Part 10

Vincenzo blushed under his father's rebuke and sat silent. But Giacomo, always ready to smooth things over, turned to the Duchess of Mantua.

"And you," he said. "You, lady, what think you of trusting Della Scala with an army?"

Julia Gonzaga smiled a little wearily.

"Where is he, to speak for himself?" she asked.

"We are waiting for him," Ippolito replied. "He said he would be with us. He is late," he added testily.

"Doubtless the hour has escaped him," put in Giacomo pleasantly. "The Duke of Verona will not fail us."

"He will disappoint us—if he turns up," said Vincenzo under his breath. But Conrad caught the whisper and choked with a suppressed laugh—not that the remark was funny, but that Count Schulembourg was foolish. Ippolito's stern eyes were turned on him.

"Is this a council of war?" he asked, "or a gathering of—"

"A council of war," interposed Conrad hastily, with his most winning smile.

But D'Este looked on him with mistrust; he had no love for the light-hearted German.

Still Mastino came not, and Giacomo moved with a great show of patience and forbearance.

"'Tis scarcely the way to treat with us," he said.

"'Tis treatment good enough for those who bear it," breathed Vincenzo, and Conrad sniffed his orange. Ippolito's brow grew dark; he struck a gong beside him, and a page appeared.

"Tell my lord of Verona we wait for him." He turned to the others. "'Tis agreed," he said quickly, "that we furnish Della Scala with a small army—to be contributed between us."

Carrara moved in silent assent; in Julia Gonzaga's face a faint scorn showed.

A silence fell, broken only by the tapping of d'Este's fingers on the polished table.

Then at the farther end of the chamber two pages drew apart the scarlet curtains and Mastino della Scala entered. Conrad, glancing up, wondered how even for a moment he could have mistaken him for aught but what he was, so noble and stately was his bearing.

Conrad and the d'Estes moved at his entrance, but slightly, and kept their eyes upon him as he walked to the head of the table and there took his place.

Though by far the plainest in attire, his simple leather doublet in marked contrast with Conrad's display and Vincenzo's fashion, he took the head of the council, naturally and unquestioned. So much of the glory of his former greatness still remained to him.

"And are your councils ended?" he asked. "I would hasten you, my lords. Still further delay, and Visconti will be first in the field."

He paused, and took his seat in the large black chair, looking keenly at their faces.

For a moment no one answered, then Giacomo leaned forward with a deprecating smile.

"My lord of Verona," he said smoothly, "you ask us to venture everything—and give us five days in which to decide—surely you are not surprised our answer is not quite ready?"

Mastino della Scala bit his lip to keep back an angry reply.

"Five hours were enough in such a case as this, my lord," he said quietly.

Now d'Este spoke hastily. "We have come to a resolution, Mastino—one in which we all agree," and he looked questioningly around upon the others. No one answered, and, taking silence for consent, Ippolito continued:

"We will aid thee, Mastino, I and Carrara, and the Duchess of Mantua—"

He paused a little nervously, and Giacomo kept his bright black eyes on Mastino's face.

"My lord of Ferrara says rightly," he put in smoothly. "I will second him."

The note of condescension in the Duke of Padua's voice stung Della Scala sharply; it was only with an effort he controlled himself.

"With what will you aid me?" he asked calmly.

Still d'Este hesitated, for his proposal was mean even in his own eyes, but Giacomo answered for him in even tones: "We will aid you with an army of ten thousand men, Lord della Scala, to be recruited from Padua, Mantua, and Ferrara; well armed and—"

But Della Scala had risen.

"Spare thyself a catalogue of their virtue, my lord of Padua," he said. "For I refuse thy offer—one well worthy of a Carrara!"

Giacomo paled with anger; his merchant descent was a sore point, and Mastino's words struck home.

"Refuse!" exclaimed Ippolito. "Ten thousand men!" Della Scala glanced at him with scorn.

"Ten thousand men!" he echoed. "Yes, I refuse ten thousand men. I thought thou once loved me, d'Este, and wert too much of a soldier to dishonor me by such a proposal."

"We can make it more—" began Ippolito.

"Dost thou not think I can see through this?" interrupted Mastino bitterly. "This offer is but given to get rid of me—a safer way of dismissing me from the court that once cringed to entertain me than a plain refusal. Ten thousand men! I thought better of thee, d'Este."

"Then fifty thousand," replied Ippolito, stung by the reproach.

"A royal number," put in Conrad, but Della Scala turned on them in fury.

