On what a miserable thing it must be to return to a home, and to find
that the heart has none, the fond, true welcome wanting--the welcome
of the soul, not the lips. Oh, where is the glad smile! where the
cordial greeting! where the abandonment of everything else in the joy
of seeing the loved one return! Where, Lorenzo?--where?
'Tis bad enough when we find petty cares and small annoyances thrust
upon us the moment our foot passes the threshold--to know that we have
been waited for to set right some trivial wrong, to mend some minute
evil, to hear some small complaint--when we have been flying from
anxieties and labours, and thirsting for repose and love, to find that
the black care, which ever rides behind the horseman, has seated
himself at our fireside before we could pull off our boots. 'Tis bad
enough--that is bad enough.
But to return to that which ought to be our home, and find every
express wish neglected, every warning slighted, every care frustrated,
and all we have condemned or forbidden, done--that must be painful
indeed!
The arrival of Lorenzo Visconti in Imola was unexpected; and his short
stay with Ramiro d'Orco but served to carry the news to the gay
palazzo inhabited by his wife, and create some confusion there. True,
when he entered the wide saloons, where she was surrounded by her own
admiring crowd, Eloise rose and advanced to meet him, with alight,
careless air of independence, saying, "Why, my good lord, you have
taken us by surprise. We thought you still at the siege of Forli."
"Forli has capitulated, madame," replied Lorenzo, gazing round, and
seeing all those whom he wished not to see. "It was too wise to be
taken by surprise. But I am dusty with riding--tired too. I will
retire, take some repose, and change my apparel."
Thus saying, he left the room. Eloise made no pretence of following
him; and, as he closed the door, he could hear her light laugh at a
jest--perhaps at himself--from some of her gay attendants.
Oh, how his heart sickened as, led by Antonio, he trod the way to the
apartments of his wife!
"Leave me, Antonio," he said, "and return in an hour. There, busy not
yourself with the apparel. Heaven knows whether I shall want it. Leave
me, I say!"
"When you have leisure, my lord, I would fain speak a word or two in
your private ear," said Antonio; "you rode so fast upon the road I
could not give you some information I have obtained."
"Regarding whom?" asked Lorenzo, with a frowning brow; "your lady?"
"No, my lord, regarding the Signora d'Orco," replied the man.
But Lorenzo merely waved his hand for him to depart; and when he was
gone, pressed his hands upon his burning temples, and sat gazing on
the ground. His head swam; his heart ached; his mind was irresolute.
In his own soul he compared Leonora d'Orco with Eloise de Chaumont. He
asked himself if, fickle as she had shown herself to be, Leonora, once
his wife, would have received him so on his return from labour and
dangers.
He remembered the days of old, and answered the question readily. But
then he turned to bitterer and more terrible inquiries. Was his wife
faithful to him? or was he but the butt and ridicule of those whom,
contrary to his plainest injunctions, she had brought from Rome?
He was of no jealous disposition. By nature he was frank and
confiding; but her conduct had been such--was such, that those
comments, so hard to bear--those suspicions, that sting more terribly
than scorpions, had been busy round his ears even at the court of
France.
In vain he had remonstrated, in vain had he used authority. He found
her now, as he had left her in Rome, lighter than vanity itself. That
accident, propinquity, and some interest in the accident she had
brought upon him, with the vanity of winning one who had been
considered cold and immovable, had induced her to give him what little
love she could bestow on any one, and confirm it with her hand, he had
long known. Long, too, had he repented of his rash marriage; but that
carelessness of all things, that weariness of the world, that longing
for repose, even were it the repose of the grave, which Leonora's
fancied fickleness had brought upon him, had not been removed by his
union with Eloise de Chaumont. A thousand evils had been added--evils
the more terrible to a proud, high mind. He had never expected much;
but he had believed Eloise innocent, though thoughtless; tender and
affectionate, though light. But he had not found the tenderness after
the ring was on her finger; and the very semblance of affection had
soon died away.
"What was there on earth worth living for?" he asked himself; "what
was there to compensate the pangs he endured--the burthen he bore.
Nothing--nothing. Life was only not a blank because it was full of
miseries."
Thus he sat, with a wrung heart and whirling brain, for nearly half an
hour. At length he took a picture from his bosom--one of those small
gems of art which the great painters of that and the preceding age
sometimes took a pride in producing--and gazed upon it earnestly. It
was the portrait of a very beautiful woman (his own mother), which the
reader has seen him receive from Milan. He thought it like Leonora
d'Orco; but oh! that mother was faithful and true unto the death. She
had defended her own honour, she had protected herself from shame, she
had escaped the power of a tyrant, by preferring the grave to
pollution.
