The air was balmy, the breeze was fresh and strong, the large masses
of clouds, like spirit thrones, floated buoyant over the sky, followed
by the dancing sunshine. The manes of the horses waved wildly in the
wind, and their wide nostrils expanded to take in the delicious air.
The influence of the hour and scene spread to the heart of Lorenzo
Visconti, and seemed, for the time at least, to banish the thought of
sorrow and of ill. Out of the city, with the wide country between
Imola and Ravenna stretching in deep blue waving lines before his
eyes, the wind refreshing his brow and fanning his cheek, and his
noble horse bounding proudly under him, a sense of freedom from
earthly shackles and the hard bond of fate came over him. It sparkled
in his eye, it beamed upon his lip.
Ramiro d'Orco gazed upon him, and his aspect, more like what it had
been in early youth, brought back the thought of other days. Did they
soften that hard, obdurate heart? Did they mollify the stern, dark
purposes within his breast? Oh, no! He only thought, "Soon--very
soon!" And if there was any change in his feelings, it was but
inasmuch that the momentary relief--the temporary joy in Lorenzo's
aspect promised to give zest to his revenge, and add pangs to the
sufferings he hoped to inflict.
Yet he was courteous, gentle--oh, marvellously courteous. To have seen
him, one would have thought he was riding by the side of his dearest
friend; no one could have dreamed that there was one rankling passion
in his breast. Grave he was truly, but he was always grave. The
expression of his countenance, shaded by the long, iron-grey hair, was
even somewhat stern; but his words were smooth, and even kind; and
there was a sort of rigid grace about him, like that of some statues,
which gave force to all he said. They rode on (their two trains
mingling together) for about ten miles from Imola, and then Ramiro,
pointing with his hand to a low hill on the right, told Lorenzo that
just beyond that rise there had been lately found a curious ancient
tomb, apparently of an earlier date than any known Roman monument.
"We will go and see it," he said; "we shall have plenty of time. 'Tis
but a quarter of a mile from the road."
Lorenzo willingly consented: but when they had passed the rise, and
were turning from the road to the right, some white objects rose over
the slope, and a few steps more showed several lines of tents, with
sentries on guard, and horses picketed near.
"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed Ramiro d'Orco, with a look of
displeasure manifest on his countenance.
"Troops of France, my good lord," replied Lorenzo. "Do you not see the
banners? Probably your relation, the Lord de Vitry, with the auxiliary
force promised to his Highness the Duke of Valentinois."
"It is strange, my lord prefect, that they should be camped on this
side of Imola," said Ramiro; "they were more needed at Forli,
methinks."
He had drawn in his bridle while speaking, as if hesitating whether he
should go on or turn back; but Lorenzo spurred forward at once, and
was already speaking to the sentries, when the other came up.
They were led almost immediately into the camp, and welcomed by De
Vitry at the door of his tent.
"Come in, nobles," he said, "come in; you are just in time to crush a
cup of right French wine with me. Good faith, I and the great maestro
were about to drain the goblet. He has promised to paint me a
portrait, Signor Ramiro, of your fair relation, my sweet Blanche; and
I tell him if he wants the picture of an angel for any of his great
pictures, he shall have the portrait to copy at his wish."
Something common-place was said by Ramiro d'Orco in reply, and all
three entered the tent, where they found Leonardo da Vinci seated with
a cup of wine before him, but in dusty apparel, and with a very grave
expression of countenance. The ceremonious salutations of the day took
place, and some fine wine of the Rhone was handed round; but De Vitry
was more abrupt and thoughtful than ordinary. At length he rose, and
beckoned Lorenzo aside, saying:
"I want to speak to you, Visconti. How long are you from Forli?"
"But a few days," replied Lorenzo, following him; "I suppose you have
stopped the intended succour?"
De Vitry made no answer to this half question, but whispered
hastily----
"I understand it all; everything shall be done as he says. Devil take
that Antonio! what has he gone away for, just at such an emergency?"
"My noble friend, I know not what you mean," replied Lorenzo; "where
has he gone? what emergency?"
Ere De Vitry could answer, Ramiro d'Orco had risen, and, with a bland
smile upon his lip, was approaching them.
"I crave pardon, noble lords," he said, "but if we pursue not our
journey soon, signor, we shall not reach Imola ere dark."
"Do not let me detain you," said De Vitry, with his usual frank,
soldier-like manner. "Tell the duke, Visconti, that I think all danger
past, but that I will hold my ground till the last-named day has seen
the sun set, and then retire to Ravenna. My lord of Imola, I ought to
have paid my respects to you yesterday, but we were all tired with a
long march. Tomorrow, when the sun is declining, I will be with you;
but, I beg, no ceremony. I come but scantily attended, and form and
display are needless. Will you not taste more wine?"
