looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.
The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little
breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the
carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was
very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.
Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark
prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his
power over Della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a
shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not yet admit it--but
with her it was not perfect success.
Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull;
and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a
Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the
simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke
in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his
vanity now angered it--in his eyes she had no more presence than a
serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with
her white face and timid voice.
Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word,
she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she
was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.
"Maybe her folly will wear away," mused Visconti moodily. "But if
not--if she prefers her father before me--she may follow him."
To-day he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had
spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her--see for
himself if her humor should promise of changing--the humor of:
"My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who
hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan."
Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his
own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and
with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone
through the sumptuous gardens.
Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. "She had gone to the little
summer-house in the garden," he was told, "to see the sun set, and pray
to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it was."
Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He
was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his
palace their best background.
He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance--behind them, the white
marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in
laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio
enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through
the deep green.
The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt
its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's
perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an
hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved
Milan--for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember
it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else
she might seem to lack.
He picked a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it
in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them--there was a bush in
Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white
summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window
was open wide, then suddenly blew to--and Visconti started at it
curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he
advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house.
Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three
large windows--the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the
casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last
rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling
colors.
A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches,
in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute,
tied with a knot of cherry-colored ribbons.
Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened center-wise, and the
girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright
from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees
and gardens, clear in the setting sun, that sunk, a fiery ball, behind
the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked
toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house
beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew
around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose
the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova.
Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall-to with a
clang. Some one must come soon. With a piteous little gesture she
pulled at the jeweled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some
moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At
last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.
A rope of pearls bound her waist: with a hasty movement she undid them,
and let slip the gorgeous dress, that fell stiff and gemmed onto the
marble floor. Beneath was the blue robe she had worn when she first came
to the palace.
With hasty fingers she pulled the ornaments from her hair, throwing them
to the ground. Her long curls fell about her shoulders; a little sob
shook her throat; she looked wistfully around, and sank into the chair.
For a little while she sat silent, with closed eyes, panting.
Suddenly the sun sank, leaving the room dull, all the light and color
gone.
Graziosa opened her eyes with a little cry.
"I am so lonely!" she whispered to herself--"so lonely. I want some
one--to kiss me--good-by."
She rose and fumbled among the folds of her fallen gown; she found
something small she grasped tight in her cold fingers.
"I am not brave--ah, I fear I am not brave!"
She rested her head against the arm of the chair, as if collecting
herself; then, with a little smile, lifted it with a pitiful show of
courage.
The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the
wall distant and gray; then it fell-to again, leaving the chamber dull,
almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the
door was pushed open.
Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. D'Orleans had lost
his lute. Tisio remembered it left here. A heap of shimmering yellow
satin caught his eye--yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He
marked it with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for,
made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to
be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay
near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that
some one sat there, some one very still and silent, against the cold
white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was
utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro
with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was
not fearful of the dark.
He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he
was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his
hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he
could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.
Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it
tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain
blue dress.
"Pretty thing!" he said gently. "Pretty thing!"
He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the
streets of Milan, in the sunshine.
She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her
attitude struck him.
"She is sad," he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her
limp hands.
"Poor thing!" he said again. "Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor,
pretty thing?"
She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly,
smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.
Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but
Tisio was not startled.
"Gian!" he said, "be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!"
Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly.
"Where is she?" he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the
silent figure in the corner. "Where is she, Tisio?"
"The girl with the pretty hair--" began his brother; but Visconti
grasped him by the arm with a cry.
"Bring me a light!" he cried, "a light----"
With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow
light fell over Visconti's green dress and Graziosa's bright hair.
"If it should be so!" muttered Visconti. "If it should be so!"
The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face,
and his own changed darkly.
"Tisio," he said, "she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!"
He bent closer, eagerly.
"Get help, Tisio! help!"
And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung
long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.
Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless:
she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!--she had poisoned
herself. Something was tightly locked in her right hand! he forced the
fingers apart, and looked at it--poison.
"How dared she do it?" he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. "How
dared she?--who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?"
