The servants bore Buondoni into the great hall; but it was in vain
they attempted for a moment or two to rouse him into consciousness
again. There was no waking from the sleep that was upon him. Lorenzo's
sword, thrust home, had passed through and through his body, piercing
his heart as it went. Very different were the sensations of the
different persons who gazed upon his great, powerful limbs and
handsome face, as he lay in death before them. Ramiro d'Orco could
hardly be said to feel anything. It was a sight which he had looked on
often. Death, in the abstract, touched him in no way. To see a man
take any one of his ordinary meals or die was the same to him. It was
an incident in the world's life--no more. He had no weak sympathies,
no thrilling sensibilities, no fanciful shudderings at the extinction
of human life. A man was dead--that was all. In that man he had no
personal interests. He knew him not. There had been no likelihood that
he ever would know him; if anything, less probability that that man
could ever have served him, and therefore there seemed nothing to
regret. Neither had there been any chance that Buondini could ever
have injured him, therefore there could be no matter for rejoicing;
but yet, if anything, there was a curious feeling of satisfaction,
rather than otherwise, in his breast. Death--the death of others--was
a thing not altogether displeasing to him. He knew not why it was so,
and perhaps it sometimes puzzled him, for he had been known to say,
when he heard a passing-bell. "Well, there is one man less in the
world! There are fools enough left."
Old men grow hardened to such things, and in the ordinary course of
nature, as their own days become less and less, as life with them
becomes more and more a thing of the past, they estimate the death of
others, as they would estimate their own approaching fate, but
lightly. The old Count Rovera looked with but very little feeling upon
the dead man; but he thought of his young relation Lorenzo, and of
what might be the consequences to him. At first, when he remembered
that this man had been a great favourite with Ludovic the Moor, and
thus another offence had been offered by a Visconti to a Sforza, he
entertained some fears for the youth's safety. But then the
recollection of the King of France's powerful protection gave him more
confidence, and his sympathies went no farther.
The feelings of Lorenzo himself were very different; but as they were
such as would be experienced by most young men unaccustomed to
bloodshed in looking for the first time upon an enemy slain by their
own hands, we need not dwell much upon them. There was the shuddering
impression which the aspect of death always makes upon young,
exuberant life. There was the natural feeling of regret at having
extinguished that which we can never reillume. There was that curious,
almost fearful inquiry which springs up in the thoughtful mind at the
sight of the dead, when our eyes are not much accustomed to it, "What
is life?"
While he was still gazing, one of the servants touched the old count's
arm and whispered something to him, "Ha!" cried Rovera; "I am told,
Lorenzo, you received a letter to-night, which was sent up to your
room by one of your men, after we all parted. It was not a challenge,
perchance? If so, you should have chosen some other place for your
meeting than our terrace."
"It was not so, sir," replied Lorenzo, promptly. "I had no previous
quarrel with the man. The letter was from his Majesty King Charles.
Here it is; you can satisfy yourself."
"My eyes are dim," said the old man; "read it Ramiro."
The Lord of Orco took the paper, and read while one of the servants
held a flambeau near.
"Well-beloved Cousin"--so ran the note--"It has pleased us to bestow
on you the troop of our ordnance, become vacant by the death of
Monsieur de Moustier. We march hence speedily, and the Seigneur de
Vitry proceeds to-night toward Pavia. As he will not be able to depart
till late in the day, we judge it best to advise you, in order to your
preparation, that he will halt near the Villa Rovera for an hour
to-morrow early, and that we expect you will accompany him on his
march without delay. Fail not as you would merit our favour.
"CHARLES."
Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the
contents, remarked:
"You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's
missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap."
"Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered
Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and
he touched me, but it is nothing."
"Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had
come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle
which had gathered round the dead man.
"Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no
matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl,
I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having
all the women in the house for witnesses!"
In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead
man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had
fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of
the servants, he gazed along the blade.
