*CHAPTER IX*
The Duke of Milan, confessed, absolved, and his conscience pawned to asaint, had, on the virtue of that pledge, started in a humour ofunbridled self-righteousness for the territory of Vercelli. With himwent some four thousand troops, horse and footmen, a drain of bristlingsplendour from the city; yet the roaring hum of that city's life, andthe flash and sting thereof, were not appreciably lessened in the flyingof its hornet swarm. Rather waxed they poignant in the general sense ofa periodic emancipation from a hideous thralldom. The tyrant was gone,and for a time the intolerable incubus of him was lifted.
But, for the moment, there was something more--a consciousness, withinthe precincts of the palace and beyond them, of a substitutedatmosphere, in which the spirit experienced a strangeself-expansion--other than mere relief from strain--which was foreign toits knowledge. Men felt it, and pondered, or laughed, or were scepticalaccording as their temperaments induced them. So, in droughty days, thelittle errant winds that blow from nowhere, rising and falling on athought, affect us with a sense of the unaccountable. There was such asweet odd zephyr abroad in Milan. The queer question was, Was thelittle gale a little mountebank gale, tumbling ephemerally for itsliving, or did it represent a permanent atmospheric change?
A few days before Galeazzo's departure, Bernardo--by special appointment_custos conscientiae ducalis_--had, while walking in the outer ward ofthe Castello with Cicada, happened upon the vision of a Franciscan monk,plump and rosy, but with inflammatory eyes, entering with Messer Jacopothrough a private postern in the walls. He had saluted the jocund figurereverentially, as one necessarily sacred through its calling, and wasstanding aside with doffed bonnet, when the other, halting with anexpression of good-humoured curiosity on his face, had greeted him,puffed and asthmatic, in his turn:--
'Peace to thee, my son! Can this be he of whom it might be said, "_Puernatus est nobis: et vocabitur nomen ejus, Magni Consilii Angelus_"?'
The Franciscan had rumbled the query at Jacopo, who had shrugged, andanswered shortly: 'Well; 'tis Messer Bembo.'
'So?' had responded the monk, gratified; 'the David of our latergeneration?' and instantly and ingratiatory he had waddled up, and,putting a prosperous hand on Bernardo's shoulder, had bent to whisperhoarsely, and quite audibly to Cicada, into the boy's ear:--
'Child--I know--I am to thank _thee_ for this summons.' Then, beforeBembo, wondering, could respond: 'Ay, ay; Saul's ears are opened to thetruth. The stars cannot lie. You sent for me, yourself their saintedemissary, to confirm the verdict. What! I might have failed to answerelse. We know the Duke, eh? But, mum!'
And with these enigmatic words, and a roguish wink and squeeze, he hadhurried away again, following the impatient summons of Jacopo, who wasbeckoning him towards a flight of open stairs niched in the northcurtain, up which the two had thereon gone, and so disappeared among thebattlements.
Then had Bernardo turned, humour battling with reverence in hissensorium, and 'Cicca!' had exclaimed, with a little click of laughter.
The Fool's answer had been prompt and emphatic.
'Cracked!' he had snapped, like a dog at a fly.
'Who was he?'
'Nay, curtail not his short lease. He is yet, and, being, is the FraCapello--may I die else.'
'Well, if he is, _what_ is he?'
'Why, a short-of-breath monk; yet soon destined, if I read him aright,to be a breathless monk.'
'Nay, thou wilt only new-knot a riddle. I will follow and ask theProvost-Marshal, though I love him not.'
'Nor he thee, methinks. Hold back. The butcher looks askance at thepet lamb. Well, what wouldst thou? Of this same monkish rotundity,this hemisphere of fat, this moon-paunch, this great blob of star-jelly,this planet-counterfeiting frog, this astronomic globe stuffed out withpasties and ortolans? Well, 'tis Fra Capello, I tell thee, anastrologer, a diviner by the stars--do I not aver it, though I havenever set eyes on the man before?'
'How know'st, then?'
