CHAPTER XLI.
On what a miserable thing it must be to return to a home, and to findthat the heart has none, the fond, true welcome wanting--the welcomeof the soul, not the lips. Oh, where is the glad smile! where thecordial greeting! where the abandonment of everything else in the joyof seeing the loved one return! Where, Lorenzo?--where?
'Tis bad enough when we find petty cares and small annoyances thrustupon us the moment our foot passes the threshold--to know that we havebeen waited for to set right some trivial wrong, to mend some minuteevil, to hear some small complaint--when we have been flying fromanxieties and labours, and thirsting for repose and love, to find thatthe black care, which ever rides behind the horseman, has seatedhimself at our fireside before we could pull off our boots. 'Tis badenough--that is bad enough.
But to return to that which ought to be our home, and find everyexpress wish neglected, every warning slighted, every care frustrated,and all we have condemned or forbidden, done--that must be painfulindeed!
The arrival of Lorenzo Visconti in Imola was unexpected; and his shortstay with Ramiro d'Orco but served to carry the news to the gaypalazzo inhabited by his wife, and create some confusion there. True,when he entered the wide saloons, where she was surrounded by her ownadmiring crowd, Eloise rose and advanced to meet him, with alight,careless air of independence, saying, "Why, my good lord, you havetaken us by surprise. We thought you still at the siege of Forli."
"Forli has capitulated, madame," replied Lorenzo, gazing round, andseeing all those whom he wished not to see. "It was too wise to betaken by surprise. But I am dusty with riding--tired too. I willretire, take some repose, and change my apparel."
Thus saying, he left the room. Eloise made no pretence of followinghim; and, as he closed the door, he could hear her light laugh at ajest--perhaps at himself--from some of her gay attendants.
Oh, how his heart sickened as, led by Antonio, he trod the way to theapartments of his wife!
"Leave me, Antonio," he said, "and return in an hour. There, busy notyourself with the apparel. Heaven knows whether I shall want it. Leaveme, I say!"
"When you have leisure, my lord, I would fain speak a word or two inyour private ear," said Antonio; "you rode so fast upon the road Icould not give you some information I have obtained."
"Regarding whom?" asked Lorenzo, with a frowning brow; "your lady?"
"No, my lord, regarding the Signora d'Orco," replied the man.
But Lorenzo merely waved his hand for him to depart; and when he wasgone, pressed his hands upon his burning temples, and sat gazing onthe ground. His head swam; his heart ached; his mind was irresolute.In his own soul he compared Leonora d'Orco with Eloise de Chaumont. Heasked himself if, fickle as she had shown herself to be, Leonora, oncehis wife, would have received him so on his return from labour anddangers.
He remembered the days of old, and answered the question readily. Butthen he turned to bitterer and more terrible inquiries. Was his wifefaithful to him? or was he but the butt and ridicule of those whom,contrary to his plainest injunctions, she had brought from Rome?
He was of no jealous disposition. By nature he was frank andconfiding; but her conduct had been such--was such, that thosecomments, so hard to bear--those suspicions, that sting more terriblythan scorpions, had been busy round his ears even at the court ofFrance.
In vain he had remonstrated, in vain had he used authority. He foundher now, as he had left her in Rome, lighter than vanity itself. Thataccident, propinquity, and some interest in the accident she hadbrought upon him, with the vanity of winning one who had beenconsidered cold and immovable, had induced her to give him what littlelove she could bestow on any one, and confirm it with her hand, he hadlong known. Long, too, had he repented of his rash marriage; but thatcarelessness of all things, that weariness of the world, that longingfor repose, even were it the repose of the grave, which Leonora'sfancied fickleness had brought upon him, had not been removed by hisunion with Eloise de Chaumont. A thousand evils had been added--evilsthe more terrible to a proud, high mind. He had never expected much;but he had believed Eloise innocent, though thoughtless; tender andaffectionate, though light. But he had not found the tenderness afterthe ring was on her finger; and the very semblance of affection hadsoon died away.
"What was there on earth worth living for?" he asked himself; "whatwas there to compensate the pangs he endured--the burthen he bore.Nothing--nothing. Life was only not a blank because it was full ofmiseries."
Thus he sat, with a wrung heart and whirling brain, for nearly half anhour. At length he took a picture from his bosom--one of those smallgems of art which the great painters of that and the preceding agesometimes took a pride in producing--and gazed upon it earnestly. Itwas the portrait of a very beautiful woman (his own mother), which thereader has seen him receive from Milan. He thought it like Leonorad'Orco; but oh! that mother was faithful and true unto the death. Shehad defended her own honour, she had protected herself from shame, shehad escaped the power of a tyrant, by preferring the grave topollution.
