Abruzzi, killed at Marignano. The friends of their youth, the very age into which they had been born—dead and gone.
In Filippo Strozzi's luxurious study, with its books and paintings and carved cherubs, the two clean-shaven, hawk-faced, medieval gentlemen sat like discordant relics. They were old-fashioned and proud of it. They glanced with scorn at these newer fashions: this fiddle-faddle about art and poetry and useless learning; these mental subtleties that questioned even religion itself; this non-military, pretty way of building houses that could not be held against attack; this wearing of beards, which were stuffy and impractical under armor. They belonged to a simpler, more childlike age, and because of it they loved each other like brothers.
Meanwhile, Francisco de Vargas worked up to a proposal. He viewed with approval Bayard's sinewy neck, rising pillar-like from the round opening of his doublet and looking almost too big for the head it supported. He admired the Chevalier's muscular hands and thin, whipcord legs spreading out comfortably from the chair. A fighting man, por Dios!
"Monseigneur," he ventured at last, "in other days we have never had leisure completely to finish any of our passages of arms. Unfortunately we were always prevented or separated in the heat of battle. I have never been able, therefore, fully to enjoy your prowess. You are here for a few days. No doubt I shall never again have the opportunity. Would it be asking too much if I begged you for a meeting with lance and sword on horseback? Suitable weapons and horses can be found. I should always be grateful for the chance to observe your skill."
Bayard's eyes danced. "Three courses, eh? A few strokes of the sword if lances are broken?"
"If you would be so good. It would greatly honor me, even if I can give you but poor sport—"
"Nonsense!" interrupted the other. "My dear friend, it's the other way round. I'm too old a fox to be fooled by modesty. You know that you overmatch me. But faith, I'm tempted! It seems an age since I've had a breathing."
Then suddenly he stopped. De Vargas would never know that his crippled knee and the twelve years' difference between them crossed Bayard's mind. The Frenchman's face clouded.
"No, ma foi. I remember. It's impossible. Maitre Champier, my physician, forbids all violent effort because of a quartan fever I had in June. I gave him my word." He added gallantly, "And, between you
and me, it's God's providence that I did. I could not stand another jolt to my rear such as you gave me at Bisceglie."
So the morning passed too quickly. Due at the Medici Palace for dinner, Bayard took his leave; but Don Francisco accompanied him a part of the way.
They walked arm in arm, their servants behind them, an equerry leading the Chevalier's hackney. And people made way for the two famous cavaliers with their grave, battle-lined faces, erect bearing, and fearless eyes. Even court dandies, curled and perfumed, were impressed and gazed after them. For both were distinguished men, remarkable in this, that while growing old they remained young and gallant and undefeated.
XL/;/
Singe the evening when Pedro de Vargas had told her about the miraculous ray in church which appointed her his Lady of Destiny, Luisa de Carvajal had succeeded in renewing the miracle at other times. She was quite aware of her spiritual, waxlike beauty, that brought a look of adoration to men's eyes; and the ray, slanting down from the narrow window, lent her an aureole, which lighted up her face and toilet to the best advantage. Not even marriage interfered with this casual pastime. Alonso Ponce, who had now become her galdn after de Silva's departure, was deeply impressed by the halo and called her "Lady of the Sunbeam," which she considered a charming and distinctive title.
On an October Sunday, nearly a year after her marriage and ten months since de Silva had sailed for the New World, she drove to church as usual in the Carvajal coach with her father and Senora Hernandez. Settling down to prayer, rosary in hand, she wondered whether the beam of light would descend on her that morning and, if it did, whether Alonso Ponce was there to watch. Between Aves, she gave a touch to her mantilla so that it revealed more fully the rapt and exalted expression of her face as she gazed at the altar.