"This dagger is grooved for poison, Conte," he said, addressing his
host in the same quiet, indifferent tone he generally used; "better
look to the young gentleman's wound."
"I thank you, sir," replied Lorenzo; "but it came from his sword, not
his poniard. I will retire and let my men stanch the bleeding."
"Better, at all events, apply some antidote," said Ramiro; "a little
parsley boiled will extract most poisons, unless they remain too long.
It were well to attend to it speedily."
"Well, I will go," replied Lorenzo; "but, I call Heaven to witness, I
have no blame in this man's death. He attacked me unprovoked, and I
killed him in self-defence."
"We must take measures to discover how this came about," said the
count, thoughtfully. "Buondoni cannot have come here unattended."
"Better perchance let it rest," said Ramiro d'Orco, "there may be
motives at the bottom of the whole affair that were not well brought
to the surface. I have gathered little from tonight's discourse of
this youth's history; but he is a Visconti, and that alone may make
him powerful enemies, who had better still be his enemies than yours,
father."
"I fear them not," replied the old nobleman; "let diligent inquiry be
made around and on the road to Pavia for any stranger arrived this
night. Now, Ramiro, come with me for awhile, and we will talk farther.
Lights, boys, on there in my cabinet. You are in your night gear,
signor; but I will not keep you long ere I let you to your slumbers
again."
"They will be my first slumbers," answered Ramiro. "I had not closen
an eye when I heard talking, and singing, and then clashing of
swords--no unusual combinations in our fair land, Signor Rovera."
As he spoke he followed the old count into a small, beautiful room,
every panel of which held a picture, of great price then, and
invaluable now as specimens of the first revival of art. When they
were seated and the doors closed, the elder man fell into a fit of
thought, though he had invited the conference, and Ramiro d'Orco spoke
first.
"Who is this young Visconti?" he asked; "and how comes the King of
France to give him cousinship?"
"Why, he is the son of that Carlo Visconti who stabbed Galeazzo
Sforza," answered the count, "and was killed in the church. The boy
was carried by some of his relations to his godfather, Lorenzo de
Medici, and educated by him."
"Then 'tis Ludovic's doing," said Ramiro; "he has sent this man to
make away with him, though that was a bad return for his father's kind
act in lifting him to power. By my faith he should have raised and
honoured the boy. That good stroke of a dagger was worth three
quarters of a dukedom to the good prince. But I suppose, from all I
learn, that the youth is now trying adventure as a soldier."
"Soldier he is under the King of France," answered the old man; "but
an adventurer he hardly can be called, for he has large estates in
Tuscany. When Ludovic seized the regency, he was fain to court Lorenzo
de Medici for support, and right willingly he agreed to change the
estates of his brother's executioner for the lands which his father
Francesco had obtained in gratuity from Florence. No, he is wealthy
enough, and if he serves, it is but for honour or ambition."
"But how is he cousin to the King of France?" asked Ramiro; "it is a
cousinship of much value as events are passing nowadays."
"Why, do you not recollect?" asked the old man, somewhat testily,
"that Valentina Visconti married Louis, brother of Charles the Sixth
of France, grandfather of the present Duke of Orleans, who will one
day be King of France too, if the marriage of this young king be
sterile. Three years have passed without any prospect of another heir,
and then the future of this youth, is bright indeed."
"It is," answered Ramiro; and, after a moment's thought, he added, "I
suppose you intend to marry him to your granddaughter?"
"Good sooth, they may do as they like, Ramiro," answered the old man.