He turned to the back of the picture, now repaired, and read theinscription on it, "A cure for the ills of life."
"And why not my cure?" asked Lorenzo of his own heart; "why should Inot pass from misery and shame even as my mother did?"
He pressed the spring, and the lid flew open. There were the fatalpowders beneath, all ready to his hand.
He was seated in his wife's room, and among many an article of costlyluxury on the table were a small silver cup and water-pitcher. Lorenzostretched out his hand to take the cup, laying the portrait with thepowders down while he half filled the cup with water. But, ere hecould take a powder from the case, Antonio re-entered.
"The hour has passed, my lord, and I do hope you will now hear me," hesaid. "I have to tell you that which, perhaps, may be of littlecomfort, but is yet important for you to know."
"Speak on, my good Antonio," said Lorenzo, in a gentler tone than hehad lately used; for the thoughts of death were still upon him, and tothe wretched there is gentleness in the thoughts of death. "What is ityou would say? I am in no haste;" and he set down the cup upon thetable by the picture.
"My lord, we have been all terribly deceived," said Antonio; "you, I,the Signora Leonora--all. While you have thought her false and fickle,she has believed you the same."
"Antonio!" exclaimed his lord, in a reproachful tone, "Antonio,forbear. Try not to deceive me by fictions."
"My lord, I stake my life upon the truth of what I say," repliedAntonio. "I have seen a maid whom she hired in Florence after the resthad left her--those who were carried away from the Villa Morelli, andnever heard of more. I had my suspicions; and, after having won hergood graces, I questioned the girl closely. Signora d'Orco wrote toyou often--sent letters by any courier that was going to France--weptat your silence--pined, and nearly died."
"But I wrote often," said Lorenzo.
"Your letters never reached her, nor hers you," replied the man; "by abase trick----"
"But her handwriting!" exclaimed Lorenzo, "her own handwriting! I sawit--read it."
"I know not what that handwriting implied, my lord," was the answer;"but perhaps, if you were to examine it closely, you might find eitherthat it was not hers, or that, thinking you false and forsworn, shewrote in anger, as you have spoken and thought of her."
Lorenzo meditated deeply, and then murmured, "It may be so. O God! ifthis be true!"
"It is true, my lord, by my salvation," replied Antonio; "I have thewhole clue in my hands. The Signor Leonardo da Vinci, too, knows all,and can satisfy you better than I can."
"Is he here?" asked Lorenzo, in a tone of melancholy interest,remembering the happy house at Belgiojosa. "If he be convinced, theremust be some truth in it. But tell me, Antonio, what fiend has donethis? It cannot surely be Ramiro d'Orco?"
"Oh no," replied the man; "but ask me no more, my lord, at present.See the Signor Leonardo. He and I have worked together to discoverall, and he will tell you all.
Well may you call the man a friend; butI am on his traces, like a staghound, and I will have my fangs in hisflanks ere long. Let the maestro tell you, however. I only wished tolet you know the truth, as the Signora Leonora is even now with herfather below, and you must meet her presently. You could not meet thefaithless as the faithful; and she is true to you, my lord--has beenever true."
Lorenzo started up. "Leonora here!" he exclaimed; "I must see her---Iwill see her. Where leads that door, Antonio?"
"To the room reserved for your lordship's toilet," replied the man.
"Quick! send my varlets up," cried the master; "I will but shake offthis dust and go down."
"Better appear as becomes you, my noble lord," replied Antonio; "thereis a splendid company below--indeed, there always is when the countessreceives her guests. Your apparel is all put forth and ready. To dresswill but take you a few minutes."
"Well, be it so," said Lorenzo; "bring me those lights, my goodAntonio;" and he walked straight to the door of the dressing-room,leaving his mother's portrait and the poison on the table. Heremembered it once while going down the stairs after dressing,but there was too much eagerness in his heart for him to returnto take it then, and from that moment events and--more engrossingstill--feelings hurried on so rapidly, he forgot entirely his purposeof going back for the portrait at an after period.
