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NOVELS AT SIX SHILLINGS EACH.

_Uniform with this Volume._

=Tales of Unrest.= By JOSEPH CONRAD.

=The White-headed Boy.= By GEORGE BARTRAM.

=The Mutineer.= By LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY.

=The Silver Christ=, and other Stories. By OUIDA.

=Evelyn Innes.= By GEORGE MOORE.

=The School for Saints.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

=Outlaws of the Marches.= By LORD ERNEST HAMILTON.

=Hugh Wynne.= By DR WEIR MITCHELL.

=The Tormentor.= By BENJAMIN SWIFT.

=The People of Clopton.= By GEORGE BARTRAM.

=Pacific Tales.= By LOUIS BECKE.

=Prisoners of Conscience.= By AMELIA E. BARR.

=The Grey Man.= By S. R. CROCKETT.

=An Outcast of the Islands.= By JOSEPH CONRAD.

=Almayer's Folly.= By JOSEPH CONRAD.

=The First Fleet Family.= By LOUIS BECKE and W. JEFFERY.

=The Ebbing of the Tide.= By LOUIS BECKE.

=Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.=

=The Stickit Minister.= By S. R. CROCKETT.

=The Raiders.= By S. R. CROCKETT.

=Nancy Noon.= By BENJAMIN SWIFT.

=The Lilac Sunbonnet.= By S. R. CROCKETT.

=A Daughter of the Fen.= By J. T. BEALBY.

=The Herb Moon.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

=Mrs Keith's Crime.= By MRS W. K. CLIFFORD.

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.




THE MAKING OF A SAINT

By the same Author

LIZA OF LAMBETH

_Second Edition. Cloth, 3s. 6d._

'There has not been so powerful a story of the lowest class as "Liza of
Lambeth" ... since Mr Rudyard Kipling wrote the "History of Badalia
Herodsfoot." We are not sure, indeed, that this new story does not beat
that one in vividness and knowledge of the class it depicts ... he has
an almost extraordinary gift of directness and concentration, and his
characters have an astounding amount of vitality.'--_Standard._

'Those who wish to read of life as it is, without exaggeration and
without modification, will have no difficulty in recognising the merits
of this volume.'--_Athenaeum._

'He has performed his task with singular ability. No one can read his
book without being convinced and saddened by its evident truth and
accuracy.'--_Literary World._

'The characters are depicted with great vigour, and stand out before us
as lifelike as if we were actually standing in the street listening to
their talk.'--Review of Reviews.

'Liza's portrait is so complete and so strong that even now her ghost
refuses to be laid.'--_Literature._

'Liza is a living creature from the beginning to the end.'--_Queen._




THE MAKING OF A
SAINT

BY

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

LONDON

T. FISHER UNWIN

PATERNOSTER SQUARE

1898

[_All Rights reserved_]

    Quanto e bella giovinezza,
      Che si fugge tuttavia;
    Chi vuol esser lieto, sia,
      Di doman non c'e certezza.

    _Youth--how beautiful is youth!_
      _But, alas, elusive ever!_
    _Let him be light of heart who would be so,_
      _For there's no surety in the morrow._




The Making of a Saint




INTRODUCTION


These are the memoirs of the Beato Giuliano, brother of the Order of St
Francis of Assisi, known in his worldly life as Filippo Brandolini; of
which family I, Giulo Brandolini, am the last descendant. On the death
of Fra Giuliano the manuscript was given to his nephew Leonello, on whom
the estates devolved; and has since been handed down from father to son,
as the relic of a member of the family whose piety and good works still
shed lustre on the name of Brandolini.

It is perhaps necessary to explain how the resolution to give these
memoirs to the world has eventually been arrived at. For my part, I
should have allowed them to remain among the other papers of the family;
but my wife wished otherwise. When she deserted her home in the New
World to become the Countess Brandolini, she was very naturally
interested at finding among my ancestors a man who had distinguished
himself in good works, so as to be granted by the Pope the title of
Beatus, which was acquired for him by the influence of his great-nephew
not very long after his death; and, indeed, had our house retained the
prosperity which it enjoyed during the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, he would undoubtedly have been canonised, for it was a well
certified fact that the necessary miracles had been performed by his
remains and that prayers had been regularly offered at his tomb, but our
estates had dwindled, so that we could not afford the necessary
expenditure; and now, when my wife has restored its ancient magnificence
to our house, times, alas! have changed. The good old customs of our
fathers have fallen into disuse, and it is impossible to create a saint
for ready money. However, my wife desired to publish an account of her
pious ancestor. But a difficulty arose in the fact that there were no
materials whatever for any relation of the life which Fra Giuliano led
when he had entered the Franciscan monastery of Campomassa, and it was
obvious that, even if there had been good works, prayer and fasting
could not have afforded a very interesting story; and so we have been
constrained to leave untold his pieties and recount instead his sins,
for which there was every facility in the memoirs he had himself left
behind him.

Not content with writing the story of his own life, Fra Giuliano begins
with a mythical Consul of the Roman Republic, who is supposed to have
founded the family by a somewhat discreditable union with somebody
else's wife. He then carries the story through countless ages till he
arrives at his own conception, and the prodigies attending his birth,
which he describes with great minuteness. He gives very amply the
history of his childhood and boyhood, the period he spent as page at
the Court of the Bentivogli of Bologna, and his adventures in the
Neapolitan armies under the Duke of Calabria; but the whole story is
narrated at such length, with so many digressions and details, and is
sometimes so vague, incoherent and disjointed that, with whatever
editing, it was considered impossible to make a clear and continuous
narrative.

Fra Giuliano himself divided his life into two parts: the one he named
the Time of Honey, being the period of expectation; the other the Time
of Gall, being that of realisation. The second half commences with his
arrival at the town of Forli, in the year 1488, and it is this part
which we have decided to publish; for, notwithstanding its brevity, this
was the most eventful period of his life, and the account of it seems to
hang together in a sufficiently lucid fashion, centring round the
conspiracy which resulted in the assassination of Girolamo Riario, and
finishing with the author's admission to the Order of St Francis. This,
then, I have given exactly as he wrote it, neither adding nor
suppressing a word. I do not deny that it would have pleased me a little
to falsify the history, for the Anglo-Saxons are a race of idealists, as
is shown in all their dealing, international and commercial; and truth
they have always found a little ugly. I have a friend who lately wrote a
story of the London poor, and his critics were properly disgusted
because his characters dropped their aitches and often used bad
language, and did not behave as elegantly as might be expected from the
example they were continually receiving from their betters; while some
of his readers were shocked to find that people existed in this world
who did not possess the delicacy and refinement which they felt
palpitating in their own bosoms. The author forgot that Truth is a naked
lady, and that nudity is always shameful, unless it points a moral. If
Truth has taken up her abode at the bottom of a well, it is clearly
because she is conscious that she is no fit companion for decent people.

I am painfully aware that the persons of this drama were not actuated by
the moral sentiments, which they might have acquired by education at a
really good English public school, but one may find excuse for them in
the recollection that their deeds took place four hundred years ago, and
that they were not wretched paupers, but persons of the very highest
rank. If they sinned, they sinned elegantly, and much may be forgiven to
people whose pedigree is above suspicion. And the writer, as if
unwilling to wound the susceptibilities of his readers, has taken care
to hurl contempt at the only character whose family was distinctly not
respectable.

Before making my bow, and leaving the reader with Filippo Brandolini, I
will describe his appearance, shown in a portrait painted in the same
year, 1488, and till the beginning of this century in the possession of
my family, when it was sold, with many other works of art, to travellers
in Italy. My wife has succeeded in buying back the portraits of several
of my ancestors, but this particular one is in the collection of an
English nobleman, who has refused to part with it, though kindly
allowing a copy to be made, which now hangs in the place formerly
occupied by the original.

It represents a middle-sized man, slim and graceful, with a small black
beard and moustache; an oval face, olive coloured, and from his fine
dark eyes he is looking straight out into the world with an expression
of complete happiness. It was painted soon after his marriage. He is
dressed in the costume of the period, and holds a roll of parchment in
his hand. At the top right hand corner are the date and the arms of the
family; or a griffin rampant. Gules. Crest: a demiswan issuing from a
coronet. The motto: _Felicitas_.




I


'Allow me to present to you my friend Filippo Brandolini, a gentleman of
Citta di Castello.'

Then, turning to me, Matteo added, 'This is my cousin, Checco d'Orsi.'

Checco d'Orsi smiled and bowed.

'Messer Brandolini,' he said, 'I am most pleased to make your
acquaintance; you are more than welcome to my house.'

'You are very kind,' I replied; 'Matteo has told me much of your
hospitality.'

Checco bowed courteously, and asked his cousin, 'You have just arrived,
Matteo?'

'We arrived early this morning. I wished to come here directly, but
Filippo, who suffers from a very insufferable vanity, insisted on going
to an inn and spending a couple of hours in the adornment of his
person.'

'How did you employ those hours, Matteo?' asked Checco, looking rather
questioningly at his cousin's dress and smiling.

Matteo looked at his boots and his coat.

'I am not elegant! But I felt too sentimental to attend to my personal
appearance, and I had to restore myself with wine. You know, we are
very proud of our native Forli wine, Filippo.'

'I did not think you were in the habit of being sentimental, Matteo,'
remarked Checco.

'It was quite terrifying this morning, when we arrived,' said I; 'he
struck attitudes and called it his beloved country, and wanted to linger
in the cold morning and tell me anecdotes about his childhood.'

'You professional sentimentalists will never let anyone sentimentalise
but yourselves.'

'I was hungry,' said I, laughing, 'and it didn't become you. Even your
horse had his doubts.'

'Brute!' said Matteo. 'Of course, I was too excited to attend to my
horse, and he slipped over those confounded stones and nearly shot me
off--and Filippo, instead of sympathising, burst out laughing.'

'Evidently you must abandon sentiment,' said Checco.

'I'm afraid you are right. Now, Filippo can be romantic for hours at a
stretch, and, what is worse, he is--but nothing happens to him. But on
coming back to my native town after four years, I think it was
pardonable.'

'We accept your apology, Matteo,' I said.

'But the fact is, Checco, that I am glad to get back. The sight of the
old streets, the Palazzo, all fill me with a curious sensation of
joy--and I feel--I don't know how I feel.'

'Make the utmost of your pleasure while you can; you may not always find
a welcome in Forli,' said Checco, gravely.

'What the devil do you mean?' asked Matteo.

'Oh, we'll talk of these things later. You had better go and see my
father now, and then you can rest yourselves. You must be tired after
your journey. To-night we have here a great gathering, where you will
meet your old friends. The Count has deigned to accept my invitation.'