'Why, true, my perspicacity is only this and that, a poor matter ofinferences. As, for example, the inference of the fingers, that when Iburn them, fire is near; or the inference of the nose, that when I smellcooking fish, it is a fast day; or the inference of the palate, thatwhen I drink water, I am a fool.'
'A dear wise fool.'
'Ay, a wise fool, to know what one and one make. Dost thou?'
'Two, to be sure.'
'Well, God fit thy perspicacity with twins, when thy time comes. Oneout of one and one is enough for me.'
'Peace! How know'st this holy father is an astrologer?'
'Inference, sir--merely inference. As, for example again, the inferenceof the ears, that when I mark the substance of his whisper to thee, Iseem to remember talk of a certain Franciscan, who, having predicted bythe stars short shrift for Galeazzo, and been invited to come anddiscuss his reasons, did prove unaccountably coy, though certainly seerto his own nativity. Imprimis, the astrologer was reported a Conventualand fat; whereby comes in the inference of the eye. Now, "Ho-ho!"thinks I, "this same swag-bellied monk who babbles of stars! Surely itis our Fra Capello? And hooked at last? By what killing bait?"'
Here he had touched the boy's shoulder swiftly, and as swiftly hadwithdrawn his hand, an ineffable expression, shrewd and caustic,puckering his face. Bembo had looked serious.
'Cicca! I do believe thou art madder than any astrologer--unless----'
'No!' had cried the Fool; 'I am sober; wrong me not.'
Then Bembo had repented lovingly:--
'Pardon, dear Cicca. But, indeed, I understand thee not.'
'Why,' I said, 'what killing bait had tempted the monk's shyness atlength?'
'What, then?'
'Thyself.'
'I?'
'Art thou not a star-child and Galeazzo's protege? O, pretty, sweetdecoy, to draw the astrologer from his cloister!'
'Dost mean that the Duke would use me to question the truth of thesepredictions? Alas! not I, nor any man, can interpret nothingness into atext.'
'Wilt thou tell him so?'
'Who?'
'The Duke.'
'I have told him so.'
'Thou hast? Then God keep the Franciscan in breath!'
'Amen!' had said Bembo, in all fervour and innocence. He had thought theother to mean nothing more than that the Duke was designing, on _his_authority, to win a faulty brother from the heresy--as he construedit--of divination.
As _he_ construed it. Young and inexperienced as he was, he had yet aprophet's purpose and vision--the vision which, in despite of alltraditional beliefs, looks backwards. His soft eyes were steadfast tothat end which was the beginning. No sophistries could beguile him fromthe essential truth of his kind creed. _He_ was an atavism of somethingvastly remoter than Caligula--than any tyranny. He 'threw back' to thestock of those first angels who knew the daughters of men--to the firstfruits of an amazed and incredible sorrow. By so great a step was heclose to the God his sires had offended; was close to the parting of theways between earth and heaven, and with all the lore of thesince-accumulated ages to instruct him in his choice of roads. O,believe little Bernardo that his was the true insight, the true wisdom!There is no Future, nor ever will be. The past but prolongs itself tothe present; and all enterprise, all yearning, are but to recover theground we have lost. That truth once recognised, the horror of Futurityshall close its gates; its timeless wastes shall be no more to us; andwe--we shall be wandering back, by aeons of pathetic memories, to traceto its source the love that gushed in Paradise.
Three days later the boy--the Duke being gone--was strolling, again withCicada his shadow, on the ramparts. It had become something his habit totake the air, after hearing the morning causes, on these outer walls,whence the tired vision could stretch itself luxuriantly on leagues ofpeaceful plain. He liked then to be left alone, or at the most to thesole company of his dogged henchman, the erst Fool. Cicada's gruff butjealous sympathy was an emolli
ent to lacerated sensibilities; his witwas a tonic; his tact the fruit of long necessity. No one would haveguessed, not gentle Bernardo himself, how the little, ugly, causticcreature was, when most wilful or eccentric in seeming, watching overand medicining his moods of inevitable weariness or depression.
