Ramiro d'Orco sat in his own splendid room while rumours of the death
of the unfortunate Duke of Gandia spread consternation through the
city; but he had before him a parchment with a large pendant seal,
which gave him the important ecclesiastical fief of Imola, and he
thought of little else. The first great step he had ever been able to
take in that high road of ambition which he had so long been eager to
follow was now taken. He saw before him along career of greatness, and
he calculated that, step by step, as Cæsar Borgia rose, he must rise
with him. He did not over-estimate at all the abilities of that very
remarkable man; and it was no wild calculation to presume that, with
such abilities, with such courage, with such ambition, and without a
scruple, Cæsar Borgia, in that unscrupulous age, must rise to the
highest point of power and dignity.
True, the town of Imola had its own lords; true, it was strongly
garrisoned; but the barony had been declared forfeited to the Holy
See, and the fortifications were too much decayed to withstand a
siege. Linked as he was now with Cæsar Borgia, and knowing that his
services, especially with the hostile Cardinal of St. Peter's, were
necessary to the Holy See, he doubted not that the forces of the pope,
which were soon to be employed against Forli, in the immediate
neighbourhood of Imola, would be permitted to place him in possession
of the vicariate. He was resolved, however, to make sure of that point
as early as possible, and if not successful in his application, to
raise troops himself and endeavour to surprise the place.
The second day after the assassination of the Duke of Gandia, Ramiro
d'Orco, with more splendour than he had yet displayed in Rome,
presented himself first at the Vatican, and then at the palace of the
cardinal. At the Vatican he was refused admittance, and the attendants
told him the dreadful sufferings of the father for the loss of his
eldest and best-beloved son. They assured him, and assured him truly,
that the pope, shut up in his cabinet, had neither seen any one, nor
tasted food of any kind since the death of the duke had been
ascertained. At the Borgia palace he was admitted, and he found in the
gorgeous saloons a number of the high nobility of Rome, brought
thither by the same motive which he himself professed, namely, to
condole with the young cardinal upon his brother's death. With a grave
air and a sad look, he advanced slowly toward Borgia, and expressed in
graceful and well-chosen terms his regret and horror at the event
which had occurred.
The drama was well played on both parts, although, to tell the truth,
Cæsar was so much amused at the farce, that, had he not been the most
complete master of dissimulation in the world, he must have laughed
aloud. He looked grave and sad, however; and when Ramiro, after having
stayed for some time in the hope that the other visitors would depart,
rose to do so himself, Cæsar said to him, in that bland and caressing
tone which he knew so well how to use--
"Stay with me, my Ramiro. Your company will give me consolation. You
must partake my poor dinner, though, to say truth, I have no stomach
for aught."
One by one the barons departed, and if any one suspected that the
cardinal was not so much grieved as he appeared to be, they took care
not to express their doubts to any one--no, not to their dearest
friends or most trusted confidant. When they were gone, a quiet smile
passed over Cæsar Borgia's lips, but neither he nor Ramiro made the
slightest allusion to the events of the past.
The cardinal, however, was in the most benign and generous humour. His
appetite at dinner showed no signs of decay, nor did he altogether
avoid the wine-cup. Ramiro knew that he was necessary to him, and
therefore ate and drank with him without fear, although it was not
always a very safe proceeding. In the course of the dinner Ramiro
alluded to the difficulties he might have in obtaining possession of
Imola; but Cæsar cut him short with a kindly smile, saying--
"I have thought of all that, and that will be easily arranged, I
trust. My journey to Naples once over--and it will only take ten
days--I march against these traitor vicars of the Holy See, and will
expel them from the possessions they unjustly retain. The pope, my
friend, does not bestow a fief without putting the recipient in
possession of it. The first occupation of his forces under my command
will be to establish you safely in your city, trusting that I shall
have your aid and good counsel in dealing with the others which I have
to reduce. Ramiro," he continued, changing his tone and speaking
abruptly, "you have done me vast service, and those who serve me well
are sure of my gratitude. You have rendered great services, too, to
the Holy See, and can render greater still, for there is only one
enemy we have to fear, that fierce Julian. Continue to keep him in
check for my sake, and as long as my father lives you may count upon
me as your friend."
