The western sun filled the room. On a couch drawn near the low French
window lay the painter. His eyes looked across the valley to a long line
of poplars, silver in the wind. Like a strange processional, up the
hill, they held him. They came from Lombardy. In the brasier, across the
room, burned a flickering fire. Even on the warmest days he shivered for
sunnier skies. Above the fire hung a picture--a woman seated in a
rock-bound circle, looking tranquilly out upon the world of life.
The painter touched a silver bell that stood on a table at hand. A
figure entered. It crossed to the window. The face was turned in shadow.
It waited.
"Has our good physician gone, Francesco?" asked the painter.
Francesco bowed. There was silence in the room except for the fire.
"What does he say of us to-day?"
The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always
croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it,
his face in the shadow still.
The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile
has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco."
The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped
a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull
silvery glimmer over it.
"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's.
I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not
been lonely. Friends are faithful"--he pressed the youth's warm hand.
"His Majesty?"--the voice ended with a question.
"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how
bright it grows."
The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise
physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?"
"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes----"
"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will
be few bequests. My pictures--they are mine no longer. Should a painter
barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They
are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand.
He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could
not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles.
He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking
long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be
the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on
the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said
softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He
gave you back to me. You will be his--his and his children's. I have no
child----At least.... Ah, well--Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona
will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has
rested on my work. Crumbling--fading--nothing finished. I planned so
much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished.
My manuscripts--do with them what you will. I could not even write like
other men--this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling
across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they
fluttered from his fingers. "A man is poor who has few wants. Then I
have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty
name."
Silence fell between them.
"There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is
rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her--this
ring--" He slipped it from his finger--a heavy stone, deep green, with
translucent lights. "It was my father's crest. He gave it to my
mother--not his wife--a woman--faithful. She put it on my finger when
she died--a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ... she
has a son.... Tell her...." The voice fell hushed.
The young man waited, with bowed head. He looked up. He started quickly,
and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded the hands across the quiet
breast. He passed swiftly from the silent chamber, down to the
courtyard, out on the King's highway, mounted and fleet.
The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gay chanson. His
retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzi saluted and drew rein.
He spoke a word in the monarch's ear. The two men stood with uncovered
heads. They looked toward the western windows. The gay cavalcade halted
in the glow of light. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed
in the crimson flood. Within the room, above the gleaming coals, a woman
of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze upon an old man's face.