“Buondlemonte, thou art no happy bridegroom,” Guiseppo said, after they
had proceeded for some time in silence.
Buondlemonte sighed, but made no reply.
“Thou dost not love Amedi’s sister,” Guiseppo observed, in a half
interrogative tone.
“’Twas a compact between parents, and not a union of lovers that was
intended,” Buondlemonte replied bitterly.
“Still thou dost not love her—this marriage promises thee no
happiness.”
Buondlemonte paused a moment, and then said,
“I think, Guiseppo, thou art my friend, and I may trust thee.”
“Hast thou not proved me thy friend?” Guiseppo asked. “When first we
left Italy together for the court of the French king, we pledged our
faith each to the other. During our sojourn there thou still hast found
me—thoughtless and gay, perhaps—but ever constant. ’Tis true, we
parted, you to continue your travels to the capital of the empire, while
I returned to Italy; and we have never met again until to-day, yet,
believe me, I am still the same Guiseppo thou hast known among the brave
knights and gay dames of France.”
Buondlemonte grasped the hand that was offered to him, and after a
momentary pause, said,
“Thou art right, my friend; I am no happy bridegroom. This marriage is
hateful to me—’tis none of my seeking.”
“Then why let it proceed?”
“Because the Amedi wish it, and the world thinks my honor demands it;
heaven knows for no other cause. ’Tis true, Francesca is fair—so says
report, for I have not seen her since her youth—but to me she can never
seem so. She may be enchanting, yet me she cannot enchant. There is a
dream of my youth about my heart, a spell that will not be dissipated.
There is but one form that dwells in my memory, one voice that can
breathe music in my ear.”
“And where dwells this siren?” Guiseppo asked with a slight smile at the
enthusiasm of his friend.
“Here, even here, in Florence,” Buondlemonte replied.
“And her family is called?”
“Donati.”
“Pandora and all her mischiefs!” exclaimed Guiseppo; “thou couldst not
have mentioned a name more hateful to the family of thy affianced bride.
The extremes of the earth are not wider apart than the houses of Donati
and Amedi—a deadly feud exists between them.”
“From my childhood, I have known but one absorbing influence,”
Buondlemonte said, “and that is my love for Camilla Donati. ’Tis a
secret I have kept within my own breast till now; for I was educated to
consider myself the husband of another, and, looking upon the marriage
with Amedi’s sister as a thing that must be, I felt reconciled—while
the period of our union was indefinite—to what I could not avoid.”
“Why not feel so still?” Guiseppo asked.
“I cannot,” was the reply; “the nearer the hour for our nuptials
approaches, the more repugnant do I feel. There’s no sympathy between
the house of Amedi and Buondelmonte—they are Ghibellines and I am a
Guelph. I love not Francesca; I like not her unsmiling brothers; yet I
must wed, and in fulfilling a compact made without my consent, doom
myself to certain misery.”
Buondlemonte might have added that the missive which the page had
delivered to him was from the mother of Camilla Donati, and that it had
given strength to feelings which were before but too powerful; but he
did not; the information might have compromised others, and he kept it
to himself. What was further said would scarcely interest the reader,
and we pass to details more immediately connected with the development
of our story.