Part 11

"Shall we not set to work on the pictures?" interrupted Ambrogio. "You said, methinks, these tales were not for Graziosa's ears."

"Indeed, 'tis true," and the little painter bustled to the second easel and drew the curtain that hung before the large panel, revealing an almost completed picture of St. Catherine in scarlet robes.

"Thy work looks well, Ambrogio," he said, and removing a similar covering from the easel by which Ambrogio sat, gazed at the companion panel on which was depicted the archangel Michael. "But mine is better," he added, "as it should be: thy work will improve with thy years."

"'Tis as fine work as thy St. Michael, father," said Graziosa, "and a good likeness."

"Nay, not so fair by half as thou art," murmured Ambrogio. "Thou art not easy to copy, Graziosa."

Agnolo was studying his picture intently.

"'Twas an idle fancy to take thee as my model for St. Michael," he said at length. "Thou dost not inspire me as St. Michael, Ambrogio."

"As what then?" asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness.

Agnolo laughed.

"As no saint at all," he said. "He is like nothing but the wicked young man reclaimed in the legend of St. Francis, and not very reclaimed either!"

Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his lip.

"Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time," he said. "Meanwhile, I will work on my St. Catherine's robe."

And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing herself on the floor at his feet.

Agnolo scrutinized the St. Michael once more, but finally drew the curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still, and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of St. Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What could he know of the city's news?

"We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio," he said. "The Duke of Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like."

Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made small difference to the talkative little man, who continued:

"He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French Prince, who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I thought him well-looking enough."

"His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish," said Graziosa; "and since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine."

"Thou art always sorrowing for some one," said her father. "A princess never marries for love."

"Then I am glad I am no princess," smiled Graziosa, looking up at her betrothed.

Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence.

Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again with renewed glances from the window.

"A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular—some weeks ago—we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio."

There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the darkening sky.

Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face.

"I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary."

His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now but his pale face.

"No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St. Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food."

Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.

"And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I come never to return."

"Finished," murmured the girl, her head against his arm. "When?"

"By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?"

"I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier; still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished."

Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly.

"If I could only stay," he said, and kissed her again.

"Surely it is still early, even for St. Joseph?" said Agnolo.

Ambrogio glanced out into the dusky street, where several gayly attired horsemen were riding.

"The Prior begged my early return," he said. "And so farewell, my father, for a little while, farewell!"

"Well, if it must be, it must," said Vistarnini cheerfully, "thou wilt never fail for lack of industry. Still, Graziosa, even if thy lover goes, there is something left to amuse us. This evening the nobles ride in to attend the feast Visconti gives to-night to the French Duke. 'Twill be a noble feast, yet I doubt if the Lady Valentine be as happy as thou art, Graziosa."

But his daughter returned no answer, for she was not there, but at the top of the dark stairway: she was saying farewell to her betrothed; and when Agnolo turned from the window, she was leaning on his arm across the courtyard, for a last word at the gate.

"When comest thou again?" she whispered.

"Thy father jeers me for my industry, yet heaven knows what it costs me to leave thee, sweet. In two days' time I will again be with thee."

They were at the door, but still he lingered, gazing on her gentle face.

"Farewell," he said at last, with a smile. "For two days, my beautiful Graziosa." He took her face between his hands and kissed her.

"Farewell," she smiled, and with a sudden effort he was gone.

But once well clear of the house, Graziosa's lover paused as if undecided, then drew his hood, and wrapped himself closely in his mantle and walked rapidly into the city, keeping close to the wall. After some time he drew the bandage from his hand and flung it aside.

His left hand was as whole as his right.

Again he walked on rapidly, until, at the corner of a quiet street, a man with bent shoulders and dressed in black stepped from the shadow of a building.

It was Giannotto.

"News, Giannotto?" asked Graziosa's lover in a whisper.

"I am waiting for you, my lord, to tell you they are growing impatient. Your absence is causing surprise."

Two horsemen passed, and Ambrogio drew his mantle closer around him.

"No one has seen thee waiting here?" he asked.

"No, my lord, I am too careful."

"'Tis well," said the other. "Lead on toward the palace, Giannotto. I will follow."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST

The Visconti palace was brilliant with lights and gay with the hum of voices.

Splendidly attired, in all that wealth or taste could desire, the French guests seemed to diffuse some of their own light-hearted gayety over the somber abode of the Visconti.

The entrance stairs of fine white marble were spread with a purple silk carpet, the golden balustrades intertwined with roses emitting their fragrance, and the long gallery opening from the stairway and lit by wide windows, deep set in the stone, showed the long, low balcony smothered in myrtles, lemons, citrons, oranges, and gorgeous flowers, scented and abundant, filling the corridors with the sense of summer and mingling their slender trails with the stiff folds of the rare and costly tapestries that covered the walls and were laid upon the floor.

At intervals stood statues, masterpieces of ancient art, faintly lit by the golden glimmer of the swinging lamps.

And all the stairs and corridors and gallery were alive and brilliant with the magnificent guests of the Visconti—lords and ladies, the finest the dismantled court of France could boast. Yet, used to splendors as they were, coming from the most refined court of Europe, the costly display made by an Italian usurper impressed them with wonder, almost with awe.