He turned to the back of the picture, now repaired, and read the
inscription on it, "A cure for the ills of life."
"And why not my cure?" asked Lorenzo of his own heart; "why should I
not pass from misery and shame even as my mother did?"
He pressed the spring, and the lid flew open. There were the fatal
powders beneath, all ready to his hand.
He was seated in his wife's room, and among many an article of costly
luxury on the table were a small silver cup and water-pitcher. Lorenzo
stretched out his hand to take the cup, laying the portrait with the
powders down while he half filled the cup with water. But, ere he
could take a powder from the case, Antonio re-entered.
"The hour has passed, my lord, and I do hope you will now hear me," he
said. "I have to tell you that which, perhaps, may be of little
comfort, but is yet important for you to know."
"Speak on, my good Antonio," said Lorenzo, in a gentler tone than he
had lately used; for the thoughts of death were still upon him, and to
the wretched there is gentleness in the thoughts of death. "What is it
you would say? I am in no haste;" and he set down the cup upon the
table by the picture.
"My lord, we have been all terribly deceived," said Antonio; "you, I,
the Signora Leonora--all. While you have thought her false and fickle,
she has believed you the same."
"Antonio!" exclaimed his lord, in a reproachful tone, "Antonio,
forbear. Try not to deceive me by fictions."
"My lord, I stake my life upon the truth of what I say," replied
Antonio. "I have seen a maid whom she hired in Florence after the rest
had left her--those who were carried away from the Villa Morelli, and
never heard of more. I had my suspicions; and, after having won her
good graces, I questioned the girl closely. Signora d'Orco wrote to
you often--sent letters by any courier that was going to France--wept
at your silence--pined, and nearly died."
"But I wrote often," said Lorenzo.
"Your letters never reached her, nor hers you," replied the man; "by a
base trick----"
"But her handwriting!" exclaimed Lorenzo, "her own handwriting! I saw
it--read it."
"I know not what that handwriting implied, my lord," was the answer;
"but perhaps, if you were to examine it closely, you might find either
that it was not hers, or that, thinking you false and forsworn, she
wrote in anger, as you have spoken and thought of her."
Lorenzo meditated deeply, and then murmured, "It may be so. O God! if
this be true!"
"It is true, my lord, by my salvation," replied Antonio; "I have the
whole clue in my hands. The Signor Leonardo da Vinci, too, knows all,
and can satisfy you better than I can."
"Is he here?" asked Lorenzo, in a tone of melancholy interest,
remembering the happy house at Belgiojosa. "If he be convinced, there
must be some truth in it. But tell me, Antonio, what fiend has done
this? It cannot surely be Ramiro d'Orco?"
"Oh no," replied the man; "but ask me no more, my lord, at present.
See the Signor Leonardo. He and I have worked together to discover
all, and he will tell you all. Well may you call the man a friend; but
I am on his traces, like a staghound, and I will have my fangs in his
flanks ere long. Let the maestro tell you, however. I only wished to
let you know the truth, as the Signora Leonora is even now with her
father below, and you must meet her presently. You could not meet the
faithless as the faithful; and she is true to you, my lord--has been
ever true."
Lorenzo started up. "Leonora here!" he exclaimed; "I must see her---I
will see her. Where leads that door, Antonio?"
"To the room reserved for your lordship's toilet," replied the man.
"Quick! send my varlets up," cried the master; "I will but shake off
this dust and go down."
"Better appear as becomes you, my noble lord," replied Antonio; "there
is a splendid company below--indeed, there always is when the countess
receives her guests. Your apparel is all put forth and ready. To dress
will but take you a few minutes."
"Well, be it so," said Lorenzo; "bring me those lights, my good
Antonio;" and he walked straight to the door of the dressing-room,
leaving his mother's portrait and the poison on the table. He
remembered it once while going down the stairs after dressing,
but there was too much eagerness in his heart for him to return
to take it then, and from that moment events and--more engrossing
still--feelings hurried on so rapidly, he forgot entirely his purpose
of going back for the portrait at an after period.