He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must
know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in
this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should
share his throne before them all--the woman who loved him for himself
alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.
At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung
aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all
his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the
love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!
Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-by.
And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection
stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still
dignity.
He looked around to find the door full of anxious faces, and Tisio
behind him.
"Finely I am served!" he cried in a transport. "Do you let the Lady
Graziosa go unattended? She hath been murdered, and those who should
have been with her shall die for it!"
Weeping ladies and frightened pages crept in and stood aghast, silent at
what they saw--more silent at his face.
Visconti stood before Graziosa's body and looked at them with mad eyes;
he held a white rose in his fingers. The flickering lamp was just over
his head; its light fell on his face and on hers--her sweet face that
told its own tale.
For some moments Visconti was silent, gazing at them wildly, and it
seemed to more than one of those who crowded there appalled that there
came a new expression to his face, a new look into his widely opened
eyes--not madness and not rage--but fear.
"In a week I would have made her Duchess of Milan," he said at last,
with a sudden break in his voice; and he dropped his white rose at her
dead feet, with a shudder, and turned away, through the crowd that fell
away from him, down the stairs in silence.
It was two hours later, in the hushed, awe-struck, half-expectant
palace, when Visconti opened the door of his inner room and stepped into
the antechamber, where one page kept watch.
To him the Duke beckoned, handing him a glass with milk-white lines
circling it--a slender, flower-like glass with a long stem.
"Fill up with wine," he said.
The page obeyed.
"Now bring the glass and follow me," said Visconti, and left the room,
the boy behind him.
Before his sister's door he paused. Soldiers guarded it: within could be
heard footsteps and anxious, frightened voices, the whispers of the
tragedy. The key was turned: he entered, opening the door quietly,
admitting himself and the page, the guard closing it behind him.
The room was lofty, and, like all Visconti's rooms, ill-lit. A great
crucifix hung at the far end, and before it knelt Valentine. When she
heard the door she turned and started to her feet.
"Put the wine down and go," said Visconti to the page.
"Ah, no!" cried Valentine. "Let the page stay, Gian!"
She stepped forward with imploring eyes upon the boy.
"Go," said Visconti again.
"In the name of mercy, stay!" cried Valentine, in sudden desperate fear,
seeing her brother's face. "Stay!"
The wretched page hesitated, but not for long. Visconti turned once
more, and he tapped on the door to be let out, making no more ado.
Visconti watched him go, then stepped to the inner door and locked it on
the women whispering and quaking within.
Valentine tried to speak; the words died away on her tongue; she fell
back against the tapestry, grasping it in stiff fingers, her eyes on his
face.
Visconti seated himself at the table on which the page had stood the
glass, and, resting his face on his hands, looked at her. The Viper on
his doublet seemed to writhe, alive.
"Graziosa is dead," he said.
Valentine's eyes grew wild with fear.
"I did not kill her!" she cried. "I did not kill her, Gian!"
"I found her dead," said Visconti, still looking at her.
Valentine writhed against the wall, wringing her hands. "She slew
herself," she moaned. "I did not kill her!"
"I shall not kill thee," said Gian.
He looked down at the wine as he spoke, with a smile.
Valentine threw herself on her knees.
"I did not touch her!" she screamed wildly. "I did not lay a hand on
her!"
"I shall not touch thee; I shall not lay a hand on thee," smiled
Visconti.
"Then I shall not die? I shall not die?"
She staggered to her feet, with an effort to be calm.
"Thou wilt not die?" said Visconti, softly, his eyes on her. "Thou wilt
drink--this." And he touched the glass beside him.
"Thou canst not be so cruel," pleaded Valentine. "I am thy sister,
Gian----"
"Do I think so much of family affection?" said Visconti. "Still, she was
to be my wife! Thou wilt drink this."
Valentine flung herself on her knees again, and dragged herself along
the floor toward him. "Have pity!" she cried. "Have pity, I am so
helpless! Spare me, and I will never offend thee again--never!"
"Thou hast strangely lost thy courage," returned her brother. "What is
there in drinking this wine?"
