"A letter for Your Excellency. His lordship has paid the messenger."
Used to letters regarding his suit in Rome, Don Francisco received this one without much interest and, when the servant had gone out, laid it on the table. "I'll read it in the morning," he said. "Candlelight strains my eyes." But noticing the weathered look of the paper and the half-washed-out handwriting, he brought it a moment closer to the flame.
"What is it, sir?" asked Dona Maria, struck by the sudden intentness of his face.
Without waiting to break the wax that held the edges of the paper together, Don Francisco ripped them apart and spread out the letter with trembling hands.
"What is it, sir? Can't you answer? Have you lost your tongue? What's wrong?"
"From Pedro," he said in a half-voice. "From our son."
She was out of her chair and at his side in one movement, as if her plump little person had taken wings. She snatched at the letter.
"Nay, wife, nay—we'll read it together. Nay—"
Heads close, they followed the labored, schoolboy writing, their lips forming the words as they read.
"Honored Sefior, my Father—Honored Sehora, my Mother—"
It was the letter which Pedro had written at Sanlucar and had entrusted to the master of the Genoese ship. Delayed by storm, forgotten in inns, sold by one carrier to another in speculation on the reward which the Strozzi address guaranteed, it had at last found its way from Andalusia to Tuscany.
When she had finished reading, Dofia Maria dropped to her knees and lifted her clasped hands. "I thank Thee, O God! Sweet Lord, I thank Thee! Blessed Madonna, I thank Thee!"
Don Francisco reread the letter. To hide his emotion, he uttered a loud "Humph!"—but could not conceal the ring in his voice. "So that's it! The cursed Islands after all! And with that ne'er-do-well son of Martin Cortes too! A profitable venture they'll have of it no doubt! If I could get my hands on the young rascal, I'd paint his back."
Maria de Vargas broke off her thanksgiving. "Out upon you!" she scolded. "Shame on you for an unnatural father! When we thought him dead! When he's alive and on honorable service—that is, if he is still alive! Nero, Sefior husband, was a lamb compared to you. Attila—"
"Aye," the other interrupted, in such high spirits that he could not keep from teasing her, "I knew we would come to that. If you had not so bullied and be-Neroed me when I was laboring upon Pedrito's education he would have learned obedience; he would be with us now instead of gallivanting with scapegraces beyond the Ocean Sea. Where is Bianca Valori now, not to speak of our other plans?"
"It doesn't matter." Doila Maria resumed her pious ejaculations. "Saint Christopher, patron of wayfarers—"
"I'm so downhearted," continued the old gentleman, his lips twitching, "that I've a great mind to give over our suit to His Holiness."
Dona Maria's virtues did not include a sense of humor. She rounded on him again. "Are you mad, sir? Now more than ever we must press it, so that our son may return home in honor." But noting the gap-toothed smile which her husband could no longer restrain, she said reproachfully, "You're a rogue, my lord."
He burst out laughing. "Yes, wife, to be honest, the news makes me young again. I thank God for it humbly with all my heart."
And next day his restored bearing proclaimed good news even before he boasted that his son, Pedro, had joined a renowned captain, one Hernan Cortes, in a venture of conquest overseas, from which he could expect to return with great honor and profit.
The suit for rehabilitation against the charges made by the Inquisitorial Court of Jaen proved long rather than difficult, and long only because of the distance involved between various points in Spain and
Italy. Clarice Strozzi's uncle was none other than Pope Leo himself; another kinsman was the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici, the man of action behind the pontifical throne; Cardinal Strozzi and Maria de Vargas were cousins. As for Don Francisco, he was distantly related to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and the charges against him reflected on the purity of that grandee's descent. It was manifestly absurd that the kindred of such Christian princes and potentates should be accused of heresy. Apart from ties of blood, which were stronger then than now, these charges became a personal affront to pope, cardinal, and duke, so that they had a selfish interest in quashing them at once.
In addition, a political event of the first importance incidentally favored Francisco de Vargas's cause. During the first six months of 1519, the rivalry between Charles of Spain and Francis of France for the then vacant elective office of Holy Roman Emperor absorbed the statesmen of western Europe. In this election, the Pope had an important voice, and a letter from His Holiness complaining of sundry wrongs and injustices done to his well-beloved son, Francisco de Vargas, a subject and pensioner of the Catholic King, would receive more immediate attention at the Spanish court than might otherwise have happened.