'Deigned?' said Matteo, lifting his eyebrows and looking at his cousin.

Checco smiled bitterly.

'Times have changed since you were here, Matteo' he said; 'the Forlivesi
are subjects and courtiers now.'

Putting aside Matteo's further questions, he bowed to me and left us.

'I wonder what it is?' said Matteo. 'What did you think of him?'

I had examined Checco d'Orsi curiously--a tall dark man, with full beard
and moustache, apparently about forty. There was a distinct likeness
between him and Matteo: they both had the same dark hair and eyes; but
Matteo's face was broader, the bones more prominent, and the skin
rougher from his soldier's life. Checco was thinner and graver, he
looked a great deal more talented; Matteo, as I often told him, was not
clever.

'He was very amiable,' I said, in reply to the question.

'A little haughty, but he means to be courteous. He is rather oppressed
with his dignity of head of the family.'

'But his father is still alive.'

'Yes, but he's eighty-five, and he's as deaf as a post and as blind as a
bat; so he remains quietly in his room while Checco pulls the strings,
so that we poor devils have to knuckle under and do as he bids us.'

'I'm sure that must be very good for you,' I said. 'I'm curious to know
why Checco talks of the Count as he did; when I was here last they were
bosom friends. However, let us go and drink, having done our duty.'

We went to the inn at which we had left our horses and ordered wine.

'Give us your best, my fat friend,' cried Matteo to mine host. 'This
gentleman is a stranger, and does not know what wine is; he was brought
up on the sickly juice of Citta di Castello.'

'You live at Citta di Castello?' asked the innkeeper.

'I wish I did,' I answered.

'He was ejected from his country for his country's good,' remarked
Matteo.

'That is not true,' I replied, laughing. 'I left of my own free will.'

'Galloping as hard as you could, with four-and-twenty horsemen at your
heels.'

'Precisely! And so little did they want me to go, that when I thought a
change of air would suit me they sent a troop of horse to induce me to
return.'

'Your head would have made a pretty ornament stuck on a pike in the
grand piazza.'

'The thought amuses you,' I answered, 'but the comedy of it did not
impress me at the time.'

I remembered the occasion when news was brought me that the Vitelli, the
tyrant of Castello, had signed a warrant for my arrest; whereupon,
knowing the rapid way he had of dealing with his enemies, I had bidden
farewell to my hearth and home with somewhat indecent haste.... But the
old man had lately died, and his son, proceeding to undo all his
father's deeds, had called back the Fuorusciti, and strung up from the
Palace windows such of his father's friends as had not had time to
escape. I had come to Forli with Matteo, on my way home to take
possession of my confiscated property, hoping to find that the
intermediate proprietor, who was dangling at a rope's end some hundred
feet from the ground, had made sundry necessary improvements.

'Well, what do you think of our wine?' said Matteo. 'Compare it with
that of Citta di Castello.'

'I really haven't tasted it yet,' I said, pretending to smile agreeably.
'Strange wines I always drink at a gulp--like medicine.'

'_Brutta bestia!_' said Matteo. 'You are no judge.'

'It's passable,' I said, laughing, having sipped it with great
deliberation.

Matteo shrugged his shoulders.

'These foreigners!' he said scornfully. 'Come here, fat man,' he called
to the innkeeper. 'Tell me how Count Girolamo and the gracious Caterina
are progressing? When I left Forli the common people struggled to lick
the ground they trod on.'

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders.

'Gentlemen of my profession have to be careful in what they say.'

'Don't be a fool, man; I am not a spy.'

'Well, sir, the common people no longer struggle to lick the ground the
Count treads on.'

'I see!'

'You understand, sir. Now that his father is dead--'

'When I was here last Sixtus was called his uncle.'

'Ah, they say he was too fond of him not to be his father, but, of
course, I know nothing. Far be it from me to say anything in
disparagement of his Holiness, past or present.'

'However, go on.'

'Well, sir, when the Pope died the Count Girolamo found himself short of
money--and so the taxes that he had taken off he put on again.'

'And the result is--'

'Well, the people are beginning to murmur about his extravagance; and
they say that Caterina behaves as if she were a queen; whereas we all
know that she is only the bastard of old Sforza of Milan. But, of
course, it has nothing to do with me!'

Matteo and I were beginning to feel sleepy, for we had been riding hard
all night; and we went upstairs, giving orders to be called in time for
the night's festivity. We were soon fast asleep.

In the evening Matteo came to me, and began examining my clothes.

'I have been considering, Filippo,' he said, 'that it behoves me on my
first appearance before the eyes of my numerous lady loves to cut the
best figure I can.'

'I quite agree with you,' I answered; 'but I don't see what you are
doing with my clothes.'

'Nobody knows you, and it is unimportant how you look; and, as you have
some very nice things here, I am going to take advantage of your
kindness and--'

'You're not going to take my clothes!' I said, springing out of bed.
Matteo gathered up in his arms various garments and rushed out of the
room, slamming the door and locking it on the outside, so that I was
left shut in, helpless.

I shouted abuse after him, but he went away laughing, and I had to
manage as best I could with what he had left me. In half an hour he came
to the door. 'Do you want to come out?' he said.

'Of course I do,' I answered, kicking the panel.

'Will you promise not to be violent?'

I hesitated.

'I shan't let you out unless you do.'

'Very well!' I answered, laughing.

Matteo opened the door and stood bolt upright on the threshold, decked
out from head to foot in my newest clothes.

'You villain!' I said, amazed at his effrontery.

'You don't look bad, considering,' he answered, looking at me calmly.




II


When we arrived at the Palazzo Orsi, many of the guests had already
come. Matteo was immediately surrounded by his friends; and a score of
ladies beckoned to him from different parts of the room, so that he was
torn away from me, leaving me rather disconsolate alone in the crowd.
Presently I was attracted to a group of men talking to a woman whom I
could not see; Matteo had joined them, and they were laughing at
something he had said. I had turned away to look at other people when I
heard Matteo calling me.

'Filippo,' he said, coming towards me, 'come and be introduced to Donna
Giulia; she has asked me to present you.'

He took me by the arm, and I saw that the lady and her admirers were
looking at me.

'She's no better than she should be,' he whispered in my ear; 'but she's
the loveliest woman in Forli!'

'Allow me to add another to your circle of adorers, Donna Giulia,' said
Matteo, as we both bowed--'Messer Filippo Brandolini, like myself, a
soldier of distinction.'

I saw a graceful little woman, dressed in some Oriental brocade; a
small face, with quite tiny features, large brown eyes, which struck me
at the first glance as very soft and caressing, a mass of dark,
reddish-brown hair, and a fascinating smile.

'We were asking Matteo where his wounds were,' she said, smiling on me
very graciously. 'He tells us they are all in the region of his heart.'

'In that case,' I answered, 'he has come to a more deadly battlefield
than any we saw during the war.'

'What war?' asked a gentleman who was standing by. 'Nowadays we are in
the happy state of having ten different wars in as many parts of the
country.'

'I was serving under the Duke of Calabria, 'I replied.

'In that case, your battles were bloodless.'

'We came, we saw, and the enemy decamped,' said Matteo.

'And now, taking advantage of the peace, you have come to trouble the
hearts of Forli,' said Donna Giulia.

'Who knows how useful your swords may not be here!' remarked a young
man.

'Be quiet, Nicolo!' said another, and there was an awkward silence,
during which Matteo and I looked at one another in surprise; and then
everyone burst out talking, so that you could not hear what was said.

Matteo and I bowed ourselves away from Donna Giulia, and he took me to
Checco, standing in a group of men.

'You have recovered from your fatigue?' he asked kindly.

'You have been travelling, Matteo?' said one of the company.

'Yes, we rode sixty miles yesterday,' he replied.

'Sixty miles on one horse; you must have good steeds and good
imaginations,' said a big, heavy-looking man--an ugly, sallow-faced
person, whom I hated at first sight.

'It was only once in a way, and we wanted to get home.'

'You could not have come faster if you had been running away from a
battlefield,' said the man.

I thought him needlessly disagreeable, but I did not speak. Matteo had
not cultivated the golden quality.

'You talk as one who has had experience,' he remarked, smiling in his
most amiable manner.

I saw Checco frown at Matteo, while the bystanders looked on
interestedly.

'I only said that,' added the man, shrugging his shoulders, 'because the
Duke of Calabria is rather celebrated for his retreative tactics.'

I entertained a very great respect for the Duke, who had always been a
kind and generous master to me.

'Perhaps you do not know very much about tactics,' I remarked as
offensively as I could.

He turned and looked at me, as if to say, 'Who the devil are you!' He
looked me up and down contemptuously, and I began to feel that I was
almost losing my temper.

'My good young man,' he said, 'I imagine that I was engaged in war when
your battles were with your nursemaid.'

'You have the advantage of me in courtesy as well as in years, sir,' I
replied. 'But I might suggest that a man may fight all his life, and
have no more idea of war at the end than at the beginning.'

'It depends on the intelligence,' remarked Matteo.

'Exactly what I was thinking,' said I.

'What the devil do you mean?' said the man, angrily.

'I don't suppose he means anything at all, Ercole,' put in Checco, with
a forced laugh.

'He can answer for himself, I suppose,' said the man. A flush came over
Checco's face, but he did not answer.

'My good sir,' I said, 'you have to consider whether I choose to
answer.'

'Jackanapes!'

I put my hand to my sword, but Checco caught hold of my arm. I recovered
myself at once.

'I beg your pardon, Messer Checco,' I said; then, turning to the man,
'You are safe in insulting me here. You show your breeding! Really,
Matteo, you did not tell me that you had such a charming
fellow-countryman.'

'You are too hard on us, Filippo,' answered my friend, 'for such a
monstrosity as that Forli is not responsible.'

'I am no Forlivese, thank God! Neither the Count nor I.' He looked round
scornfully. 'We offer up thanks to the Almighty every time the fact
occurs to us. I am a citizen of Castello.'

Matteo was going to burst out, but I anticipated him. 'I, too, am a
citizen of Castello; and allow me to inform you that I consider you a
very insolent fellow, and I apologise to these gentlemen that a
countryman of mine should forget the courtesy due to the city which is
sheltering him.'

'You a Castelese! And, pray, who are you?'

'My name is Filippo Brandolini.'

'I know your house. Mine is Ercole Piacentini.'

'I cannot return the compliment; I have never heard of yours.'

The surrounders laughed.

'My family is as good as yours, sir,' he said.

'Really, I have no acquaintance with the middle-classes of Castello; but
I have no doubt it is respectable.'

I noticed that the listeners seemed very contented, and I judged that
Messer Ercole Piacentini was not greatly loved in Forli; but Checco was
looking on anxiously.