Perhaps he was in such a mood now--induced by that passion of theirremediable which occasionally must overtake every just judge--as heleaned upon the battlements, his cheek propped on his palm, and gazedout dreamily over the shining campagna.
'Cicca,' he said suddenly, 'what made thee a Fool?'
'Circumstance,' answered the other promptly.
'Ah!' sighed Bembo--'that blind brute force of Nature, wavering out ofchaos. No agent of God--His foe, rather, to be anticipated andcircumvented. Providence is the true wise name for our Master. He_provideth_, of the immensity of His love, for and against. He can dono further, nor foretell but by analogy the blundering spites ofCircumstance. But always He persuades the monster of his interest lyingmore and more in sweet order--dreams of him sleeping caged, a lazy,satiated chimera, in the mid-gardens of love.'
'Che allegria!' said Cicada; 'I will go then, and poke him in the ribs,and ask him why he made a Fool of me.'
Bembo smiled and sighed.
'There is a proof of his blindness. What, in truth, was thy origin,dear Cicca?'
The Fool came and leaned beside him.
'Canst look on me and ask? I was born in this dark age of tyranny, andof it; I shall die in it and of it. I have never known liberty.Sobriety and reason are empty terms to me. Ask of me no fruit but thefruit of mine inheritance. A drunken woman in labour will bring forth adrunken child. I am Cicada the Fool, lower than a slave, curst pimp toFolly.'
Soft as a butterfly, Bernardo's hand fluttered to his shoulder andrested there. The creature's dim eyes were fixed upon the crawlingplain; his face worked with emotion.
'There was a time,' he said, 'I understand, when governments were loyalat once to the individual and the state--when they wrought for thecommon weal. In those days, it would seem certain, riches--anythingabove a specified income--must have disqualified a man for office. Itis the ideal constitution. Corruption will enter else. Wealth, and theemulation of wealth, are the moth in stored states. That was the age ofthe republics and all the virtues. I am born, alack, after my time. Ihave held Esau the first saint in the calendar. I am not sure I do notdo so now, Messer Bembo despite.'
'And I, too, love Esau,' said Bernardo quietly.
Cicada, amazed, whipped upon him; then suddenly seized him in his arms.
'Thou dearest, most loving of babes!' he cried rapturously; 'sweet saintof all to me! What! did I twit thee, mine emancipator, with my curse tothralldom? Loves Esau, quotha! No cant his creed. Child, thou artasphodel to that cactus. Put thy foot on this mouth that could soslander thee!'
'Poor Cicca!' said Bembo, gently disengaging himself. 'Thou rebukestsweetly my idle curiosity.'
'Curiosity!' cried the other. 'Would the angels always showed as much!Thou art welcome to all of me I can tell:--as, for example, that mymother--_exitus acta probat_--was a fool, a sweet, pretty, vicious fool;and yet, after all, not such a fool as, having borne, to acknowledgeme.'
'Poor wretch! Why not?'
'Why not? Why, for the reason Pasiphae concealed her share in theMinotaur. Motley is the labyrinth of Milan. My father was a bull.'
'Well, I am answered.'
'Ah! thou think'st I jest. Relatively--relatively only, sir, I assurethee. Hast ever heard speak of Filippo Maria, the last of theVisconti?'
'Little, alas! to his credit.'
'I will answer in my person to that. He was uglier than any bull--amonster so hideous as to be attractive to a certain order of frailty. Iinclined his way. Perhaps that was my salvation. The child mostinterests the parent whose features it reflects. It is bad-luck tobreak a mirror; and so I was spared--for the labyrinth.'
'O infamous! He made thee his jester?'
'And fed me. Let that be remembered to him. When the reckoning comes,the bull, not Pasiphae, shall have my voice.'
'Hideous! Thy mother?'
'Let it pass on that. I need say no more, if a word can damn.'
'Cicca!'
'He was meat and drink to me, I say.'
'Drink, alas!'
'He meant it kindly. When I sparkled, 'twas his own wit he felt himselfapplauding. That was my easy time. He died in '47, and my majesty'sFooldom was appropriated incontinent to the titillation of thesepeasants of Cotignola their hairy ears.'
