"Prefect of Romagna!" said Ramiro d'Orco to himself, walking up and
down his private cabinet in the castle of Imola; "that may create a
conflict of jurisdictions with the vicars of the Church. It is an
awkward office to give or to hold."
He spoke in a low voice to himself, and though his words were serious,
and implied a difficulty of some magnitude, there was an unwonted
smile upon his lip, as if there was something that satisfied him well.
He rang a little silver bell which stood upon the table, and when a
servant appeared, ordered him to seek for Father Peter and bring him
thither. The man was a long time absent, but Ramiro d'Orco sat
quietly, with that well-pleased smile on his lip, gazing at some
papers before him, but quite unconscious of the characters with which
they were covered. What were his meditations, who can say? for some
smiles are not altogether pleasant; and his was far from being benign.
At length the friar appeared--now in reality a friar, for there were
strange transformations in those days; assassins sometimes became
friars, and friars were not unfrequently assassins.
"Sit, good father, sit," said Ramiro d'Orco, "I have news for you."
"Good news, I hope, my lord," replied Mardocchi. "I have some news for
you, too; but mine is not the best; however, it matters but little."
"Mine matters much," said Ramiro d'Orco. "What think you, Mardocchi?
Our friend, Lorenzo Visconti, has been appointed by the pope, at the
instigation of Louis XII., King of France, Prefect of Romagna, and is
about, in this fine weather, to make a tour through the exarchate and
the legations. He must come to Imola of course; and I have letters
here from that high and mighty prince Cæsar, Duke of Valentinois,
requiring me, by the favour in which I stand with him, to receive the
prefect with all due honour, and to make his time pass pleasantly. We
will do it, Mardocchi--we will do it; for, although there is a very
palpable hint in Borgia's missive that no harm is to be done to the
cousin of King Louis, yet, perhaps, we can so manage that he shall
find means to harm himself. He has an army at his back to help Cæsar
Borgia in carving out a principality from the heart of Italy; but the
vicars of the Holy See, and I as the humblest of them, must reverently
crave his Holiness to spare us the burden of the prefect's troops. We
will receive him gladly with a noble train, but methinks we cannot
admit an armed French force within our walls."
"Of course," replied Mardocchi, "that would be selling yourself to the
devil without pay. But I should think he would not come to Imola. He
cannot like to show himself before your eyes--and, if he did come, it
would be somewhat painful to the signora your daughter."
"He will come--he will come," replied Ramiro; "and he shall be
gallantly received. Fêtes and festivals shall greet him; he shall have
every reverence and every joy. He shall be taught to think that we can
forget as easily as he can; but he shall find that to slight the
daughter of Ramiro d'Orco is to tread upon an asp. As for my Leonora,
she has a proud and a noble heart. I have seen all the struggles--I
have marked the terrible conflict in her breast, and she has come out
victorious. My word for it, she will meet the young prefect and his
fair wife with all calm courtesy, greet him as an old friend, and seem
never to remember that he betrayed her unsuspecting heart, slighted
her love, and left her to disappointment and regret."
"That is all very good for the beginning," said Mardocchi, who was
quite a practical man; "but how does your lordship intend to proceed
in the more weighty part of the business? This Lorenzo Visconti is not
so easily reached as people might suppose. I told you how he killed my
friend and lord, Buondoni, under the very nose of the Duke of Milan--a
better man than Signor Buondoni never lived--and, if my advice had
been taken, and a dagger used instead of a sword, the youth would not
have troubled us any more; but Buondoni was always fond of the sword,
and of doing things openly, and so----"
"I know the whole history better than even you do, my friend," replied
Ramiro d'Orco; "Buondoni did like the sword, but he liked it well
anointed, and this Lorenzo would have died had I not cured him. His
life is mine, for I saved it for him; but as to how I shall proceed I
cannot yet determine. That must depend upon the time and circumstances
of his coming; but I have thought it needful to have you warned and
prepared in the matter; for on your skill and assistance I rely, and
you know I never forget services rendered any more than offences
given."
Mardocchi made no answer for a few minutes, but remained gazing in
silent thought upon the ornamented floor, until, at length, Ramiro
exclaimed:
"You make no answer, friar; what are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking," said Mardocchi slowly, "of what a glorious thing it
would be if we could so entangle him that we could make him not only
forfeit his own life, but also that honour and renown of which he is
so proud. Such things have been done, my lord, and may be done again.