'You insolent young boy!' said the man, furiously. 'How dare you talk to
me like that. I will kick you!'

I put my hand to my sword to draw it, for I was furious too; I pulled at
the hilt, but I felt a hand catch hold of mine and prevent me. I
struggled; then I heard Checco in my ear.

'Don't be a fool,' he said. 'Be quiet!'

'Let me be!' I cried.

'Don't be a fool! You'll ruin us.' He held my sword, so that I could not
draw it.

Ercole saw what was going on; his lips broke into a sarcastic smile.

'You are being taught the useful lesson of discretion, young man. You
are not the only one who has learnt it.' He looked round at the
bystanders....

At that moment a servant came to Checco and announced,--

'The Count!'

The group broke up, and Checco advanced to the further end of the hall,
with Ercole Piacentini and several other gentlemen. Matteo and I
lingered where we were. There was a rustle, and the Count and Countess
appeared attended by their suite.

First of all my eyes were attracted to Caterina; she was wonderfully
beautiful. A tall, well-made woman, holding herself proudly, her head
poised on the neck like a statue.

'One would think she was a king's daughter!' said Matteo, looking at her
with astonishment.

'It is almost Francesco's face,' I said.

We both had an immense admiration for Francesco Sforza, the King of
Condottieri, who had raised himself from a soldier of fortune to the
proudest duchy in the world. And Caterina, his natural daughter, had the
same clear, strong features, the strong piercing eyes, but instead of
the Sforza's pock-marked skin, she had a complexion of rare delicacy and
softness; and afterwards she proved that she had inherited her father's
courage as well as his appearance.... She was dressed in a gorgeous robe
of silver cloth, glittering and shimmering as she walked, and her hair
was done in her favourite manner, intertwined with gold and silver
threads; but the wonderful chestnut outshone the brilliant metals,
seeming to lend them beauty rather than to borrow it. I heard her speak,
and her voice was low and full like a man's.

Matteo and I stood looking at her for a minute; then we both broke out
'_Per Bacco_, she is beautiful!'

I began thinking of the fairy stories I had heard of Caterina at Rome,
where she had enchanted everyone by her loveliness; and Sixtus had
squandered the riches of the Church to satisfy her whims and fancies:
banquets, balls, pageants and gorgeous ceremonies; the ancient city had
run red with wine and mad with delight of her beauty.

Suddenly Matteo said to me, 'Look at Girolamo!'

I lifted my eyes, and saw him standing quite close to me--a tall man,
muscular and strong, with big heavy face, and prominent jaw bones, the
nose long and hooked, small keen eyes, very mobile. His skin was
unpleasant, red and coarse; like his wife, he was dressed with great
magnificence.

'One sees the sailor grandfather in him,' I said, remembering that
Sixtus's father, the founder of the family, was a common sailor at
Rovese.

He was talking to Checco, who was apparently speaking to him of us, for
he turned and stepped forward to Matteo.

'The prodigal has returned,' he said. 'We will not fail to kill the
fatted calf. But this time you must stay with us, Matteo; we can give
you service as well as the Duke of Calabria.'

Matteo smiled grimly; and the Count turned to me.

'Checco has told me of you also, sir; but I fear there is no chance of
keeping you, you are but a bird of passage--still, I hope you will let
us make you welcome at the Palace.'

All the time he was speaking his eyes kept moving rapidly up and down,
all round me, and I felt he was taking in my whole person.... After
these few words he smiled, a harsh, mechanical smile, meant to be
gracious, and with a courteous bow moved on. I turned to Matteo and saw
him looking after the Count very sourly.

'What is it,' I asked.

'He is devilish condescending,' he answered. 'When last I was here it
was hail fellow, well met, but, good God! he's put on airs since then!'

'Your cousin said something to the same effect,' I remarked.

'Yes, I understand what he meant now.'

We strolled round the room, looking at the people and talking.

'Look,' I said, 'there's a handsome woman!' pointing to a voluptuous
beauty, a massive creature, full-brested and high-coloured.

'Your eye is drawn to a handsome woman like steel to a magnet, Filippo,'
answered Matteo, laughing.

'Introduce me,' I said, 'if she is not ferocious.'

'By no means; and she has probably already fixed her eyes upon you. But
she is wife to Ercole Piacentini.'

'I don't care. I mean to kill the man afterwards; but that is no reason
why I should not make myself pleasant to his spouse.'

'You will do her a service in both ways,' he replied; and, going up to
her, 'Claudia,' he said, 'your fatal eyes have transfixed another
heart.'

Her sensual lips broke into a smile.

'Have they that power?' She fixed them on me, and made room on the couch
on which she was sitting. Neither Matteo nor I were slow to take the
hint, for I took my place and he his leave. 'I wonder you have not
already fallen victim to Madonna Giulia,' said Claudia, looking
languorously at me, and glancing over to the other lady.

'One does not worship the moon when the sun is shining,' I replied
politely.

'Giulia is more like the sun, for she gathers all men in her embrace. I
am more modest.'

I understood that the rival beauties were not good friends.

'You boast that you are cruel,' I replied. She did not answer, but
sighed deeply, smiling, and fixed on me her great, liquid eyes.

'Oh, there is my husband.' I looked up and saw the great Ercole glaring
viciously at me. I laughed within myself.

'He must be very jealous of so beautiful a wife?' I asked.

'He torments me to death.'

Under these circumstances I thought I would pursue my advantage; I
pressed closer to her.

'I can understand it: the first moment I saw you, I felt my head whirl.'

She gave me a very long glance from beneath her eyelashes. I seized her
hand.

'Those eyes!' I said, looking into them fervently.

'Ah!' she sighed again.

'Madam,' said a pageboy, coming up to her, 'Messer Piacentini begs that
you will come to him.'

She gave a little cry of annoyance.

'My husband!' Then, rising from her seat, she turned to me, holding out
her hand; I immediately offered my arm, and we solemnly crossed the
room to Ercole Piacentini. Here she bowed very graciously to me, and I
smiled on the happy husband with the utmost sweetness, while he looked
very grim and took not the faintest notice of me; then I marched off,
feeling particularly pleased with myself.

The Count and Countess were on the point of taking their departure: they
were followed by Ercole and his wife; the remaining guests soon went,
and in a little while there were left only Matteo and myself, two other
men and Checco.




III


Checco led us to a smaller room, at some distance from the great hall of
the reception; then, turning to a man I did not know, he said, 'Did you
hear the Piacentini?'

'Yes!' he answered; and for a moment they looked at one another
silently.

'He would not have been so bold without good cause,' added the man.

I was told that his name was Lodovico Pansecchi, and that he was a
soldier in the Count's pay.

Checco turned round and looked at me sharply. Matteo understood what he
meant, and said, 'Have no fear of Filippo; he is as safe as myself.'

Checco nodded, and made a sign to a youth, who immediately rose and
carefully closed the door. We sat still for a while; then Checco stood
up and said impatiently, 'I cannot understand it.' He walked up and down
the room, stopping at last in front of me.

'You had never seen that man before?'

'Never!' I answered.

'The quarrel was brought on solely by Ercole himself,' said the youth,
whom I found to be Alessandro Moratini, a brother of Giulia dall' Aste.

'I know,' said Checco, 'but he would never have dared to behave thus
unless he knew of some design of Girolamo.' He paused a moment to think,
then turning to me again, 'You must not challenge him.'

'On the contrary,' I replied, 'I must challenge him; he has insulted
me.'

'I don't care about that. I will not have you challenge him.'

'This concerns myself alone.'

'Nonsense! You are a guest of my house, and for all I know it is just
such an opportunity as this that Girolamo is seeking.'

'I don't understand,' I said.

'Listen,' said Checco, sitting down again. 'When Sixtus obtained
possession of Forli for his nephew, Girolamo Riario, I, like the fool I
was, did all I could to bring the town to his allegiance. My father was
against the plan, but I bore down his opposition and threw the whole
power of my house on his side. Without me he would never have been Lord
of Forli.'

'I remember,' said Matteo. 'You used Sixtus to keep the Ordelaffi out;
and you thought Girolamo would be a catspaw in our hands.'

'I did not give the city for love of a person I had never seen in my
life.... Well, this was eight years ago. Girolamo took off the heaviest
taxes, granted favours to the town and entered in solemn state with
Caterina.'

'Amid shouts and cheers,' remarked Alessandro.

'For a while he was more popular than ever the Ordelaffi had been, and
when he went out the people ran to kiss the hem of his garment. He spent
the great part of his time in Rome, but he employed the riches of the
Pope in beautifying Forli, and when he came it was one round of feasts
and balls and gaiety.

'Then Pope Sixtus died, and Girolamo settled here for good in the palace
which he had commenced building on his accession. The feasts and balls
and gaiety continued. Whenever a distinguished stranger passed through
the town, he was welcomed by the Count and his wife with the most lavish
hospitality; so that Forli became renowned for its luxury and riches.

'The poets ransacked Parnassus and the ancients for praises of their
rules, and the people echoed the panegyrics of the poet....

'Then came the crash. I had often warned Girolamo, for we were intimate
friends--then. I told him that he could not continue the splendour which
he had used when the wealth of Christendom was at his command, when he
could spend the tribute of a nation on a necklace for Caterina. He would
not listen. It was always, "I cannot be mean and thrifty," and he called
it policy. "To be popular," he said, "I must be magnificent." The time
came when the Treasury was empty, and he had to borrow. He borrowed in
Rome and Florence and Milan--and all the time he would not retrench, but
rather, as his means became less, the extravagance became greater; but
when he could borrow no more outside, he came to the citizens of Forli,
first, of course, to me, and I repeatedly lent him large sums. These
were not enough, and he sent for the richest men of Forli and asked them
to lend him money. Naturally they could not refuse. But he squandered
their money as he had squandered his own; and one fine day he assembled
the Council.'

'Ah, yes,' said Alessandro, 'I was there then. I heard him speak.'

Checco stopped as if for Alessandro.

'He came to the Council chamber, clad as usual in the richest robes, and
began talking privately to the senators, very courteously--laughing with
them, shaking their hands. Then, going to his place, he began to speak.
He talked of his liberality towards them, and the benefits he had
conferred on the town; showed them his present necessities, and finally
asked them to re-impose the taxes which he had taken off at the
beginning of his reign. They were all prejudiced against him, for many
of them had already lent him money privately, but there was such a charm
in his discourse, he was so persuasive, that one really could not help
seeing the reasonableness of his demand. I know I myself would have
granted him whatever he asked.'

'He can make one do anything he likes when he once begins talking,' said
Lodovico.

'The Council unanimously voted the re-imposition of the taxes, and
Girolamo offered them his thanks in his most gracious manner.'

