Marjorie Bowen

by Marjorie Bowen

  'Where is she?' he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the silent figure in the corner. 'Where is she, Tisio?'

  'The girl with the pretty hair—' began his brother; but Visconti grasped him by the arm with a cry.

  'Bring me a light!' he cried, 'a light 2

  With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow light fell over Visconti's green dress and Graziosa's bright hair.

  'If it should be so!' muttered Visconti. 'If it should be so!' The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face, and his own changed darkly.

  'Tisio,' he said, 'she's dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!'

  He bent closer, eagerly.

  'Get help, Tisio! Help!'

  And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.

  Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless: she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison!—she had poisoned herself! Something was tightly locked in her right hand! He forced the fingers apart, and looked at it—poison. 'How dared she do it?' he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. 'How dared she? Who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?'

  He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should share his throne before them all—the woman who loved him for himself alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.

  At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!

  Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-bye. And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still dignity.

  He looked around to find the door full of anxious faces, and Tisio behind him.

  'Finely I am served!' he cried in a transport. 'Do you let the Lady Graziosa go unattended? She hath been murdered, and those who should have been with her shall die for it!'

  Weeping ladies and frightened pages crept in and stood aghast, silent at what they saw—more silent at his face. Visconti stood before Graziosa's body and looked at them with mad eyes; he held a white rose in his fingers. The flickering lamp was just over his head; its light fell on his face and on hers—her sweet face that told its own tale.

  For some moments Visconti was silent, gazing at them wildly, and it seemed to more than one of those who crowded there appalled that there came a new expression to his face, a new look into his widely opened eyes—not madness and not rage—but fear.

  'In a week I would have made her Duchess of Milan,' he said at last, with a sudden break in his voice; and he dropped his white rose at her dead feet with a shudder, and turned away, through the crowd that fell away from him, down the stairs in silence.

  It was two hours later, in the hushed, awe-struck, half-expectant palace, when Visconti opened the door of his inner room and stepped into the ante-chamber, where one page kept watch.

  To him the Duke beckoned, handing him a glass with milk-white lines circling it—a slender, flower-like glass with a long stem.

  'Fill up with wine,' he said.

  The page obeyed.

  'Now bring the glass and follow me,' said Visconti, and left the room, the boy behind him.

  Before his sister's door he paused. Soldiers guarded it: within could be heard footsteps and anxious frightened voices, the whispers of the tragedy. The key was turned: he entered, opening the door quietly, admitting himself and the page, the guard closing it behind him.

  The room was lofty, and, like all Visconti's rooms, A great crucifix hung at the far end, and before it knelt Valentine. When she heard the door she turned and started to her feet. Put the wine down and go,' said Visconti to the page.

  'Ah, no!' cried Valentine. 'Let the page stay, Gian

  She stepped forward with imploring eyes upon the boy. 'Go,' said Visconti again.

  'In the name of mercy, stay!' cried Valentine, in sudden desperate fear, seeing her brother's face. 'Stay!'

  The wretched page hesitated, but not for long. Visconti turned once more, and he tapped on the door to be let out, making no more ado.

  Visconti watched him go, then stepped to the inner door and locked it on the women whispering and quaking within. Valentine tried to speak; the words died away on her tongue; she fell back against the tapestry, grasping it in stiff fingers, her eyes on his face.

  Visconti seated himself at the table on which the page had stood the glass, and, resting his face on his hands, looked at her. The Viper on his doublet seemed to writhe, alive.

  'Graziosa is dead,' he said.

  Valentine's eyes grew wild with fear.

  'I did not kill her!' she cried. 'I did not kill her, Gian!'

  'I found her dead,' said Visconti, still looking at her. Valentine writhed against the wall, wringing her hands. 'She slew herself,' she moaned, 'I did not kill her—'

  'I shall not kill thee,' said Gian.

  He looked down at the wine as he spoke, with a smile. Valentine threw herself on her knees.

