MORE ABOUT THE CARDINAL.
Itri, the birthplace of the notorious Fra Diavolo, is a regular
robber's-nest, picturesquely placed on the side of a lofty hill, and
crested by a ruined castle.
In Ippolito de' Medici's time the castle was not ruined; and there was
also a monastery, where he and his attendants were suitably entertained.
On the afternoon of the 2nd of August, after a meal which we should call
luncheon, but which the early habits of those days distinguished as
dinner,--succeeded by a moderate siesta,--the court-yard was all alive
with preparations for a gallant riding-party, in the full heat and glare
of the day. Groups of cowled and bare-headed monks stood curiously
about, admiring the Cardinal's beautiful mare; and groups, too, of
robber-like, shaggy-looking men, and bright-eyed women and girls with
golden bodkins in their hair, hung about the gates and passed their
comments on the cortége. The Cardinal came forth, talking to the Prior,
whose pale, attenuated face and hollow eyes formed a notable contrast to
the vivid colouring of his own healthy, well-fed countenance. He was
within an ace of losing his good looks from too much eating and
drinking. In dress, the Cardinal was superb, with a touch of the church
militant. A smile was on his lip as he patted his mare and examined her
trappings, saying,
"She will not serve me that sorry trick again, I hope."
"Fear not, my Lord Cardinal," said his groom; and he threw himself into
the saddle. The Florentines also mounted their horses.
At this moment, Piero Strozzi stepped forward, saying, "This, from my
father," with a meaning smile; and gave him a billet.
This Piero was son of Felippo, and had something of the same cold, sly
look.
The billet only contained these words: "All goes well." The Cardinal
read it with a gay smile, and tossed it back to Strozzi.
"Good news to start with," said he to his companions, as they rode out
of the yard.
"The sun can scarce be hotter in Africa than it is here to-day, I
think," said Donati, one of the _fuorusciti_.
"Not a whit too hot for me; I enjoy it," said the Cardinal. "And the
road is in our favour, for it is all down-hill."
"_Facile descensus_," said Capponi. "What a vibrating haze!"
"We shall enjoy the shade and the coolness at Fondi," said Ippolito.
"You know I have undertaken to show you the fairest lady in Italy."
"And I maintain, beforehand, that she cannot be so fair as the
Marchesana del Vasto," said Donati.
"Allowing for difference of years, you mean," said Capponi. "The Duchess
is a little past her prime."
"No such thing," said Ippolito quickly; and he used the spur, though
there was no need. The mare sprang forward; the others were obliged to
quicken their pace, and they had ridden a mile or two before another
word was spoken.
Then the Cardinal slackened his speed, and began to talk of matters
quite different; of the brilliant African campaign; of the likelihood of
Muley Hassan holding his own, now he was reinstated; of the probable
movements of Barbarossa; of the glut of Moorish slaves in the market,
and so forth.
Arrived at Fondi, the Cardinal was preparing to alight, when the
Duchess's grey-haired seneschal came forward and announced the
mortifying intelligence that his lady was from home.
It may be matter of surprise that the Cardinal should not have been
apprised of her absence at Itri; but, in fact, he had learnt from what
he had considered good authority, that she was to return to Fondi a
little before this time, so that he had made sure of finding her at her
castle.
His chagrin was extreme; not only because he had counted much on this
visit, and had now no hope of seeing her before he sailed, but because
he had given out to his companions that he possessed such perfect
knowledge of her movements and such security of a cordial reception,
that he was now open to their raillery, whether or no they spared it.
The seneschal, who knew him well, respectfully besought him to partake
of such poor refreshment as the castle afforded; but the Cardinal was
vexed, and rode off again, without compassion for man or beast.
The Florentines looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders, but
were too wise to remonstrate. They followed him, panting, across the
steaming plain, where groups of cream-coloured oxen, cropping the rank
herbage, looked up at them with dreamy, wondering eyes. When they
reached the covert of cypress, poplar, and gnarled old olives, they
loitered dangerously in the shade; and then, when well chilled, spurred
on again, making themselves and their horses hotter than ever. And of
course, as there was a descent all the way going, there was an ascent
all the way back.
Arrived at Itri, the Cardinal, throwing himself from his horse, called
loudly for iced water.
"My lord, you are very hot," said Giovanni Andrea, with seeming
kindness. "Let me prevail on your Eminence to take this broth instead.
It will be safer, and will repair your strength."
