never a word or
a sign.
Visconti flung wide the chapel door, and in the adjoining room he
summoned to her side his sister's page. Valentine's eyes fell on him,
and she noted how the blood rushed to his face as he sprang to obey. He
was a fair-haired boy with eager eyes, who worshiped her with a romantic
devotion at which she had often smiled; but now----
He lifted her train, and Visconti held out his hand. Outside her door
soldiers kept their motionless guard, and beyond the gay crowd swept to
and fro. Silently Valentine moved forward, but her heart was burning
with rebellious hate.
"I will still try once more for freedom," was the thought she held to;
and as they traversed the great corridor and her eyes fell, as had her
brother's, on the grim outline of Isotta's prison, "I will free her
too," she added, with a swelling heart.
And Visconti thought her conquered, cowed into complete submission, and
watched her pass ahead of him down the banqueting chamber with a
satisfied smile to see her the fairest and the proudest there.
The brilliant courtiers streamed in, a mass of color and jewels, and
Visconti, seated at the head of the table, glanced at the effeminate
faces and frivolous bearing of the guests with some contempt.
"No news?" he whispered to Giannotto behind his chair. "No news from
Ferrara yet?"
"None as yet, my lord. The messengers are expected at any moment."
The apartment was a blaze of wax candles that threw a thousand dancing
reflections on the elaborate silver and glass that covered the table.
The bright light fell too on the rubies on Valentine Visconti's throat.
She sat at her brother's side, with a pale face and sparkling eyes. On
Visconti's right was her bridegroom, the Duke of Orleans, an elegant
young man with weak eyes and a receding chin. His scanty, fair locks
were carefully arranged with grease and curling irons into stiff curls,
the ends of his mustache were elaborately twisted, and his face was
rouged plentifully on the cheeks.
Valentine looked at him once, then ignoring him utterly, she looked down
the long, glittering table to the great entrance facing her, with a
crowd and press of liveries and hurrying attendants, waiting pages. As
for the French Duke, he conversed with Visconti, ignoring the hardly
hidden contempt that he was either too dull to see or too politic to
resent.
The banqueting hall filled: and the guests in their seats, the
secretary, standing back among the servitors, crept out into the
antechamber. After the glare and splendor of the banquet, the room
seemed dull and somber, and Giannotto stumbled over a crouching figure.
It was Valentine's page, weeping bitterly.
"Poor fool!" muttered the secretary. "Wouldst thou lose thy place as
well as thy heart?" And he passed on with a laugh. But after a pace or
two he paused. Through the palace windows floated a sound as of distant
murmuring and commotion, yet so faint he could scarce be sure of it.
The page had risen, shamefaced at having been discovered. He was very
young, and his grief very real to him. He choked a little, stifling his
sobs.
"Silence!" said Giannotto angrily. "Listen!" The sound grew nearer and
more distinct, and the secretary went to the window nearest and leaned
forward eagerly.
Several horsemen and soldiers came riding swiftly, holding flaming
torches; windows were flung open, people hurried to and fro.
"Some evil news has got abroad," said Giannotto, straining eyes and
ears.
And now the noise of angry shouts and frightened cries became too plain,
and the secretary could see by the flare of some horsemen's torches a
throng of country folk, laden with their possessions, and some men
driving herds of cattle, and soldiers torn and dusty.
"Evil news, indeed, I fear," he muttered, and waited anxiously.
A ray of brilliant light from the banquet hall beyond fell between the
curtains and streamed across the room, there was laughter and clink of
glasses, and a voice singing in French to a lute. The page clenched his
fists and turned to go.
"Stay," said Giannotto, "stay. If thou wouldst end thy days, here comes
a chance, methinks, for some one will have to carry ill news to
Visconti." And even as he spoke a white-faced servant entered.
"My lord," he cried, as Giannotto stepped before him, "there has been
some sore disaster--the country folk are trooping through the
gates--there is a panic in the city."
"The messengers!" cried Giannotto, "the messengers!"
"The messengers have not returned--but there are plenty bringing news
who were not sent for them, my lord." And as the man spoke, a disordered
group, soldiers and servants, pressed into the room behind him.
"Gently, my friends," said Giannotto, checking their agitated outcry and
pointing to the curtains that hid the banqueting hall. "The Duke!"
A man, dusty and white-faced, forced himself out of the crowd, small,
but swelling every moment.
"I bear news the Duke must hear," he said, "and quickly."
"Where hast thou come from?" asked the secretary. "What is thy news?"
"Since daybreak I have been flying for my life--I am a servant in the
garrison at Brescia--it is destroyed," gasped the man.
"Brescia!" The echo of horror. "Has Brescia _fallen_?"
"Aye, fallen--into Della Scala's hands."
Giannotto looked around bewildered, incredulous.