Part 16

The air was damp and vault-like, and the room itself bare of any furniture or adornment save a purple hassock, and two lamps of rusty gold that hung by long, blackened chains from the ceiling. Opposite the entrance hung against the stone wall a purple curtain, and before it a large crucifix, crudely painted. The dim light just struck its dismal coloring, and to Mastino's fevered fancy the dead Christ seemed to twist and writhe along His contorted body.

The lamps were long out, and the sense of incense on the air faint.

Della Scala entered softly, catching his breath painfully, the terror of religion strong within him.

On the purple hassock he knelt, with clasped hands, before the disfigured Christ, his heart rising to his lips in passionate prayer.

"Lord, thou understandest! Because I cannot deck thy altars with the gold of victory, thou wilt not forsake me, thou wilt have mercy on me and on her!"

And he stretched out his arms to the figure in an exaltation of trust and hope. "Even as I spare those who betray, so wilt thou spare her, O Christ!" He flung himself from his knees, face downward on the stones, in a tumult of hope and trust. Around the folds of Mastino's cloak lay the leaves of some dead roses that had fluttered at his movement, from forgotten wreaths, hanging brown against the wall.

Mastino rose, eager for some answer—some assent. But the dead Christ was silent. Mastino could see the cracking paint on the ribs, the tawdry gold of the halo, and he came still nearer in a strange desperation.

Half-hidden in shadow, two faces looked down on him—expressionless, stone, the angels on the wall.

Mastino looked from them to the crucifix, and his fervent faith sank, chilled.

"Stone," he murmured in his heart. "Stone and paint," and he noticed the empty lamps that should be blazing with eternal fire, and he cried aloud in bitterness. "Men keep those alight, and without them the eternal fire dies! Stone angels and a painted God! What help in them?" And he dropped again upon the floor. "The lamps burn bright on Visconti's altars, and his saints smile—for the painter limned them so."

He turned from the dismantled chapel and rushed up the three steps, half distraught.

In the outer chamber the sunlight dropped strong and golden, and Mastino shut the door of the dark and gloomy chapel behind him with a shudder.

"Lord!" cried an eager voice. "Lord!"

It was Tomaso and his father.

"Did ye fear for me, Ligozzi?" said Della Scala kindly. "I have been praying for a patient heart." And the two who loved him looked at him awhile and could say nothing.

"My lord," began Tomaso again with a timid eagerness, "there is news—"

"Tomaso," said his father, "thy news can wait."

Mastino picked up his gauntlet from the deep window-seat where he had laid it down, and fastening it on, looked at Ligozzi.

"What hast thou to say, Ligozzi? Have any of the men returned?"

Ligozzi stood fidgeting with his cap, looking uneasily at the ground.

"Come," and Mastino smiled sadly, "I am used to bad news, Ligozzi."

"Some few men have indeed returned from Giacomo's army, my lord, some fourscore—"

"Some fourscore!" repeated Della Scala. "Are there so many as fourscore that will not serve Visconti?"

"They have strange tales, my lord. They say Carrara himself is dead."

"Carrara dead!" cried Mastino with a sudden fierceness, savage as a bite. "Now, I had promised myself to kill Carrara. Who has forestalled me?"

"It is said—Visconti himself—they do not know."

"And the traitor dead," broke in Della Scala, "was there not one—not one to lead the men back to me again? Visconti, single-handed and unarmed, was allowed to take an army into Milan?"

"Alas, my lord, not only Carrara, his captains too, as it appears, have all been bought."

"Tell me no more," cried Mastino. "I am alone to blame. I cannot learn to deal with traitors."

"As for Count Carrara, the wretched German," continued Ligozzi, "he has left the camp." As he spoke, Ligozzi glanced through the window at the tents. "He took no one with him, but, ordering his Germans to fight as one man to the death for you, he rode along the road to Milan."

"Oh!" cried Mastino, with a great cry wrung from his soul. He rested his hand a moment on Ligozzi's shoulder. "I am well-nigh sick, Ligozzi," he said. "The empty-headed and the villain prosper, and I—and mine—go to the wall."

Tomaso stole forward. Della Scala noticed him and turned kindly.

"Something to tell me, sayest thou?" he asked.

Tomaso's eyes were full of tears. For some moments he could not find his voice.

"He hath discovered some secret passage; useless, I fear me," said his father.