I have heard that when Galeazzo was Duke of Milan, he got a cavalier
to poison his own sister to save her honour, as he thought, then
proved the crime upon him, and put him to the rack. Now, this Lorenzo,
if I have heard rightly, cares little for mere life--nay, would almost
thank the man who took it from him."
"Why so?" asked Ramiro, sharply, a sudden doubt flashing across his
mind, like a light in a dark night lost again as soon as seen; "why
so, friar?"
"If there be any truth," said Mardocchi, fully on his guard, "in the
reports brought by the followers of the great duke from France, this
wife whom he has wedded is as light a piece of vanity as ever made a
husband miserable. Nothing has been proved against her, but there are
many suspicions of her faithlessness. She is ever followed by a train
of lovers, giving her smiles now to the one, now to the other.
Visconti feels the wound with all the bitterness of a proud heart, but
cannot find the cure. In the meanwhile he bears himself carelessly, as
if he thought not of it; but Antonio Pistrucci, Duke Cæsar's under
purse-bearer, assured me that the young man was weary of his life, and
that, at the storming of a castle in Navarre, he so clearly sought to
lose it that the whole army saw his purpose. What I would infer, my
lord, is this: if you give him merely death, you give him what he
wants, and he remains unpunished but if you give him dishonour too,
you inflict all that other men feel in death, and something more
besides."
"That were hard to accomplish," said Ramiro d'Orco, rising, and pacing
backward and forward in the room; "I see not how it can be done."
"We have time to think, my lord," replied the friar; "leave me to
devise a scheme. If my brain be better than a mouldy biscuit, I will
find some means. If I fail, we can always recur to the ordinary plan."
"Well, ingenuity does much," said Ramiro d'Orco; "and, as you say,
Mardocchi, there is time to consider our plans well. But you mentioned
news you had to bring me: what may be their purport?"
"'Tis no great matter," answered Mardocchi; "but it bears upon the
very subject we have spoken of. As I came hither at your lordship's
order, I saw, riding in by the Forli gate, no other than an old friend
of mine, one Antonio, whom you know well, for he procured me the
honour of your service. I know not whether he is a follower of this
Lorenzo still, but I should think he is; and if I can find him in the
city, where he must stop at least to bait his horse, I can perhaps
procure information which may be serviceable."
"Serviceable indeed," replied Ramiro d'Orco, with more eagerness than
he was accustomed to show; "hasten down, good friar. See where he
lodges; obtain all the news you can from him. What we most want is
information of this young man's plans and purposes. That once
obtained, we can shape our own course to meet them. But remember, my
good Mardocchi, this man, this Antonio, is a personage to be treated
warily. He is shrewd and far-seeing. You must guard well every word
you say."
"I know him well, my lord," replied Mardocchi. "We were at school
together when we were boys, and he is not much changed since. But I
will not waste time in talking. He was riding fast when I saw him, and
perhaps he may only stop to bait his horse and get some food for
himself."
Thus saying, Mardocchi left the room, and proceeded straight from the
castle through the sort of esplanade that lay before the gates, and
into the town. He walked fast, but with a meditative air; and it must
be remembered that he had many things to consider.
When there is in the human heart a consciousness of evil done, there
is always more or less fear; and his first thoughts were directed to
calculate what where the chances of explanations taking place between
Lorenzo Visconti and Ramiro d'Orco if they ever met again on familiar
terms.
He soon saw, however, that those chances were small; that Lorenzo, by
his marriage, had placed a barrier between the present and the past,
that was not likely to be overleaped; and that while he was certain
never to seek explanations himself, there was as little probability of
Ramiro or Leonora either giving or receiving them.
"Besides," he argued, "if all the explanations in the world took
place, they can prove nothing in the world against me."
The next consideration that presented itself was the promise he made
Antonio to practise nothing against his lord's life; and though it may
seem strange that a man so utterly unscrupulous should attach such
importance to an adherence to his word, yet we see such anomalies
every day in human character, and in his case it might easily be
explained, if we had time or space to bestow upon it.
Suffice it, however, to say, in a few words, that this adherence to
his word, once pledged, was the only virtue he had retained through
life. A stubborn adhesion to his resolutions of any kind had
characterized him even as a boy, and it had become a matter of pride
with him to abide by what he had said. The difficulty with him now was
that Ramiro d'Orco would indubitably require assistance from his own
hand in taking vengeance upon Lorenzo Visconti, if some means could
not be found to betray the young nobleman into some dangerous act
which would fall back upon his own head.