The entrance of the young prefect into his wife's splendid saloons
caused no slight movement among the many guests there present. His
noble and dignified carriage, the strange air of command in one so
young--an air of command obtained as much by sorrows endured,
and a manly struggle against despair, as by the habit of
authority--impressed all the strangers in the room with a feeling
going somewhat beyond mere respect. But there was one there present
whose feelings cannot be described. He was to her, as it were, a
double being--the Lorenzo of the past, the Lorenzo of the present. The
change in personal appearance was very slight, though the youth had
become the man. The dark, brown curling beard, the greater breadth of
the shoulders, the powerful development of every limb, and perhaps
some increase of height, formed the only material change, while
the grace as well as the dignity was still there. In the ideal
Lorenzo--the Lorenzo of her imagination--the change was, of course,
greater to the eyes of Leonora. He was no longer her own--he was no
longer her lover--he was the husband of another--there was an
impassable barrier between them; but that day had diminished the
difference. She now knew that he was as noble as ever, that he had not
been untrue to her without cause, that he had loved her faithfully,
painfully, sorrowfully (she dared not let her mind dwell on the
thought that he loved her still); and there was a sort of a tie
between her heart and his, between the present and the past, produced
by undeserved grief mutually endured.
Oh! how she longed to tell him that she had never been faithless to
him--that she had loved him ever! Again, she did not dare to admit
that she loved him still.
Yet she commanded herself wonderfully. She had come prepared; and she
had long obtained the power of concealing her emotions. That she felt
and suffered was only known to one in the whole room. She clung more
tightly to her father's arm, her fingers pressed more firmly on it;
and Ramiro d'Orco felt all she endured, and imagined more. He said not
a word indeed to comfort or console her, but there were words spoken
in his own heart which would have had a very different effect if they
had found breath.
"The day of vengeance is coming," he thought--"is coming fast;" but
his aspect betrayed no emotion.
Lorenzo took his way straight to where the Lord of Imola and his
daughter stood, close by the side of his own wife; and Eloise laughed
with a gay, careless laugh, as she saw the sparkle in her husband's
eyes.
"This is my friend, the Signora d'Orco," she said; but Lorenzo took
Leonora's hand at once, saying, "I have long had the happiness of
knowing her;" and he added (aloud, though in a somewhat sad and
softened tone) words which had only significance for her; they were:
"I have known her long, though not as well as I should have known
her."
He stood and spoke with Leonora herself for some moments. He referred
no farther to the past, for the icy touch of her hand on that warm
night told him plainly enough that she was agitated as far as she
could endure, and he strove to diminish that agitation rather than
increase it.
He then turned to Ramiro d'Orco, saying, "My Lord of Imola, I will
beseech you to go with me through the rooms, and introduce me to the
noble gentlemen and ladies of your city."
Ramiro d'Orco was all graciousness, and led him from one to another,
while Eloise with some malice, whispered in Leonora's ear:
"He is marvellously handsome, is he not? When you were standing
together the Count do Rouvri whispered me that you were the two most
beautiful personages in Italy."
"He is a poor judge and a poor courtier," replied Leonora; and the
conversation dropped.
She had now fully recovered her composure, and she thanked God that
the trying moment was over. Numbers flocked round her, gay words and
pleasant devices passed, and all that fine wit for which the Italians
were famous, displayed itself. Nor did Leonora do her part amiss,
although it must be owned her thoughts sometimes wandered, and her
words were once or twice somewhat wide of the mark.
At length the prefect and Ramiro d'Orco returned, and then began
arrangements for the following day. It seemed understood that on
alternate nights the Lord of Imola and the lady of the prefect should
entertain the nobility of the city and the district round, and their
meeting for the following evening had been fixed for rather an early
hour at the villa on the hill, before Lorenzo's unexpected arrival at
Imola. Eloise, however, who was not without her caprices, thought fit
to change the arrangement, declared that she was weary of so much
gaiety, felt herself somewhat indisposed, and would prefer a day of
rest, if it were not inconvenient to the Signor d'Orco to postpone his
festa till the following day.
Ramiro d'Orco declared that, on the contrary, the change would be
convenient to him, for that he was bound to go, either on the morrow
or the day after, to hold a court of high justiciary at a small town
just within his vicariate, and that he could not return the same
night.
"I will set out to-morrow, my lord," he said, "and shall be back early
on the following day. In the mean time, I must leave my daughter here
to do the honours of the city to you and your fair lady; and if she
fails in any point, she shall be well rated at my return."
Thus saying, he and Leonora took their leave; but the festivities in
Lorenzo's house continued long. He himself was present to the last,
although his presence certainly did not throw much gaiety upon the
scene. To the citizens of Imola he was attentive and courteous, but to
the crowd of butterflies who had followed Eloise from Rome, without
being repulsive, he was cold and distant. When the last guest was
gone, he and his wife took their several ways, she to her chamber, he
to his dressing-room; and, long after she had retired to rest, she
heard her husband's voice conversing eagerly with Antonio.