There was a silence, broken by Matteo.

'And then?' he asked.

'Then,' answered Checco, 'he went to Imola, and commenced spending
there the money that he was gathering here.'

'And what did they think of it in Forli?'

'Ah, when the time came to pay the taxes they ceased their praises of
Girolamo. First they murmured beneath their breath, then out loud; and
soon they cursed him and his wife. The Count heard of it and came back
from Imola, thinking, by his presence, to preserve the town in its
allegiance. But the fool did not know that the sight of him would
redouble the anger of the populace. They saw his gorgeous costumes, the
gold and silver dresses of his wife, the jewels, the feasting and
riotry, and they knew that it came out of their pockets; the food of
their children, all that they had toiled and worked for, was spent on
the insane luxury of this papal favourite and his bastard wife.'

'And how has he treated us?' cried Lodovico, beating his fist violently
down on the table. 'I was in the pay of the Duke of Calabria, and he
made me tempting offers, so that I left the armies of Naples to enter
the papal service under him. And now, for four years, I have not
received a penny of my salary, and when I ask him, he puts me aside with
gentle words, and now he does not even trouble to give me them. A few
days back I stopped him in the piazza, and, falling on my knees, begged
for what he owed me. He threw me violently away, and said he could not
pay me--and the jewel on his breast was worth ten times the money he
owed me. And now he looks at me with frowns, me who have served him
faithfully as a dog. I will not endure it; by God! I will not.' He
clenched his fists as he spoke, trembling with rage.

'And you know how he has served me,' said Checco. 'I have lent him so
much that he has not the face to ask for more; and how do you think he
has rewarded me? Because I have not paid certain dues I owe the
Treasury, he sent a sheriff to demand them, and when I said I would not
pay them at that moment, he sent for me, and himself asked for the
money.'

'What did you do?'

'I reminded him of the money he owed me, and he informed me that a
private debt had nothing to do with a debt to the State, and said that I
must pay or the law should take its course.'

'He must be mad,' said Matteo.

'He is mad, mad with pride, mad in his extravagance.'

'I tell you,' said Lodovico, 'it cannot be endured.'

'And they tell me that he has said my tongue must be silenced,' added
Checco. 'The other day he was talking to Giuseppe Albicina, and he said
"Let Checco beware; he may go too far and find the hand of the master
not so gentle as the hand of the friend!"'

'I, too, have heard him say things which sounded like threats,' said
Alessandro.

'We have all heard it,' added Lodovico. 'When his temper overcomes him,
he cares not what he says, and one discovers then what he and his silent
wife have been plotting between them.'

'Now, sir,' interrupted Checco, speaking to me, 'you see how things
stand: we are on thin ground, and the fire is raging beneath us. You
must promise not to seek further quarrel with this countryman of yours,
this Ercole Piacentini. He is one of Girolamo's chiefest favourites, and
he would not bear to see him touched; if you happened to kill him, the
Count would take the opportunity to have us all arrested, and we should
suffer the fate of the Pazzi at Florence. Will you promise?'

'I promise,' I answered, smiling, 'to defer my satisfaction to a fitter
opportunity.'

'Now, gentlemen,' said Checco, 'we can separate.'

We bade one another Good-night; Alessandro, as he was going, said to
Matteo, 'You must bring your friend to my sister to-morrow; she will be
glad to see you both.'

We said we should be enchanted, and Alessandro and Lodovico Pansecchi
left us.

Matteo looked at Checco meditatively.

'Cousin,' he said, 'all this looks very like conspiracy.'

Checco started.

'I cannot help it, if the people are dissatisfied with Girolamo.'

'But you?' pursued Matteo. 'I imagine you do not greatly care whether
the people are taxed or no. You knew the taxes would have to come on
again sooner or later.'

'Has he not insulted me by sending a sheriff to demand his dues?'

'Is there nothing further than that?' asked Matteo, looking at his
cousin steadily.

Checco lifted his eyes and gazed back into Matteo's.

'Yes,' he said at last; 'eight years ago I was Girolamo's equal, now I
am his servant. I was his friend, he loved me like a brother--and then
his wife came, the daughter of Francesco Sforza, the bastard--and
gradually he has lifted himself up from me. He has been cold and
reserved; he begins to show himself master; and now I am nothing more
than a citizen among citizens--the first, but not the equal of the
master.'

Checco kept silence for a moment, and in his quietness I could see the
violence of his emotion.

'This concerns you as well as me, Matteo. You are an Orsi, and the Orsi
are not made to be servants. I will be no man's servant. When I think of
this man--this bastard of a pope--treating me as beneath him, by God! I
cannot breathe. I could roll on the floor and tear my hair with rage. Do
you know that the Orsi have been great and rich for three hundred years?
The Medici pale before them, for they are burghers and we have been
always noble. We expelled the Ordelaffi because they wished to give us a
bastard boy to rule over us, and shall we accept this Riario? I swear I
will not endure it.'

'Well said!' said Matteo.

'Girolamo shall go as the Ordelaffi went. By God! I swear it.'

I looked at Matteo, and I saw that suddenly a passion had caught hold of
him; his face was red, his eyes staring wide, and his voice was hoarse
and thick.

'But do not mistake again, Checco,' he said; 'we want no foreign rulers.
The Orsi must be the only Lords of Forli.'

Checco and Matteo stood looking at one another; then the former, shaking
himself as if to regain his calmness, turned his back on us and left
the room. Matteo strode up and down for a while in thought, and then,
turning to me, said, 'Come.'

We went out and returned to our hostelry.




IV


Next day we went to Donna Giulia's.

'Who is she?' I asked Matteo, as we walked along.

'A widow!' he answered shortly.

'Further?' I asked.

'The scandal of Forli!'

'Most interesting; but how has she gained her reputation?'

'How do I know?' he answered, laughing; 'how do women usually gain their
reputations? She drove Giovanni dall' Aste into his grave; her rivals
say she poisoned him--but that is a cheerful libel, probably due to
Claudia Piacentini.'

'How long has she been a widow?'

'Five or six years.'

'And how has she lived since then?'

Matteo shrugged his shoulders.

'As widows usually live!' he answered. 'For my part, I really cannot see
what inducement a woman in that position has to be virtuous. After all,
one is only young once, and had better make the best use of one's youth
while it lasts.'

'But has she no relations?'

'Certainly; she has a father and two brothers. But they hear nothing or
care nothing. Besides, it may be only scandal after all.'

'You talked as if it were a fact,' I said.

'Oh, no; I only say that if it is not a fact she is a very foolish
woman. Now that she has a bad reputation, it would be idiotic not to
live up to it.'

'You speak with some feeling,' I remarked, laughing.

'Ah,' answered Matteo, with another shrug of the shoulders, 'I laid
siege to the fort of her virtue--and she sallied and retired, and mined
and countermined, advanced and drew back, so that I grew weary and
abandoned the attack. Life is not long enough to spend six months in
politeness and flattery, and then not be sure of the reward at the end.'

'You have a practical way of looking at things.'

'With me, you know, one woman is very like another. It comes to the same
in the end; and after one has kicked about the world for a few years,
one arrives at the conclusion that it it does not much matter if they be
dark or fair, fat or thin....'

'Did you tell all this to Donna Giulia?' I asked.

'More or less.'

'What did she think of it?'

'She was cross for a while. She wished she had yielded sooner, when it
was too late; it served her right!'

We had arrived at the house, and were ushered in. Donna Giulia greeted
us very politely, gave me a glance, and began talking again to her
friends. One could see that the men round her were more or less in
love, for they followed every motion with their eyes, disputing her
smiles, which she scattered in profusion, now upon one, now upon
another.... I saw she delighted in adulation, for the maker of any neat
compliment was always rewarded with a softer look and a more charming
smile.

Matteo surpassed the others in the outrageousness of his flattery; I
thought she must see that he was laughing at her, but she accepted
everything he said quite seriously, and was evidently much pleased.

'Are you not glad to be back in Forli?' she said to him.

'We all delight to tread the ground you walk on.'

'You have grown very polite during your absence.'

'What other result could have been, when I spent my time thinking of the
lovely Giulia.'

'I am afraid you had other thoughts in Naples: they say that there the
women are all beautiful.'

'Naples! My dear lady, I swear that during all the time I have been away
I have never seen a face to compare with yours.'

Her eyes quite shone with pleasure. I turned away, finding the
conversation silly. I thought I would do without the pleasant looks of
Madonna Giulia, and I decided not to come to her again. Meanwhile, I
began talking to one of the other ladies in the room and passed the time
agreeably enough.... In a little while Giulia passed me, leaning on the
arm of one of her admirers. I saw her glance at me, but I took no
notice. Immediately afterwards she came again, hesitating a moment, as
if she wished to say something, but passed on without speaking. I
thought she was piqued at my inattention to her, and, with a smile,
redoubled my attentions to the lady with whom I was talking.

'Messer Filippo!' Donna Giulia called me, 'if you are not too engaged,
will you speak to me for one moment?'

I approached her smiling.

'I am anxious to hear of your quarrel with Ercole Piacentini. I have
heard quite ten different stories.'

'I am surprised that the insolence of an ill-bred fellow should rouse
such interest.'

'We must talk of something in Forli. The only thing I hear for certain
is that he insulted you, and you were prevented from getting
satisfaction.'

'That will come later.'

She lowered her voice and took my arm.

'But my brother tells me that Checco d'Orsi has made you promise to do
nothing.'

'I shall get my revenge--having to wait for it will only make it
sweeter.'

Then, supposing she had nothing further to say to me, I stood still, as
if expecting her to leave me. She looked up suddenly.

'Am I incommoding you?' she said.

'How could you!' I replied gallantly.

'I thought you wanted to get rid of me.'

'How can such an idea have entered your head? Do you not see that all
men lie humble at your feet, attentive to every word and gesture?'

'Yes,' she answered, 'but not you!'

Of course I protested.

'Oh,' she said, 'I saw very well that you avoided me. When you came in
here--you hardly came near me.'

'I did not think you would notice my inattention.'

'Certainly I noticed it; I was afraid I had offended you. I could not
think how.'

'My dear lady, you have certainly done nothing to offend me.'

'Then, why do you avoid me?' she asked petulantly.

'Really,' I said, 'I don't. Perhaps in my modesty I thought it would be
a matter of indifference to you whether I was at your side or not. I am
sorry I have annoyed you.'

'I don't like people not to like me,' she said in a plaintive way.

'But why should you think I do not like you? Indeed, without flattery, I
can assure you that I think you one of the most beautiful women I have
ever seen.'

A faint blush came over her cheeks, and a smile broke out on her lips;
she looked up at me with a pretty reproachful air.

