"What is it, dear girl?--Let me think?" said Leonora to her young
cousin. They sat in a small ante-room between their sleeping chambers,
which gave entrance from the corridor to each.
"And what would you think of, Leonora?" asked Bianca, laughing
wickedly.
Leonora gazed from the window, whence was seen the garden below bathed
in moonlight, with faint glimpses of the distant country, and the
sparkle of the rays upon the fountain whose voice came murmuring up.
She did not answer, but continued silent, with her cheek resting on
her hand, and her arm upon the sill of the window.
"I know right well whom you are thinking of," said Bianca, bending
down her head so as to gaze upon the beautiful face.
"Not you," said Leonora; "I am thinking of my father; and how strange
it is that he who loves me well, I know, should show his love so
little."
"Can you think of two things at once, Leonora?" asked her cousin, "for
I know one thing you are thinking of, and you tell me of another. You
are thinking of Lorenzo Visconti; and how strange it is that you, who
love him well, have not the heart to own it to yourself."
"Go, go, you are a silly child," answered Leonora, "you cannot know
what love is, nor I either, except love for your parents or your
kinsfolk. I think not of Lorenzo Visconti; he is a comely youth, and
pleasant in his conversation; but he will go hence in a day, forget me
in another, and I him before the third evening comes. You want to make
me fall in love with him, but I tell you, Blanche, you will tire me of
him."
"Faith, I do not want you to love him," replied Bianca, "for I am half
in love with him myself, and can't spare him--only, you know, there is
one obstacle."
"Well, well, go and sleep over it," replied Leonora, "then rise
to-morrow, and whisper gently in his ear that, if he will but wait a
year or two--this loving land and warm climate notwithstanding--he can
wed the beautiful heiress of the house of Rovera, and--but what
obstacle do you talk of, Blanche?"
"The Church! the Church!" replied the other girl; "we are full
cousins, you know, Leonora--within the forbidden degrees. My mother's
eldest sister was his mother."
"But a poor obstacle," answered Leonora; "one of the two bags of the
Church is always open to take in gold, and the other to let out
dispensations."
"Yes: but somehow I can never look on him as aught else but a cousin,"
replied Bianca--"a sort of brother. As such I love him well; but as I
said, I am only half in love with him---a fraternal love, which is a
half love, I suppose. I do not know much about it; but I do not judge
I could let him kiss me so coolly if I loved him any better. Bless my
poor heart, Leonora, we were boy and girl together when we were in
Florence, and were we to marry, I should always think him playfellow
instead of husband. But I'll to bed and sleep; I have nothing to keep
me awake. You go to bed and sleep, if you can. I know you, Leonora."
"No, you do not," murmured her cousin; "but I shall sit up and look at
the moonlight for a time."
"And wish that the nightingale had not ceased to sing true-love
ditties," replied Bianca gaily. "Well, good night. Leave the doors
open, that I may hear if you sigh about Lorenzo in your sleep."
Bianca, or, as the French called her, Blanche Marie, then left her
gaily, and with a light heart was soon asleep. Leonora d'Orco sat
quite still by the window, and gazed forth. All was still and
tranquil. The air was clear and soft, and yet there seemed a sort of
haze--a haze of brightness over the landscape. Have you never
remarked, reader, especially in southern climates, that the moon
sometimes pours forth her pale rays in such profusion that it seems as
if a mist of light spread over the scene? So was it at that moment;
and though the nightingale, as Blanche Marie had said, no longer
trilled his summer song, yet every now and then a note or two from his
sweet voice burst upon the ear--a song, begun as if in memory, and
broken off as if in despair. The time of love was past, and he could
sing no more; but the remembrance of happy days woke up under the warm
autumn splendour, and a few short plaintive notes came welling from
the fountains of regret.
Of what was the young maiden thinking? What feelings woke up in her
bosom under that bright moon?
What harmonious chord vibrated in her bosom to the broken tones of the
solitary songster of the night?