"Nay, father, I tell thee it leadeth to the city! To-day, lord, as I explored it, I found stored there some rolls of silk, new and clean; together with some earths such as I have heard say painters use."

Della Scala started. He found the news not so unimportant as Ligozzi had.

"Go on, Tomaso," he said, and kept his half-closed eyes upon the ground.

"Indeed, my lord, it must be some old subway into Milan. 'Tis wide enough to admit six abreast, and recently used, as it opens some mile and a half outside the city. I have not yet penetrated to the extremity. Lord, think of it—it must open into Milan!"

Della Scala's worn face flushed involuntarily, his eyes turned to the closed door of the chapel. Had he belied the stone angels—the extinguished lamps?

"This seems great news, Tomaso," he said slowly. "I will see into it." He moved as he spoke. "My other gauntlet, Ligozzi?"

"I cannot see it, lord."

"Ah!" said Mastino suddenly. "I left it in the chapel!"

Tomaso had already departed for the gauntlet. Mastino, following to the door, saw him stoop and lift it from the ground.

Tomaso handed him the ponderous glove, and, as Mastino took it, he stifled the cry on his lips, and turned away to clasp it to his heart.

For inside his glove, almost hidden in the velvet lining, lay a soft white rose: a sign from heaven.

CHAPTER TWENTY

IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE

"My chance has come," said Valentine.

A day had passed since Visconti had ridden so wildly to the western gate, and as yet he had not returned.

The soldiers, weary and wounded, had reeled that night into the palace courtyards, de Lana at their head, expecting to find Visconti there before them. They had missed him in the wild fray—the Germans had been driven back from the walls without their prisoners—had not the Duke returned?

Neither then nor as yet, near a day after the sortie. Doubtless he, victorious as ever, was reconnoitering some stronghold of the enemy, or their encampments outside Milan.

Still, in the palace some were getting anxious; there was no word, no message. Who, in the Duke's absence, ruled Milan?

The question suggested itself among others to Valentine Visconti.

She put it to herself.

"I rule Milan, and I will give myself my freedom by it, whether Gian be alive or dead, returning now or never."

It was late afternoon, and Valentine had formed her plan; with courage and skill she made no doubt of success. To enter her brother's private room was the first step.

All day Valentine had plotted some means of accomplishing this.

The rooms were locked, and Gian wore the key around his neck.

The Visconti palace was part old, part new; the great circular tower in which Isotta was confined, the low heavy stone buildings that surrounded it, were the only remaining portions of the ancient Gothic castle.

The new building, bright in yellow and pink tiles, was supported on low, horseshoe arches, and gave straightly on the courtyard in front and the gardens at the rear—the whole encircled by a great wall.

Detached from the palace, standing alone in the grounds, was a high, square brick tower, the highest building in Milan, and from the summit there floated night and day the banner of the Viper.

Along the second story of the palace ran the open arcade or corridor, a wide and pleasant walk, paved with black and white stone, looking on the garden through the clustered columns that supported it, richly ornate with carvings.

A private entrance to Visconti's rooms opened onto this corridor.

The banqueting hall gave upon it also, and to Valentine Visconti, standing between the arches looking from the fair garden back to the closed doors, a thought occurred.

In her wild intention to escape, she had only one ally, Adrian, her page, feeble and powerless at best, but devoted to her with an utter devotion that might be worth much.

Valentine had confided in him, since she must have help, if only the help of speech; and now, of a sudden, his use appeared.

She had withdrawn from the observation of her women and the court, in pretense of praying for her brother's safety, and no one was with her.

"Adrian!" she called softly, "Adrian!" She had privately bidden him follow her, and well she knew he was not far away.

The boy came forward eagerly.

"Hush!" said Valentine. "Do not speak—listen—I have need of thee; wilt thou serve me even to the death, for it may be that?"

"You know I do not heed death, lady," replied the page with glad pride. "Anything that may serve you will make me forever happy."

"Follow me," said Valentine, and stepped on to the balcony. "Now walk behind, and as if I were not speaking to thee. There may be sharp eyes upon us in the garden."

The sun, late as it was, fell between the pillars in strong bars of gold, and Valentine raised her ivory fan as if to shield her from the heat, but in reality to conceal the movement of her lips, in case there might be watchers.