The entrance of the young prefect into his wife's splendid saloonscaused no slight movement among the many guests there present. Hisnoble and dignified carriage, the strange air of command in one soyoung--an air of command obtained as much by sorrows endured,and a manly struggle against despair, as by the habit ofauthority--impressed all the strangers in the room with a feelinggoing somewhat beyond mere respect. But there was one there presentwhose feelings cannot be described. He was to her, as it were, adouble being--the Lorenzo of the past, the Lorenzo of the present. Thechange in personal appearance was very slight, though the youth hadbecome the man. The dark, brown curling beard, the greater breadth ofthe shoulders, the powerful development of every limb, and perhapssome increase of height, formed the only material change, whilethe grace as well as the dignity was still there. In the idealLorenzo--the Lorenzo of her imagination--the change was, of course,greater to the eyes of Leonora. He was no longer her own--he was nolonger her lover--he was the husband of another--there was animpassable barrier between them; but that day had diminished thedifference. She now knew that he was as noble as ever, that he had notbeen untrue to her without cause, that he had loved her faithfully,painfully, sorrowfully (she dared not let her mind dwell on thethought that he loved her still); and there was a sort of a tiebetween her heart and his, between the present and the past, producedby undeserved grief mutually endured.
Oh! how she longed to tell him that she had never been faithless tohim--that she had loved him ever! Again, she did not dare to admitthat she loved him still.
Yet she commanded herself wonderfully. She had come prepared; and shehad long obtained the power of concealing her emotions. That she feltand suffered was only known to one in the whole room. She clung moretightly to her father's arm, her fingers pressed more firmly on it;and Ramiro d'Orco felt all she endured, and imagined more. He said nota word indeed to comfort or console her, but there were words spokenin his own heart which would have had a very different effect if theyhad found breath.
"The day of vengeance is coming," he thought--"is coming fast;" buthis aspect betrayed no emotion.
Lorenzo took his way straight to where the Lord of Imola and hisdaughter stood, close by the side of his own wife; and Eloise laughedwith a gay, careless laugh, as she saw the sparkle in her husband'seyes.
"This is my friend, the Signora d'Orco," she said; but Lorenzo tookLeonora's hand at once, saying, "I have long had the happiness ofknowing her;" and he added (aloud, though in a somewhat sad andsoftened tone) words which had only significance for her; they were:"I have known her long, though not as well as I should have knownher."
He stood and spoke with Leonora herself for some moments. He referredno farther to the past, for the icy touch of her hand on that warmnight told him plainly enough that she was agitated as far as shecould endure, and he strove to diminish that agitation rather thanincrease it.
He then turned to Ramiro d'Orco, saying, "My Lord of Imola, I willbeseech you to go with me through the rooms, and introduce me to thenoble gentlemen and ladies of your city."
Ramiro d'Orco was all graciousness, and led him from one to another,while Eloise with some malice, whispered in Leonora's ear:
"He is marvellously handsome, is he not? When you were standingtogether the Count do Rouvri whispered me that you were the two mostbeautiful personages in Italy."
"He is a poor judge and a poor courtier," replied Leonora; and theconversation dropped.
She had now fully recovered her composure, and she thanked God thatthe trying moment was over. Numbers flocked round her, gay words andpleasant devices passed, and all that fine wit for which the Italianswere famous, displayed itself. Nor did Leonora do her part amiss,although it must be owned her thoughts sometimes wandered, and herwords were once or twice somewhat wide of the mark.
At length the prefect and Ramiro d'Orco returned, and then beganarrangements for the following day. It seemed understood that onalternate nights the Lord of Imola and the lady of the prefect shouldentertain the nobility of the city and the district round, and theirmeeting for the following evening had been fixed for rather an earlyhour at the villa on the hill, before Lorenzo's unexpected arrival atImola. Eloise, however, who was not without her caprices, thought fitto change the arrangement, declared that she was weary of so muchgaiety, felt herself somewhat indisposed, and would prefer a day ofrest, if it were not inconvenient to the Signor d'Orco to postpone hisfesta till the following day.
Ramiro d'Orco declared that, on the contrary, the change would beconvenient to him, for that he was bound to go, either on the morrowor the day after, to hold a court of high justiciary at a small townjust within his vicariate, and that he could not return the samenight.
"I will set out to-morrow, my lord," he said, "and shall be back earlyon the following day. In the mean time, I must leave my daughter hereto do the honours of the city to you and your fair lady; and if shefails in any point, she shall be well rated at my return."
Thus saying, he and Leonora took their leave; but the festivities inLorenzo's house continued long. He himself was present to the last,although his presence certainly did not throw much gaiety upon thescene. To the citizens of Imola he was attentive and courteous, but tothe crowd of butterflies who had followed Eloise from Rome, withoutbeing repulsive, he was cold and distant. When the last guest wasgone, he and his wife took their several ways, she to her chamber, heto his dressing-room; and, long after she had retired to rest, sheheard her husband's voice conversing eagerly with Antonio.