The Cardinal took the broth, which was temptingly seasoned, and turned
away with a sigh of relief. It was the early supper-hour, and the tables
were already spread in the vaulted refectory, with abundance of better
cheer than the Prior's larder usually afforded, some of which had been
brought by his illustrious guest. And soon the hungry visitors took
their places, and a long Latin grace was said, and the first course of
confetti was served; and then the trencher of each man was filled with a
large piece of meat that had been stewed with almonds and sugar.
And while this was being disposed of, the Cardinal's servants and
rubicund lay-brothers covered the table with dishes of boiled meat,
fowls, small birds, kids, wild boar, and other viands. And after this
course, another was to succeed, of tarts and cakes covered with spun
sugar.
But before the banquet reached this stage, the Cardinal, who had
scarcely spoken since he sat down to table, and who had frequently
changed colour, suddenly exclaimed--
"Take me hence--I am strangely ill!"----
Every eye was upon him in a moment--many started from their seats--one
or two noted gourmands feigned deafness, and helped themselves to the
best. Bernardino Salviati, the Cardinal's personal attendant, caught him
in his arms.
"Lean on me, my Lord Cardinal," said he. "We will bear you to your
chamber."
"Treachery, treachery, Salviati!" murmured the Cardinal, almost
inarticulately. "I am poisoned."
Giovanni Andrea, his other supporter, making believe to wipe the clammy
dew from his face, held the handkerchief over his mouth, so as to
muffle his voice. Above it glared the Cardinal at him fiercely.
"Stand back!" said Salviati to him, roughly.
"My Lord Cardinal is delirious, he raves," said Giovanni Andrea,
shrinking away.
"Prior! don't let that man come near me," said Ippolito, faintly.
The Prior, with solicitude, bent his ear to his lips, but only saw them
move. The next instant they were contorted with a spasm.
By this time, they had carried him to his bed-room, which, though the
best guest-chamber of the monastery, was furnished with ascetic
plainness; a crucifix, a bénitier, and a wooden pallet, comprising most
of its moveables, the meagreness of which contrasted strangely enough
with the crimson satin cushions and mattresses the Cardinal had brought
with him, and which belonged to his horse-litter.
"Air! air!" he said, feebly, as his friends pressed round him.
"It will be well, I think, for all of you to leave the chamber," said
the Prior, "except Salviati, Brother Marco, and myself. The Cardinal is
in a high fever--I will open a vein for him."
"Not on your life," gasped Ippolito.
Meanwhile, all retired from the room except those whom the Prior had
named.
"Marsh miasma, no doubt," said Donati, as he returned to the refectory.
"There was a pestiferous vapour on the marshes to-day."
"And he would ride so fast," said Capponi, resuming his seat at table.
"For my part, I wonder we are not ill too. I feel quite spent, and want
something solid. I dare say a good night's rest will set him up again.
He is of a full habit, like many of the Medici: it does not do for them
to over-heat themselves. He takes everything too violently. What
excellent beccaficoes! I prefer, however, thrushes stuffed with
bergamots."
While these two were composedly resuming their repast, there were others
who did not even sit down to table, but stood apart in a little knot,
anxiously debating whether the Cardinal had or had not exclaimed,
"Ahí! tradimento!"--
Anxious looks were cast towards the door; and once or twice an envoy was
despatched to the sick room. The first of these came back with disturbed
aspect, saying,
"His Eminence positively refuses to be bled, and the Prior is at his
wit's end."
"What a pity!" said Strozzi. "There is no finer remedy."
"If it were any one else," pursued the first, "the Prior might take the
matter into his own hands; but 'tis ticklish meddling with a Cardinal."
"Especially when that Cardinal's a Medici," said young Strozzi, with his
father's unpleasant smile. "I'll go and see to it myself."
Presently Strozzi returned, saying mysteriously,
"A courier is instantly to be despatched to the Pope, to beg of him a
certain oil he possesses, known to be a sure antidote to all poison."
"Poison!" repeated they all.
"Can it be so?" said Capponi, wiping his lips, and rising from table.
"This ought to be looked to."
"Nay, I say not that it _is_ so, I only say that he thinks so," replied
Strozzi. "At all events, I'm going instantly to despatch a messenger."
"Sad, sirs, sad!" said Capponi, looking his companions in the face, as
Strozzi passed out.
"Nay, I expect not that it will turn out anything serious," said Donati.