'Hush, and thou wilt be wise!'
'In my grave, not sooner. Francesco, our Magnificent's father, wasso-so for humour--a good, blunt soldier, who'd take his cue of laughterfrom some quicker wit, then roar it out despotically. No sniggerer,like his son, who qualifies all praise with envy. Shall I tell thee howI lost Galeazzo's favour? He wrote a sonnet. 'Twas an achievement. ARoman triumph has been ceded to less--hardly to worse. Lord, sir! therewas that applause and hand-clapping at Court! But Wisdom looked sour."What, fool!" demanded the Duke: "dost question its merit?" "Nay,"quoth Wisdom; "but only the sincerity of the praise. Sign thy next withmy name, and mark its fate." He did--actually. Poor Wisdom! as if ithad been truth the sonneteer desired! Never was poor doxy of a Museworse treated. This was exalted like the other; but in a pillory. Itmade a day's sport for the mob, at my expense. Was not that pain andhumiliation enough? But Galeazzo must visit upon me the rage of hismortification. Well, when he was done with me, Messer Lanti, high infavour, begged the remnant of my folly, and it was thrown to him. Thestory leaked out; I had had so many holes cut in me. It had been wiserto seal my lips with kindness. But the Duke, as you may suppose, lovesme to this day.'
As he spoke, they turned an angle of the battlements, and saw advancingtowards them, smiling and insinuative, the figure of Tassino. Bernardostarted, in some wonder. He had not set eyes on this dandiprat sincehis public condemnation of him, and, if he thought of him at all, hadbelieved him gone to make the restitution ordered. Now he gazed at himwith an expression in which pity and an instinctive abhorrence foughtfor precedence.
The young man was brilliantly, even what a later generation would havecalled 'loudly,' dressed. He had emerged from his temporary pupation avery tiger-moth; but the soul of the ignoble larva yet obtained betweenthe gorgeous wings. Truckling, insinuative, and wicked throughout, heaccosted his judge with a servile bow, as he stood cringing before him.Bembo mastered his antipathy.
'What! Messer cavalier,' he said, struggling to be gay. 'Artreturned?'--for he guessed nothing of the truth. Then a kind thoughtstruck him. 'Perchance thou comest as a bridegroom, _bene meritus_.'
Tassino glanced up an instant, and lowered his eyes. How he coveted thefrank audacity of the Patrician swashbuckler, with which he had beenmade acquainted, but which he found impossible to the craven meanness ofhis nature. To dare by instinct--how splendid! No doubt there is thatfox of self-conscious pusillanimity gnawing at the ribs of many aseeming-brazen upstart. He twined and untwined his fingers, and shookhis head, and sobbed out a sigh, with craft and hatred at his heart.Bernardo looked grave.
'Alas, Messer Tassino!' said he: 'think how every minute of a delayedatonement is a peril to thy soul.'
This sufficed the other for cue.
'Atone?' he whined: 'wretch that I am! How could a hunted creature doaught but hide and shake?'
'Hunted!'
'O Messer Bembo! 'twas so simple for you to let loose the mad dog, andblink the consequences for others.'
'Mad dog!'
'Now don't, for pity's sake, go quoting my rash simile. Hast not ruinedme enough already?'
'Alas, good sir! What worth was thine estate so pledged? I had nothought but to save thee for heaven.'
'And so let loose the Duke, that Cerberus? O, I am well saved, indeed,but not for heaven! Had it not been for the good Jacopo taking me inand hiding me, I had been roasting unhousel'd by
now.'
'Tassino, thou dost the Duke a wrong. 'Twas thy fear distorted thyperil. He is a changed man, and most inclined to charity and justice.'
Tassino let his jaw drop, affecting astonishment.
'Since when?'
'Since the day of thy disgrace.'
The other shook his head, with a smile of growing effrontery.
'Why, look you, Messer Bembo,' he said: 'you represent his conscience,they tell me, and should know. Yet may not a man and his conscience,like ill-mated consorts, be on something less than speaking terms?'