'Then, why don't you let me see it more plainly?'

I smiled, and, looking into her eyes, was struck by their velvet
softness. I almost thought she was as charming as she was beautiful.

'Do you really wish to know?' I said, in reply to her question.

'Do tell me!' she said, faintly pressing my arm.

'I thought you had so many admirers that you could well do without me.'

'But, you see,' she answered charmingly, 'I cannot!'

'And then I have a certain dislike to losing myself in a crowd. I did
not wish to share your smiles with twenty others.'

'And would you for that refuse them altogether?'

'I have always avoided the woman who is the object of general
admiration. I think I am too proud to struggle for favours; I would
rather dispense with them.'

'But, then, supposing the lady wishes to favour you especially, you do
not give her the opportunity.'

'That is so rare,' I replied, 'that it is not worth while breaking the
rule.'

'But it may happen.'

I shrugged my shoulders. She paused a moment, and then said,--

'You do like me, then, after all?'

I saw a slight trembling of the lip, perhaps the eyes were a little
moist. I felt sorry for what I had done.

'I fear I have given you pain,' I said.

'You have a little,' she replied.

'I am sorry. I thought you did not care.'

'I like people to love me and be pleased with me.'

'I do both!'

'Then you must show it,' she replied, a smile breaking through the
beginning of tears.

I really had been brutal, and I was very sorry that I had caused a cloud
to gather over her sunshiny nature. She was indeed very sweet and
charming.

'Well, we are good friends now, aren't we?' she said.

'Of course.'

'And you'll come and see me often?'

'As often as you will allow me to,' I answered. She gave me her hand to
kiss, and a bright, happy smile lit up her face.

'_A rivederci!_' she said.

We went home, and Matteo found waiting for him a message from Checco,
bidding him leave the inn and take up his quarters with me at the
Palazzo Orsi. On arriving, we found Checco excitedly walking up and down
a long corridor lined with statues and pictures.

'I am glad you have come,' he said to Matteo, taking his hand and
nodding. 'You must stay here; we must all keep together now, for
anything may happen.'

'What do you mean?' asked Matteo.

'The catastrophe nearly came to-day.'

We both looked at him with astonishment, not comprehending. Checco stood
still abruptly.

'He tried to arrest me to-day--Girolamo!' Then, speaking very quickly,
as if labouring under great excitement, 'I had to go to the Palace on
business. I found him in the audience chamber, and we began to talk
certain matters over, and I grew rather heated. Suddenly I noticed that
the place had emptied itself. I stopped in the midst of my sentence and
looked up at Girolamo. I saw he was not attending to me; his eyes were
fixed on the door.'

Checco was silent, and drops of perspiration were standing on his
forehead.

'Yes! Yes!' we both said eagerly.

'The door opened, and the Master of the Guard walked in. "By God!" I
thought, "I'm trapped!" "I have been waiting for you, Andrea," said
Girolamo. Then he turned to me, and said, "Come into the Room of the
Nymphs, Checco. I have some papers there to show you." He took hold of
my arm. I loosed myself. "I pray you, excuse me," I said, "I have some
very urgent business." I walked to the door. Andrea glanced at his
master, and I thought he was going to bar my way; I think he was waiting
for some sign, but before it came I had seen through the open door Paolo
Bruni, and I called out, "Paolo, Paolo, wait for me. I want to talk to
you urgently." Then I knew I was safe; he dared not touch me; and I
turned round and said again, "I pray you, excuse me; my business with
Paolo is a matter of life or death." I brushed past Andrea and got out.
By Heaven! how I breathed when I found myself in the piazza!'

'But are you sure he meant to arrest you?' said Matteo.

'Certain; what else?'

'Andrea might have come in by accident. There may have been nothing in
it at all.'

'I was not deceived,' answered Checco, earnestly. 'Their looks betrayed
them--Andrea's questioning glance. I know he wants to kill me.'

'But would he dare seize you in cold blood?'

'He cares for nothing when he has an object in view. Besides, when he
had me in his power, what could have been done? I know Girolamo too
well. There would have been a mock trial, and I should have been
condemned. Or else he would have me strangled in my cell, and when I had
gone you would have been helpless--my father is too old, and there would
have been no leader to the party but you--and what could you do alone?'

We all remained silent for a while, then Checco broke out.

'I know he wants to rid himself of me. He has threatened before, but has
never gone so far as this.'

'I agree with you,' said Matteo; 'things are becoming grave.'

'It is not so much for myself I care; but what would happen to my
children? My father is safe--he is so old and helpless that they would
never think of touching him--but my boys? Caterina would throw them into
prison without a scruple.'

'Well,' said Matteo, 'what will you do?'

'What can I do?' he answered. 'I have been racking my brains, and I see
no way of safety. I can wear a coat of mail to preserve me from the
stray knife of an assassin, but that will not help me against a troop of
soldiers. I can leave Forli, but that is to abandon everything.'

'No, you must not leave Forli--anything but that!'

'What can I do? What can I do?' he stamped his foot on the ground as if
almost in desperation.

'One thing,' said Matteo, 'you must not go about alone--always with at
least two friends.'

'Yes, I have thought of that. But how will it all turn out; it cannot
last. What can I do?'

He turned to me.

'What do you think?' he said. 'He means to kill me.'

'Why not anticipate him?' I answered quietly.

They both started up with a cry.

'Kill him!'

'Assassination! I dare not, I dare not,' said Checco, very excitedly. 'I
will do all I can by fair means, but assassination--'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'It seems a matter of self-preservation,' I said.

'No, no; I won't speak of it! I won't think of it.' He began again to
walk excitedly up and down the room. 'I won't think of it, I tell you. I
could not.'

Neither Matteo nor I spoke.

'Why don't you speak?' he said to Matteo, impatiently.

'I am thinking,' he answered.

'Not of that; I forbid you to think of that. I will not have it.' Then,
after a pause, abruptly, as if he were angry with us and with himself,
'Leave me!'




V


A few days later, Matteo came to me as I was dressing, having rescued my
clothes from him.

'I wonder you're not ashamed to go out in those garments,' he remarked,
'people will say that you wear my old things.'

I took no notice of the insult.

'Where are you going?' he asked.

'To Madonna Giulia.'

'But you went there yesterday!'

'That is no reason why I should not go to-day. She asked me to come.'

'That's very obliging of her, I'm sure.' Then, after a pause, during
which I continued my toilet, 'I have been gathering the news of Forli.'

'Oh!'

'Madonna Giulia has been affording a great deal of interest....'

'You have been talking to the lady whom you call the beautiful Claudia,'
I said.

'By the way, why have you not been to her?'

'I really don't know,' I said. 'Why should I?'

'You told me you had progressed a long way in her favours during the
half-hour's talk you had with her the other night; have you not followed
up the advantage?'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'I don't think I like a woman to make all the advances.'

'Don't you?' said Matteo. 'I do!'

'Besides, I don't care for the type; she is too massive.'

'She feels very much hurt at your neglect. She says you have fallen in
love with Giulia.'

'That is absurd,' I replied; 'and as to her being hurt at my neglect, I
am very sorry, but I don't feel any obligation to throw myself into the
arms of every woman who chooses to open them.'

'I quite agree with you; neither she nor Giulia are a bit better than
they should be. I'm told Giulia's latest lover is Amtrogio della
Treccia. It seems one day he was almost caught by old Bartolomeo, and
had to slip out of the window and perform feats worthy of a professional
acrobat to get out of the way.'

'I don't think I attach belief to all the scandal circulating on the
subject of that lady.'

'You're not in love with her?' asked Matteo, quickly.

I laughed.

'Certainly not. But still--'

'That's all right; because, of course, you know it's notorious that she
has had the most disgraceful amours. And she hasn't even kept them to
her own class; all sorts of people have enjoyed her favours.'

'She does not look very much like a Messalina,' I said, sneering a
little.

'Honestly, Filippo, I do think she is really very little better than a
harlot.'

'You are extremely charitable,' I said. 'But don't you think you are
somewhat prejudiced by the fact that you yourself did not find her one.
Besides, her character makes no particular difference to me; I really
care nothing if she's good or bad; she is agreeable, and that is all I
care about. She is not going to be my wife.'

'She may make you very unhappy; you won't be the first.'

'What a fool you are!' I said, a little angrily. 'You seem to think that
because I go and see a woman I must be dying of love for her. You are
absurd.'

I left him, and soon found myself at the Palazzo Aste, where Donna
Giulia was waiting for me. I had been to see her nearly every day since
my arrival in Forli, for I really liked her. Naturally, I was not in
love with her as Matteo suggested, and I had no intention of entering
into that miserable state. I had found her charmingly simple, very
different from the monster of dissipation she was supposed to be. She
must have been three or four-and-twenty, but in all her ways she was
quite girlish, merry and thoughtless, full of laughter at one moment,
and then some trifling thing would happen to discompose her and she
would be brought to the verge of tears; but a word or caress, even a
compliment, would make her forget the unhappiness which had appeared so
terrible, and in an instant she would be wreathed in smiles. She seemed
so delightfully fragile, so delicate, so weak, that one felt it
necessary to be very gentle with her. I could not imagine how anyone
could use a hard word to her face.

Her eyes lit up as she saw me.

'How long you've been,' she said. 'I thought you were never coming.'

She always seemed so glad so see you that you thought she must have been
anxiously awaiting you, and that you were the very person of all others
that she wished to have with her. Of course, I knew it was an
affectation, but it was a very charming one.

'Come and sit by me here,' she said, making room for me on a couch; then
when I had sat down, she nestled close up to me in her pretty childish
way, as if seeking protection. 'Now, tell me all you've been doing.'

'I've been talking to Matteo,' I said.

'What about?'

'You.'

'Tell me what he said.'

'Nothing to your credit, my dear,' I said, laughing.

'Poor Matteo,' she answered. 'He's such a clumsy, lumbering creature,
one can see he's spent half his life in camps.'

'And I? I have spent the same life as Matteo. Am I a clumsy, lumbering
creature?'

'Oh, no,' she answered, 'you are quite different.' She put the
pleasantest compliments in the look of her eyes.

'Matteo told me all sorts of scandal about you.' She blushed a little.

'Did you believe it?'

'I said I did not much care if it were true or not.'

'But do you believe it?' she asked, insisting.

'If you'll tell me it is not true, I will believe absolutely what you
say.'

The little anxious look on her face gave way to a bright smile.

'Of course, it is not true.'

'How beautiful you are when you smile,' I remarked irrelevantly. 'You
should always smile.'

'I always do on you,' she answered. She opened her mouth, as if about to
speak, held back, as if unable to make up her mind, then said, 'Did
Matteo tell you he made love to me once, and was very angry because I
would not pick up the handkerchief which he had condescended to throw.'