  'I did not touch her!' she screamed wildly. 'I did not lay a hand on her!'

  'I shall not touch thee; I shall not lay a hand on thee,' smiled Visconti.

  'Then I shall not die? I shall not die?'

  She staggered to her feet, with an effort to be calm.

  'Thou wilt not die?' said Visconti, softly, his eyes on her. 'Thou wilt drink—this.' And he touched the glass beside him. 'Thou canst not be so cruel,' pleaded Valentine. 'I am thy sister, Gian—'

  'Do I think so much of family affection?' said Visconti. 'Still, she was to be my wife! Thou wilt drink this.'

  Valentine flung herself on her knees again, and dragged herself along the floor toward him.

  'Have pity!' she cried. 'Have pity, I am so helpless! Spare me, and I will never offend thee again—never!'

  'Thou hast strangely lost thy courage,' returned her brother. 'What is there in drinking this wine?'

  She was at his feet, clinging to him, imploring.

  'Let me live till morning!' she pleaded. 'Do not kill me here—in this dark chamber. Oh! I cannot die here, I cannot!' Visconti looked at her calmly:

  'Graziosa died not in a fairer place, she died lonely and alone,' he said. 'Thou wilt drink this.' He put out his hand and drew the glass nearer. 'Come, thou wilt drink this.'

  'I am so young,' sobbed Valentine. 'Think, Gian; I am so young, Gian!'

  'Graziosa was no older,' he said.

  She clung to his hand in agony, beseeching him, calling on him, wildly trying to move him to let her live until the morning—only until morning!

  'Graziosa died after the sun had set,' said Visconti. 'Drink the wine, nor keep me here so long. Thou hast often wished to escape—where is thy courage gone, not to take this chance?'

  'But not to die like this—not like this—give me a priest!'

  'Had Graziosa one?'

  She cowered down on the floor, her beautiful hair falling over her shoulders, her face hidden; then suddenly uplifted it again to Visconti, who sat looking at her, motionless.

  'Gian, I loved thee once, when we were little children.'

  'I have forgotten it, and so hadst thou until this moment—drink!'

  Valentine sprang up in a paroxysm of uncontrollable terror. 'I cannot! I cannot! Kill me thyself!'

  'With this?' and Visconti touched his dagger. 'No; a smoother death for one so fair.'

  Valentine flew to the door and clung to it.

  'Philippe! Philippe!' she shrieked. 'Conrad! Costanza!' Visconti rose suddenly, with such a force as to fling over the chair. 'Cease!' he cried. 'Wilt thou drink this? Or who dost thou think will dare to interrupt me now?'<
br />
  Valentine's wild eyes looked at him in silence a moment, then her glance dropped.

  'Give it to me,' she whispered.

  Visconti did not move.

  'Come and take it,' he said.

  She came slowly, one hand against the wall, her long shadow flickering before her.

  Visconti watched her, motionless. 'Make haste,' he said. 'Make haste.'

  She came to the table, her eyes down, her breast heaving, past tears or entreaties.

  'Drink!' said Visconti, leaning with narrowing eyes across the space between them. 'Drink in it della Scala's health, as thou didst once before.

  Valentine raised her head and looked at him, and grew fascinated with terror. She crouched away from him, and lifted the glass to her lips.

  Visconti bent nearer and she drank, putting it down half empty with a shudder and staring eyes.

  Visconti smiled, and brought the evil of his face still nearer. 'Drink the rest,' he said. 'Drink it, Valentine.'

  Still in silence she obeyed him.

  When the empty glass stood before him, Visconti turned away, taking his eyes from her with a laugh, and walked toward the door.

  Valentine's gaze followed him with a look of utter woe; still she said nothing, from her parted lips there came no sound. He looked back over his shoulder at her, standing there with her face toward him, with all expression gone, with unseeing eyes.

  'I will leave thee,' he said savagely, 'to await—the morning.' She seemed roused by the sound of his voice, and stepped forward with a cry on her white lips.