He laughed, half insolent, half nervous, as Bernardo regarded him insilence with earnest eyes.
'Supposing,' said he, 'you were to represent, of your holy innocence andcredulity, a little more and a little sweeter than the truth? Think'stthou I should have dared reissue from my hiding, were Galeazzo stillhere to represent his own? If I had ever thought to, there was thatburied a week ago in the walls yonder would have stopped meeffectively.'
'Buried--in the walls! What?'
'Dost not know? Then 'tis patent he is not all-confiding in hisconscience. And yet thou shouldst know. 'Tis said thou lead'st him bythe nose, as St. Mark the lion. Well, I am a sinner, properlypersecuted; yet, to my erring perceptives, 'tis hard to reconcile thysaintship with thy subscribing to his sentence on a poor Franciscanmonk, a crazy dreamer, who came to him with some story of the stars.'
'O, I cry you mercy! I quote Messer Jacopo, who was present."Deserving of the last chastisement"--were not those thy words? AndOmniscience dethroned--a bewildered mortal like ourselves? Anyhow, heheld thy saintship to justify his sentence on the monk.'
'What sentence?'
'Wilt thou come and see? I have my host's pass.'
He staggered under the shock of a sudden leap and clutch. Youngstrenuous hands mauled his pretty doublet; sweet glaring eyes devouredhis soul.
'I see it in thy face! O, inhuman dogs are ye all! Show me, take me tohim!'
Tassino struggled feebly, and whimpered.
'Let go: I will take thee: I am not to blame.'
Shaking, but exultant in his evil little heart, he broke loose and ledthe way to a remote angle of the battlements, where the trunk of a greattower, like the drum of a hinge, connected the northern and easterncurtains. This was that same massy pile in whose bowels was situate thedreadful oubliette known as the 'Hermit's Cell': a grim, ironic titlesignifying deadness to the world, living entombment, utter abandonmentand self-obliteration. It was delved fathoms deep; quarried out of thebed-rock; walled in further by a mountain of masonry. Tyranny sees anEnceladus in the least of its victims. On so exaggerated a scale offear must the sum of its deeds be calculated.
Here the Provost-Marshal had his impregnable quarters. Looking down,one might see the huge blank bulge of the tower enter the pavement belowunpierced but by an occasional loop or eyelet hole. Its only entrance,indeed, was from the rampart-walk; its direct approach by way of theflying stair-way, up which Bembo had seen the monk disappear. His heartburned in his breast as he thought of him. There was a fury in hisblood, a sickness in his throat.
A sentry, lounging by the door, offered, as if by preconcert withTassino, no bar to his entrance. But, when Cicada would have followed,he stayed him.
'Back, Fool!' he said shortly, opposing his halberd.
Cicada struggled a moment, and desisted.
'A murrain on thy tongue,' snapped he, 'that calls me one!'
The sentry laughed, and, having gained his point, produced a flaskleisurely from his belt.
'What! art thou not a fool?' said he, unstoppering it, and preparing todrink.
'Understand, I have forsworn all liquor,' said Cicada, with a wrytwinkle.
'So art thou certainly a fool,' said the sentry, eye and body guardingthe doorway, as he raised the horn.
'Hist!' whispered Cicada, staying him: 'this remoteness--that damninggurgle--come! a ducat for a mouthful! Be quick, before he returns!'
The soldier, between cupidity and good-nature, laughed and handed overthe flask. 'Done on that!' said he. But on the instant he roared out,as the other snatched and bolted with his property.
'How, thou bloody filcher! Give me back my wine!'
Cicada crowed and capered, dangling his spoil.
'Judas! for a dirty piece of silver to betray temperance!'
The sentry, with a furious oath, made at him. He dodged; eluded;finally, under the very hands of his pursuer, threw the flask into acorner, and, as the other dived for it, slipped by and disappeared intothe tower. The soldier, cursing and panting in his wake, ran into thearms of an impassive figure--staggered, fell back, and saluted.
Messer Jacopo eyed the delinquent a long minute without a word. He hadbeen silent witness, within the guard-room, of all the little scene, andwas considering the penalty meet to such a breach of orders anddiscipline.