"No!" he cried. "Not fifty nor a hundred thousand men, to make sport for Visconti's leisure hours—Visconti who holds nine towns of mine alone, Visconti who is leagued with France and has the Empire at his heels, Visconti who has gained Bergamo, Lodi, and Bologna and has half the mercenaries of Italy in his pay! No, d'Este, I have been too great for that. Since you so forget what I have been, and who my wife is—I will leave thee, nor trouble thy peace for men thou canst not give ungrudgingly. And thou, Carrara, I will leave thee—in thy blind folly, to wait for Visconti's eye to fall on thee; all thy prudence will not save thee then. Meanwhile, I will try in the towns of Tuscany if there be men left in Italy to face a tyrant!"

They sat silent beneath his wrath, and he turned to go, but paused and looked back to them with a glance they could not meet.

"Only hear this before I go," he said passionately; "there is one thing thy faint-heartedness shall not touch, one thing I will achieve without thy aid, though thy meanness leaves me, and that is, at any cost, the freedom"—his voice trembled—"of Isotta, my wife. I will free her," he continued sternly. "Before you all I mean it; she shall be saved, even if mine honor goes to do it."

And he turned away, but Count Conrad rose, roused out of himself by the excitement Mastino had inspired.

"I will follow thee," he cried.

"What wouldst thou have, Mastino?" cried Ippolito after him, half-distraught. "What wouldst thou have?"

Della Scala turned in the middle of the chamber, magnificent in his wrath and pain. "All," he said proudly. "All thou canst give, and above all, thy trust. I am no boy to be put off with a few soldiers. I need Modena, Ferrara, Padua, every town of Lombardy that is in thy hands; all thy money, all thy troops, everything thou canst give—and then I will crush Visconti. When I fell it was through most foul treachery. I will league with no half-hearted friends again."

And again he turned to leave, this time Conrad at his heels, when a soft voice arrested him, Julia Gonzaga's.

"I have this to say before thou leavest us, Della Scala," she said. "All I have, Mantua and its lands, are at thy disposal, and I am proud so great a captain as my lord of Verona should command my men."

Mastino turned, his eyes sparkling with joy.

"My greatest thanks for thy gift, lady," he said, "and still more for the gracious manner of thy giving." And before he could say more Vincenzo rose impulsively.

"Shall we be outdone by a woman!" he cried, his beautiful face flushed. "It goes not with our honor, father, we should leave Mantua to fight Visconti!"

Ippolito no less was roused.

He stepped toward Mastino and held out his hand.

"I ask thy pardon for too much wariness," he said with a faint smile. "I am as proud now as ever of my relationship to thee, and everything within my hands is thine to use as thou wilt against Visconti." Mastino grasped his hand convulsively.

"Thou shalt not repent it," he said, his generous soul melted at once. "While I live thou shalt not repent."

Meanwhile Giacomo Carrara's prudent brain had rapidly concluded it would be most to his advantage, at least for the moment, to side openly with Della Scala, even in this wholesale fashion.

"I too am of the same mind," he said pleasantly and frankly. "All I have is thine, Della Scala."

"Then in a few days I will march on Verona!" cried Mastino, "and with thy generous aid I shall recover it! My heart is too full. I cannot speak my thanks," he continued, "but by my honor and my sword I swear, thou d'Este, thou Carrara, and thou lady, shall never regret thy trust in me."

CHAPTER TWELVE

GRAZIOSA'S LOVER

In the courtyard of the painter Agnolo's house in Milan, the sunshine fell strong and golden, sparkling on the fountain that rose in the center from its rough stone basin, and throwing the waxen blossoms of the chestnut into brilliant relief against the sapphire sky.

The courtyard was of stone. Around three sides ran the wall, one with its door into the street; opposite was a large garden, entered by an archway, the wicket in which stood always ajar.

The fourth side of the quadrangle was formed by the dwelling-house, which stood with its back to the ivied walls, itself a long, low building, the upper half of which, jutting above the lower, was supported on pillars of carved stone.

Around the bottom wall ran a wide border of plants, some climbing, others heavy with brilliant blossoms, trailing along the ground, and in the cool, blue shadows in the recess formed by the projecting story were large pots of spreading ferns, vivid green, mingled with the spikes of bright scarlet flowers.

The basin of the fountain in the center was velvet green with moss, and over the limpid water there spread the flat leaves of water-lilies. Above the wall rose the sweet-smelling chestnuts, spreading their fan-like foliage and snowy blossoms, tier upon tier, against the brilliant sky, and through the low arch, trellised with roses, the garden stretched, a bewildering mass of color, white, mauve, yellow, pink, blue and red, into the soft distance, a swaying mass of trees. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening, as out of the house, the door of which stood open, came the little painter. He stepped into the sunshine, mopping his face and shaking his clothes.