This scheme had flashed suddenly through his mind while conversing
with Ramiro; and he saw in it the only means of escaping from the
breach of his word, or the acknowledgment of scruples which he knew
would be treated with contempt. The plan when he first suggested it,
was without form or feature; but now his busy and crafty brain eagerly
pursued the train, and a thousand schemes suggested themselves, some
of which were feasible, some wild and hopeless.
During all this time, however, he forgot not his immediate errand. He
watched everything passing in the street around him, and looked in at
the two small taverns in the street of the citadel. There was a better
inn, however, on the small square by the bishop's palace, where were
also most of the best houses of the city, and thither Mardocchi bent
his way. On reaching it, he entered the great court-yard, and inquired
if any strangers had arrived that day.
"Yes, father," replied the ostler to whom he spoke, "some seven or
eight; one gentleman, with four or five servants and three sumpter
mules, and two or three other persons."
"I will go into the stable and see the horses, my son," said
Mardocchi. "You know I am fond of a fine beast, and my own mule has
not its match in Imola."
The two strolled onward to the stable door, conversing familiarly, as
was the custom with friar and citizen in those days; and Mardocchi
passed down the line of stalls, discussing the merits of the horses,
till at length he laid his hand upon the haunch of a fine grey barb,
saying, "I want to see the man who rode this horse."
"He is within, at dinner in the hall," answered the ostler. "He came
himself to see his horse fed while they got ready for him. He is a
careful signor, and marks everything he sees. He told me in a minute
that those other horses belong to the great maestro Leonardo da Vinci
though he did not know him, for they passed each other close without
speaking."
"I will go in and see him," said the friar; and entering the inn by
the back way, he strolled into the dining-hall with an indifferent and
purposeless look, as if there was no object in his coming.
Antonio was sitting alone at a table, with his back towards the door
by which Mardocchi entered; but the tread of the latter upon the
rushes which strewed the floor made the other turn sharply round as he
came near.
"Ah! Signor Antonio, is that you?" exclaimed Mardocchi; "why what, in
Fortune's name, brings you to Imola?"
"Well met, father---father what is your name? for, by my faith, I have
forgotten," cried Antonio, keeping his eye fixed upon him more firmly
than Mardocchi altogether liked; "and what brings you to the Keys of
St. Peter? I thought that taverns and public-houses were forbidden to
your sacred calling except in time of travel."
"Many things are forbidden that men do," replied Mardocchi, with a
laugh; "and my sacred calling does not prevent my throat from getting
dry. I came seeking a small flagon of the wine they have here, which
is the best in Italy. Have you tasted it?"
"Good faith! no," answered Antonio; "I thought not to find anything
worth drinking in this small, dull place."
"Then I will have a big flagon instead of a small one," rejoined
Mardocchi, "and you shall share it with me. Here, drawer! drawer!
bring me a big flagon of that same old Orvietto wine which I had when
last I was here. You mistake much, Signor Antonio, both as to the wine
and as to the place. It is no dull town, I can tell you, but as gay a
city as any in Italy."
"It will be gayer before we have done with it," replied Antonio, "for
there are high doings where my lady is, and she will be here ere many
days are over."
"Indeed!" said Mardocchi; "but taste that wine, my son--taste that
wine, and tell me if ever you drank better. Sour stuff we used to have
where I passed my novitiate. They were strict in nothing but that,
Antonio; but it was the rule of the order that the body must be
mortified in some way, and they judged that the wine way was the
safest; for, there being taverns not far off, a man might mend his
drink when he went out to buy for the convent."
"By my faith! it is good, indeed," said Antonio, after a deep draught;
"if the meat be as good as the drink, we shall fare well."
"Nowhere better," replied the friar; "woodcocks with bills that long,
and breasts that thick" (and he demonstrated the measures on his arm
and hand); "beef as fat and as juicy as if it had been cut out of an
abbot's sirloin; fish from the Adriatic and the brook for Fridays; and
now and then a wild-boar steak, which would make a hermit break Lent."
"Well then, my lady will fare sumptuously, and I shall be spared
scolding the purveyors, as I was obliged to do at Forli," was
Antonio's reply.
"But you speak only of your lady," remarked Mardocchi; "does not your
lord come likewise?"
