It was a bright and sunshiny morning--considering the season of the
year, more summer-like and warm than usual--and Leonora d'Orco sat in
her beautiful little garden without covering for her head, and with
her rich black hair in less trim array than usual, falling over her
lovely neck and shoulders. Her eyes were fixed upon the fountain in
its marble basin just before her, and there was something calm but
melancholy in their gaze. She watched the water as it sprung bounding
up, and then fell again in glittering drops, and presently the long,
jetty eyelashes overflowed with tears.
"Poor unhappy girl!" she murmured: "the fountain of bright life is
dried up for her--the gay and sparkling drops all spent. Oh
Eloise--poor Eloise!"
One of her maids came out and stood by her side; but Leonora did not
notice her, although the girl seemed anxious to tell her something.
Her lady turned away her eyes. Below, at the distance of about half a
mile, lay the city, with its dark walls and citadel strongly marked
out in the clear light, and she saw a horseman riding up at headlong
speed.
"Who is that coming, Carlotta?" asked Leonora. "It is not my father
surely."
"Oh, no, signora," replied the girl. "It looks like the maestro. He
will speak to you of what I was going to tell you."
"What were you going to tell?" asked Leonora with sudden eagerness.
"Oh! bad news, signora--nothing but bad news now," replied the girl:
"they say--I don't know how true it is, but Marco told me--they say
that the lord prefect was arrested last night by the Signor Ramiro's
order, for poisoning his lady."
Leonora started up with a face as pale as death; but, after gazing on
the girl for a moment with a wild look, she seated herself again and
put her hand to her head.
Two minutes had hardly passed ere Leonardo was seen hurrying along the
terrace, and the next moment he took her hand and kissed it.
"Pardon, dear lady, pardon my abruptness; but I have no time to lose."
"Speak! speak!" cried Leonardo, in a low but firm tone. "Let me hear
all and quickly."
"The trial is over," said Leonora. "Your father would not preside; but
his creatures have condemned him. No time was allowed to summon other
witnesses. Some poison, concealed in the case of a portrait known to
be Lorenzo's, was found in the unhappy lady's chamber; a girl called
Giovanetta testified that her mistress and Friar Peter both told
her that two papers--one of which she tried upon a dog who died
instantly, and the other which her mistress took--were given to the
countess by her husband. Some other small circumstances of suspicion
appeared, and on this he was condemned, although there were numerous
inconsistencies. He is innocent, believe me; but in two hours he will
be done to death before the south gate, unless your father can be
persuaded to respite him. There are many in the town that are sure of
his innocence, but too few I fear--
"He is innocent! he is innocent!" cried Leonora, with her brow
burning, and her cheek pale. "He is innocent as a babe. I will go
down--I will return with you--I will see my father--I will save him or
die with him."
"But, lady, they will let no one enter the town," said Leonardo; "they
have trebled the sentries at the gates. All may come forth who will,
but no one can return. So they told me as I passed; and, unless you
have the key of the postern, as you once had, I fear--"
"I have--I have," said Leonora; "stay but one moment."
She flew into the house and was but an instant gone. Leonardo saw her
hide something like a small vial in her bosom, but the large key was
in her hand; and merely beckoning him to follow, she ran down the
steps of the terrace, and through the garden toward the gate. Leonardo
followed rapidly, merely saying to the girl----
"Send down my horse to the gate."
Leonora was at the postern first, however, but her hands so trembled
she could not put the key in the lock. The painter took it from her,
opened the little gate, and, passing in, she sped on towards the
citadel. She did not observe that Leonardo was no longer with her;
but, with frantic speed, and hair escaped from all its bindings, she
sped on through the almost deserted streets till she reached the gates
of the citadel.
"Where is my father?" she cried; "where is the Lord of Imola?"
"Why, lady," replied a man standing beside the sentinel, "he is not
here; he is in the bishop's piazza, waiting till the execution is
over. This is a terrible day, and will bring ruin on the city, I can
see."
But ere his last words were uttered, Leonora was gone.
Ramiro d'Orco truly stood in the square before the bishop's palace,
which was not two hundred yards from the south gate. His arms were
crossed upon his chest; his head was held high, his brow contracted;
his jaws so firmly set, that when he spoke, in answer to any of the
lords and officers who surrounded him, the sounds issued from between
his teeth, and his lips were hardly seen to move.
"Do you not think, my lord, this is very dangerous," said one; "do you
remember he is the prefect?"
"He himself decided yesterday at this very hour, that no rank can
shield a murderer from death," replied Ramiro d'Orco.
"He made no defence," said another, "but denied the competence of your
court, declared the charge a lie, and appealed to the Pope and the
King of France."
"He himself pronounced my court competent to all high justice,
yesterday," said Ramiro, drily. "Let him appeal. When his head is off,
they cannot put it on again. No more of this. He dies, if I live."
A short pause ensued, and then a man was seen running rapidly up the
street which led toward the south gate.