Gaze down into a deep, deep well, reader, and if you gaze long enough,
you will catch an uncertain gleam of light, you know not whence,
glistening upon the surface of waters below you; but you cannot fathom
those waters with the eye, nor see aught that they cover; and so it is
with the heart of woman to those who would scan it from a distance. If
you would know what is beneath, plunge down into its depths, torch in
hand; you may perish, but you will know all that can be known of that
most deep, mysterious thing.
At length there was the sound of a light footstep on the terrace
beneath, and Leonora started and listened. The foot that produced the
sound was still distant, and she quietly glided through the open door
into her cousin's chamber. Blanche Marie was already sleeping
peacefully, the light covering hardly veiling the contour of the young
beautiful limbs, the hair already escaped from the net intended to
restrain it, and the white uncovered arm cast negligently under the
warm, rosy cheek. Her breathing was soft, and low, and even, and the
half-open lips showed the pearly teeth between.
"How beautiful she is!" murmured Leonora; "and how sweet and gentle
she looks! So looked Psyche;" and with a noiseless step she left the
room, and closed the door behind her.
She took her seat near the window again, behind the rich deep
moulding, as if she would see without being seen; but the lighted
taper on the table cast her shadow across without her knowing it; and
there she sat, and once more listened. The step was very, very near
now, and the next instant it stopped beneath the window. Then came a
silent pause for a moment, and Leonora's heart beat.
"Bianca," said the voice of Lorenzo, "is that you, dear cousin?"
Leonora was strongly tempted to say yes, but yet she felt ashamed of
the positive falsehood, and, with a sort of compromise with
conscience, she answered, almost in a whisper:
"Hush! speak low."
"Which is Leonora's chamber?" asked the voice again.
"Why?" demanded the young girl, in the same low tone, but with strange
sensations in her bosom.
"I wish to sing to her," answered the youth, "and to tell her all I
dared not tell this evening. I am ordered to Pavia early to-morrow,
dear cousin, and must leave you to plead my cause, but I would fain
say one word for myself first."
Oh, how Leonora's heart beat.
"Then it is not Bianca," she murmured to herself; "it is not Bianca.
The next room on your right," she answered, still speaking low; but
suddenly there came upon her a feeling of shame for the deception, and
she added, "What is it you would say, Lorenzo? Leonora is here; Bianca
has been sleeping for an hour. But don't sing, and speak low. Signor
Rovera's apartments are close by."
But Lorenzo would not heed the warning; and though he did not raise
his voice to its full power, he sang, in a sweet, low tone, a little
canzonetta, which had much currency some few years before in Florence:
"What time the Greek, in days of yore,
Bent down his own, fair work before,
He woke the echoes of the grove
With words like these, 'Oh, could she love!'
"Heaven heard the sculptor's wild desire;
Love warmed the statue with its fire;
But when he saw the marble move,
He asked, still fearful, 'Will she love?'
"She loved--she loved; and wilt thou be
More cold, Madonna, unto me?
Then hear my song, and let me prove
If you can love--if you can love."
"Songs are false--men are falser, Lorenzo," answered Leonora, bending
a little from the window: "you will sing that canzonetta to the next
pretty eye you see."
"It will be Leonora's then," answered the youth. "Can you not come
down, dear Leonora, and let me hear my fate under the olive-trees? I
fear to tell you all I feel in this place, lest other ears should be
listening. Oh! come down, for I must go hence by daybreak to-morrow."
"Oh! do not go so soon," murmured Leonora; "I will be down and on the
terrace by daybreak; but to-night--no, no, Lorenzo, I cannot, for very
maiden shame, come down to-night. There, take my glove, Lorenzo, and
if I find you still wear it for my sake when next we meet, I shall
know--and then, perhaps--perhaps I will tell you more. But there is
some one coming--fly! fly!--the other way. He is coming from the east
end of the terrace."
"I never turned my back on friend or foe," answered Lorenzo, turning
to confront the new comer.
Leonora drew back from the window and put out the light, but she
listened with eager ears. "It was very like my father's figure," she
thought; "his height, his walk, but yet, methinks, stouter. Hark! that
is not his voice--one of the servants, perhaps."