"That I cannot tell," answered Antonio; "I only know that she comes
first, and waits for him here, while he makes a tour through the
legations. He thinks the air of Rome too cool for her health, and, as
he is very careful of her, she comes hither."
There was a sly humour in his speech which Mardocchi well understood;
and he asked, "But why did he choose Imola for her residence; because
he thought it was so dull, as you said just now?"
"He did not choose it," replied Antonio; "no, no, 'twas she. He gave
her the choice of several cities around, and she chose Imola. She
knew, perhaps, it was the place he would least like; for some of the
good-natured babblers of the court had taken care to tell her of
certain passages in days past, and also that the lady of his early
love lived here. Madonna Eloise might think it would give him pain to
meet a dame who had treated him so unkindly, and so she chose Imola."
"Theirs must be a sweet life, by all accounts," said the friar; "I
have heard a good deal of this matter before from men in the
cardinal's train when he went to France. They say she is unfaithful to
him."
"Nay, nay, not unfaithful," replied Antonio, quickly, "but light
enough to make men think her so. But now, my good friend Mardocchi,
what makes you interest yourself so much in all this matter? You have
got over all old grudges by this time, I hope."
"No," answered Mardocchi bluntly, "I never forget grudges or promises
either, Antonio. You tied my hands, or I would have sent your lord to
a better world long ago. I could have taken his life in the French
camp, just when he parted from the old Cardinal Julian; for I was
close behind them both, and nobody would have known it."
"I should," replied Antonio, "for I know your handiwork, Mardocchi,
just as a connoisseur knows the touch of a great master's pencil. But
why should you bear him ill-will? His sword got you a much better
master than Buondoni."
"That I deny," said Mardocchi; "besides, I am little with this Signor
Ramiro now; I am but a poor friar, and he is great lord."
"Yes, but you are much with greater lords than he," said Antonio. "I
have heard of you in Rome, Mardocchi; and I could tell where you were
on certain nights which you wot of; but I am as secret as the grave,
my good friend. Now tell me how it fares with the Lady Leonora?"
"Oh, she is well, and gay as a sunbeam," replied Mardocchi; "the life
and the delight of the city."
"Methinks if I had treated a lover so, first broke his heart and then
driven him to wed without love, I should not be quite so happy," was
Antonio's answer.
"It is strange," said the friar, in a natural tone; "but women are
full of wild caprices."
"That is true, indeed," replied Antonio; "but she might at least
have written to say she had changed her mind--that her mood was
altered--that she had seen some one else she loved better."
"Did she never write?" asked the friar.
"He never received her letter, if she did," answered Antonio, in a
tone so peculiar that Mardocchi's cheek changed colour, not
unperceived by his companion. But Antonio instantly sought another
subject, and the conversation was prolonged for more than an hour. The
wine was very good, and both drank deep; but neither could persuade
the other to pass the bound where the brain becomes unsteady and the
tongue treacherous. When they rose to separate, the balance of
knowledge gained, however, was certainly on Antonio's side. He had
told nothing but what was known, or soon would be known to every one.
Neither had the monk in words; but Antonio gathered not his
intelligence from words. It was one of his quaint sayings that no two
things were so opposite as words and facts. But every look, every turn
of expression, every doubtful phrase, or endeavour to evade the point
or double round the question, gave him light; and by the time
Mardocchi left him, if he had not reached the truth, he had come
somewhat near it.
True, he fancied that the friar had been but Ramiro's instrument in
breaking through the engagement between Leonora and her lover; but
that her letters had been stopped, and probably Lorenzo's intercepted,
he did not doubt. To a mind so keen as his this was a sufficient clue
to after discoveries; and while Mardocchi hurried back to the citadel
to tell Ramiro that Antonio would stay out the day, and was about to
hire the great Casa Orsina, next to the bishop's palace, for the
prefect's wife--that she would be in Imola in a few days, and that
Lorenzo's coming was uncertain, Antonio remained for half an hour in
thought.
"No, no," he said to himself, "hers was true love, if ever I beheld
it; and he says she is gay, the life and soul of the place. That is
unnatural--she loves him still! And he, poor youth, loves her; and is
ever contrasting her in his mind with this light, half-harlot wife,
with whom it has pleased Heaven to curse him. I can see it in his eyes
when he looks at her--I can see it when she scatters round her smiles
on the gilded coxcombs of the court. Yet there must be something more
to discover, and, please God, I will discover it."