  But the door closed heavily—the room was in darkness, or was it her sight failed her? Everything swam before her in a blackening mist; she grasped at the table and fell across it, senseless.

  The dawn was breaking, filling the room with a grey and ghostly light; the great curtains looked black and gloomy, and the corners of the room were filled with strange and moving shadows. Through an open window a cool breeze blew across Valentine's sick forehead: she opened her eyes. The empty glass met her gaze, the fallen chair was beside her. She looked at them strangely. She was still alive.

  'Gian's poison is slow,' she said, and smiled to herself. After a time she rose and stumbled to the window.

  'When the sun rises I shall be dead, or perhaps I shall live till noon,' she said to herself.

  She mounted the estrade and sat beside the open window, resting her head against the woodwork, singing to herself. Suddenly the whole grey sky flushed purple: the sun rose above the horizon.

  Valentine looked down into the garden, the sight seemed to awaken memories.

  'Hush!' She laid her finger on her mouth. 'Hush, Conrad—if Gian hears us—hast thou velvet shoes on—hush! He treads warily—ah, but it is no use—he poisoned me! He poisoned me!'

  She rocked herself to and fro.

  'In a tall glass with white lines—it was not Gian—it was the Viper from the Standard—all green and silver—all green and silver—a coiling viper'

  She dropped her head forward, then raised it with trembling lips.

  'Conrad, come and save me!' Then she fell to laughing, whispering under her breath, counting on her fingers the hours she might have to live. 'If to noon—how many?'

  The door opened, and she stopped her muttering, turning lacklustre eyes toward it.

  'Goodmorrow,' said Visconti, standing with his back against it and looking at her keenly. 'Goodmorrow, Valentine.'

  She looked at him and put the hair back from her face.

  'I thought I saw Count Conrad walking in the garden: I would have called him up to see me die—how long will it be?' Visconti advanced with a bitter smile. 'Has the lesson tamed thee? It would have been reality, but ye are pledged to France. I would that I dare poison thee, thou tiger-cat, but thou art tamed!'

  Valentine's face did not change. 'Hush she said, leaning from the window. 'He is back on the tower now—' she pointed to where the silver banner hung idle against the brightening sky. What dost thou think? Shall I sit and watch, lest he spy on us, Conrad?'

  Visconti looked at her.

  'Thou art tamed indeed,' he said. 'I am not ill-avenged.'

  Valentine stepped down into the room, her tangled hair hanging about her, and grasped him by the arm. 'I was waiting.' she whispered. 'I feared he would come back before I was dead. Ah, and he did! Count Conrad could not keep him off; the Viper, green and silver; the Viper, he has poisoned me.' And she sank on to the floor with a sudden scream, her hands before her eyes.

  'Thou art neither poisoned nor dying,' said Visconti roughly. 'Call thy women, and—remember.'

  She looked at him with vacant eyes.

  Visconti turned away. 'She is not likely to forget, it seems,' he thought. 'Her spirit will not trouble my path more.'

  Neither his nor anyone's. The brilliant, witty, and daring Valentine Visconti was to dare, to mock, to laugh no more; her high spirit was broken, her proud courage gone. From that fearful night she was timorous, shrinking, like a child, wandering and vacant—like Tisio, half-crazed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 29. — The Ordeal of Mastino della Scala

  'A secret embassy from Milan!'

  Mastino repeated the words slowly, and looked at Ligozzi, who had brought them. 'And to see me alone?'

  'With terms from Visconti—so they said,' answered Ligozzi. 'Terms of peace.'

  'From Visconti!'

  Mastino looked out through the open entrance into the blinding summer day, and then back at Ligozzi. 'I fear they come with no honourable terms—from Visconti victorious.'

  'They would never dare come with dishonourable ones—to thee, my lord,' returned Ligozzi.

  Mastino laughed bitterly.

  'Dare! He is Visconti—with near all Italy at his back—he knows no such words as shame or honour. And I must see his messengers,' he added, after a pause. 'I know no such words now as pride or refusal.'