Outwardly the past year had changed her only as an opening rosebud changes toward maturer perfection; but it had taught her much. It had taught her physical love at the hands of a passionate and not too delicate lord and master. It had taught her the value of cynicism as a salve for bruised illusions. It had shown her the slipperiness of Fortune and that Seiiora de Silva, with her dowry gone, had a much less promising
future than Luisa de Carvajal. Certain inherited traits, which she shared with the Marquis, had unconsciously ripened: conventional values seemed to her more valuable. Returned from her husband's house to the same mirador in the same palace with the same duenna, she could sometimes forget overnight that anything had happened. But the full measure of what had happened lay in the fact that she no longer had anything much to learn from Antonia Hernandez. In experience, she and the duenna were now almost contemporaries.
The Processional had started, when a movement in the rear of the church, an indefinable stir, half rustle and half excitement, brought her head around for a backward glance. Then her eyes returned decorously to the altar; but they no longer saw the baldachin or candlesticks or the gaunt painting of Our Lady and the Holy Child. She continued to see the tall figure of Don Francisco de Vargas advancing down the aisle with Dona Maria on his arm.
Of course, like everyone else in Jaen, she had heard of the de Vargases' return yesterday and of the great ovation given them; but the event had momentarily slipped her mind. She knew that Don Francisco had received an added pension from the Crown, and there were rumors that the city Cabildo or Chapter would name him Alcalde at the next election. Her father, who lost no time ranging himself on the side of success, had spoken glowingly of this great man, to whom he had always been a devoted friend.
"But, my lord," protested Luisa, whose memory was not yet trained to sufficient tact, "a year ago you felt differently. I remember you called him—" Overborne by the Marquis's heavy eyes, she hesitated. "Didn't you?"
"It is possible, daughter. If so, I trust that you understand why. A man even of my experience can be hoodwinked by a rascal. It is true that your unprincipled husband, who deceived the Holy Office itself about the de Vargases, deceived me. I am under a cloud and am poorer by your dowry of fifty thousand ducats in consequence. But if I ever expressed anything but admiration for the noble Don Francisco, you will charge it, I hope, to the proper account and not to mine."
Instinctively she agreed with him. Allowing for the difference of age, their minds ran in the same channel. She remembered de Silva as a brute, but that was not his unforgivable crime. If he had remained rich and in favor, she could still have respected, even if she did not love, him. That he was threatened with poverty both on account of the Duke of Medina Sidonia's suit and the reckless colonial venture, that he lay under the censure of the Santa Casa, was criminal. To be mar-
ried to such a criminal filled her with rebellion. Meanwhile, the de Vargases, cleared of the crime of misfortune, stood in the sunlight and deserved respect.
"I understand, my lord," Luisa had answered.
Glancing sideways now, she watched Don Francisco and Dona Maria kneeling down on their prayer cushions. For a moment, it seemed only yesterday that she had last seen them with Pedro and Mercedes. That they were alone recalled the lapse of time. Their clothes too reflected the difference between now and then. They were dressed in honor of their triumph. Dona Maria wore a wimple of the finest silk and a purple dress embroidered with seed pearls. Don Francisco, though as usual in black, had on a Florentine suit of the latest cut, its fashionably enormous leg-of-mutton sleeves slashed with gold. Under his arm, he carried a wide velvet hat with a circle of plumes around the crown.
Luisa was so absorbed that she forgot about the ray of light and even about Alonso Ponce. Her thoughts wandered to Pedro. In that far-off world overseas, he might not even have heard of her marriage. Did
he still regard her as his Queen of Honor? Had he kept the handkerchief she had given him? It was significant of the change that she now hoped he had and that others knew of it and linked her name with his. Except for de Silva and her father's blundering, life could have been so different.
In contrast to the coarse and bitter experience of marriage, her meeting with Pedro in the garden, as she thought about it, was fresh and poetic. She recalled—she almost recaptured—the delicious vibration of that evening. She could smell for an instant the odor of orange blossoms, could feel the romantic mystery of the night. And once more, as then, the conventional doll-like self, so docile and trained, stirred with new life, thrilled at the glimpse of an unfamiliar possibility. The months between faded like mist; she felt again the lilt and passion of that first love.
So far as conscious thought went, the change in the de Vargas fortunes did not influence her at this moment, however much the glamour of them actually altered everything. She had no skill in self-analysis. On the contrary, it seemed to her now that she had always been true to Pedro and that they had simply been victims of ill-chance. Yes, she had always cared for him, only for him. But what was the use of memory and desire? She could never have him now.