'He mentioned it.'

'Since then, I am afraid he has not had very much good to say of me.'

I had thought at the time that Matteo was a little bitter in his account
of Donna Giulia, and I felt more inclined to believe her version of the
story than his.

'He has been beseeching me not to fall in love with you,' I said.

She laughed.

'Claudia Piacentini has been telling everyone that it is too late, and
she is horribly jealous.'

'Has she? Matteo also seemed certain I was in love with you.'

'And are you?' she asked suddenly.

'No!' I replied with great promptness.

'_Brutta bestia!_' she said, throwing herself to the end of the couch,
and beginning to pout.

'I am very sorry,' I said, laughing, 'but I cannot help it.'

'I think it is horrid of you,' she remarked.

'You have so many adorers,' I said in expostulation.

'Yes, but I want more,' she smiled.

'But what good can it do you to have all these people in love with you?'

'I don't know,' she said, 'it is a pleasant sensation.'

'What a child you are!' I answered, laughing.

She bent forward seriously.

'But are you not at all in love with me?'

I shook my head. She came close up to me, so that her hair brushed
lightly against my cheek; it sent a shiver through me. I looked at her
tiny ear; it was beautifully shaped, transparent as a pink shell.
Unconsciously, quite without intention, I kissed it. She pretended to
take no notice, and I was full of confusion. I felt myself blushing
furiously.

'Are you quite sure?' she said gravely.

I got up to go, foolishly, rather angry with myself.

'When shall I see you again?' I asked.

'I am going to confession to-morrow. Be at San Stefano at ten, and we
can have a little talk in the church when I have finished.'




VI


There had been a great commotion in Forli during the last two days; for
it had become known that the country people of the Count's domain had
sent a petition for the removal of certain taxes which pressed so
heavily upon them, that the land was speedily going to ruin. The
proprietors were dismissing their labourers, the houses of the peasants
were falling into decay, and in certain districts the poverty had
reached such a height that the farmers had not even grain wherewith to
sow their fields, and all around the ground was lying bare and desolate.
A famine had been the result, and if the previous year the countrymen
had found it difficult to pay their taxes, this year they found it
impossible. Girolamo had listened to their arguments, and knew them to
be true. After considering with his councillors, he had resolved to
remit certain of the more oppressive taxes; but in doing this he was
confronted with the fact that his Treasury was already empty, and that
if the income were further diminished it would be impossible for him to
meet the demands of the coming year.

It was clear that the country could not pay, and it was clear that the
money must be procured. He set his eyes on the town, and saw that it was
rich and flourishing, but he dared not, on his own initiative, propose
any increase in its burdens. He called a council, showed the state of
his affairs, and asked the elders for advice. No one stirred or spoke.
At last Antonio Lassi, a creature of the Count, whom he had raised to
the council from a humble position, rose to his feet and gave utterance
to the plan which his master had suggested to him. The pith of it was to
abrogate the taxes on the country people, and in compensation place
others on certain food-stuffs and wines, which had previously gone free.
Girolamo answered in a studied speech, pretending great unwillingness to
charge what were the necessaries of life, and asked several of the more
prominent members what they thought of the suggestion. They had met
Antonio Lassi's speech with silence, and now applauded Girolamo's
answer; they agreed with him that such taxes should not be. Then the
Count changed his tone. He said it was the only means of raising the
money, and gathering anger from their sullen looks and their silence, he
told them that if they would not give their sanction to the decree, he
would do without their sanction. Then, breaking short, he asked them for
their answer. The councillors looked at one another, rather pale but
determined; and the reply came from one after the other, quietly,--

'No--no--no!'

Antonio Lassi was cowed, and dared not give his answer at all. The
Count, with an oath, beat his fist on the table and said, 'I am
determined to be lord and master here; and you shall learn, all of you,
that my will is law.'

With that he dismissed them.

When the people heard the news, there was great excitement. The murmurs
against the Count, which had hitherto been cautiously expressed, were
now cried out in the market-place; the extravagance of the Countess was
bitterly complained of, and the townsmen gathered together in groups,
talking heatedly of the proposed exaction, occasionally breaking out
into open menace. It was very like sedition.

On the day after the council, the head of the customs had been almost
torn to pieces by the people as he was walking towards the Palace, and
on his way back he was protected by a troop of soldiers. Antonio Lassi
was met everywhere with hoots and cries, and Checco d'Orsi, meeting him
in the loggia of the piazza, had assailed him with taunts and bitter
sarcasms. Ercole Piacentini interposed and the quarrel nearly ended in a
brawl; but Checco, with difficulty restraining himself, withdrew before
anything happened....

On leaving Donna Giulia, I walked to the piazza. and found the same
restlessness as on the preceding days. Through all these people a
strange commotion seemed to pass, a tremor like the waves of the sea;
everywhere little knots of people were listening eagerly to some excited
speaker; no one seemed able to work; the tradesmen were gathered at
their doors talking with one another; idlers were wandering to and fro,
now joining themselves to one group, now to another.

Suddenly there was a silence; part of the crowd began looking eagerly in
one direction, and the rest in their curiosity surged to the end of the
piazza to see what was happening. Then it was seen that Caterina was
approaching. She entered the place, and all eyes were fixed upon her. As
usual, she was magnificently attired; her neck and hands and arms, her
waistband and headgear, shone with jewels; she was accompanied by
several of her ladies and two or three soldiers as guard. The crowd
separated to let her pass, and she walked proudly between the serried
rows of people, her head uplifted and her eyes fixed straight in front,
as if she were unaware that anyone was looking at her. A few
obsequiously took off their hats, but most gave no greeting; all around
her was silence, a few murmurs, an oath or two muttered under breath,
but that was all. She walked steadily on, and entered the Palace gates.
At once a thousand voices burst forth, and after the deadly stillness
the air seemed filled with confused sounds. Curses and imprecations were
hurled on her from every side; they railed at her pride, they called her
foul names.... Six years before, when she happened to cross the streets,
the people had hurried forward to look at her, with joy in their hearts
and blessings on their lips. They vowed they would die for her, they
were in ecstasies at her graciousness.

I went home thinking of all these things and of Donna Giulia. I was
rather amused at my unintentional kiss; I wondered if she was thinking
of me.... She really was a charming creature, and I was glad at the
idea of seeing her again on the morrow. I liked her simple, fervent
piety. She was in the habit of going regularly to mass, and happening to
see her one day, I was struck with her devout air, full of faith; she
also went to confessional frequently. It was rather absurd to think she
was the perverse being people pretended....

When I reached the Palazzo Orsi I found the same excitement as outside
in the piazza, Girolamo had heard of the dispute in the loggia, and had
sent for Checco to hear his views on the subject of the tax. The
audience was fixed for the following morning at eleven, and as Checco
never went anywhere without attendants, Scipione Moratini, Giulia's
second brother, and I were appointed to accompany him. Matteo was not to
go for fear of the presence of the two most prominent members of the
family tempting the Count to some sudden action.

The following morning I arrived at San Stefano at half-past nine, and to
my surprise found Giulia waiting for me.

'I did not think you would be out of the confessional so soon,' I said.
'Were your sins so small this week?'

'I haven't been,' she answered. 'Scipione told me that you and he were
to accompany Checco to the Palace, and I thought you would have to leave
here early, so I postponed the confessional.'

'You have preferred earth and me to Heaven and the worthy father?'

'You know I would do more for you than that,' she answered.

'You witch!'

She took my arm.

'Come,' she said, 'come and sit in one of the transept chapels; it is
quiet and dark there.'

It was deliciously cool. The light came dimly through the coloured
glass, clothing the marble of the chapel in mysterious reds and purples,
and the air was faintly scented with incense. Sitting there she seemed
to gain a new charm. Before, I had never really appreciated the extreme
beauty of the brown hair tinged with red, its wonderful quality and
luxuriance. I tried to think of something to say, but could not. I sat
and looked at her, and the perfumes of her body blended with the
incense.

'Why don't you speak?' she said.

'I'm sorry; I have nothing to say.'

She laughed.

'Tell me of what you are thinking.'

'I daren't,' I said.

She looked at me, repeating the wish with her eyes.

'I was thinking you were very beautiful.'

She turned to me and leant forward so that her face was close to mine;
her eyes acquired a look of deep, voluptuous languor. We sat without
speaking, and my head began to whirl.

The clock struck ten.

'I must go,' I said, breaking the silence.

'Yes,' she answered, 'but come to-night and tell me what has happened.'

I promised I would, then asked whether I should lead her to another part
of the church.

'No, leave me here,' she said. 'It is so good and quiet. I will stay and
think.'

'Of what?' I said.

She did not speak, but she smiled so that I understood her answer.




VII


I hurried back to the Palazzo and found Scipione Moratini already
arrived. I liked him for his sister's sake, but in himself he was a
pleasant person.

Both he and his brother had something of Giulia in them--the delicate
features, the fascination and the winning ways which in them seemed
almost effeminate. Their mother had been a very beautiful woman--report
said somewhat gay--and it was from her the sons had got the gallantry
which made them the terror of husbands in Forli, and Giulia the coquetry
which had given rise to so much scandal. The father, Bartolomeo, was
quite different. He was a rugged, upright man of sixty, very grave and
very dignified, the only resemblance of feature to his children being
the charming smile, which the sons possessed as well as Giulia; though
in him it was rarely seen. What I liked most in him was the blind love
for his daughter, leading him to unbend and become a youth to flatter
her folly. He was really devoted to her, so that it was quite pathetic
to see the look of intense affection in his eyes as he followed her
movements. He, of course, had never heard a word of the rumours
circulating about Giulia; he had the utmost faith in her virtue, and I,
it seems to me, had gained faith from him.

After talking a while with Scipione, Checco came, and we started for the
Palazzo. The people in Forli know everything, and were well aware of
Checco's mission. As we walked along we were met by many kind greetings,
good luck, and God speed were wished us, and Checco, beaming with joy,
graciously returned the salutations.

We were ushered into the council chamber, where we found the councillors
and many of the more prominent citizens, and several gentlemen of the
Court; immediately the great folding doors were opened and Girolamo
entered with his wonted state, accompanied by his courtiers and
men-at-arms, so that the hall was filled with them. He took his seat on
a throne, and graciously bowed to the left and to the right. His
courtiers responded, but the citizens preserved a severe aspect, quite
unsympathetic towards his condescension.

Girolamo rose to his feet and made a short speech, in which he extolled
Checco's wisdom and knowledge and patriotism, saying he had heard of a
controversy between him and Antonio Lassi on the subject of the proposed
tax, and consequently had sent for him to hear his opinion on the
subject.