Both Ramiro and Lorenzo declined; and the former felt well satisfied
when he saw the readiness with which the young prefect accompanied
him, for evil purposes are always suspicious, and he had thought the
few words spoken in private between Lorenzo and De Vitry must have
some reference to himself.
"He suspects nothing," he thought, as they remounted and rode on; "but
how could he? I am too eager. Like a boy chasing a butterfly, or a
youth a woman, I fear the prize will escape me, even when it is within
my grasp."
The rest of the journey was uninteresting. The two cavaliers soon
reached the object to which their steps tended--a small town, or
rather village, which Ramiro was fortifying, to command a pass through
a morass. The Etruscan tomb was forgotten, and their return to Imola
was made by a narrower and steeper, but much shorter path, which
brought them to the gates just as the sun had set.
A single lantern, which hung from the vault of the arched gateway,
gave them barely light to guide their horses, and as it fell upon the
dark countenances of the guard, Lorenzo thought, "It feels like
entering a prison."
At this moment a man stepped out of the shadow and handed Ramiro
d'Orco a paper, with the one word "important."
"A light! bring me a light!" exclaimed the Lord of Imola; and, with
some difficulty, a torch was lighted at the lantern, and held up so
that he could read. The contents of the letter seemed to puzzle him
for a moment, but gradually his pale cheek flushed, and his eye
flashed with a triumphant light.
"Here we must fain part for the night, my lord prefect," he said. "You
take to the bishop's square, and I, I am sorry to say, back to the
castle, for business of importance will keep me there to-night. We
shall meet again to-morrow. Good night."
"Good night," replied Lorenzo; and he turned his horse into the street
just within the walls.
"Oh, my lord, my lord," cried a voice, ere he had ridden a hundred
yards, "what news I have to tell you! Alas! alas! my lady is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Lorenzo, throwing his horse almost on his haunches
by the suddenness with which he reined him up; "dead! The man is mad!
Why, Bazil, what do you mean?"
"Too true, too true, my noble lord," replied the Frenchman; "she died
at two o'clock--quite suddenly. But come up, my lord. 'Tis ill talking
of such things here in the street."
Lorenzo spurred on his horse; and oh! what a tumult of wild
feelings were in his heart; But there was one predominant. It was
regret--almost remorse. He had spoken harshly, he thought--had acted
harshly. She had felt it more than he believed she could or would, as
her fainting on the previous night had shown. True, she had given
abundant cause for harsh words, and even harsher acts than he had
used. But the cause was forgotten in the thought of one so young, so
beautiful, so full of happy life, being laid suddenly in the cold
grave. A thousand times had he wished that he had never seen her; but,
now that she was gone, he would have given his right hand to recall
her to life. He reached the palace; he sprang from his horse and
rushed in. He heard the confused tale of the servants, and he sprang
up the stairs; but, as he went, his pace slackened. An awe came over
him; and he trod the corridor as if his step could have awakened the
dead. With a trembling hand he opened the door, and entered the
chamber of death. There were lights at the head and at the feet of the
corpse, with two of Eloise's maids--Giovanetta and another--seated one
on either side. Late autumn flowers were strewed on the fair form of
the poor girl, cut off in her young spring, and the painful odour of
the death incense spread a sickly perfume through the room.
Lorenzo approached with slow and silent tread, uncovered the face, and
gazed at it for a moment. Then kneeling by the bedside, he took one of
her marble-cold hands in his and pressed his lips upon it. A few tears
fell upon the alabaster skin, and rising, he beckoned Giovanetta
toward the adjoining room.
At the door he paused, and said in a low voice--
"You may both retire; but be near at hand; I will watch beside her."
"You, my lord!" exclaimed the girl.
"I," answered Lorenzo: "Why not I? But mark me, lock the door. I will
watch here, and when the priests return, say I will have nothing
farther done till to-morrow. She must lie as she is now. There is
something strange here, girl, on which I must be satisfied."
"Ay, strange indeed," said Giovanetta.
"Well, it must be unravelled before a grain of earth falls upon her,"
replied Lorenzo. "Now leave me; I cannot talk more to-night."
"I must tell you my lady's last words," said the girl: "it was her
command. In the agony of death, she cried, 'My husband! my husband!
tell him I never sinned against him as he thought--tell him I have
been faithful to him.' That is what she said."