"Who is this?" asked Ramiro d'Orco. "They have not called noon from
the belfry yet, have they?"
"No, my lord," answered a young priest; "it wants half an hour of
noon. But they have taken the prisoner down to the gate," he added,
well comprehending what was going on in the heart of his lord. "I saw
them pass as I came up a minute ago. But what has this fellow got in
his arms?"
"He is one of the guards from the gates," said another; "and, by my
life, I think they must have anticipated the hour, for that is a man's
head he is carrying."
"No great evil," murmured Ramiro d'Orco; but a moment after a soldier
reached the spot where they stood, and laid a bloody head at Ramiro's
feet. All, however, remarked that the hair was somewhat grey, and the
crown shaved.
"A pennon of horse from his Highness the Duke of Valentinois is at the
gate, my lord, seeking admission," said the messenger, almost
breathless. "We did not admit them, as your lordship had ordered the
gates not to be opened; but the leader threw this head in through the
wicket, saying that the duke had sent it to you for the love he bears
you. It is Friar Peter's head, my lord; do you not see? and the
officer says he confessed last night having poisoned the Countess
Visconti. What are we to do?"
A murmur of horror ran through the little crowd around, and a look of
relief and satisfaction at the timely intervention spread over almost
every countenance except that of Ramiro d'Orco, whose brow had
gathered into a deeper frown than ever.
"What are we to do with the lord prefect?" asked the man again.
"Hence, meddling fool!" exclaimed Ramiro d'Orco, stamping his foot
upon the ground. "Strike off his head! The sentence of my court shall
not be reversed. Strike off his head, I say! Wait no longer--'twill be
noon ere you reach the gate again. Away! Then open the gates. But mark
me, no delay, as you value your own life! Go fast, sirrah! Have your
feet no strength?"
The soldier ran down the street in haste, and Ramiro turned his eyes
from the pained and anxious countenances around him; but it was only
to meet a sight that affected him still more.
"Oh! I would have been spared this!" he cried, as Leonora rushed
toward him and cast herself at his feet.
"My lord--my father!" she exclaimed, stretching out her hands towards
him, "spare him! spare him! He is innocent--you know he is innocent!
Lose not a moment--send down the pardon--some gentleman run down. He
pardons him. Be quick! oh be quick!"
"Hold, on your lives!" cried Ramiro d'Orco, in a voice of thunder.
"Hence, girl. Take her away--some one take her away. He dies, if I
live!"
"Then hear, Ramiro d'Orco!" cried Leonora, "send me to the block
instead of him. I poisoned her more surely than he did. See, here is
the poison. I am ready; take me to the block! I confess the crime.
But hear me, lords and gentlemen all: Lorenzo Visconti is
innocent--innocent of the death of his poor wife--innocent of the
neglect and insult my father thinks he offered me, and for which, in
truth, he does him to death; innocent of all offence, as this hard
parent will find when we are both in our still graves."
"Ha! what is that?" exclaimed her father, gazing at her; "she
raves--take her away!"
"I rave not. It is all true," cried Leonora; "so help me God, as he
has explained all. Will you send the pardon now? Oh, speak! speak!"
"It is too late," said Ramiro, in a low and gloomy tone, pointing with
his hand down the street.
Leonora turned and gazed, with her eyes almost starting from her head.
Four men were carrying a bier with something stretched upon it, and a
cloak thrown over all. Leonora sprung upon her feet, uttered a shriek
that rung through the whole square, and then fell senseless on the
ground.
A brief lapse of forgetfulness came to that wrung and agonized heart,
and then she opened her eyes, but she closed them quickly again. She
fancied she was in a dream. What was it she thought she saw? The face
of Lorenzo Visconti bending over her; French soldiers all armed; the
banners of the Church mingled with others she knew not. Oh, it was a
dream--a deceitful dream!
"Let me take her, Lorenzo," said a voice she had not heard for years;
"joy kills as well as sorrow. Leonora--cousin Leonora, it is De Vitry:
wake up--wake up. Things are not so bad as they seemed. It was the
corpse of a murdering villain you saw, justly condemned to death
yesterday at this hour. Visconti is safe."
Leonora opened her eyes again, and found herself in the arms of De
Vitry. She gazed anxiously round. There stood Lorenzo with his head
uncovered, and his upper garment off; and a smile, like that of an
angel, came upon her lips; but when he advanced a step towards her,
she shrunk back in De Vitry's arms, murmuring, "Take me to my father!
Oh! where is my father?" and, covering her eyes with her hands, she
wept profusely.
"A litter is coming speedily from the inn there," said Leonardo da
Vinci; "let me escort her, my lord. You have other matters to attend
to just now, and she will be well in privacy for a time. Here comes
Antonio with a litter."