From head to foot he was a mass of green slime, his doublet torn, his hands scratched, his face hot and perspiring. After a few vain attempts to remove the dirt that clung to him, he looked around with a rueful countenance.

"Graziosa!" he called. "Graziosa!"

The lattice of an upper window was thrown open, and Graziosa looked out.

At sight of her father she laughed. "Hast thou been down thy passage again, father?" she called from the window.

Agnolo made a wry face good-humoredly. "That I have," he returned, "and fell into a pond at the other end."

"The other end!" echoed his daughter. "Then you got through?"

Vistarnini rubbed his damaged hands together with satisfaction. "Aye," he said with a smile, "after tearing my clothes, fighting briers, stepping on toads, stifling with dust, and pitching on my face in the dark, I—"

"Fell into a pond!" laughed Graziosa.

"Got to the other end," cried the little painter. "Got to the other end!" Graziosa disappeared from the window, and came running into the courtyard, a slender figure in scarlet.

"Got to the other end," repeated Vistarnini breathlessly. "A noble underground passage, Graziosa, that is what we have discovered, large enough to admit an army if need were, and with a concealed opening, leading out through a cave to the midst of—"

"A pond," suggested Graziosa with a glance at his garments.

"A wood—the pond was a mere accessory; a wood, some two miles beyond the town."

"Then since this end is reached from our house, we are the only ones who can gain access to it?" said Graziosa.

"We are," returned the painter proudly. "And, Graziosa, we will remain so."

"Thou mean'st thou wilt tell no one?" asked his daughter.

"No; it will be very useful. I hate to be forever passing the gate, giving accounts of myself to every saucy soldier. In time of need, should there be a war, then perchance we can speak of it."

"I think we should speak of it now," said Graziosa thoughtfully. "I think we should tell the Duke."

"Tell the weathercock!" said Vistarnini. "I tell thee it will be useful; the tolls nearly ruin me—and now I can bring everything I buy outside in through the secret passage."

"'Tis scarce honest, father."

Agnolo laughed.

"I discovered it," he said. "No one knew of it, and the Duke can well spare my tolls."

"Meanwhile change thy dress, father," laughed Graziosa, "and thou always dost as thou thinkest. I have no more to say."

Then, as Vistarnini moved toward the house, his daughter called after him softly:

"I may tell Ambrogio, father?"

"Thou may'st do no such thing," returned Agnolo. "His conscience would prick him—he is overgrave and honest—"

"He is not," said Graziosa indignantly. "I mean—he would not tell—I am sure he will not tell!"

"And so am I—for he will never know," said Agnolo with a smile. "Now thy promise, Graziosa, that thou tellest no one, not even thy precious Ambrogio—and the first thing I smuggle through shall be a new silk gown for thee!"

Graziosa laughed, and seated herself on the edge of the basin.

"I promise," she called. "But as for the gown, thou couldst have brought me that in any case!"

Vistarnini turned into the house, and silence again fell on the sunny courtyard.

Graziosa looked musingly at the gate, then down at her bare arm and sighed.

Two pet doves whirled down from the chestnuts and strutted across the courtyard, with a show of white tails.

Graziosa noticed them suddenly, in the midst of her dreaming, and was rising to get their evening meal, when the little painter, clean and reclothed, bustled out of the house, carrying a flat dish.

"Here is thy food!" he cried to the birds. "Are ye hungry, little ones?"

And he threw the grain in a golden shower.

"Ambrogio is not here to see thee feed to-day," he continued. "What makes him late, Graziosa?"

"The way is long," she returned, "from the convent where he works, father, and the monks grudge him any time away from the altar-piece."

"And the bracelet?" said Agnolo. "He vowed thou shouldst have it back."

"I wish he had not," said the girl in distress. "He will do something rash, I fear me. How can he get it back from the Visconti palace?"

"He won't get it back," said the little painter cheerfully. "Even a lover would not be quite so mad as to beard the Visconti for a toy."

"Yet he swore I should have it again. It was rash of me to tell him how I lost it," replied Graziosa.

"Then he would have thought thou hadst given it to the stone-cutter next door, and there would have been high words, flashing eyes. 'Ha—ha—come out and be slain, thou varlet! Skulking dog, thou liest!' then swords out, and thou lying in a faint—or bewailing the day of thy birth. After that, thunder and lightning—gore—the brawlers driven into the street—the soldiers come up—and off we go to prison for disturbing the streets with our frays."