"I have made marriages for my children, and seen none of them happy or
successful. Some remorse--at least regret--lies in the thought. I have
but this child left for all kindred, and she shall make her marriage
for herself. I may give advice, but will use no compulsion. In truth,
I one time sought her union with Lorenzo, for he is not only full of
promise, rich, noble, allied to royal houses both of France and
England, but, with high spirit, there is allied in him a tenderness
and love but rarely found. I marked it in him early, when he was page
to that magnificent prince his godfather. The other lads, who loved or
seemed to love him, were sure to prosper through his advocacy of
merits less than his own. In furtherance of my wish, I had Bianca
brought up with him in Florence; but, like an unskilful archer, I fear
I have overshot my mark. The one is as a brother to the other; and I
believe she would as soon marry her brother as Lorenzo. On his part I
know not what the feelings are. He seems to love her well, but still
with love merely fraternal, if one may judge by eyes and looks. I've
seen more fire in one glance at Leonora than in poor Lorenzo's life
was given to any other. But this unfortunate fight may breed mischief,
I fear. If Ludovic sent the man to kill him, he will not soon be off
the track of blood. Thank Heaven! he is soon going on."
"I think there is no fear," replied Ramiro, "unless Buondoni's blade
was well anointed. Ludovic is too wise to follow him up too fiercely.
We may run down our game eagerly enough upon our own lands, but do not
carry the chase into the lands of another, Signor Rovera."
"As soon as Lorenzo can rejoin the King of France, he is safe,"
rejoined the Count, "and methinks, till then, I can take care of him.
I know the look of a poisoner or assassin at a street's distance. Only
let us look to his wound; I have known one of the same scratches end a
good strong man's life in a few hours."
"So say I," answered Ramiro, "but I will go out and walk upon the
terrace. I feel not disposed to sleep. If you should want me, call me
in. I know something of poisons and their antidotes; I studied them
when I was in Padua; for, in this life, no one knows how often one may
be called upon to practise such chirurgy on his own behalf."
Thus saying, he left the Count de Rovera, and while the other, half
dressed as he was, hurried up to Lorenzo's chamber, Ramiro, with his
usual calm and almost noiseless step, went forth and walked the
terrace up and down. For more than an hour he paced it from end to
end, with all his thoughts turned inward. "A distant cousin of this
King of France," he thought, "and almost german to his apparent heir!
Wealthy himself and full of high courage! The lad must rise--ay, high,
high! He has it in his look. Such are the men upon whose rising
fortunes one should take hold, and be carried up with them. It was
surely Leonora's voice I heard talking with him from the windows. If
so, fortune has arranged all well; yet one must be careful--no too
rapid steps. We fly from that which seeks us--run after that which
flies. I will mark them both well, and shut my eyes, and let things
take their course, or else raise some small difficulties, soon
overleaped, to give the young lover fresh ardour in the chase. Pity he
is so young--and yet no pity either. It will afford us time to see how
far he reaches."
With such thoughts as these he occupied himself so deeply that his
eyes were seldom raised from the ground on which he trod. At length,
however, he looked up toward the windows; and there was one in which
the lights still burned, while figures might be seen, from time to
time, passing across.
"That must be his chamber," said Ramiro to himself. "I fear the blade
was poisoned, and that it has had some effect. I must go and see.
'Twere most unlucky such a chance should escape me. Let me see; where
is that snake-stone I had? It will extract the venom," and, entering
the house, he mounted the stairs rapidly to Lorenzo's chamber.
He found him sick indeed. The whole arm and shoulder were greatly
swollen; and while the old count stood beside his bed with a look of
anxious fear, a servant held the young man up to ease his troubled
respiration. Lorenzo's face seemed that of a dying man--the features
pale and sharp, the eye dull and glassy.
"Send for a clerk," said the youth; "there is no time for notaries;
but I wish my last testament taken down and witnessed."
"Cheer up, cheer up, my good young friend," said Ramiro. "What! you
are very sick; the blade was poisoned, doubtless."
"It must be so," said the young man, faintly; "I feel it in every
vein."
"Well, well, fear not," answered Ramiro; "I have that at hand which
will soon draw out the poison. Here man," he continued, speaking to
one of the attendants, who half filled the room, "run to my chamber.