  Ligozzi turned, but hesitated at the entrance.

  'And—alone?' he asked. 'They are from Visconti'

  'And may be skilful in dagger thrusts and poison,' said Mastino. 'Nay, that is not what I fear, Ligozzi.' But he unstrapped his sword and laid it on the table in front of him. 'All the same, I will have thee with me, Ligozzi. I see not why I should humour them too far—I shall have naught to say thou mayst not hear.'

  Ligozzi left, and Mastino sat alone, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.

  It was blazing hot, the very crown of summer, languid and golden, with a haze of purple sky beating down on the swooning trees; noon, the sun at its height, the stillness of great heat in the air.

  Mastino raised his head and looked out on it. What was Gian Visconti planning now?

  He had some faint foreboding—a secret embassy from Milan—and following so swiftly on that last crushing blow; following so swiftly as to come upon him helpless from it—what had it to say, and to his ears alone? He had some premonition as he sat there. But it was not long. Ligozzi, exercising due precaution, returned with the two Milanese.

  Giannotto stepped forward with a smooth obeisance, but stopped, a little surprised at the one occupant of the tent—the tall man with the proud dark face.

  'My lord—the Prince?' he asked.

  'I am della Scala,' said Mastino, and he turned to de Lana who looked an obvious soldier, and the worthier of the two. 'Your errand, sir? I would hear you quickly.'

  'We have greetings from our lord, the Duke of Milan,' replied de Lana, his speech and bearing uneasy, like one trying to gain time. He had always disliked his mission, and never more so than now, standing face to face with della Scala.

  Here was someone very different from the man he had expected, and it tended to confuse him.

  Della Scala's dignity was his own, not that of pomp and splendour, the terror of crime, or the dazzle of power, that made Visconti feared and obeyed. As plainly attired as any of his soldiers, Mastino overawed the Milanese with something new to them—the sense o
f worth.

  They were not trained to dealings with it.

  'Greetings from Gian Visconti, Duke of Milan,' took up the secretary. 'Moreover, we bring terms of peace for your acceptance, my lord.'

  Mastino was silent a space, and Ligozzi, standing behind his chair, looked at them with an ill-concealed abomination that Giannotto's quick eyes noticed keenly.

  'My lord, is the one with you to be trusted even as yourself?' he asked, submissively. Tor our mission, Prince, is secret.'

  'He is my friend,' said Mastino, shortly. 'And now these terms of peace?'

  'The Duke is weary of the war,' said de Lana. 'He hath powerful allies, my lord.'

  'And the choice of means to crush me,' interposed Mastino, his bright eyes full on the speaker, 'are in his hands, you would say? Perhaps; and yet, messer, I ask for no quarter 'from Gian Visconti.' De Lana bowed.

  Nor could he offer it, my noble lord; only terms as between equals.'

  Mastino smiled bitterly.

  'That is generous in Gian Visconti, seeing we are not—equals'

  Giannotto wished the Duke could have heard both words and tone. Visconti's birth was a sore point with him. The secretary wondered if there might be found a 'safe way of repeating them. De Lana flushed a little under Mastino's steady gaze and quiet scorn of the master who had sent him.

  'The Duke of Milan sends by us this,' he said, and laid the parchment before Mastino. 'These are his terms, my lord.' But della Scala did not drop his eyes to it.

  'What are these terms?' he said.

  'They are set forth there, my lord,' began Giannotto.

  'So you have forgotten what they are, or did Visconti not tell you?' and della Scala handed the roll to the secretary. When you have read it, tell me what Gian Visconti says.'

  He leaned back, his eyes still on them.

  Giannotto bit his lips in vexation.

  'Spare Visconti's loving greetings. To the point, in a few words,' continued della Scala, as the secretary still hesitated. 'Then, my lord, this: the Duke of Milan will leave you Verona, where you may rule under his protection, provided you now put into his hands every other town you or your allies now, singly or together, hold.'