The secretary ventured on no reply. He fumbled with the parchments on the table and drew one forward. Visconti's glance fell on it and his rage calmed instantly; his eyes flashed with a changed expression.
'These are the terms we sent to della Scala?' he asked, with a sudden smile.
'Yes, my lord; terms I think that cannot fail.'
The Duke sat silent a while, and the smile deepened to a laugh.
'I disturb myself for a woman's quarrels,' he said at last, 'and am on the eve of winning Lombardy!'
'The Estes may already have detached themselves from della Scala, my lord,' said the secretary.
'We will hope not. They will cling to the losing cause, and Mastino della Scala, the stainless knight, himself shall betray them!' smiled Visconti, with such cruel wickedness that Giannotto shrank.
'You stand so strong after your victories, my lord,' he said, 'you might well crush them all by force.'
'Only I do not choose that way of doing it,' replied the Duke, still smiling. 'I will accomplish a bloodless victory, I will spend no treasure, no time, and no men on this conquest, but I will win from it, not alone della Scala's towns, but his honour and his fame.'
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Chapter 27. — Unequal Odds
For days the sun had risen and set in cloudless splendour, hanging through the long summer day in a sapphire sky, flooding the beautiful country with gold, making the air heavy with perfume and sense of summer.
Mastino della Scala, standing at the door of his tent, hardly saw the glory and the brightness, the splendour of the great chestnuts, all deep green and snowy white, the proud beauty of the heaped-up flowers, the vivid richness of the foliage; for his heart was too sore for the finest sun that ever shone to ease it. He had waited long, and waited hopelessly.
In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armour. For once Mastino was without it—yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti would refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.
'I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?'
The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.
Would it last unto the end?
The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he lifted the flap of the tent and entered. After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.
The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses and the bright armour strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.
Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes, so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to speak of.
In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him wistfully. He also did not care to speak.
Mastino had left the entrance half open, and a great shaft of sunlight fell across the ground like a branch of yellow flowers. And as della Scala passed it fell upon him, showing clearly his erect figure in its leathern doublet, his fine worn face and the unhappiness in his eyes, his hands locked behind his back.
The next instant he had passed into the shadow again, and Ligozzi leaned from where he sat and shook the covering into place. Twice Mastino had passed, twice he had seen the look on his face, and he did not care to see it again.
The tent was hot.
Tomaso and the page laid the armour down in silence, overawed by the silent figure pacing to and fro.
Outside it was quiet too, only now and then the gallop past of horses or the tramp of men as they moved from one part of the field to another.
At last Mastino spoke, stopping before Ligozzi suddenly.
'I have not told thee yet,' he said, 'but a messenger has arrived from d'Este. There have been some slight successes with his army, and he thinks that I should join him.'
'And leave Milan?'
'And leave Milan. He thinks it is hopeless, now Rome leagues with Visconti—he thinks it better to hold what we have nor risk it all by careless daring—but I—I shall stay here, Ligozzi.'
Ligozzi was silent; he knew d'Este's words were true; he knew Mastino knew it also. There was nothing to be said.
'I shall advance on Milan,' continued della Scala. 'If the d'Estes' troops care not to join me, I will advance alone with my Veronese.'
He sat down on the wooden bench, fingering with nervous hands his gold belt and the dagger that hung there.
'Why dost thou not speak?' he said, after a moment's pause, suddenly turning to Ligozzi. 'Dost thou too think it hopeless?'
There was a wistful eagerness in his voice that struck to Ligozzi's heart; he could not utter his thought.
'With waiting, my lord,' he replied. 'With new allies—' But della Scala cut him short.
'I see, Ligozzi, I see. I am a man wanting to be persuaded against himself; yet do I still hope—against myself—'
'To rescue—'
'To rescue my wife, wouldst thou say?' flashed Mastino. 'No, I do not hope that: that I will do—in my soul I know it; but I still hope to conquer in fair fight. What did the attempt at guile avail us? We were betrayed; open force were better.'
Ligozzi's anger rose at the thought of that betrayal.
'I would I had the slaying of the traitoress!' he cried. Mastino smiled sadly.
'What were we to her? She loved, perchance. I should have done the same—for Isotta.'
'Thou wert ever too gentle, my lord,' returned Ligozzi. 'Could woman love Visconti?'
'She loved someone of her own creating, I trow,' said della Scala. 'Poor lady! The awakening will be her punishment.'
Ligozzi made no reply. Mastino's point of view was not his: in his eyes Graziosa was a hussy he would have liked to have the hanging of.
'In two days or a little more, when I have had my answer from the Estes,' said Mastino, rising, 'I march on Milan.'
'But in those two days?' questioned Ligozzi.
'Visconti seems to have ceased all sallies,' said della Scala; 'and yet I know not what this quiet means.'
'It means his policy was ever caution,' returned Ligozzi. 'Of a sudden he may—'
'He may do anything,' cried Mastino; 'he hath Milan and Rome and the Empire to back him. Still do I hold many towns. Verona is strongly fortified; I lie between him and Mantua. He cannot fall on those.'