Thus, the Suprema of the Inquisition at Madrid, powerful as it was, found itself under far more pressure than such a trifling affair was worth. If the de Vargases, cut off from help, had perished in the prison or auto-da-fe at Jaen, there would have been no trouble. But since they had been allowed to escape and to bring into play such capital artillery as the Head of the Christian Church and the King of Spain, not to mention cardinals and grandees, the Suprema, inflexible as a rule in supporting the authority of its provincial tribunals, was prepared for once to admit a mistake. The holy Ignacio de Lora had been guilty of no injustice, but he had apparently been deceived. Though the de Vargases themselves were not without blame in violently resisting the representatives of the Inquisition, which would have established their innocence in due time, the Suprema graciously consented to overlook this fault, to nullify the charges, and to restore all property which had been confiscated. It did more. Glad of a scapegoat, it expressed official censure of de Silva's "ill-considered and intemperate zeal." And the censure of the Holy OflBce cast a shadow which a man's friends were apt to avoid.
But exoneration was not enough: the case demanded vengeance and damages. For this, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, Don Juan Alonso de Guzman, whose pride of blood was involved, made himself responsible.
Since unhappily de Silva had by now sailed for the Islands to rejoin de Lora, personal satisfaction must wait; but a suit at law was brought against him, and the small remnant of his property which he had not invested in his overseas speculation was sequestered. It was well for de Silva's peace of mind that, while adventuring in the New World, he did not know of the disaster which had befallen him at home.
All this activity took well over a year, so that Pedro and Cortes's mad army had scaled the mountains and were engaged in the desperate battles of Tlascala before Don Francisco, restored in honor and fortune, made ready his return to Jaen. He met success as he had met misfortune, too proud to wear emotion on his sleeve. To his simplicity, the outcome of his suit was owing to its justice, exactly as the election of Charles V to the Empire illustrated the triumph of right over wrong. Of course the Pope would sorrow over crimes committed in the holy name of the Church. Of course Don Juan Alonso would leap to the defense of a kinsman. Of course His Caesarean Majesty, the seal of whose letter Don Francisco kissed before opening it, remembered his services to Spain and was graciously pleased to extend protection. The selfish motives—family pride and political expediency—which helped Senor de Vargas more than the justice of his cause, did not occur to him. He pictured the world in the whites and blacks of his own forthright mind.
The pleasant year of exile passed. Don Francisco gave the benefit of his military advice to the Signoria of Florence, and he held an honored place among the grave and reverend elders of the city. He lamented the death of the Chief of State, Lorenzo de' Medici, and marched in his funeral procession. He rejoiced at the election of the Emperor. But since peace hung on, and no war arose to distract him, his heart was in Spain, and he planned to sail from Leghorn in September, when a final event gave a memorable close to the sojourn in Italy.
&nb
sp; The Strozzi family, together with Dofia Maria, were spending the hot days of late summer at Le Selve near the Mount Alban hills; but Don Francisco remained behind in the city. He had numerous letters of thanks connected with the suit to finish before sailing, and he also enjoyed the company of other elderly gentlemen remaining in Florence, rather than the restless come-and-go of young people at the villa.
One morning in Filippo Strozzi's cabinet, he was dictating to his amanuensis when a page boy knocked at the door and, in reply to an impatient ''Adelante!" came in. The boy looked excited.
"A gentleman to see Your Excellency," he stammered.
"What's his name?"
"He forbade me to tell his name, Your Excellency."
"Ha, did he so?" Don Francisco's eyes kindled; his lower lip crept out. "Well then, tell him from me that I am at this moment engaged and have no time for nameless callers."
"He's a high and mighty lord," the servant faltered.
"All the more reason for him not to be ashamed of his name and to show good manners. Does he think that I am at the beck and call of any lord on earth? Let him give his name or be gone."
The page lingered. "I'll be sworn he intends no disrespect, sir. It is but his whim. He bade me say, if you refused to see him, that he has been your ancient and mortal enemy and that he had yet to learn that Don Francisco de Vargas declines to meet his enemies on foot or horse."