"You jest too much, father," said Graziosa. "It may be serious if Ambrogio try to recover the bracelet."

But a light knock on the outer door interrupted her, and with a heightened color she rose.

"It is he, father!" she whispered. "I knew he would not fail us."

Agnolo hurried forward and drew back the bolts, and truly enough Ambrogio entered.

Graziosa's lover was of medium height, a slight man, with beautiful gray eyes. His attire was the plain garb of a student. To-day his right hand was hanging in a sling, while in the other he carried a roll of drawings.

"Still alive!" said Agnolo pleasantly. "Graziosa was fearing thou hadst spitted thyself on Visconti's sword in the recovery of her bracelet."

Ambrogio took little heed of the painter, but closing the door softly behind him, turned with a tender glance to Graziosa.

"Wert thou grieving for me?" he said gently. "I am safe, my beautiful, and see, I have kept my word."

As he spoke he drew out the emerald bracelet from his robe, and handed it with a smile to the girl who stood there, blushing with pleasure and astonishment.

"Thou hast got it back," she cried; "from the Visconti palace!"

Ambrogio smoothed her bright hair tenderly.

"The bracelet was thine," he said, "therefore I went there for it, and have brought it back to thee, even from the Visconti palace."

Agnolo was staring at him in amazement.

"How didst thou do it!" he exclaimed.

Ambrogio touched his bandaged arm with a smile.

"With only a small injury," he said, "since 'tis not the hand I paint with."

And now Graziosa broke in with passionate exclamations of pity for his wound, or admiration for his courage, covering the injured hand with caresses.

"Thou hast recovered it—by force?" asked Agnolo again, incredulous.

"Call it by force or what thou wilt," returned Ambrogio. "There is no need to speak of it more. It is enough you are in no danger. No one will follow me here to regain it."

Graziosa kissed her recovered treasure and clasped it on her arm again.

"I shall never dare to wear it save within these walls," she said.

Ambrogio took her hand in his, and led toward the house.

"Do not fear, sweet," he returned, looking down at her with a smile. "Wear it where and how thou wilt. Tisio Visconti will not annoy thee more."

The girl glanced up, startled by the authority of his manner.

Ambrogio, noticing the questioning look, turned it aside with a pleasant laugh.

"The Duke is tired of his whims, and is putting him under a closer watch," he said. "From now on he will not often ride the streets."

"I am sorry for him," said Graziosa impulsively. "I am very sorry for him."

They were at the house door, and Agnolo, stepping ahead into the dark entrance, led the way up a flight of shallow wooden stairs.

"This is stirring news, Ambrogio," he called over his shoulder. "About the Duke of Verona's escape, I mean. Do you think there will be war?"

"I am a man of peace," returned Ambrogio softly, his eyes on Graziosa. "How should I know? Still, I do not think Della Scala will trouble the peace of Milan much."

And now Agnolo, at the top of the flight of stairs, was holding open a wide door through which they passed into Agnolo's workshop, filled with the pleasant litter of his occupation. "I do not agree with thee," he said. "Della Scala's is a great name. Were I Visconti, I should not feel secure."

Graziosa and Ambrogio entered the long room, high and light, its windows opening wide onto the street.

And Ambrogio, seating himself near one of the large easels, turned to Agnolo, the while he drew Graziosa gently down beside him.

"What has the Duke of Milan to fear from Della Scala?" he asked.

"Everything," cried Vistarnini excitedly, for keenly did the little painter love to air his views. "Everything. Mark me, Ambrogio, if the Duke of Verona do not suddenly fall on one of Visconti's towns."

"He has no army," said the student. "He cannot rouse the d'Estes."

"He will!" cried Agnolo. "He will—he and Count Conrad. Didst thou not rejoice, Ambrogio, when Count Conrad escaped? We heard of it from the soldiers. Graziosa was glad at heart, as every man or woman or child must be. Such a fate! Didst thou not rejoice he had escaped it?"

Ambrogio was mixing colors in a china saucer, and tapped his foot a little impatiently.

"Why should we talk of Della Scala—and Visconti?" he said.

"Visconti! who wishes to talk of him?" returned the little painter. "Tales have come to me about him, too terrible to repeat before our Graziosa," he added, lowering his voice.

"You gossip too much with the soldiers, father," said Graziosa. "I do not love the soldiers, nor should you listen to their tales about Visconti."

"They would seem to tell them a little too freely," murmured her lover, and drew his brows together.

"What dost thou mean, Graziosa?" cried her father, "as if it were only from the soldiers we hear of the Duke. Lately some fine tales have got about, and on no soldier's authority."