She stared at the crucifix and clicked her beads. In the ray of light, which found her at last, she looked sublimely tragic. Alonso Ponce, worshiping at a distance from behind one of the side columns, melted
I
with feeling. Having a taste for letters, he compared her with Dido and Thisbe and started composing a sonnet.
But for once she was entirely unconscious of herself. Examining the future, she began to find glimmerings of hope there. What if her husband and Pedro should meet in the Islands? De Silva liked to plan what he would do to de Vargas when the time came; but she felt sure that Pedro could take care of himself. Or something else might happen to de Silva. Her father, never happy on the unpopular side, had spoken of having her marriage annulled. There were several good chances then of regaining freedom. Her face did not grow less appealingly sad, but her heart beat quicker. Without praying to the Virgin for any of this, her regular prayers became suddenly devout.
That day the Bishop took the pulpit himself and preached a sermon in Francisco de Vargas's honor. He chose his text from the first Psalm: Et erit tamquam lignum . . . He shall he like a tree planted by the rivers of water. It was a long and flowery speech. Luisa noticed that her father nodded emphatically at every pious compliment paid to de Vargas. But her mind kept straying, and it had time to stray a long distance.
After mass, a group of notables and their ladies thronged around the de Vargases on the wide platform at the top of the church steps. The Marquis de Carvajal paused.
"Enter our coach, daughter," he instructed. "I shall rejoin you in a moment. It is perhaps as well that you defer paying your respects to our noble friends until later."
Considering the name she bore, Luisa thought that it was most decidedly as well. It alarmed her that the Marquis, in view of his connection with de Silva, should make his way through the group surrounding the fiery old soldier. In something of a flutter, she and Dona Antonia tripped down the steps and got into their coach at the bottom of them; but they were near enough to see and hear.
They heard, so to speak, the hush that greeted Carvajal's approach.
"Virgin santisima!" murmured Luisa.
''Chito!" cautioned Antonia, listening intently.
Above them on the platform, the Marquis bowed no lower than a grandee ought to bow. His beard jutted at the correct angle. He spoke in a mellow voice, rolling the words, as if he were making a public address. The Marquisate of Carvajal, the ranking title in the province, spoke through him.
"Noble Seiior and Senora," he said, "let me add my felicitations to the many that attend your safe return. I have lamented your absence as
well as the cause of it. I rejoice that the nohleza of Jaen has regained its most illustrious members. Your other friends and I are proud of the distinction—"
But he got no further. Francisco de Vargas drew himself up, nose prominent, mouth scornful. His hand, at some distance from his side, rested on the pommel of his cane.
"Con permiso de Viiestra Merced!" he put in with his most ominous lisp. "Let us make no speeches, Don Luis. I haven't your flow and shall come to the point. You imply that you rank among my friends? Quid! Hardly!" He raised his voice a little. "Be it understood that no friend or relative, by blood or marriage, of Diego de Silva is my friend. And if anyone chooses to resent it, I shall be glad to accommodate him. While you were lamenting my absence and the cause of it, you contracted an alliance with that same cause, the murderer of my daughter. Believe me, I shall not rest while Diego de Silva lives. And I would have no pretense between you and me."
Silence punctuated the end of this. The bystanders shifted uneasily and did not know where to look.
"Holy Saints!" Luisa breathed. "I knew it would happen! I hate quarreling."
But she underrated her father's good sense. Quarrel with a man who enjoyed the favor of pope and emperor? Ask the sunflower to renounce the sun?
Carvajal did not falter; he did not look disturbed, let alone rebuffed. His face wore only an expression of solemn reproach.
"Sefior, far be it from me to thrust my friendship upon any man. In my life, it has been more often the other way. When your gallant son, for whom I have the deepest affection, called on me at night and roused me from sleep to ask aid for you at the time of your outrageous detention at the Castle, I then had the honor to rank among your friends."
De Vargas blinked. "My son?" he repeated. "I knew nothing of it."