"I hope, indeed, to be able to do still more," and Ramiro; "for when
my daughter is united to a cousin of the King of France, his companion
and his friend, I shall have a mouthpiece at that court which can
whisper a word in the king's closet more potent than all that Julian
de Rovera can say at the council table."
"Good--good," said Cæsar Borgia; and then they proceeded to discuss
many points in regard to their future proceedings, which would not
interest the reader. Suffice it to say, a few weeks after this
conversation, a strong body of the papal troops appeared before the
gates of Imola, and summoned the garrison to surrender. Merely a show
of resistance was made: but at the first mention of terms the garrison
agreed to capitulate, and before night marched out. On the following
morning Cæsar Borgia pursued his way toward Forli, and Ramiro d'Orco,
with a splendid train and a considerable band of armed men, whom he
had engaged in Rome, made his public entry into the city. The people,
who had suffered some oppression from their late lords, shouted and
rejoiced, and all his first acts gave promise of a gentle and paternal
rule.
Only two days had passed after he became Lord of Imola, when Father
Peter, as he was now called, was summoned to the presence of Ramiro
d'Orco, and told to prepare for an immediate journey to Florence.
"I send a noble lady of this place," said the baron, "with twenty
men-at-arms and some women servants, to bring my daughter hither; but
you, my good Mardocchi, have an especial part to play in this
business. You will hand her my letter; tell her, her presence is
needful to me, and that the dangers she feared in Rome do not exist at
Imola. You have told me, I think, that you have seen and known the
young Lord Lorenzo Visconti. He is expected in Florence soon to wed my
daughter, and will go at once to the Casa Morelli. You must remain
behind after the Signora Leonora has set out, and wait for his coming.
When he arrives you must immediately see him, and induce him to come
hither. Tell him that I found it expedient for many reasons that
Leonora should be with me until he came to claim her hand, but for
none more than this: I have certain information that my good cousin,
Mona Francesca Morelli, having lost her beauty from the effects of
injuries she received some months since, is about immediately to enter
the convent of San Miniato. Leonora will then be without protection in
Florence, unless she goes with Mona Francesca to the convent, which
would not please me, as I fear the influence of the sisters upon her
mind. You will tell Signor Visconti, however, that I am forgetful of
no promises, and that I am ready to bestow upon him my child's hand as
soon as he arrives at Imola."
"But how long am I to wait for him, noble lord?" asked Mardocchi:
"young gentlemen are sometimes fickle, and perchance he may not come
as soon as you expect."
A sudden flush passed over Ramiro's face, and his brows contracted;
but after a short pause he answered, in his usual tone:
"He is not fickle, my good friend. He will be there within a month
after you reach Florence; the ways are all open now, and there is
nothing to impede him; but even if, from some accident which we cannot
foresee, he should be delayed a fortnight or three weeks longer, I
would have you stay for him. Few men, my good Mardocchi, are likely to
be fickle with _my_ daughter."
He laid an emphasis on the word "my", but yet there was something of
paternal pride and tenderness in his tone.
"I should think it would be somewhat dangerous," said the friar with a
laugh; "however, I will be ready, my lord, at your command, and will
obey you to the tittle."
"Dangerous!" said Ramiro, after the man left him. "But this is
nonsense; he dare not slight her."
In some eighteen days' time Leonora appeared in Imola, more beautiful,
perhaps, than ever, and many of the young nobles of the neighbouring
country would willingly have disputed her hand with any one; but
Ramiro d'Orco took care to make it known that her heart, with his
approbation, had been won by another, whose bride she was soon to be.
Toward her he was, perhaps, in some degree, more tender than he had
shown himself before, yet there was but little difference in his
manner or his conduct; there was the same indulgence of her slightest
wishes; the same grave, almost studied reserve. He told her more as a
command than a permission, that she would be united to Lorenzo as soon
as he arrived; and Leonora's heart beat high with hope and
expectation.