On the stool near the window you will find a leathern bag; bring it
to me with all speed. You, sir, young page, speed off to the buttery,
and bring some of the strongest of the water of life which the house
affords. It killed the King of Navarre, they say, but it will help to
give life to you, Lorenzo."
"The bottigliere will not let me have it, sir," replied the boy.
"Here, take my ring," said the old count; "make haste--make haste!"
The boy had hardly left the room, when the servant first despatched
returned with the leathern bag for which he had been sent. It was soon
opened, and, after some search, Ramiro took forth a small packet, and
unfolded rapidly paper after paper, which covered apparently some very
precious thing within, speaking quietly as he did so:
"This is one of those famous snake-stones," he said, "which, when a
man is bitten by any reptile, be it as poisonous as the Egyptian asp,
will draw forth the venom instantly from his veins. Heaven knows, but
I know not, whether it is a natural substance provided for the cure of
one of nature's greatest evils, or some cunningly invented mithridate
compounded by deep science. I bought it at a hundred times its weight
in gold from an old and renowned physician at Padua; and it is as
certain a cure for the case of a poisoned dagger-wound as for the bite
of a snake. Ah! here it is! have bare the place where the sword
entered."
"Pity it came not a little sooner," said Lorenzo's servant, taking off
some bandages from his master's shoulder; "physic is late for a dying
man."
Ramiro d'Orco gave him a look that seemed to pierce him like a dagger,
for the man drew back as if he had been struck, and almost suffered
his master to fall back upon the bed.
"Hold him up, fool!" said Ramiro, sternly; and, holding the wound,
which had been stanched, wide open with one hand till the blood began
to flow again, he placed what seemed a small brownish stone, hardly
bigger than a pea, in the aperture, and then bound the bandages
tightly round the spot.
"That boy comes not," he said; "some of you run and hasten him."
But ere his orders could be obeyed the page returned, with a large
silver flagon and a Venice glass on a salver.
"Now, Signor Visconti, drink this," said Ramiro, filling a glass and
applying it to his lips.
Lorenzo drank, murmuring,--"It is like fire."
"So is life," answered Ramiro; "but you must drink three times, with a
short interval. How feel you now?"
"Sick, sick, and faint," replied Lorenzo. But some lustre had already
come back into his eye; and after a short pause, Ramiro refilled the
glass, saying,
"Here, drink again."
The young man seemed to swallow more easily than before, and, in a
moment or two after he had drunk, he said in a low voice,
"I feel better. That stone, or whatever it is, seems as it were
sucking out the burning heat from the wound. I breathe more freely,
too."
"All is going well," replied Ramiro. "One more draught, and, though
you be not cured, and must remain for days, perchance, in your
chamber, the enemy is vanquished. You shall have cheerful faces and
sweet voices round you to soothe your confinement; but you must be
very still and quiet, lest the poison, settling in the wound itself,
though we have drawn it from the heart, should beget gangrene. Bianca,
your dear cousin, and my child Leonora, shall attend you. Here, drink
again."
Lorenzo felt that with such sweet nurses he would not mind his wound;
but the third draught revived him more than all. His voice regained
its firmness, his eye its light. The sobbing, hard-drawn respiration
gave way to easy, regular breathing; and, after a few minutes, he
said,
"I feel almost well, and think I could sleep."
"All goes aright," said Ramiro; "you may sleep now in safety. That
marvellous stone has already drawn into itself all the deadly venom
that had spread through your whole blood. Nothing is wanting but quiet
and support. Some one sit by him while he sleeps; and if perchance he
wakes, give him another draught out of this tankard. Let us all go
now, and leave him to repose."
"I will sit by him, signor," said the man who had been supporting him;
"for there be some who would not leave a drop in the tankard big
enough to drown a flea, and I have sworn never to taste _aqua vitæ_
again, since it nearly burst my head open at Rheims, in France."
Before he had done speaking Lorenzo was sound asleep; and while the
servant let his head drop softly on the pillow, the rest silently
quitted the room.