"Talking over my foibles, I suppose," said Eloise to herself; "I wish
I could hear what they say;" and she raised herself up in bed to go
towards the door, but she felt weary, and her natural indifference got
the better of her curiosity. She sank back upon her pillow, and soon
was buried in sleep.
The conversation of which she had heard the murmur had no reference to
herself. Lorenzo questioned his humble friend in regard to the facts
he had mentioned in the earlier part of the evening, and many
and varied were the feelings which the intelligence he received
produced--deep and bitter regret, some self-reproval, and a sensation
which would have resembled despair had not a sort of dreamy, moonlight
joy, to know that he had been still beloved, pervaded all his thoughts
with a cold but soothing light. He sought to know on whom the
suspicions of Antonio and Leonardo fixed as the agent of all his
misery, but the good man refused to satisfy him.
"Leave him to me, my lord," he said; "I have means of dealing with him
which you have not. I will only beseech you tell me how long the great
Duke of Valentinois remains at Forli, and to give me leave to absent
myself for a day or two at any time I may think fit."
"Oh, that you have, of course," replied Lorenzo. "Did I ever restrain
you, Antonio? As to Borgia, he will most probably remain a month at
Forli. I left him as soon as the place capitulated; for I love him
not, although my good cousin, King Louis, is so fond of him. Well,
policy, like necessity, too often brings the base and the noble
together. But, as the capitulation imported that the town would
surrender, if not relieved, in three days, and I know that De Vitry is
on his march with three thousand men, which will render relief
impossible, I thought I might very well leave this good lord duke to
watch the city by himself. He is an extraordinary, a great, and a
mighty man, but as bad a man as ever the world produced--unless it be
his father."
"That will do right well," replied Antonio; "I neither love him nor
hate him, for my part, but I must use him for my purposes."
"He generally uses other men for his," answered his lord, with a
doubtful look.
"Great stones are moved by great levers," said Antonio; "and I have
got the lever in my hands, my lord, with which I can move this mighty
man to do well-nigh what I wish. I will set out to-morrow evening, I
think, and ride by night---no, it must be on the following day. There
is a game playing even now upon which I must have my eye. In the mean
time, your lordship had better see the Signor Leonardo; he will tell
you much; and if there be a lingering doubt, as there well may be,
that your poor servant has ascertained the facts he states beyond a
doubt, the maestro will confirm all I have said."
"Antonio," said Lorenzo, giving him his hand, "if ever there was a man
who faithfully loved and served another, so you have loved and served
me. But love and service are sometimes blind and dull. Not such have
been yours. Where I have wanted wisdom, perception, or discretion, you
have furnished them to me; and of all the many benefits conferred on
me by Lorenzo de Medici, his placing you near me was the greatest.
Power, and wealth, and authority are often irritable, and sometimes
unjust. If I have ever shown myself so to you, Antonio, forgive me for
it; but never believe that, knowing you as I know you, I ever doubt
your truth."
Antonio made no reply, but kissed his lord's hand, as was the custom
in those reverent ages, and left him with a swimming eye.
Lorenzo cast from him the gorgeous dress at that time common in Italy,
the gorgeous chain of gold, the knightly order of St. Michael, the
surcoat of brown and gold, the vest and haut-de-chaussée of white
satin and silver, and, after plunging his burning head several times
in water, cast on a loose dressing-gown, and seating himself in a wide
easy-chair, endeavoured to sleep. The day had been one of fatigue and
excitement. Neither mind nor body had enjoyed any repose, but sleep
was long a stranger to his eyelids. At length she came, fanning his
senses with her downy wings, but only as a vampire, to wound his
heart while she seemed to soothe. He dreamed of Eloise. He saw her
dying by the dagger-blow of a hand issuing from a cloud. All was
forgotten--indignation, anger, shame, I may say contempt. She was his
wife, the wife of his bosom, the wife plighted to him by the solemn
vow of the altar. He seized the visionary hand, uplifted for a second
blow, and pushed it back, exclaiming, "No, no, strike me! If any one
must die, strike me!" and then he woke.
The lights which he had left burning were nearly in the sockets. The
first blue gleam of morning was seen through the windows; and Lorenzo,
dressing himself quietly in his ordinary garments, descended to the
court-yard, endeavouring to forget the troublous visions of the night.