Week passed by after week, and still Lorenzo did not come. One letter
arrived from Florence informing Ramiro and his daughter that Mona
Francesca, deprived of Leonora's society, which had of late been her
only solace, had retired from the world even earlier than she had
intended; but nothing was heard of Mardocchi, though he was known to
be a good scribe.
Six weeks--two months passed, and fears of various kinds took
possession of Leonora's heart. Ramiro d'Orco said nothing, but he
appeared more grave and stern than ever.
At length a carrier passing by Imola brought a letter from Mardocchi.
It was merely to ask if he should return. He made no mention of
Lorenzo, but he merely laconically remarked that he thought he had
stayed long enough. Ramiro d'Orco laid the letter before his daughter
without remark, but he took advantage of a messenger going to France
from Cæsar Borgia to order Mardocchi to return.
And what did Leonora do? A tear or two dropped on the villain's
letter. She had no doubt of Lorenzo's constancy. His heart was imaged
in her own, and she saw nothing fickle, nothing doubtful there. She
thought he must be ill--wounded, perhaps, in some encounter--unable to
come or write, But she had heard of the courier's passing too, and she
longed to write. There had been something in her father's manner,
however, that made her hesitate, and, after long thought she went
boldly up to his private cabinet. He was seated, signing some official
papers, but he looked up the moment she entered, saying--
"What is it, Leonora?"
A new spirit had entered into her with her love for Lorenzo Visconti,
and she answered no longer with the timidity, nay, with that fear
which at one time she felt in speaking to her father.
"Lorenzo must be ill, my father," she said. "I am told that there is a
courier going to France, and I long to write by him. I feel it would
be better, wiser, to have no secrets from my father--to let him know
my whole heart and all my acts. I, therefore, will not write without
your permission."
"Write--write, my child," said Ramiro d'Orco, with a more beaming look
than usually came upon his countenance. "God grant that this young
man's disease may be more of the body than the mind. His conduct is
strange, but yet I will lose no chance. I cannot write to him, but you
may. Woman's love may pardon what man's harder nature must revenge.
Perhaps this letter may e explained. God grant it!"
Leonora retired to her chamber and wrote:
"My spirit is very much troubled, dear Lorenzo"--such were the
words--"You promised to return in two months after we parted. Five
have passed; and you have neither come nor written. I know you are
ill. I entertain no other fear; but my father, I can see, has doubts
that have never entered into my mind. I beseech you remove them. A
messenger has been waiting for you at Florence to explain to you that
my father has become Lord of Imola, and that I have joined him here.
It is probable that this good man, Father Peter, may not be able to
remain waiting for you any longer, and I therefore write to let you
know where you will find me. That you will seek me as soon as it is
possible, or write to me if it is impossible for you to seek me soon,
no doubt exists in the mind of your
LEONORA."
She folded and sealed the letter, and took it at once to her father;
but Ramiro remarked on the green floss silk with which it was tied.
"Take some other colour, my child," he said; and, stretching across
the table, he threw before her a small bundle of those silks with
which it was customary to attach a seal to letters in that day.
"There is crimson," he said; "that will suit better for the occasion."
There seemed a meaning lurking in his speech which Leonora did not
like; but she obeyed quietly, and was about to leave the letter
re-sealed with him, when he suddenly said--
"Stay! better put in the corner, 'To be shown to the Reverend Father
Peter, at the Casa Morelli, Florence, in case the Signor Lorenzo
Visconti should have arrived.' If he be there, it would be useless to
send the letter on to France; if not there, Father Peter will forward
it."
Leonora obeyed willingly, for during the short time she had been in
her father's house she had found that the friar was high in Ramiro's
good opinion, and that all the attendants, taking the colour of their
thoughts from those of their lord, spoke well of Father Peter. Nor had
the little which she had seen of him in Florence at all enlightened
her as to the real character of the man. To the eyes of children
fragments of coloured glass look like gems, and Leonora was too young
to distinguish in a moment, as one old and experienced can sometimes
do, the false from the true stone.