"The Strozzi are tender on the subject of poison," observed Messer
Giunigi, the fourth Florentine, under his breath, "since the death of
Madonna Luisa."
"Hush, sir, that touches me nearly too," gravely said Capponi, who was
of kin to Madonna Luisa's husband.
Here the Prior came forth, very irate.
"The Cardinal will none of my assistance," said he, "and yet I have been
held to know something. He is out of his head, and yet exacts obedience
as if he were himself. Not content with obstinately refusing to lose
blood, which would reduce the fever at once, and leave him as cool as a
cucumber, he insists that a courier on a fleet horse shall instantly be
despatched to Fondi for a certain Jew physician, named Bar Hhasdai, in
whom he has more faith than in all the Christian leeches in Italy. The
Jew hath never been baptised, therefore I cannot consent to send for
him."
"Nay, but," said Donati, solicitously, "if the Cardinal himself desires
him, I see not how you are exonerated from having him, baptised, or
otherwise."
"Send for him yourself, then," said the Prior; "you have plenty of your
own people."
"That will I readily," said Donati, and he left the refectory for that
purpose.
Those who remained behind, discussed the chances of the Pope's sovereign
remedy arriving in time to be of use, and talked over the present
political aspect of affairs in Rome, Florence, and Bologna; and of the
various deaths of the Medici--which was almost as dreary a subject as
their lives.
Meanwhile, there lay the poor Cardinal on his crimson satin mattresses,
with his once ruddy, handsome face, now pale as ashes, pressed against a
crimson satin pillow fringed with gold--nothing white, nothing cool and
comfortable about him--there he lay, alternately flushing and chilling,
torn with pain and languishing with sickness and faintness--and all the
while ideas were rushing through his distracted head like clouds across
a racking sky; and the one predominant thought was, "Treachery!
treachery!" _Now_, he who had conspired, knew what it was to be
conspired against. Oh! what a long, long night! He scarcely knew or
cared that people from time to time looked in on him, stooped over him
to hear if he breathed, touched his heart, his wrist, drew the coverlet
closer over him, and went away. He scarcely knew or cared whether many
were around him or only the faithful Salviati. His thoughts were
following a fleet horse tearing along the road to Fondi, and striking
sparks as it clattered down the lava paved street. Then he seemed to see
the yellow-faced Jew, in a red night-cap, peering forth from one of the
high, unglazed windows, as the courier shouted out his name--and behind
him that Hebrew youth, whether son or acolyte, whom the Cardinal had
seen at his door in passing, only a few hours before, with his pale,
delicate face, and long, spiral curls, and look of sadness and
submission. How singular that that face, only once seen, and seen for a
moment, should have stereotyped itself on his mind as the type of Isaac
about to be sacrificed!--and now he seemed to see him collecting
medicines, while the old Jew hastily threw on his furred gaberdine and
came down to the door.
A din of wild church music seemed to come through the air, and to wax
insufferably loud, and then die wailing away like a requiem over the
Pontine marshes. And then, wild shouts of "Palle! palle!" and citizens,
half-dressed and half-armed, rushing through streets, and some of them
crying "Liberty! liberty at last!" And then there was an awful, crushing
struggle at a cathedral door; and partisans were rallying round some one
who was being borne into the sacristy; and blood was flowing and swords
were clashing, and all the while an old pontiff at the altar, who seemed
charmed into stone, was holding aloft the consecrated wafer, and the
little tinkling bell was perpetually ringing till its shrillness seemed
as if it would crack the tympanum of his ears; and sweet childish voices
were singing:--
"Et in terra pax! hominibus bonæ voluntatis!"
Then all melted away, and he was aware of a long, long suite of marble
halls, their silk and gilding covered with dust; and of an old, old man
with hoary hair borne through them in the arms of his servants, and
saying with a sigh, as he wistfully looked around them:
"This is too large a house for so small a family!"
After this stalked the dread pageant of his sins--sins of omission and
sins of commission--sins that seemed so little once, and that seemed so
crushing now--and as he moved his weary head, gibing faces seemed
grinning and skinny fingers pointing at him round the bed; and when he
closed his burning eyelids, he seemed to see them still, and to hear a
voice say, "Son, thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things."
Oh! where were the sacraments of the Church? Where were they? Why did
not some one think of them and bring them? Why had he not voice enough
to ask for them? or strength enough to sign for them? And if he had,
could they do him any good?