The next instant there was a clash of steel, and she ran anxiously to
the window. At some twenty yards distance she saw Lorenzo, sword in
hand, defending himself against a man apparently much more powerful
than himself. For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, and not
knowing what to do. Lorenzo at first seemed to stand entirely on the
defensive; but soon his blood grew hot, and, in answer to his
adversary's lunge, he lunged again; but the other held a dagger in his
left hand, and with it easily parried the blade. The next pass she saw
her lover stagger. She could bear no more, and, running down, she
screamed aloud to wake the servants, who slept near the hall. An old
man, a porter, was still dozing in a chair, and started up,
exclaiming:
"What is it; what is it, signorina?"
"Haste! haste! Bring your halbert!" cried Leonora, pulling back slowly
the great heavy door, and running down the steps; "there is murder
about."
She fancied she should behold Lorenzo already fallen before his more
vigorous enemy; but, on the contrary, he was now pressing him hard
with an agility and vigour which outweighed the strength of maturity
on the part of the other. All was as clear in the bright moonlight as
if the sun had been shining; and, as Leonora sprung forward, she
beheld, or thought she beheld, her lover's assailant gain some
advantage. Lorenzo was pressed back along the terrace towards the spot
where she stood. He seemed to fly, though still with his face to his
adversary, but he had been well disciplined to arms in Italy as well
as France, and knew every art of defence or assault. The space between
him and his foe increased till he nearly reached the young girl's
side, and then, with a sudden bound, like that of a lion, he sprang
upon his enemy and passed his guard. What followed Leonora could not
see; it was all the work of a moment; but the next instant she beheld
the elder man raise his hand as if to strike with his dagger, drop it
again, and fall back heavily upon the terrace.
Lorenzo leaned upon his sword, and seemed seeking to recover breath,
while Leonora ran up to him, asking, "Are you hurt; are you hurt,
Lorenzo?"
Ere he could answer there were many people around them. No house in
Italy was unaccustomed to such scenes in those days. Indeed, scenes
much more terrible habituated everybody, servants, masters, retinue,
to wake at the first call, and to have everything ready for resistance
and defence. A number of the attendants poured forth from the door she
had left open, some with useless torches lighted, some with arms in
their hands. Then came her father, Ramiro d'Orco, and last, the old
Count Rovera himself, while Blanche Marie appeared at the window
above, eagerly asking what had befallen.
No one answered her, but the Signor d'Orco advanced calmly to the side
of the fallen man, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned to
Lorenzo, asking, "Is he dead?"
"I know not," replied the young man, sheathing his sword.
"Who is he?" demanded Ramiro again.
"Neither know I that," said the youth; "he attacked me unprovoked as I
walked here upon the terrace in the moonlight; but I never saw his
face before, that I know of."
"Walked and sang," answered Ramiro, drily. "Perhaps he did not like
your music, Signor Visconti."
"Probably," replied the youth, quite calmly. "It was but poor, and yet
not worth killing a man for. Besides, as it was not intended for him,
but for a lady, it could give him no offence."
"Not quite clear logic that, good youth," answered Ramiro. "Do any of
you know this man?" he continued, turning to the servants.
"Not I;" "not I," answered several; but the old Count of Rovera bent
down his head toward the man's face, waving the rest away that the
moonlight might fall upon him. "Why, this is Pietro Buondoni, of
Ferrara;" he exclaimed; "an attendant on Count Ludovico, and a great
favorite. What could induce him to attack you, Lorenzo?"
"I know not, sir," replied Lorenzo; "I never set eyes on him before.
He called me a French hound, and, ere I could answer him, he had
nearly run me through the body. I had hardly time to draw."
"Well, bear him in--bear him in," said the old lord; "though I judge
from his look he will not attack any one again. Did I not see Leonora
here?"
But by this time she was gone, and Lorenzo took care not to answer. As
he followed the rest into the villa, however, he stooped to pick up
something from the ground. What if it were a lady's glove!