"Now, by God!" exclaimed the other, forgetting his stiff knee and springing up. "That's a different matter. On those terms I'll see him and welcome. Is he armed?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Good!" The old cavalier shook with delight. "Hand me my sword and belt there. Seiior Nameless must be a right bold and gallant fellow to come defying me under the very roof of my kinsman. Is he alone?"
"Yes, sir.''
"Then, look you, boy, if he gives trouble, I want no help. Let everyone stand back. Thank God, I have had many noble enemies in my time: but if one of them comes alone to meet me, I would not have him outnumbered or put to disadvantage. I do not care to know his name now, since that is his wish—but you say he's a gentleman and of good blood?"
"Aye, sir, I can vouch for him."
Don Francisco belted on his sword and loosened it in the scabbard. Then, walking over to a mirror, he smoothed down his sparse hair; righted his gold chain, so that it lay evenly on his shoulders and showed the pendant medallion to the best advantage; arranged the folds of his doublet.
"Who would have ever hoped for such a thing!" he exulted. "Here, on a dull morning! It's like the old days. Yes, a gallant fellow. My mortal enemy, eh? Well, well."
Beyond the cabinet lay a vast reception room, tapestried and with a riot of gods in fresco on the ceiling. Having advanced to the exact center of it, Don Francisco stopped.
"Tell the gentleman that I await his pleasure."
In the entrance hall at the far end of the room, he was aware of a
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flutter and crowding of servants. Then the throng divided; he heard the clink of a sword, and the caller entered.
He was a tall, slender man with wide shoulders and long arms. His hair, slightly grizzled, was straight-cropped on forehead and neck. He was clean-shaven, long-nosed, and had wide-set prominent eyes, with deep wrinkles at their comers. A bold chin, a big mouth, haunted by the shadow of a smile and framed by lines slanting down from the nostrils, gave a forceful, yet pleasant look to his face. Except for a heavy gold chain of the Order of St. Michael, he was dressed simply and somberly. Walking with the careless, long stride of a horseman, he rested one big hand on the hilt of his sword, and carried his velvet hat in the other.
At the first glimpse of the stranger, Don Francisco started, then stared; his lower jaw drooped. Then uttering a loud ''Vive Dids" he left his post in the center of the room and limped toward the newcomer with both hands outstretched, his sallow cheeks glowing, incredulous joy on every feature.
"Monseigneur de Bayard!"
"Ha, Monseigneur de Vargas!"
Whereupon the two enemies embraced, while the servant who had first announced the caller relaxed in the luxury of a grin.
"I should have known it was you!" exclaimed Don Francisco, when he had caught his breath. "No other man on earth would so have presented himself. You always loved your joke."
"Joke, nothing!" laughed the Frenchman. "Aren't we old and mortal enemies, my dear friend? Didn't I knock out your front teeth by good luck at Gaeta? Didn't you lift me from the saddle at Bisceglie a lance's length on my rump? Was I able to sit in comfort for the next two weeks? And haven't we thirsted for each other's blood in a dozen skirmishes, sieges, and pitched battles? If you don't call that mortal, what is it? But, faith, Monseigneur," he added more gravely, "it warms my heart to see you again. The brave days—ha? Friends and enemies, few of us are left."
"My lord," de Vargas answered, "I could now gladly say the Nunc Dimittis for the pleasure this gives me. That the cavalier sans peur et sans reproche should visit my poor self overflows the cup. I have followed your fame for years but never expected to see you again in the flesh. I thought you were in Grenoble. I never dreamed—"
"Merely a chance," put in Bayard, glad to escape from compliments. "The King's business took me to Genoa and then to Florence. When I heard you were here, I lost no time."
Don Francisco emerged momentarily from his rapture. "Wine and refreshment for the Lord Bayard!" he called. "At once! . . . This way, sir, by your leave. We can talk more at our ease in the cabinet yonder."
Bravely he tried to keep step with the other, but fell to limping; at which the French captain stopped to admire the tapestries and covered up his host's embarrassment. But when they were seated in the smaller room, doors closed, wine, cake, and fruit at hand, what talk!