He knew not how time went. It seemed one long, long night, but in fact
it covered a few days. Bar Hhasdai arrived at last--he had been absent
when sent for. The Christian hangers-on scowled and spat on him as he
passed. He looked loftily down on them, and he passed on; following the
pale-faced Giovan Andrea. Pausing at the door, the Jew looked full at
him.
"I want a dog," said he.
"A dog?" repeated the steward, aghast.
"Yes: a four-footed one; not a Christian. And a roll of bread."
He passed into the sick room, where the faithful Salviati rose from the
Cardinal's bedside. The Prior, who was telling his beads, drew his robe
closer round him and retired as far from the Jew as possible.
Bar Hhasdai took up a lamp, and held it full in the Cardinal's unwinking
eyes.
"He does not see it," said he.
He laid the palm of his hand against his heart: then taking some crumb
of the roll the steward had brought him, he rubbed it against his own
face and offered it to the lapdog Giovan Andrea held under his arm. The
little dog immediately ate it.
"What next?" thought the steward, in wonder. The Prior stood transfixed,
curiously on the watch. Salviati's eyes had something imploring in them:
the faithful fellow had not once left his master, and was now haggard
with his long vigil.
The Jew silently took another piece of bread and rubbed the Cardinal's
clammy face with it: then offered it to the little dog. The little dog
smelt it, and resolutely refused to taste it.
"You see," said Bar Hhasdai, fixing the steward with his eye, "the
Cardinal is poisoned." Then, to the Prior, "Let him have the sacraments
of your Church."
Giovan Andrea reeled back, but recovered himself in time to escape
falling.
"Wretch!" exclaimed Salviati, springing towards him in rage and
despair; but Giovan Andrea glided like a serpent from beneath his grasp,
and clapped the door after him.
"He will not escape justice," said the Prior. "I have given orders that
he shall be watched."
Salviati cast himself on his expiring master in a paroxysm of grief. At
the sound of his wild cry, others rushed in: and the Jew quietly passed
out. Extreme unction was administered.
Thus perished the brilliant Ippolito de' Medici, who would deserve more
pity if he had not designed some very similar end for his cousin
Alessandro. He was abundantly regretted; for his companionable qualities
and lavish bounties had endeared him to a very large circle of friends,
who did not scan his faults too closely; while his death was hailed with
intense satisfaction by his enemies. Paul the Third made a frivolous
excuse for not sending him the specific he so urgently requested.
Probably it would not have saved him; but the animus of his Holiness was
not shown to his advantage on the occasion.
As for the wretched Giovan Andrea, he made straight for the outer gates
when he quitted the Cardinal's chamber; but was there collared by a
stalwart lay-brother, who, with the assistance of two of Ippolito's
retainers, conveyed him to the lock-up room. Here he remained a short
time, in full anticipation of being put to the torture; which too surely
came to pass. At first he denied any guilt; but that most odious process
being persisted in, his agony at length wrung from him the admission
that he had administered poison to the Cardinal, having ground it
between two stones, which he had afterwards thrown away.
Where had he thrown those stones?
Upon a rubbish-heap outside the buttery-window.
Search was made for the stones. They were found, with marks of some
foreign substance upon them. They were shown him: he said they were the
same.
The Cardinal's retainers were so enraged with the wretch, that they were
with difficulty restrained from falling upon him and putting him to
death. Felippo Strozzi had strongly charged his son to deliver him out
of their hands, that a regular judicial examination might take place at
Rome, and Alessandro's guilt, as the prompter of the crime, be
established.
The younger Strozzi, therefore, sent Giovan Andrea, under a sufficient
guard, to Rome, where his examination took place; and in the first
instance he confirmed his former confession, and stated that he had
received the poison from one Otto di Montacuto, a servant of Duke
Alessandro's, to be employed as he had used it.
Yet, after this, he denied _both_ his former confessions, and, in spite
of all that Strozzi could say or do, was actually let off! He thereupon
went straight to Florence, and remained some days in the Duke's palace,
openly under his protection. He then retired to his native place, Borgo
di San Sepolcro, a little town under the Apennines, some forty miles
from Florence. And here, after remaining in safety a few months, whether
or no on account of any fresh proof of his crime, he was stoned to death
in a sudden outburst of popular indignation.
As for the wicked Duke, his employer, I shall only say that his murder
was most horrible: so that Ippolito's death was amply avenged. We may
all be very glad to have done with the subject.