Tisio Visconti, most richly dressed and adorned with all his favorite jewels, mingled in the throng, gay and happy, forgetful of everything save the lights and the colors, the kindly respectful tones in which he was addressed, unheeding the silent page that followed him.

The wide, usually so somber, entrance of the palace stood open upon the street, and the red flare of torches, the gleam of richly-caparisoned horses, the bustle of pages and men-at-arms, were visible to the courtiers within, and blended city and palace in one splendor.

"I would the French were always here," cried Tisio, excitedly. "I love the palace to be light and gay."

The gay flutter of silk and satin, the elegant grace of the strangers, pleased him, and he smiled like a contented child. But suddenly all the light was struck out of his face.

"Gian," he said dully.

"The Duke!" the courtiers behind him took up the word, and the tattle of voices ceased.

Gian Visconti was approaching down the gallery, followed by several pages in the Viper's silver and green livery.

He passed between the rows of bowing courtiers carelessly; there were many there of the proud nobility of France who found it hard to stand silent and respectful before this man, whose crimes alone were his passport to sovereignty.

To them this marriage was a humiliation, a disgrace to the French crown, but to Visconti it was a triumph, the successful crowning of ambition. He was in a genial mood, and as he passed Tisio stopped and smiled, telling him for to-night he might go where he pleased.

It was not too much to spare to the brother whose possessions he enjoyed.

And as Visconti passed on, more than one Frenchman raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders expressively as the sweep of his scarlet train disappeared.

Among the throng the ever-ready secretary waited for Visconti's eye to fall on him, and the Duke, dismissing the pages, beckoned him forward.

"No news from Verona, or Mantua?" he asked.

"None, my lord."

"None? The messengers are late. But after all why should they haste?" said Visconti. "Della Scala will hardly be in the field yet," he added with a smile.

"If ever, my lord," replied the secretary smoothly.

The two had withdrawn into the embrasure of one of the great open windows, and Visconti, glancing through it, turned his gaze there where, clear in the blue summer night, rose the outline of an abutting building, grim and dark and silent: Isotta's prison.

"See the guards be doubled there," he said. The secretary bowed.

"As to the Lady Valentine, my lord," he said insinuatingly, "she is safe and well, and at her prayers with her women. I have kept guard upon her slightest motion."

Visconti drew a ring from his finger. He was in a generous mood to-night, a rare one enough, as Giannotto thought with bitterness.

"Take this for thy pains," he said. "And now I will relieve thee of thy watch; she can hardly escape under my very eyes and with her bridegroom waiting. Let the guests know I bring the bride, Giannotto."

Visconti withdrew the length of one of the corridors, and paused there at a door before which stood two soldiers, the guard of his sister's apartments. At his soft approach they stood back, and, opening the folding doors, Visconti passed through, and quickly threaded the deserted ante-rooms until he reached the chapel that the lady used.

The place was dim, lit by red lamps that cast more shadow than gave light, and with high, stained windows, now scarcely showing color, and seated on the floor under one of them, her head against a carved wall, her hands listless in her lap, was Valentine.

She wore a dress of flame-colored satin, and her hair was elaborately dressed with rubies and pearls. She made no movement at her brother's entrance.

The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of some white roses that faded across the altar steps.

"We wait for thee, Valentine," said Visconti.

A couple of her women moved forward from the shadows, and whispered to the Duke they could do nothing with her. He motioned to them to withdraw.

"Valentine, come! Think of the splendid life that opens before thee from to-day." Visconti's tone had the gentleness of one who has gained his point. "Thou may'st be Queen of France." But Valentine Visconti had too much of her brother's spirit, too much of the ungovernable pride of will, not to hate this yielding to the force of power. She hated her brother's tyranny. She hated this marriage. What would life be for her, with an indifferent husband, in an idle, impoverished court, among foreigners, strangers, far from her own land? She would not be forced to it. She rose to her feet, desperate.

Visconti watched her keenly, standing waiting.

"Come," he repeated, "the Duke of Orleans waits. The feast is ready."

For one moment a mad hate of him overmastered her, a wild desire to refuse to stir, to cling to the altar, dash herself against the floor, anything rather than obey. She knew his parricide; he was not the elder. She would not obey.

Words of defiance were on her lips, but glancing at his face, the words died away, and a sense of the useless folly of resistance, the useless humiliation of refusal, surged over her. She was in his power. When she spoke, it was humbly, in a faltering voice, with tears.

"Gian," she whispered. "Gian—I have never asked anything of thee before. Gian—this marriage is hateful to me—" she paused, then stepped forward with appealing eyes. "Gian—have consideration—have mercy!"

"The Duke of Orleans waits," smiled Visconti. "Will you not let me lead you to him?"

Valentine drew back and steadied herself against the wall.

She thought of Conrad with bitterness and shame, of his vows of devotion, how he had sworn she should never wed the French Prince—and—he was free—had been so for many days, and never a word or a sign.