She was at his feet, clinging to him, imploring.
"Let me live till morning!" she pleaded. "Do not kill me here--in this
dark chamber. Oh! I cannot die here, I cannot!"
Visconti looked at her calmly.
"Graziosa died not in a fairer place, she died lonely and alone," he
said. "Thou wilt drink this." He put out his hand and drew the glass
nearer. "Come, thou wilt drink this."
"I am so young," sobbed Valentine. "Think, Gian; I am so young, Gian!"
"Graziosa was no older," he said.
She clung to his hand in agony, beseeching him, calling on him, wildly
trying to move him to let her live until the morning--only until
morning!
"Graziosa died after the sun had set," said Visconti. "Drink the wine,
nor keep me here so long. Thou hast often wished to escape--where is thy
courage gone, not to take this chance?"
"But not to die like this--not like this--give me a priest!"
"Had Graziosa one?"
She cowered down on the floor, her beautiful hair falling over her
shoulders, her face hidden; then suddenly uplifted it again to Visconti,
who sat looking at her, motionless.
"Gian, I loved thee once, when we were little children."
"I have forgotten it, and so hadst thou until this moment--drink!"
Valentine sprang up in a paroxysm of uncontrollable terror.
"I cannot! I cannot! Kill me thyself!"
"With this?" and Visconti touched his dagger. "No; a smoother death for
one so fair."
Valentine flew to the door and clung to it.
"Philippe! Philippe!" she shrieked. "Conrad! Costanza!"
Visconti rose suddenly, with such force as to fling over the chair.
"Cease!" he cried. "Wilt thou drink this? or who dost thou think will
dare to interrupt me now?"
Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance
dropped.
"Give it me," she whispered.
Visconti did not move.
"Come and take it," he said.
She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering
before her.
Visconti watched her, motionless. "Make haste," he said. "Make haste."
She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or
entreaties.
"Drink!" said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space
between them. "Drink in it Della Scala's health, as thou didst once
before."
Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with
terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.
Visconti bent nearer and she drank, putting it down half empty with a
shudder and staring eyes.
Visconti smiled, and brought the evil of his face still nearer.
"Drink the rest," he said. "Drink it, Valentine."
Still in silence she obeyed him.
When the empty glass stood before him, Visconti turned away, taking his
eyes from her with a laugh, and walked toward the door.
Valentine's gaze followed him with a look of utter woe; still she said
nothing, from her parted lips there came no sound.
He looked back over his shoulder at her, standing there with her face
toward him, with all expression gone, with unseeing eyes.
"I will leave thee," he said savagely, "to await--the morning."
She seemed roused by the sound of his voice, and stepped forward with a
cry on her white lips.
But the door closed heavily--the room was in darkness, or was it her
sight failed her? Everything swam before her in a blackening mist; she
grasped at the table and fell across it, senseless.
The dawn was breaking, filling the room with a gray and ghostly light;
the great curtains looked black and gloomy, and the corners of the room
were filled with strange and moving shadows. Through an open window a
cool breeze blew across Valentine's sick forehead: she opened her eyes.
The empty glass met her gaze, the fallen chair was beside her: she
looked at them strangely. She was still alive.
"Gian's poison is slow," she said, and smiled to herself.
After a time she rose and stumbled to the window.
"When the sun rises I shall be dead, or perhaps I shall live till noon,"
she said to herself.
She mounted the estrade and sat beside the open window, resting her head
against the woodwork, singing to herself.
Suddenly the whole gray sky flushed purple: the sun rose above the
horizon.
Valentine looked down into the garden, the sight seemed to awaken
memories.
"Hush!" She laid her finger on her mouth. "Hush, Conrad--if Gian hears
us--hast thou velvet shoes on--hush! He treads warily--ah, but it is no
use--he poisoned me! he poisoned me!"
She rocked herself to and fro.
"In a tall glass with white lines--it was not Gian--it was the Viper
from the Standard--all green and silver--all green and silver--a coiling
viper."
She dropped her head forward, then raised it with trembling lips.