The Marquis wagged his head. "When I received him like a father, when I gave him every comfort and counsel, with the assurance of my utmost help, I then took the liberty to consider myself your friend."
In the coach, Luisa exchanged a glance with Antonia.
Don Francisco felt at a loss. The cane crept in toward his side. But when he cleared his throat to reply, Carvajal lifted a restraining finger.
"One moment, sir. I repeat that I do not impose my friendship and I shall not intrude upon you again. But you spoke of an alliance I contracted. Senor, I would have you and everyone know that that alliance
exists only in name. I have long since renounced all obligations connected with it, and I look forward impatiently to the day when it ceases to exist in name as it does in fact. I was the victim of deceit, and I consider my wrongs at the hands of Diego de Silva second only to yours. If, therefore, you hold me related to him in any real sense, you do me a great injustice. Sir, I bid you farewell."
Nothing could have been more impressive. The Alcalde, Don Jose Herrera, put in, "Gentlemen—" But Francisco de Vargas had already laid his hand on the Marquis's arm.
"By God," he said earnestly, "if that is the way of it, I cry Your Grace's pardon: I can do no more. I spoke as an unmannerly patdn without knowledge of the facts. May you forgive the words I uttered in haste and error!"
"With all my heart," returned the Marquis, "with all my heart."
The two old gentlemen embraced, to the vast relief of their friends.
"I shall pay my respects in the near future," said Don Francisco.
"Nay, sir, the honor of calling first is one I reserve to myself."
Bows were made and hats flourished. The Marquis stalked down the steps, bowed again, and entered his coach.
"Ho-hum!" he sighed, settling back on the cushions next to Luisa. "A right gallant gentleman, though simple-minded. Not"—he hastened to add—"that it isn't to his credit in these two-faced days. A relic of the past."
Luisa, admiring her father's adroitness, remarked, "You managed wonderfully, my lord. But was it necessary to speak in public of my husband?"
"Eh?" said the other absently, and then, giving her his attention: ''C as pita, yes, it was necessar) Why else did I choose that moment? Listen, my child, when a man is drowning and has a grip on you, it is necessary to knock him s
oundly over the head lest he drag you under. Your Judas husband is in that case, for he has embarrassed the Santa Casa and incurred the hatred of the house of Guzman. Let him drown. I was merely knocking him over the head. Understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Fifty thousand ducats of dowry!" The Marquis's voice reflected his pain. "Fifty thousand ducats!"
The coach jolted downhill to the tune of Carvajal's litany. Now and then Luisa or Dona Antonia meekly nodded. But before they reached home, the aggrieved nobleman fell silent. When he spoke again, the ladies were shrewd enough to fill in the gap.
"Harken, daughter, you'll call on Doiia Maria de Vargas after some days. I'll rehearse you."
Luisa kept the eagerness out of her eyes. "As you will J my lord."
XL/V
Under the circumstances, Sefiora Hernandez felt justified in revealing a secret to the Marquis, which, indeed, had not troubled her, but which it had once been vital to keep. Following him into the garden that afternoon, she found Carvajal moodily seated on a bench and staring with vacant eyes at a stone satyr who leered from a clump of oleanders. She remarked, not for the first time, how much older he had grown during the past months. Sometimes he had an almost bewildered expression, the expression of a man whose rule of life has backfired and left him nothing in its place.
"Well?" he said abruptly when she curtsied.
"I have something on my conscience, Your Grace, which I think you should know," Antonia began. "It concerns Doha Luisa."
Carvajal bridled. "The devil! Something unpleasant no doubt. I hear nothing else these days. Even in my privacy, people hunt me down."
"No, Your Grace, perhaps this will not be unpleasant—I can't say— though you will have to forgive me."
"Get on with it then."
Antonia was taking something of a chance in confessing her laxness as a chaperon, but she guessed rightly that the substance of her report would be welcome enough to insure pardon. As she described the meeting of Luisa and Pedro at the garden gate, Carvajal's features relaxed into indulgent benevolence. "Ah, the little rascal!" he put in about Luisa. "The young rogue!" referred to Pedro. "Naughty sehora!" he smiled at the duenna.
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