"I must procure an entrance to my brother's rooms," she said, speaking low over her shoulder. "They are locked. No key will fit them. I cannot force the entrance in the palace. Still I must enter. You are listening, Adrian?"

"With all my soul, lady!"

Valentine kept her eyes upon the garden, there was no one there to see. The tower was not as yet finished, and so uninhabited; the garden itself was empty; still Valentine kept her gaze before her and spoke without turning her head.

"At any moment the Duke may return; or, if he does not, there will be sore confusion I cannot cope with; it must be done."

They had traversed almost the whole length of the corridor, and Valentine suddenly stopped.

"There, this door," said Valentine, "into the Duke's rooms, Adrian," and she rested her hand against it as she spoke.

It was a folding door, opening in the middle, firmly bolted from the inside, and appeared as hopeless as the great entrance to the suite within the palace, though unguarded.

Either side of it were deep-set, circular windows, ringed round and round with carving and ornamentation, placed too high to reach and too small to gain admission by.

The door itself was of wood, as firm and heavy as iron, clamped with gilded metal, and immovable to the touch.

"Does it look hopeless?" whispered Valentine.

Adrian would not have said so for his life.

"You would force it?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, hush!" Valentine leaned through the low arch and looked into the garden; as before, all was quiet; the life and bustle of the palace came through the front to-day, waiting news of the absent Duke.

She turned again with glistening eyes.

"Yes, I would force it—and I will show you how, Adrian."

Half-way up the door, deep set in the thin and delicate foliage of the carving, were two circular windows, one in each panel.

"Can you reach them?" asked Valentine. "I am a hand too short."

By means of standing on the base of one of the side pillars of the door, Adrian could easily touch the whole span of the glass.

"Now, do I break it?" whispered the page.

"Yes," returned Visconti's sister. "But wait, there may be some soldier on hidden guard."

She looked around cautiously.

"I see no one," she continued. "Now, only through this one arch canst thou be noticed from the garden, and there I will stand, with my open fan; now quick—thy dagger handle."

She turned her back to him and raised her hand against the stonework of the arch, her mantle so falling over her arm that anyone, looking thither, could have seen nothing save her figure.

Adrian leaned forward and struck the glass a violent blow with the handle of his dagger; it was hard, and resisted, but at a second blow shivered. The page tore away the metal framework, and slipping his arm through, thrust back the first bolt. But it was fastened in three places, and the other two were not so easy. Straining up to his full height, the page forced half his body through the broken window and succeeded in slipping back the second bolt; the third was almost at the bottom of the tall door, nor was the opening he had forced large enough for him to do more than admit his arm and shoulder through. He still held his dagger in his hand, and grasping at it at the end of the blade, struck violently downward at the bolt head with the handle. It did not move the first time, nor the second, nor the third; but at the fourth blow it suddenly shot back and the door was open. Adrian struggled through the window, backward, on to his feet, his hand and arm torn in several places, dizzy with the strain.

Valentine turned with a glad cry.

"Now stand thou in the archway," she said; "and close the door behind me and keep watch; our one need is haste!"

The page pushed the despoiled door open and Valentine sped through, closing it carefully after her; the broken window would not be noticed from the garden, but an open door might. The space she entered seemed so dark after the bright glare outside that at first she could gather nothing.

But soon the light sufficed to show Valentine this was not the room she wanted.

It was gorgeously decorated, frescoes covered the walls, the ceiling was richly gilt and painted, the floor glass mosaic, the furniture florid and ornate.

Valentine glanced around hurriedly: at one end was a door, and trying it, found it open easily, leading into another splendid apartment—still not containing what she sought.

Hastening on through a door, not only unlocked, but standing ajar, she found herself in a small, somber room, hung with purple and gold; its principal furniture the secretary's table, Visconti's chair, and the imposing black carved bureau.

This was the room she wanted; and on the bureau, flung down in haste, a bunch of keys.

Valentine seized them with trembling hands; they were the keys of the drawers, and one by one she flung them open, so possessed with excitement she could hardly stand. Gian was not in the palace, yet she seemed to feel his eyes upon her; to hear his step; catch his low whisper of her name; feel his touch upon her shoulder.

In one drawer were the parchment passports, some of them, for convenience, already signed with Visconti's name. Hastily Valentine thrust three into the bosom of her dress. But where were the palace keys?