"Conrad! come and save me!" Then she fell to laughing, whispering under
her breath, counting on her fingers the hours she might have to live.
"If to noon--how many?"
The door opened, and she stopped her muttering, turning lackluster eyes
toward it.
"Good-morrow," said Visconti, standing with his back against it and
looking at her keenly. "Good-morrow, Valentine."
She looked at him and put the hair back from her face.
"I thought I saw Count Conrad walking in the garden: I would have called
him up to see me die--how long will it be?"
Visconti advanced with a bitter smile. "Has the lesson tamed thee? It
would have been reality, but ye are pledged to France. I would that I
dare poison thee, thou tiger-cat, but thou art tamed!"
Valentine face did not change. "Hush!" she said, leaning from the
window. "He is back on the tower now--" she pointed to where the silver
banner hung idle against the brightening sky. "What dost thou think?
shall I sit and watch, lest he spy on us, Conrad?"
Visconti looked at her.
"Thou art tamed indeed," he said. "I am not ill-avenged."
Valentine stepped down into the room, her tangled hair hanging about
her, and grasped him by the arm. "I was waiting--" she whispered. "I
feared he would come back before I was dead. Ah! and he did! Count
Conrad could not keep him off; the Viper, green and silver; the Viper,
he has poisoned me." And she sank onto the floor with a sudden scream,
her hands before her eyes.
"Thou art neither poisoned nor dying," said Visconti, roughly. "Call thy
women, and--remember."
She looked at him with vacant eyes.
Visconti turned away. "She is not likely to forget, it seems," he
thought. "Her spirit will not trouble my path more."
Neither his nor anyone's. The brilliant, witty, and daring Valentine
Visconti was to dare, to mock, to laugh no more; her high spirit was
broken, her proud courage gone. From that fearful night she was
timorous, shrinking, like a child, wandering and vacant--like Tisio,
half-crazed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA
"A secret embassy from Milan!"
Mastino repeated the words slowly, and looked at Ligozzi who had brought
them. "And to see me alone?"
"With terms from Visconti--so they said," answered Ligozzi. "Terms of
peace."
"From Visconti!"
Mastino looked out through the open entrance into the blinding summer
day, and then back at Ligozzi. "I fear they come with no honorable
terms--from Visconti victorious."
"They would never dare come with dishonorable ones--to thee, my lord,"
returned Ligozzi.
Mastino laughed bitterly.
"Dare! He is Visconti--with near all Italy at his back--he knows no such
words as shame or honor. And I must see his messengers," he added, after
a pause. "I know no such words now as pride or refusal."
Ligozzi turned, but hesitated at the entrance.
"And--alone?" he asked. "They are from Visconti."
"And may be skilful in dagger thrusts and poison," said Mastino. "Nay,
that is not what I fear, Ligozzi." But he unstrapped his sword and laid
it on the table in front of him. "All the same, I will have thee with
me, Ligozzi. I see not why I should humor them too far--I shall have
naught to say thou mayst not hear."
Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows
resting on the table.
It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languid and golden, with
a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun
at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.
Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti
planning now?
He had some faint foreboding--a secret embassy from Milan--and following
so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come
upon him still helpless from it--what had it to say, and to his ears
alone? He had some faint foreboding as he sat there. But it was not
long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two
Milanese.
Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little
surprised at the one occupant of the tent--the tall man with the proud
dark face.
"My lord--the Prince?" he asked.
"I am Della Scala," said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an
obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. "Your errand, sir? I would
hear you quickly."
"We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan," replied de Lana,
his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had
always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face
to face with Della Scala.
Here was some one very different from the man he had expected, and it
tended to confuse him.
Della Scala's dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendor, the
terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and
obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the
Milanese with something new to them--the sense of worth.
They were not trained to dealings with it.
"Greetings from Gian Visconti, Duke of Milan," took up the secretary.
"Moreover, we bring terms of peace for your acceptance, my lord."
Mastino was silent a space, and Ligozzi, standing behind his chair,
looked at them with an ill-concealed abomination that Giannotto's quick
eyes noticed keenly.