"Talking over my foibles, I suppose," said Eloise to herself; "I wishI could hear what they say;" and she raised herself up in bed to gotowards the door, but she felt weary, and her natural indifference gotthe better of her curiosity. She sank back upon her pillow, and soonwas buried in sleep.
The conversation of which she had heard the murmur had no reference toherself. Lorenzo questioned his humble friend in regard to the factshe had mentioned in the earlier part of the evening, and manyand varied were the feelings which the intelligence he receivedproduced--deep and bitter regret, some self-reproval, and a sensationwhich would have resembled despair had not a sort of dreamy, moonlightjoy, to know that he had been still beloved, pervaded all his thoughtswith a cold but soothing light. He sought to know on whom thesuspicions of Antonio and Leonardo fixed as the agent of all hismisery, but the good man refused to satisfy him.
"Leave him to me, my lord," he said; "I have means of dealing with himwhich you have not. I will only beseech you tell me how long the greatDuke of Valentinois remains at Forli, and to give me leave to absentmyself for a day or two at any time I may think fit."
"Oh, that you have,
of course," replied Lorenzo. "Did I ever restrainyou, Antonio? As to Borgia, he will most probably remain a month atForli. I left him as soon as the place capitulated; for I love himnot, although my good cousin, King Louis, is so fond of him. Well,policy, like necessity, too often brings the base and the nobletogether. But, as the capitulation imported that the town wouldsurrender, if not relieved, in three days, and I know that De Vitry ison his march with three thousand men, which will render reliefimpossible, I thought I might very well leave this good lord duke towatch the city by himself. He is an extraordinary, a great, and amighty man, but as bad a man as ever the world produced--unless it behis father."
"That will do right well," replied Antonio; "I neither love him norhate him, for my part, but I must use him for my purposes."
"He generally uses other men for his," answered his lord, with adoubtful look.
"Great stones are moved by great levers," said Antonio; "and I havegot the lever in my hands, my lord, with which I can move this mightyman to do well-nigh what I wish. I will set out to-morrow evening, Ithink, and ride by night---no, it must be on the following day. Thereis a game playing even now upon which I must have my eye. In the meantime, your lordship had better see the Signor Leonardo; he will tellyou much; and if there be a lingering doubt, as there well may be,that your poor servant has ascertained the facts he states beyond adoubt, the maestro will confirm all I have said."
"Antonio," said Lorenzo, giving him his hand, "if ever there was a manwho faithfully loved and served another, so you have loved and servedme. But love and service are sometimes blind and dull. Not such havebeen yours. Where I have wanted wisdom, perception, or discretion, youhave furnished them to me; and of all the many benefits conferred onme by Lorenzo de Medici, his placing you near me was the greatest.Power, and wealth, and authority are often irritable, and sometimesunjust. If I have ever shown myself so to you, Antonio, forgive me forit; but never believe that, knowing you as I know you, I ever doubtyour truth."
Antonio made no reply, but kissed his lord's hand, as was the customin those reverent ages, and left him with a swimming eye.
Lorenzo cast from him the gorgeous dress at that time common in Italy,the gorgeous chain of gold, the knightly order of St. Michael, thesurcoat of brown and gold, the vest and haut-de-chauss?e of whitesatin and silver, and, after plunging his burning head several timesin water, cast on a loose dressing-gown, and seating himself in a wideeasy-chair, endeavoured to sleep. The day had been one of fatigue andexcitement. Neither mind nor body had enjoyed any repose, but sleepwas long a stranger to his eyelids. At length she came, fanning hissenses with her downy wings, but only as a vampire, to wound hisheart while she seemed to soothe. He dreamed of Eloise. He saw herdying by the dagger-blow of a hand issuing from a cloud. All wasforgotten--indignation, anger, shame, I may say contempt. She was hiswife, the wife of his bosom, the wife plighted to him by the solemnvow of the altar. He seized the visionary hand, uplifted for a secondblow, and pushed it back, exclaiming, "No, no, strike me! If any onemust die, strike me!" and then he woke.
The lights which he had left burning were nearly in the sockets. Thefirst blue gleam of morning was seen through the windows; and Lorenzo,dressing himself quietly in his ordinary garments, descended to thecourt-yard, endeavouring to forget the troublous visions of the night.
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