'He has Padua, Bassano, Mestre, and Chioggia,' said Ligozzi.
Mastino struck his hand against the tent impatiently.
'I know!' he cried. 'I know the odds are not equal! When I seek to comfort myself, why wilt thou remind me, Ligozzi? What can I do? Nothing but what I say: march on Milan. And mark me, Ligozzi; whatever befall, if all desert me to a man, if d'Este fail me, I will not leave the walls of Milan—alive—without my wife.'
'I will not desert thee,' said Ligozzi 'I will never desert thee, my lord.'
'I never doubted thee,' returned Mastino impulsively. 'Ah, forgive me if I am harsh, for in truth my heart is very heavy; when I think of her—in Visconti's power—it is terrible! Terrible!'
He shuddered and put his hand on Ligozzi's shoulder, speaking eagerly.
'Such things cannot happen, Ligozzi, can they? It cannot be I shall never see her again! God cannot mean that—though He take all from me, though He humiliate me before my enemy, He cannot mean that! No! Visconti is not leagued with Heaven: it cannot be! It cannot be!'
'No,' said Ligozzi; 'even Visconti would not dare to harm the Duchess. Ye will see her again, my lord.'
Della Scala turned away to the other end of the tent; it was plain to him Ligozzi's heart was not in the comfort that he gave, that he thought with the others that they would do well to fall back
from Milan, join the Estes, and hold the towns they had.
'But they do not understand,' said Mastino in his heart. 'I will never go back alive—without my wife.'
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Chapter 28. — The Viper
The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala, lying crushed outside Milan—a secret embassy he had long been meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of Verona's ruin, and his complete triumph.
And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d'Este at Novara had been unfavourable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga's men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.
And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence. That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the furious onslaught.
For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and della Scala fell back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived.
'Give della Scala one day to consider,' Visconti said to Giannotto, who accompanied de Lana on this mission. 'And if he mislikes the terms, say thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este.'
It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped on to the balcony, and looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.
The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.
Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta's dark prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his power over della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa's dwelling, and a shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not admit it—but with her it was not perfect success.
Since Valentine's cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull; and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the simplicity that had pleased him in her father's house annoyed the Duke in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his vanity now angered it—in his eyes she had no more presence than a serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with her white face and timid voice.
Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word, she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.
'Maybe her folly will wear away,' mused Visconti moodily. Tut if not—if she prefers her father before me—she may follow him.'
Today he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her—see for himself if her humour should promise of changing—the humour of:
'My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan.'
Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone through the sumptuous gardens.
Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. 'She had gone to the little summer-house in the garden,' he was told, 'to see the sun set, and pray to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it is.'
Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of his shoulders. He was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his palace their best background.
He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance—behind them, the white marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through the deep green.
The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved Milan—for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else she might seem to lack.
He picked up a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them—there was a bush in Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window was open wide, then suddenly blew to—and Visconti started at it curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house.
Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three large windows—the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling colours.
A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches, in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute, tied with a knot of cherry-coloured ribbons.
Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened centre-wise, and the girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees and gardens, clear in the setting sun that sank, a fiery ball, behind the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova.
Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall to with a clang. Someone must come soon. With a piteous little gesture she pulled at the jewelled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.
A rope of pearls bound her waist: with a hasty movement she undid them, and let slip the gorgeous dress, that fell stiff and gemmed on to the marble floor. Beneath was the blue robe she had worn when she first came to the palace.
With hasty fingers she pulled the ornaments from her hair, throwing them to the ground. Her long curls fell about her shoulders; a little sob shook her throat; she looked wistfully around, and sank into the chair. For a little while she sat silent with closed eyes, panting.
Suddenly the sun sank, leaving the room dull, all the light and colour gone.
Graziosa opened her eyes with a little cry.
'I am so lonely!' she whispered to herself—'so lonely. I want someone—to kiss me—good-bye.'
She rose and fumbled among the folds of her fallen gown; she found something small she grasped tight in her cold fingers. 'I am not brave—ah, I fear I am not brave!'
She rested her head against the arm of the chair, as if collecting herself; then, with a little smile, lifted it with a pitiful show of courage.
The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the wall distant and grey; then it fell to again, leaving the chamber dull, almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the door was pushed open.
Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. Orleans had lost his lute. Tisio remembered it left he
re. A heap of shimmering yellow satin caught his eye—yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He marked it with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for, made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that someone sat there, someone very still and silent, against the cold white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was not fearful of the dark.
He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.
Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain blue dress.
'Pretty thing!' he said gently. 'Pretty thing!'
He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the streets of Milan, in the sunshine.
She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her attitude struck him.
'She is sad,' he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her limp hands.
'Poor thing!' he said again. 'Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor, pretty thing?'
She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly, smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.
Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but Tisio was not startled.
'Gian!' he said, 'be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!'
Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly.
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