"Oh, God! Do not torture me!" cried Lorenzo, waving her away. The girl
returned into the chamber of the dead, and whispered a few words to
her companion. Then both rose and retired, locking the door behind
them.
Lorenzo seated himself in the large chair, so that he could see
through the open door the bed and its inanimate burden. I will not
attempt to trace his feelings. Twice he rose, went to the bedside,
gazed upon the pale face, and returned to his watching-place; and
often he covered his eyes with his hands. There were various sounds
without--the return of priests--the movements of the servants; but he
gave them no heed; and shortly all was silent again.
At length there came a nearer sound. It seemed in the room beside
him--near, very near; and Lorenzo, starting, turned his head. Suddenly
his arms were seized by two strong men, and a third put his hand upon
the hilt of Lorenzo's sword to prevent him from drawing it. "You are
our prisoner, my lord prefect," said one of the men, "charged with the
murder of your wife. Come with us without resistance, for resistance
is vain. The palace is in our hands."
Lorenzo gazed round from one to another, and perceived that there were
several more figures at the door. He had no thought of resistance,
however. Taken by surprise at a moment when his mind was overpowered
with grief and horror, the fire of his character was quite subdued.
"The murder of my wife!" he said, "the murder of my wife! Who dares to
charge me? Who is mad enough to accuse me?"
"Of that we know nothing, my lord," replied the man who had before
spoken; "but you must come with us."
Silently, and without even caring to take his bonnet from the table,
he accompanied his captors, looking round the vacant corridors and
halls with a feeling of desolation words cannot convey. Not one of all
his servants was to be seen; no familiar face presented itself; he was
all alone in the hands of an enemy. The truth had flashed upon his
mind at length, but how he knew not. Was it an instinct? was it the
accumulated memories of many little incidents in the past, each next
to nothing by itself, but swelling to a mountain by the piling of one
small grain upon another, which showed him now, that Ramiro d'Orco was
his foe, and had been compassing his destruction? Or was it that a
dark and terrible--almost prophetic warning, which that same man had
given him in the palace of Cæsar Borgia, came back to his recollection
then?
That same man had said that he never forgave--that he never
forgot--that years might pass, circumstances change, the chain between
the present and the past seem severed altogether, and yet the memory
of an injury remain the only adamantine link unbroken. Lorenzo
remembered the words even then, as they marched him through the cold,
dark streets towards the citadel. He remembered, too, that by a fatal
error Ramiro had been led to think he had slighted his alliance,
destroyed his daughter's happiness, and treated her with scorn and
neglect. And now every courtesy he had received since he came to Imola
recurred to his memory as a menace which he should have heeded, every
smile as a lure which should have been avoided. How could he suppose,
he asked himself, that such a man as that would forget so great an
injury? how could he believe that he would so hospitably receive the
injurer without some dark and deadly purpose beneath the smooth
exterior?
Thought after thought, all painful, flashed through his brain. They
were many--innumerable, and, ere he could give them any clear and
definite order, the gates of the citadel were opened for his entrance,
and a few minutes after, the low, damp dungeon of a murderer received
him. They left him in solitude and in darkness to all the bitterness
of thought; and then all that was to follow presented itself to his
mind in full and terrible array--the trial; the death; the disgrace;
the blighted name; the everlasting infamy. Oh! for the battle-field,
the cannon's roar, the splintering lance, the grinding wound, the
death of triumph and of glory!
Vain wishes: the heavy iron door was there, barring from every active
scene of life; but that was not all he had to suffer that night. To
the felon's dungeon was to be added the felon's chains. The door
opened, the torchlight flashed in; fetters were placed upon his hands
and ankles, and the ring of the chain was fastened to a ring in the
wall. The guard withdrew, but left the door ajar, and a narrow line of
light marked the entrance. It grew fainter and fainter as the torches
receded, and then a human figure, like a dark shadow, crossed the
light as it became broader while some one entered.
Could it be any one to bring him comfort? Oh no. The well-known voice
of Ramiro d'Orco spoke in its cold, calm accents.
"Young man," it said, "you should beware when you are well warned. My
lord prefect, you have to die to-morrow. Make your peace with God, for
there is no help for you on earth. You shall have a fair trial in our
court, that all the world may know the proud Lorenzo Visconti has not
been condemned unjustly, but is truly guilty of the murder of a poor
defenceless woman--his own wife--and that history may record the fact
among the famous deeds of the great house of Milan. The proofs admit
of no doubt; so be prepared; and when the axe is about to fall,
remember me and Leonora d'Orco.
"Man, you are deceived!" exclaimed Lorenzo. But Ramiro waited no
reply, and the heavy key turned in the open door.