The direction was written in the corner with her own hand, which
prevented the letter from ever reaching her lover.
No sooner was it shown to Mardocchi than he told the messenger he
would keep it, as he had certain intelligence that the young cavalier
would be in Florence in three days. Lorenzo Visconti had been in
Florence long before, and from the old porter at the Casa Morelli had
heard the story which Mardocchi had put in the man's mouth; that
Leonora had gone to join her father at Imola, thence to proceed
immediately to some distant part of Italy, no one knew where. The deaf
old man's kindly feeling prevented him from telling all that Mardocchi
suggested, namely, that it was Ramiro d'Orco's intention to wed his
daughter to some of his new friends in the south, and that Leonora
made no opposition. That was the tale which reached Lorenzo
afterwards, for it was diligently spread; and as more than half of the
intelligence of Europe was in those days conveyed by rumour, it passed
current with most men, though it came in no very tangible form.
No sooner had Cæsar Borgia's courier departed from Florence than
Mardocchi set out for Imola. He was engaged in a somewhat hazardous
game, and it was necessary for him to be on the spot where it could
most conveniently be played. The one predominant passion, however, was
as strong in his heart as ever, and, had it cost him his life, he
would have played out that game for revenge. The circumstances of the
time favoured all his machinations. There were no regular posts in
those days. Communication was slow and scanty. An armed horseman
carried the letter of this or that great lord or merchant from town to
town, and sometimes was permitted, if his journey was to be a long
one, to take up small packages from private citizens in the places
through which he passed. It may easily be conceived that, in such
circumstances as these, it was easy for a villain, shrewd and
determined in his purpose, to intercept what communication he pleased.
A flagon of fine wine, a golden ducat, readily brought all ordinary
couriers to reason; and the dangerous secrets he possessed gave
Mardocchi, even with his lord, an influence denied to any other man in
Imola.
I may well, therefore, pass over all the details of those means by
which he worked the misery of Lorenzo Visconti and Leonora d'Orco.
Only two facts require to be mentioned. He soon found, or rather
divined, that it would be needful to stop Leonora's correspondence
with her cousin Blanche; and after the first two or three, no letters,
addressed to the latter, left the castle of Imola. They were, in
general, burned immediately; but, in carelessly looking through one of
them, the traitor found a few words which he thought might answer his
purpose at some future time.
Leonora's pride, in writing to her cousin, had somewhat given way on
hearing of the approaching marriage of Blanche and De Vitry, and she
alluded sadly to her own disappointment. "For once," she wrote, "an
early engagement has been crowned with happiness. Oh! what a fool I
was to cast away the first feelings of my heart, without knowing
better the man to whom I gave them."
These words were carefully out out, and when at length a letter from
Lorenzo came, sent from Rome by Villanova (the new ambassador of the
French king to the Papal court), it did not share the fate of the
rest. It was a last effort to draw at least some answer from Leonora;
and it had very nearly reached her for whom it was intended, the
courier having arrived at a very unusual hour. But Mardocchi was all
ears and all eyes, and he stopped the packages at the very door of
Ramiro d'Orco's cabinet.
"The good lord slept," he said; "he had been exhausted by long labours
in the service of his people. The letters should be delivered as soon
as he woke."
In the meantime he held them in charge; and when they were delivered,
one was missing. That one was sent back again to France some few
months before the death of Charles VIII., and into the cover was
slipped the scrap of paper containing those words in Leonora's own
hand, "Oh! what a fool I was to cast away the first feelings of my
heart without knowing better the man to whom I gave them!"
Mardocchi laughed as he placed the writing close under the seal.
Whether he saw the extent of the evil he was working, who can tell?
Vague notions might flit before his imagination of dark ulterior
consequences--of Ramiro d'Orco's seeking vengeance for the slight
shown to his daughter--of Lorenzo's fiery spirit urging on a
quarrel--of his own power to direct the dagger or the poison, though
he had vowed to use neither with his own hand; but certain it is that
no result could be too terrible for his desires.