If the world be a stage, as the greatest of earth's poets has said,
and all the men and women in it merely players, human life divides
itself not only into acts, but scenes. The drop curtain falls for a
longer or a shorter period; and, without whistle or call, the place is
shifted, and the interval is filled up with nought which affects the
actors before the public, or the general course of their own parts, or
the end of the great drama played. Let us pass over the mere shiftings
of the scene; the pompous reception of Charles VIII. in Milan; the
time he wasted there in youthful merriment and courtly gallantry; the
intrigues ending in nothing which went on during his stay in the
Lombard capital; all the French _gaietè de coeur_ with which the
dashing and daring warriors of the most charming land in the world cut
a throat, or make love, or stake a fortune on a card--let us pass them
all by, with the exception of one slight incident, which had some
influence upon the fate of one of our principal characters.
It is very customary--indeed, it is always customary with men
of impulse, especially when the impulses are impetuous and
ill-regulated--for persons possessing great power to be awed, as it
were, for a short time by the terrible responsibilities of their
position--to seek uninterrupted thought, with an endeavour in their
own mind to find support under the weight from their own intellect,
or, frustrated in their dependence upon so frail a reed, to apply to a
higher guide, who can give not only direction but strength--not only
counsel but capability. There is many an occasion in which the most
self-relying and resolute feels the need of an intelligence higher
than his own, and a force beyond the force of his own character.
In many respects the character of Charles VIII. was to be admired. His
expedition to Italy was rash, ill-conceived, and ill-executed; but the
conception was great, the objects when rightly viewed, noble, and the
result, though not fortunate, such as showed in the young king the
higher qualities of fortitude, resolution, and that courage which
crushes obstacles by boldly confronting them. But many a time Charles
doubted of his own course--only, indeed, in times of success and
seeming prosperity--and asking himself whether that course was right,
was prudent, was wise, sought guidance and instruction from on high.
On these occasions he avoided all companionship, and asked direction
from the throne of wisdom in solitary prayer. It was thus he came
forth in the early morning to the Church of St. Stephen, attended only
by a single page, and habited plainly enough to attract no attention.
He had entered the chapel of St. Ambrose, the patron saint of the
city, and was in the very act of kneeling, when the voices of two
other men, speaking somewhat loud in the general stillness, attracted
his attention.
"Ah!" said the one, "it was there he slew him, and had there been men
to second him, Lombardy would have now been free."
"It goes about the city," said the other, "that young Lorenzo, his
son, is close at the gates of Milan, ready to avenge his father's
death upon the Sforzeschi."
"He had better look to his own safety," replied the first speaker,
"for he has to do with powerful enemies, and what the strong hand and
the sword cannot accomplish, the dagger or the cup can perchance
perform."
The king listened, but nothing more of interest met his ear, and when
his prayer was finished he returned to his private cabinet, and wrote
a few words in haste, without consulting even his most approved
counsellors. It was done; and then he rang a little hand-bell on the
table. It was not like a modern bell, being four-sided, but it had a
good, loud sound, and it immediately brought an attendant from the
ante-room.
"Call hither the Baron de Vitry," said the king. He spoke of that De
Vitry who was the ancestor of the well-known Marechal de Vitry, and
who, a few days after, became Marquis de Vitry on the death of his
father. "Tell him to be quick, for he sleeps late when there is no
fighting to be done."
The man hastened away to execute his commands, but it was some twenty
minutes before the officer summoned appeared, and then, to say sooth,
he was but imperfectly apparelled. There was a point here and there
untrussed, and his collar was certainly not placed in its usual and
intended position--indeed, some severe critics of costume might have
supposed that it was turned wrong side before.
"Always behind, De Vitry," said the monarch, who had grown impatient
in waiting.
"I was not behind at St. Aubin, sire," replied the young officer with
a gay confidence; "but, sire, we were bound to sit up so late last
night for the honour of France that our eyes had leaden weights upon
them this morning."
"Ay, a revel, of course," said the king; "too much revelling, De
Vitry. We must think of more serious things."
"Good faith! sire, we are all ready," replied the young officer; "we
only revel because we have nought else to do. While your majesty and
your wise counsellors are gravely deliberating in the cabinet, we have
nought else to do but dance, and drink, and sing in the hall; and I am
sure you, sire, would not have us behind the Italian in dancing and
drinking, when they go so far before us in singing; but only give us
something else to do, and we are ready to ride, or fight, or work in
any way tomorrow."
The young king mused for a moment, and then murmured the words, "A
just reproof!" Then taking the paper he had written, he added, "Take a
hundred men of your company of ordnance, De Vitry, and set out at once
toward Vigevano. Five miles on this side of the town, on the bank of
the Ticino, you will find a villa belonging to the Count of Rovera.
There you will find young Lorenzo Visconti. Give him that paper,
appointing him to the command of the troop of poor young Moustier, who
was stabbed, no one knows why or how."