Of course, they spoke French, because Frenchmen are rarely at home in another language; but it was plentifully mixed with Spanish and Italian. Bayard's hearty, ringing voice alternated with de Vargas's lisp.
"And this fine son of yours, sefior?" demanded Bayard after several minutes. "Fve been expecting him for the past six months. Is he here? Perhaps he'll ride back with me." But struck by the other's expression, he hesitated. "I ask pardon. Is it that— Surely he accompanied you from Spain?"
"No." De Vargas cleared his throat. He was torn between loyalty to Pedro and a kind of professional shame. "No."
"You mean—I hope no misfortune—"
"No—yes. Monseigneur, in view of your generous offer to my son, I hardly know what to say. The truth is"—Don Francisco gulped—"he has been guilty of flagrant disobedience. We were separated in a trifling skirmish which attended our escape. He led the rear guard and, I confess, quitted himself well. He was under orders to rejoin me here. But, sir, when he could have begun the career of arms under your guidance, when he had such an opening, what does he do but cross the Ocean Sea and enlist with a crowd of irregulars on an expedition against the Indians! Monseigneur, this is the sad truth. I am ashamed." But loyalty got the upper hand at the expense of honesty, and he added: "I believe his commander, Heman Cortes by name, is a most accomplished captain. The boy too shows promise in the management of his horse and his weapons. But alas—"
The alas did not need to be explained. It covered all that Pedro would miss: the tactics and niceties of traditional war; the ordering of vanguard, "battle," and rear guard; the developing science of artillery and musketry; siege operations against fortified places; the use of horse and foot; the etiquette and discipline of a regular army. Bayard understood. He and de Vargas were professionals discussing a youth who had turned his back on their code.
For a moment the Frenchman said nothing, but took a sip of wine, his eyes absently fixed on the cornice above Don Francisco's head. In some suspense, the latter awaited his comment.
"Mort de ma vie!" exclaimed the Great Cavalier at last. "Except for his disobedience to you, I think the young gaillard did well. Faith, yes! The more I reflect on it, very well—t
hough I should have liked having him among my lances."
Don Francisco's eyes brightened. "How do you mean well, my lord?"
"Why, he sounds like a boy of enterprise and spirit. In truth, I envy him. . . . You say against Indians? What kind of men are they? Like Moors?"
"It may be," said the other dubiously. "I've heard that some, notably the Caribs, are brave and hardy."
"Well, then, what more would you have? Nom de dieu! Are we not at peace? Is it not better for a gentleman to fight than not to fight? Is it not better to fight something than nothing?"
"There's truth in that," de Vargas agreed.
"Is it not the first duty of a gentleman," Bayard continued, "to acquire honor? And will your son not gain more honor in war against enemies of our Faith than in riding at the quintain in my tilt yard or chasing beggarly outlaws in the mountains of Dauphine? Of course he will. He may even learn new tricks of war from the Indians to use when he returns. Time enough then to polish him off. He'll be far ahead of whippersnappers who know all the rules, but have never practised them, for the trade of arms is only learned by fighting. You must forgive him, sir, for my sake."
De Vargas beamed. With this endorsement, Pedro's adventure took on a new aspect.
"You are kind."
"Kind, no; envious, yes. I am bored, my friend. I'm a dull governor in a dull palace—little better than a bourgeois man of affairs. I attend weddings and baptisms. I hold court. Pah! Indians, eh?" He sighed. "I'd like right well to show my pennon beyond the Ocean Sea."
After dwelling on the tasteless present, conversation turned to speculation on the next war. The growing friction between Charles of Spain and King Francis promised well. But even this topic could not keep the two old soldiers very long from the past. A roll call of names: Louis d'Ars, Pedro de Peralta, Pierre de Bellabre, Alonso de Sotomayor, Berault d'Aubigny, Pedro de Paz, a score of others—names once vivid but now already faded by the passing of years, names chiefly of dead men. Bayard and de Vargas smiled fondly over one or the other; rehearsed their deeds, discussed battles, forays, and retreats; laughed often, but with a solemn undertone, as those who speak of vanished faces and days. Killed at Ravenna, killed in Navarre, killed in the
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