There had been something of pre-arrangement in this matter between himand Messer Tassino. The two were in a common accord as to the loss andinconvenience to be entailed upon themselves by any reform of existinginstitutions--comprehensively, as to the menace this stranger was totheir interests. It would be well to demonstrate to him the unrealityof his influence with Galeazzo. Let him see the starving monk, inevidence of his power's short limits. It was possible the sight mightkill his presumption for ever: return him disillusioned to obscurity.
So his presence here had been procured, with orders to the sentry todebar the Fool. Jacopo wanted no shrewd cricket at the boy's side, toleaven the horror for him with his song of cheer. The fullimpressiveness of the awful scene must be allowed to overbear his soulin silence. This sentry had erred rather foolishly.
It abated nothing of the terror of the man that no sign of passion evercrossed his face, nor word his lips. He turned away, not having uttereda sound; and left the delinquent collapsed as under a heat-stroke.
'Now, let it be no worse than the strappado!' prayed the poor wretch tohimself.
In the meanwhile, Cicada, swift, quivering, alert, was descending, likea gulped Jonah, into the bowels of the tower. He had no need to pickhis path: the well-stairway, like a screw pinning the upper to theunderworld, transmitted to him every whisper and shuffle of thefootsteps he was pursuing. Sometimes, so deceptive were the echoes inthat winding shaft, he fancied himself treading close upon the heels ofthe chase; yet each little loop-lighted landing found him, as he reachedit, audibly no nearer. His mocking mouth was set grim; he dreaded, notfor himself but for his darling, some nameless entrapping wickedness.'If they design it,' he thought--'if they design it! Hell shall nothide them from me.'
Suddenly the sounds below died away and ceased. He listened an instant;then went down again, turning and turning in a nightmare of blindhorror. The walls grew dank and viscous to his palm. A stumble, andall might end for him hideously. Then, at the same moment, weak lightand a weaker cry greeted him. He descended, still without pause--andshot into the glowing mouth of a tiny tunnel, where were the figures hesought.
They stood at a low grating in the wall, which was pierced into asubterranean chamber. The bars were thrown open, and through theaperture Tassino directed the light of a flaring torch he held upon afigure lying prostrate on the stones below. Cicada crept, and peeredover his master's shoulder. The thing on the floor was grotesque,unnatural--a human skeleton emitting noises, heaving in its midst. Thatgreat bulk had become in its shrinkage a monstrous travesty of life. Butexistence still preyed upon its indissoluble vestments of flesh.
'He clings to life, for a monk,' whispered the Fool.
With the sound of his voice, Bernardo was sprung into a Fury. He lashedupon Cicada, tooth and claw:--
'Thou knew'st, and hid it from me in parables!'
'Inference, inference!' cried the Fool. 'I would have spared thee.'
'Spared _me_? Thus?'
'Ah! thy shame through wicked sophistries! He was foredoomed. Had Iinterfered, I had been lying myself there now, and you a
loving servantthe less.'
Bembo flung his arms abroad, as if sweeping all away from him.
'Love! Let pass!' he shrieked: 'Fiends are ye all, with whom to breatheis poison!' and he broke by them, and went flying and crying up into thedaylight. He ran, without pause, by the walls, down the notchedstairway, across the ward, and came with flaming colour into thebuttery.
'Give me wine and bread!' he screamed of the steward there; and the man,in a flurry of wonder, obeyed him. Then away he raced again, his handsfull, and never stopped until the sentry, a new one, at the tower doorbarred his progress. The way was private, quoth the man. He could letnone past but by order.
'Of whom?' panted Bembo.
'Why, the Provost-Marshal.'
Then the boy tried wheedling.
'Dear soldier: thou art well cared for. There is one within perishesfor a little bread.'
But the man was adamant.
'Where, then, is the Provost-Marshal?' cried the other in desperation.
Within or without--the sentry professed not to know. In any case, it wasdeath to him to leave his post.
Bernardo put down his load on the battlements, and, turning, fled awayagain.
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