De Vitry lifted her in his stalwart arms, and placed her, as tenderly
as if she had been an infant, in the sort of covered bier then
commonly used in Italy by ladies too feeble or too timid to travel on
horseback. Leonardo drew the curtains round; but, leaning his hand
upon the woodwork, he walked on by her side, while four stout bearers
carried her on toward the gate leading to the villa. Twice Leonora
drew back the curtain and looked out. Once she asked, "Where is my
father? Is this all true, signor maestro, or am I dreaming still?"
"Your father is at the citadel waiting for the French and Roman
lords," replied Leonardo. "All is real, my child, and happy is it that
it is so; for both Antonio and I had nearly been too late. The number
of men we could introduce last night was too small; and, had you not
left the postern key in my hands, the Lord of Vitry and the French
forces could hardly have entered ere the axe had fallen."
Leonora shuddered and let fall the curtain; but after a moment or two
she looked out again on the other side, saying--
"Oh! good Antonio, is that you? Surely I saw him--surely I saw your
lord."
"Yes, dear lady, you saw him safe," replied Antonio; "we were
preparing to force the gate; but we should have been too late had not
the maestro brought round the French forces from the other side of the
town and let us in."
"God be praised!" murmured Leonora; "but oh, Antonio, does any one
believe him guilty still? If they do, that will kill him by a sharper
death than that of the axe.
"No one does--no one can," replied Antonio. "Mardocchi--that is,
Father Peter--made full confession last night of the darkest and most
damnable plot that ever was hatched. I could not tell the Duke of
Valentinois all, for there were many things I could not discover; but
when I showed him plainly that Mardocchi had betrayed some of his most
terrible secrets, he had him put to the torture; and then the
bloody-minded knave confessed the whole, filling up all the gaps that
my tale had left. The duke showed no reverence for his shaved head,
but struck it off, and sent it to Imola, with his whole evidence
written down by the Dominican who was there present. No, no, lady, no
one can entertain even a suspicion now."
"Thank God for that also," said Leonora, in a low tone. "Oh, this has
been a terrible day."
Again she let fall the curtain of the litter; and the bearers moved
slowly up the hill. They carried her along the terrace to her own
saloon; but when they stopped, and Leonardo would have aided her to
descend, they found her sound asleep.
Tired nature, exhausted with the conflict of passions, had given way,
and slumber had sealed her eyes at the first touch of returning peace.
There was a sweet, well-contented smile upon her lips, but Leonardo
marked a bright red spot upon her cheek, and calling her maids to her,
he himself stayed at the villa till she awoke. The burning fever was
already upon her; her words were incoherent, her pulse beating
terribly. For fourteen days Leonora d'Orco hung between life and
death; and happy was it, perhaps, that anything occurred to place a
veil between her eyes and the last terrible act of the drama in which
she herself had borne so conspicuous a part.
Every one at all acquainted with Italian history knows what followed;
how Cæsar Borgia, about four days after the events last recorded had
taken place, commanded the personal attendance of Ramiro d'Orco on his
terrible and treacherous march to Senegaglia; how Ramiro found himself
compelled to obey, both by the presence of the French and the papal
troops in his capital, and by fear lest his machinations against
Lorenzo Visconti should be too closely investigated; and how his dead
body was found one morning out in two pieces, in the marketplace of
Bologna. None knew how he died, or by whose command; and Leonora never
suspected that he had suffered a violent death.
That he was dead they told her as soon as she could bear such tidings;
and under the escort of De Vitry and his forces she joined Bianca
Maria and returned, after some months, to the Milanese. At the end of
some fifteen or sixteen months, Lorenzo Visconti and Leonora d'Orco
cast off the garb of mourning, and united their fates for ever. It was
on the day when she reached her twenty-first birthday; and if the
reader will look back through this veracious history, he will see that
few so young have ever gone through such varied and terrible griefs
and trials; nor will he wonder that, while I say Leonora d'Orco was at
last happy, I add, that a shade of melancholy mingled with her joy,
and that the dark cloud of memory still hung over the past, forming a
sombre background to the sparkling sunshine of the present.
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 1: Paul Jovius describes these guns--the embryo musket--amongst
the arms of the Swiss infantry, which did such good service in the
campaign against Naples. They were at first looked upon with great
contempt by the men-at-arms.]
[Footnote 2: The facts alleged against Alexander by the cardinal were,
unfortunately, only too notorious, and the letters produced were the
authentic letters of Borgia and Bajazet. They are still extant and
authenticated by the Apostolic notary. In one from the pope to the
sultan he demands "_ut placeat sibi_ (Bajazet) _quam citius mittera.
nobis ducatos quadraginta millia in auro venetos, pro annata anni
praesentis, quae finiet ultimo die novembris_," and Bajazet sweetly
suggests to his Christian ally, "_dictum Gem_ (Zizim) _levare facere
ex augustiis istius mundi et transferri ejus animam in alterum
saeculum ubi meliorem habebit quietem_," promising him three hundred
thousand ducats as soon as the corpse is delivered to his (Bajazet's)
agents.]
[Footnote 3: The Kings of France always claimed to be such, and the bishop
flattered the monarch's pride by the allusion.]
THE END.