Visconti flung wide the chapel door, and in the adjoining room he summoned to her side his sister's page. Valentine's eyes fell on him, and she noted how the blood rushed to his face as he sprang to obey. He was a fair-haired boy with eager eyes, who worshiped her with a romantic devotion at which she had often smiled; but now—

He lifted her train, and Visconti held out his hand. Outside her door soldiers kept their motionless guard, and beyond the gay crowd swept to and fro. Silently Valentine moved forward, but her heart was burning with rebellious hate.

"I will still try once more for freedom," was the thought she held to; and as they traversed the great corridor and her eyes fell, as had her brother's, on the grim outline of Isotta's prison, "I will free her too," she added, with a swelling heart.

And Visconti thought her conquered, cowed into complete submission, and watched her pass ahead of him down the banqueting chamber with a satisfied smile to see her the fairest and the proudest there.

The brilliant courtiers streamed in, a mass of color and jewels, and Visconti, seated at the head of the table, glanced at the effeminate faces and frivolous bearing of the guests with some contempt.

"No news?" he whispered to Giannotto behind his chair. "No news from Ferrara yet?"

"None as yet, my lord. The messengers are expected at any moment."

The apartment was a blaze of wax candles that threw a thousand dancing reflections on the elaborate silver and glass that covered the table.

The bright light fell too on the rubies on Valentine Visconti's throat. She sat at her brother's side, with a pale face and sparkling eyes. On Visconti's right was her bridegroom, the Duke of Orleans, an elegant young man with weak eyes and a receding chin. His scanty, fair locks were carefully arranged with grease and curling irons into stiff curls, the ends of his mustache were elaborately twisted, and his face was rouged plentifully on the cheeks.

Valentine looked at him once, then ignoring him utterly, she looked down the long, glittering table to the great entrance facing her, with a crowd and press of liveries and hurrying attendants, waiting pages. As for the French Duke, he conversed with Visconti, ignoring the hardly hidden contempt that he was either too dull to see or too politic to resent.

The banqueting hall filled: and the guests in their seats, the secretary, standing back among the servitors, crept out into the antechamber. After the glare and splendor of the banquet, the room seemed dull and somber, and Giannotto stumbled over a crouching figure.

It was Valentine's page, weeping bitterly.

"Poor fool!" muttered the secretary. "Wouldst thou lose thy place as well as thy heart?" And he passed on with a laugh. But after a pace or two he paused. Through the palace windows floated a sound as of distant murmuring and commotion, yet so faint he could scarce be sure of it.

The page had risen, shamefaced at having been discovered. He was very young, and his grief very real to him. He choked a little, stifling his sobs.

"Silence!" said Giannotto angrily. "Listen!" The sound grew nearer and more distinct, and the secretary went to the window nearest and leaned forward eagerly.

Several horsemen and soldiers came riding swiftly, holding flaming torches; windows were flung open, people hurried to and fro.

"Some evil news has got abroad," said Giannotto, straining eyes and ears.

And now the noise of angry shouts and frightened cries became too plain, and the secretary could see by the flare of some horsemen's torches a throng of country folk, laden with their possessions, and some men driving herds of cattle, and soldiers torn and dusty.

"Evil news, indeed, I fear," he muttered, and waited anxiously.

A ray of brilliant light from the banquet hall beyond fell between the curtains and streamed across the room, there was laughter and clink of glasses, and a voice singing in French to a lute. The page clenched his fists and turned to go.

"Stay," said Giannotto, "stay. If thou wouldst end thy days, here comes a chance, methinks, for some one will have to carry ill news to Visconti." And even as he spoke a white-faced servant entered.

"My lord," he cried, as Giannotto stepped before him, "there has been some sore disaster—the country folk are trooping through the gates—there is a panic in the city."

"The messengers!" cried Giannotto, "the messengers!"

"The messengers have not returned—but there are plenty bringing news who were not sent for them, my lord." And as the man spoke, a disordered group, soldiers and servants, pressed into the room behind him.

"Gently, my friends," said Giannotto, checking their agitated outcry and pointing to the curtains that hid the banqueting hall. "The Duke!"

A man, dusty and white-faced, forced himself out of the crowd, small, but swelling every moment.

"I bear news the Duke must hear," he said, "and quickly."

"Where hast thou come from?" asked the secretary. "What is thy news?"

"Since daybreak I have been flying for my life—I am a servant in the garrison at Brescia—it is destroyed," gasped the man.

"Brescia!" The echo of horror. "Has Brescia fallen?"

"Aye, fallen—into Della Scala's hands."

Giannotto looked around bewildered, incredulous.

"Della Scala at Brescia?" he said. "You dream!"

But the room was filled now with a wild-faced crowd that would not be kept back, and from every side echoed the evil tidings.

"Brescia—at dawn to-day Della Scala whirled down on us, flushed with victory—and in two hours the town fell."

"And Visconti thinks him idle at the d'Este's court!" broke from Giannotto.

And the crowd filled the chamber with the whisper of dismay and horror, but from the banqueting room still came the song and the laughter—Visconti was in blissful ignorance of evil. Who could tell him? Who would dare?