He stopped and looked round; his courtiers obsequiously applauded. Then,
at opposite ends of the room, doors opened, and through each filed a
string of soldiers; the citizens looked at one another, wondering. A
flourish of trumpets was heard in the piazza, outside, and the tramp of
soldiers. Girolamo waited; at last he proceeded,--

'A good prince owes this to his subjects--to do nothing against their
will freely expressed; and though I could command, for I am placed here
by the Vicar of Christ himself, with absolute power over your lives and
fortunes, yet such is my love and affection towards you that I do not
disdain to ask your advice.'

The courtiers broke out into a murmur of surprise and
self-congratulation at his infinite graciousness; the trumpets
flourished again, and in the succeeding silence could be heard cries of
command from the officers in the square, while from the soldiers
standing about the hall there was a clank of swords and spurs.

Checco rose from his seat. He was pale and he almost seemed to hesitate;
I wondered if the soldiers had had the effect which Girolamo intended.
Then he began to speak, quietly, in even, well-turned sentences, so that
one could see the speech had been carefully thought out.

He called to mind his own affection for Girolamo, and the mutual
friendship which had solaced many hours of doubt and difficulty, and
assured him of his unalterable fidelity to himself and his family; then
he reminded him of the love borne by the people towards their ruler, and
their consciousness of an equal love on the part of the Count towards
themselves. He drew a picture of the joy in Forli when first Girolamo
came to it, and of the enthusiasm caused by the sight of him or his wife
walking through the streets.

There was a little applause, chiefly from the Count's suite; Checco
paused as if he had come to the end of his preface, and were gathering
himself up for the real matter of his speech. There was deadly silence
in the hall, all eyes were fixed on him, and all minds were asking
themselves, 'What will he say?' Girolamo was leaning forward, resting
his chin on his hand, looking anxious. I wondered if he regretted that
he had called the meeting.

Checco resumed his speech.

'Girolamo,' he said, 'the people from the country districts lately sent
you a petition, in which they showed their sufferings from rain and
storm and famine, their poverty and misery, the oppressiveness of the
taxes. They bade you come and look at their untilled fields, their
houses falling to ruin, themselves dying by the roadside, naked and
hungry, children expiring at their mothers' breasts, parents lying
unburied in the ruin of their home. They bade you come and look at the
desolation of the land, and implored you to help them while there was
yet time, and lighten from their backs the burdens you had laid upon
them.

'You turned an eye of pity on them; and now the land smiles, the people
have shaken themselves from their sleep of death, and awakened to new
life, and everywhere prayers are offered and blessings rained on the
head of the most high and magnificent prince, Girolamo Riario.

'And we too, my Lord, join in the thanks and praise; for these to whom
you have given new life are our cousins and brothers, our
fellow-countrymen.'

What was coming? The councillors looked at one another questioningly.
Could Checco have made terms with the Count, and was it a comedy they
were playing? Girolamo also was surprised; he had not for long heard
praise from any but his courtiers.

'Eight years ago, when you acquired the sovereignty of Forli, you found
the town weighed down under the taxes which the Ordelaffi had imposed.
Depression had seized hold of the merchants and tradesmen; they were
burdened so that they could not buy nor sell; they had given up effort,
and the town was lying numb and cold, as if dying from a pestilence. The
streets were deserted; such people as there were moved sadly, and with
downturned faces. The inhabitants were becoming fewer; there was no
motion, no life; a few years more and Forli would have become a city of
the dead!

'But you came, and with you life; for your first deed was to remove the
most oppressive imposts. As the bow, doubled up, when the string is
loosened shoots back with a sudden impulse which propels the arrow to
its mark, so Forli rebounded from the weight it had borne before. The
Goddess of Plenty reigned in the land; it was the sunlight after storm;
everywhere life and activity! The merchant wrote busily at his desk, the
tradesman spread his wares anew and laughed in the joy of his heart. The
mason, the builder, the blacksmith returned to their work, and through
the city was heard the sound of hammering and building. The news spread
of a beneficent lord, and the goldsmith and silversmith, the painter,
the sculptor, came to the city in throngs. The money passed from hand to
hand, and in its passage seemed to increase by magic. On the faces of
all was happiness; the apprentice sang as he worked, and mirth and joy
were universal; Forli became known as the home of delight; Italy rang
with its feasts and celebrations--and every citizen was proud to be a
Forlivese.

'And everywhere prayers were offered and blessings rained on the head of
the most high and magnificent prince, Girolamo Riario.'

Checco paused again. An inkling of his meaning was coming to his
hearers, but they dared not think he would say what was in all their
minds.

'Then,' Checco went on, 'you re-imposed the taxes which you had taken
off.'

'That is a lie!' interrupted Girolamo. 'They were imposed by the
council.'

Checco shrugged his shoulders, smiling ironically.

'I remember quite well. You called a meeting of the Ancients, and
showing them your necessities, suggested that they should re-impose the
taxes.

'I forget if you reminded them that you could command, and that you were
placed here by the Vicar of Christ on earth.

'And you forebore to let us hear the ring of trumpets and the tramp of
soldiery in the square. Nor did you think so numerous a suite necessary
for your dignity.'

He looked round at the soldiers, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

'Proceed!' said Girolamo, impatiently; he was beginning to get angry.

Checco, in talking, had recovered the assurance which at first seemed to
fail him. He smiled politely at the Count's command, and said,--

'I will come to the point at once.

'You replaced the taxes which you had taken away, and thereby undid the
benefit you had done. The town soon felt the effect of the change; its
prosperity is already declining, and it is not doubtful that a few years
more will bring it to the condition in which you found it. And who
knows, perhaps its last state may be worse than its first?

'And now you propose to make the townspeople pay the duties which you
have taken off the countryfolk. You have sent for me to ask my advice on
the subject, and here I give it you.

'Do not put on, but take off. In the name of the people, I beseech you
to do away with the taxes you imposed four years ago, and return to the
happy state of the first years of your rule.'

He paused a moment, then with outstretched arm, pointing to the Count,
he added solemnly, 'Or Girolamo Riario, the magnificent prince, may
share the fate of the Ordelaffi, who ruled the town for two centuries
and now wander homeless about the land.'

There was a cry all round the room. They were astounded at his audacity.
Girolamo had started in his chair--his eyes were staring, his face red;
he was dumb with rage. He tried to speak, but the words died in his
throat, and nothing was heard but an inarticulate murmur. The soldiers
and courtiers were looking at one another in surprise; they did not know
what to do or think; they looked at their master, but found no help in
him. The citizens were bewildered, and by turns felt wonder, dismay,
fear, pleasure; they could not understand....

'Oh, Girolamo!' said Checco, unmindful of the excitement round him, 'I
do not say these things in enmity to you. Come among your people
yourself, and see their wants with your own eyes. Do not believe what
your courtiers tell you--do not think the land in your charge is a
captured town, which you can spoil at your pleasure. You have been
placed here as a guardian in our perils and an assistance in our
necessities.

'You are a stranger here; you do not know this people as I know it. They
will be faithful, meek, obedient--but do not rob them of the money they
have hardly earned, or they will turn against you. Forli has never
supported an oppressor, and if you oppress them, beware of their wrath.
What do you think are these soldiers of yours against the wrath of a
people! And are you so sure of your soldiers? Will they take part for
you against their fathers and brothers, their children?'

'Be quiet!' Girolamo had risen from his seat, and was standing with his
arm threateningly upraised. He shouted so as to drown Checco, 'Be quiet!
You have always been against me, Checco,' he cried. 'You have hated me
because I have overwhelmed you with bounty. There has never been trouble
between me and my people but you have come to make them more bitter
against me.'

'You lie!' said Checco, passionately.

'Oh, I know you, Checco, and your pride! As Satan fell by pride, so may
you, notwithstanding all your riches and power. You thought you were my
equal, and because you found me your master you gnashed your teeth and
cursed me.

'By God, you would kill me if you could!'

Checco lost his calm, and gesticulating wildly shouted back at Girolamo.

'I have hated you because you are a tyrant to this town. Are these not
my fellow-citizens, my brothers, my friends? Have we not been together
since childhood, and our fathers and grandfathers before us? And do you
think I look upon them as you who are a stranger?

'No; so long as you obtained money from the rich, I said nothing. You
know what sums I have myself lent you; all that I freely give you. I do
not want a penny of it back--keep it all. But when you have extorted the
uttermost from us, and you turn to the poor and needy and rob them of
their little, then I will not keep silence. You shall not impose these
taxes on the people! And why is it you want them? For your riotous,
insane extravagance; so that you may build yourself new palaces, and
deck yourself in gorgeous robes, and buy diamonds and precious stones
for your wife.'

'Do not speak of my wife,' interrupted the Count.

'So that you may pile gold in the hands of the parasite who makes a
sonnet in your praise. You came to us and begged for money; we gave it
and you flung it away in feasts and riotry. The very coat you wear was
made out of our riches. But you have no right to take the money of the
people for these ignoble uses. You are not their master; you are their
servant; their money is not yours, but yours is theirs. Your duty before
God is to protect them, and, instead, you rob them.'

'Be silent!' broke in Girolamo. 'I will hear no more. You have outraged
me as no man has ever done without repenting it. You think you are
all-powerful, Checco, but by God you shall find that I am more powerful!

'Now go, all of you! I have had enough of this scene. Go!'

He waved his hand imperiously. Then, with a look of intense rage, he
descended from his throne and, scowling, flung himself out of the room.




VIII


The courtiers followed on their master's heels, but the soldiers stood
undecided. Ercole Piacentini looked at us, and spoke in an undertone to
the Captain of the Guard. I thought they were discussing the possibility
of boldly arresting Checco on the spot, which they doubtless knew would
be a step very acceptable to Girolamo; but he was surrounded by his
friends, and evidently, whatever Ercole and the Captain wished, they
dared nothing, for the former quietly left the chamber, and the
soldiers, on a whispered order, slid silently from the room like whipped
dogs.

Then the excitement of our friends knew no bounds. I, at the end of the
speech, had seized his hand and said,--

'Well done.'

Now he was standing in the midst of all these people, happy and smiling,
proud of the enthusiasm he had aroused, breathing heavily, so that a
casual observer might have thought him drunk with wine.

'My friends,' he said, in answer to their praises, and his voice
slightly trembled, so that his sincerity was conspicuous, 'whatever
happens, be sure that I will continue to uphold your rights, and that I
will willingly give my life for the cause of justice and freedom.'

He was choked by the violence of his emotion, and could say nothing
more.