"Oh, sire, I know why, and how too," answered De Vitry, in his usual
gay, light-hearted tone; "he was stabbed because he chose to make
love to the daughter of the confectioner who lives just below the
castle--she is, indeed, a wonderful little beauty; but she is
betrothed to a young armourer, and Moustier was not right to seek her
for his leman, under her promised husband's very nose. There are
plenty of free-hearted dames in Milan, without his breaking up the
happiness of two young people who never sought him. Then, as to the
way, sire, that is very easily explained---a dark corner, a strong
hand, and a sharp dagger over the left shoulder, and the thing was
soon accomplished. Ludovic says he will have the young armourer broken
on the wheel, to satisfy your majesty; but I trust you will tell him
not; for, in the first place, nothing can be proved against him; and,
in the next, according to his own notions, he did nothing but what was
right; and, in the next, De Moustier was all in the wrong; and, in the
next, this youth, Tomaso Bondi, is the best armourer in Italy--no man
I ever saw can inlay a Milan corslet as he can."
"All very cogent reasons," answered the king, "and the regent shall do
nought to him, to satisfy me. De Moustier forgot the warning I gave
him after I was ill at Lyons, when he insulted the young wife of the
dean of the weavers; and as he has sought his fate, so he must abide
it. But, as I have said, seek out my young Cousin Lorenzo, give him
the paper, and tell him to join you next day at Pavia or Vigevano; but
do not let your men dismount, and take care that they commit no
outrage on the lands of Signor Rovera. At Vigevano you may halt till
you hear that I am on my way to Pavia. You shall have timely notice."
The officer took the open paper from the king's hand, and in a
nonchalant way gazed at the contents, exclaiming as he did so, "On my
faith, it is fairly written!"
The cheek of Charles turned somewhat red, and, fixing his eye keenly
upon De Vitry, he said, "You mean no offence, young sir, I believe;
but, Baron de Vitry, I tell you, if two years ago your king could not
write his name, it was not his fault. Would that all my nobility would
try to retrieve their errors as I have striven to remedy the defects
of my education."
The young monarch was evidently much pained at what he thought an
allusion to the ignorance in which he had been brought up; and De
Vitry, whose thoughts were perfectly innocent of such offence, bent
his knee and kissed his sovereign's hand, saying, in his frank way,
"On my life, sire, I only admired the writing, and wished I were as
good a clerk. Heaven knows that, though I can write fast enough, no
man can read as fast what I have written. It has cost me many a time
more James, than an hour to make out my own letters. This carrying a
confounded lance, ever since I was eighteen, makes my finger unfit for
handling a quill; and, unless I fall in love, and have to write sweet
letters to fair ladies--which God forfend--I dare say the time will
come when I shall be unable to write at all."
The king smiled good-humouredly at his blunt officer, for Charles's
anger soon passed away, and, bidding him rise, he said, "There, go, De
Vitry; you are a rough specimen of our French soldiers, for these
silken ladies of the South. I fear you will not make much way with
them."
"Oh, they love me all the better, sire," answered De Vitry; "I'm a new
dish at their table. But I go to perform your will, sire; and, good
faith! I am not sorry to be in the saddle again. But what am I to do
with that young fellow, Bayard, who struck the big Ferrara man for
calling us barbarians? We have kept a close eye upon him, for he seems
never to dream that, if the signor were to meet him alone, he would
put a dagger in him, or break his back as a storm breaks a hard young
sapling. Good faith, sire, the man would eat the boy up as the old
giants used to do with the princes and princesses of I don't know
where in days of yore."
"That is well bethought," replied the king. "I wish to have no
brawling, De Vitry. Take Bayard with you to Pavia. Stay! let me
consider what I can do to smooth his removal from the court, for he is
a brave lad, and will some time make a name in life. They are hardy
soldiers, these men of the Isere."
"He is of such stuff as kings of France have most need of," answered
De Vitry. "Give him ten years more, and I would match him against
Mohammed. But the cornet of my troop, you know, sire, died on Friday
last of wine poison at Beccafico's--we hold our life on slender tenure
in this land--and if your majesty would please to name Bayard to fill
his place, he would be very well content, for he loves Bellona's
harness more than Cupid's, as my old tutor, the Abbé de Mortemar, used
to say when he could not get me to construe Ovid. But I know not how
Bayard may take Signor Lorenzo's appointment to De Moustier's troop,
he being also one of your pages, and more than a year older."
"Lorenzo Visconti is our cousin, sir," replied Charles, somewhat
sternly; "and, were he not so, we suffer no one to comment on our will
in ordaining how we shall be served. If Pierre de Terrail hesitates at
the honour we confer on him so young, because we name our own kindred
to a higher command at a younger age, let him remain as he is. We will
not resent such conduct, but we will make him feel that we are King of
France."
There was sufficient irritation in his tone to induce the young
officer to withdraw; and he left the king's presence, repeating to
himself, "Our cousin! I see not how that is; but we are all cousins in
Adam, God wot; and the affinity must be somewhere thereabout, I take
it. Well, God send me some royal cousins, or right noble ones, for
'tis the only road to promotion in this world."