She turned over the drawers in reckless haste; she found Visconti's seal and one of his signet rings, and slipped them both into her gown—still she could not find the keys. The Duke's pass-keys that unlocked every door.

The seal and the parchment were much—but the keys would be everything. They were not within the bureau; she rifled them once again—no, they were not there.

She turned away in vexation, and stood a second irresolute.

These rooms deserted, yet so full of their owner, were terrifying. Valentine was sick with fear—still, she must have those keys.

Hastily she turned over every article in the room, left as Visconti had left them—books, papers, ornaments.

There were no keys there.

She looked into the antechamber, that was bare and empty; she knew it too well to suppose what she sought could be hidden there.

In desperation she retraced her steps and stood again within the second room. An impulse made her lift the arras, and she beheld another door; and another still; they were either side Visconti's empty seat. She tried one: it opened immediately on a black marble stairway, and she closed it again with a thrill.

Desperately, she opened the other door; held to her courage desperately, and crossed the threshold. The room was paneled in black and scarlet, floor and ceiling inlaid with gold and black.

A great mirror hung opposite the door; either side a table, covered with a collection of articles left in utter confusion.

Valentine turned them over in frantic haste; there were laces and rings, jewels and curios, gloves, and strangely carved bottles. She handled the last carefully—she knew not what they might contain.

Still there were no keys.

Valentine, fast losing nerve, felt that she had been in these rooms for hours, the silence and suggestion oppressed her till she could have screamed—but she had risked too much to retreat.

There was an inlaid bureau, and a coffer beneath it; she opened the bureau and sought again; rings, daggers, treasures from Della Scala's collections, uncut gems, powders, scents, rosaries, charms, missals—only no hint of what she looked for.

On top of the coffer was a roll of drawings, the plans of the new church, several parchments, petitions, specimens of marble from the new quarries, carvings, mail gauntlets—Valentine swept them off on to the floor, and then threw the coffer open.

It was full of clothes—upon the velvet of the topmost mantle lay the small bunch of master-keys.

Valentine grasped it, and hid it in the little pocket at her side.

She had all she needed now, and was turning in relief to go, when, struck by another thought, she bent again over the coffer, lifted the contents out on to the floor.

Visconti's doublets were mostly too splendid for her purpose, but she seized the plainest, wrapped it in her mantle, snatched one of the daggers from the table. Then making rapidly through the rifled room, with a breathless prayer of gratitude for safety, she stealthily pushed open the door on to the balcony, and saw the sunlight and her page's eager face.

"Shut the door," she whispered. "Climb up and shut the top bolt."

The boy obeyed.

"No one has been?"

"No, lady; you have been quick."

"Quick!" gasped Valentine. "I thought I had been years."

She unclasped her mantle and gave it to the boy. "Take that back to my room—say I was too hot—give it to Costanza—she alone is in my confidence, as thou knowest; let no one stop thee—and listen—by to-morrow we shall be outside the gates."

The page turned away with her mantle on his arm, and Valentine leaned against the wall, and with her hand upon her heart, took a moment to steady herself; then with excited eyes, but even steps, she too walked slowly along the balcony toward the banqueting hall.

"The Duke has not returned," said de Lana.

He spoke a little anxiously, and looked around at the others who filled the council chamber, a few nobles, and the principal captains of the army and the mercenaries who defended Milan.

"Meanwhile, from whom do I take my orders? Who commands in Milan?"

"I cannot answer you, my lord," said Giannotto. "The Duke left no orders, at least with me."

"The Duke expected not to be gone so long," said Martin della Torre. "And ill it will be for him if he stays too long."

"Meanwhile," cried de Lana again, "to whom are we to look?"

The two pages announced the Lady Valentine.

The men glanced at one another.

"The Lady Valentine," repeated Giannotto to de Lana. "She may tell us what to do."

Not that he did not well know what terms of jeopardy she stood on with the Duke—but it was a shifting of responsibility that he welcomed.

All in the room rose to their feet to greet Valentine.

She was leaning on d'Orleans' arm, Adrian and her women following.

She looked regal, glorious. There was a fine color in her cheeks.

De Lana kissed her hand. She did not wait for him to speak, her eyes wandered over the assembled faces.

"I have not come before, my lords," she said, "because I thought the Duke might at any moment be again among us; but now, hearing you were gathered here and that there was some question of the Duke's pleasure in his absence as to who should issue orders for him, I am come to answer it in person."