The cries of approbation were renewed, and then, with an impulse to get
into the open air, they surged out of the council chamber into the
piazza. It was not exactly known what had passed in the Palace, but the
people knew that Checco had braved the Count, and that the latter had
broken up the meeting in anger. Wonderful rumours were going about: it
was said that swords had been drawn, and there had almost been a battle;
others said that the Count had tried to arrest Checco, and this story,
gaining credence--some even saying that Checco was being kept a
prisoner--had worked the citizens to fever height.

When Checco appeared, there was a great shout and a rush towards him.
'Bravo!' 'Well done!' I don't know what they did not find to say in
praise of him. Their enthusiasm grew by its own fire; they went mad;
they could not contain themselves, and they looked about for something
on which to vent their feeling. A word, and they would have attacked the
Palace or sacked the custom-house. They surrounded us, and would not let
us pass. Bartolomeo Moratini pushed his way to Checco and said,--

'Quiet them quickly, before it is too late.'

Checco understood at once. 'Friends,' he said, 'let me pass quietly, for
the love of God, and do you return to your work in peace. Let me pass!'

Moving forward, the crowd opened to him, and still shouting, yelling and
gesticulating, allowed him to go through. When we arrived at the gate of
his palace, he turned to me and said,--

'By God! Filippo, this is life. I shall never forget this day!'

The crowd had followed to the door, and would not go away. Checco had to
appear on the balcony and bow his thanks. As he stood there, I could see
that his head was whirling. He was pale, almost senseless with his great
joy.

At last the people were persuaded to depart, and we entered the house.

We were in Checco's private room. Besides the cousins and myself were
present Bartolomeo Moratini and his two sons, Fabio Oliva and Cesare
Gnocchi, both related on the mother's side to the Orsi. We were all
restless and excited, discussing the events that had occurred; only
Bartolomeo was quiet and grave. Matteo, in the highest of spirits,
turned to him.

'Why so silent, Messer Bartolomeo?' he said. 'You are like the skeleton
at the banquet.'

'It is a matter for gravity,' he answered.

'Why?'

'Why! Good God, man, do you suppose nothing has happened!'

We stopped talking and stood round him, as if suddenly awakened.

'Our ships are burnt behind us,' he proceeded, and we must
advance--must!'

'What do you mean?' said Checco.

'Do you suppose Girolamo is going to allow things to go on as before?
You must be mad, Checco!

'I believe I am,' was the answer. 'All this has turned my head. Go on.'

'Girolamo has only one step open to him now. You have braved him
publicly; you have crossed the streets in triumph, amid the acclamation
of the people, and they have accompanied you to your house with shouts
of joy. Girolamo sees in you a rival--and from a rival there is only one
safeguard.'

'And that--?' asked Checco.

'Is death!'

We were all silent for a moment; then Bartolomeo spoke again.

'He cannot allow you to live. He has threatened you before, but now he
must carry his threats into effect. Take care!'

'I know,' said Checco, 'the sword is hanging over my head. But he dare
not arrest me.'

'Perhaps he will try assassination. You must go out well guarded.'

'I do,' said Checco, 'and I wear a coat of mail. The fear of
assassination has been haunting me for weeks. Oh God, it is terrible! I
could bear an open foe. I have courage as much as anyone; but this
perpetual suspense! I swear to you it is making me a coward. I cannot
turn the corner of a street without thinking that my death may be on the
other side; I cannot go through a dark corridor at night without
thinking that over there in the darkness my murderer may be waiting for
me. I start at the slightest sound, the banging of a door, a sudden
step. And I awake in the night with a cry, sweating. I cannot stand it
I shall go mad if it continues. What can I do?'

Matteo and I looked at one another; we had the same thought. Bartolomeo
spoke.

'Anticipate him!'

We both started, for they were my very words. Checco gave a cry.

'You too! That thought has been with me night and day! Anticipate him!
Kill him! But I dare not think of it. I cannot kill him.'

'You must,' said Bartolomeo.

'Take care we are not heard,' said Oliva.

'The doors are well fastened.'

'You must,' repeated Bartolomeo. 'It is the only course left you. And
what is more, you must make haste--for he will not delay. The lives of
all of us are at stake. He will not be satisfied with you; after you are
gone, he will easily enough find means to get rid of us.'

'Hold your peace, Bartolomeo, for God's sake! It is treachery.'

'Of what are you frightened? It would not be difficult.'

'No, we must have no assassination! It always turns out badly. The Pazzi
in Florence were killed, Salviati was hanged from the Palace windows,
and Lorenzo is all-powerful, while the bones of the conspirators rot in
unconsecrated ground. And at Milan, when they killed the Duke, not one
of them escaped.'

'They were fools. We do not mistake as in Florence; we have the people
with us, and we shall not bungle it as they did.'

'No, no, it cannot be.'

'I tell you it must. It is our only safety!'

Checco looked round anxiously.

'We are all safe,' said Oliva. 'Have no fear.'

'What do you think of it?' asked Checco. 'I know what you think,
Filippo, and Matteo.'

'I think with my father!' said Scipione.

'I too!' said his brother.

'And I!'

'And I!'

'Every one of you,' said Checco; 'you would have me murder him.'

'It is just and lawful.'

'Remember that he was my friend. I helped him to this power. Once we
were almost brothers.'

'But now he is your deadly enemy. He is sharpening a knife for your
heart--and if you do not kill him, he will kill you.'

'It is treachery. I cannot!'

'When a man has killed another, the law kills him. It is a just revenge.
When a man attempts another's life, the law permits him to kill that man
in self-defence. Girolamo has killed you in thought--and at this moment
he may be arranging the details of your murder. It is just and lawful
that you take his life to defend your own and ours.'

'Bartolomeo is right,' said Matteo.

A murmur of approval showed what the others thought.

'But think, Bartolomeo,' said Checco, 'you are grey-headed; you are not
so very far from the tomb; if you killed this man, what of afterwards?'

'I swear to you, Checco, that you would be a minister of God's
vengeance. Has he not madly oppressed the people? What right has he more
than another? Through him men and women and children have died of want;
unhappiness and misery have gone through the land--and all the while he
has been eating and drinking and making merry.'

'Make up your mind, Checco. You must give way to us!' said Matteo.
'Girolamo has failed in every way. On the score of honesty and justice
he must die. And to save us he must die.'

'You drive me mad,' said Checco. 'All of you are against me. You are
right in all you say, but I cannot--oh God, I cannot!'

Bartolomeo was going to speak again, but Checco interrupted him.

'No, no, for Heaven's sake, say nothing more. Leave me alone. I want to
be quiet and think.'




IX


In the evening at ten I went to the Palazzo Aste. The servant who let me
in told me that Donna Giulia was at her father's, and he did not know
when she would be back. I was intensely disappointed. I had been looking
forward all day to seeing her, for the time in church had been so
short.... The servant looked at me as if expecting me to go away, and I
hesitated; but then I had such a desire to see her that I told him I
would wait.

I was shown into the room I already knew so well, and I sat down in
Giulia's chair. I rested my head on the cushions which had pressed
against her beautiful hair, her cheek; and I inhaled the fragrance which
they had left behind them.

How long she was! Why did she not come?

I thought of her sitting there. In my mind I saw the beautiful, soft
brown eyes, the red lips; her mouth was exquisite, very delicately
shaped, with wonderful curves. It was for such a mouth as hers that the
simile of Cupid's bow had been invented.

I heard a noise below, and I went to the door to listen. My heart beat
violently, but, alas! it was not she, and, bitterly disappointed, I
returned to the chair. I thought I had been waiting hours, and every
hour seemed a day. Would she never come?

At last! The door opened, and she came in--so beautiful. She gave me
both her hands.

'I am sorry you have had to wait,' she said, 'but I could not help it.'

'I would wait a hundred years to see you for an hour.'

She sat down, and I lay at her feet.

'Tell me,' she said, 'all that has happened to-day.'

I did as she asked; and as I gave my story, her eyes sparkled and her
cheeks flushed. I don't know what came over me; I felt a sensation of
swooning, and at the same time I caught for breath. And I had a sudden
impulse to take her in my arms and kiss her many times.

'How lovely you are!' I said, raising myself to her side.

She did not answer, but looked at me, smiling. Her eyes glistened with
tears, her bosom heaved.

'Giulia!'

I put my arm round her, and took her hands in mine.

'Giulia, I love you!'

She bent over to me, and put forward her face; and then--then I took her
in my arms and covered her mouth with kisses. Oh God! I was mad, I had
never tasted such happiness before. Her beautiful mouth, it was so soft,
so small, I gasped in the agony of my happiness. If I could only have
died then!

Giulia! Giulia!

       *       *       *       *       *

The cock crew, and the night seemed to fade away into greyness. The
first light of dawn broke through the windows, and I pressed my love to
my heart in one last kiss.

'Not yet,' she said; 'I love you.'

I could not speak; I kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her breasts.

'Don't go,' she said.

'My love!'

At last I tore myself away, and as I gave her the last kiss of all, she
whispered,--

'Come soon.'

And I replied,--

'To-night!'

I walked through the grey streets of Forli, wondering at my happiness;
it was too great to realise. It seemed absurd that I, a poor,
commonplace man, should be chosen out for this ecstasy of bliss. I had
been buffeted about the world, an exile, wandering here and there in
search of a captain under whom to serve. I had had loves before, but
common, grotesque things--not like this, pure and heavenly. With my
other loves I had often felt a certain ugliness about them; they had
seemed sordid and vulgar; but this was so pure, so clean! She was so
saintly and innocent. Oh, it was good! And I laughed at myself for
thinking I was not in love with her. I had loved her always; when it
began I did not know ... and I did not care; all that interested me now
was to think of myself, loving and beloved. I was not worthy of her; she
was so good, so kind, and I a poor, mean wretch. I felt her a goddess,
and I could have knelt down and worshipped her.

I walked through the streets of Forli with swinging steps; I breathed in
the morning air, and felt so strong, and well, and young. Everything was
beautiful--all life! The grey walls enchanted me; the sombre carvings of
the churches; the market women, gaily dressed, entering the town laden
with baskets of many-coloured fruit. They gave me greeting, and I
answered with a laughing heart. How kind they were! Indeed, my heart was
so full of love that it welled over and covered everything and
everybody, so that I felt a strange, hearty kindness to all around me. I
loved mankind!




X


When I got home, I threw myself on my bed and enjoyed a delightful
sleep, and when I awoke felt cool and fresh, and very happy.

'What is the matter with you?' asked Matteo.

'I am rather contented with myself,' I said.

'Then, if you want to make other people contented, you had better come
with me to Donna Claudia.'

'The beautiful Claudia?'

'The same!'

'But can we venture in the enemy's camp?'

'That is exactly why I want you to come. The idea is to take no notice
of the events of yesterday, and that we should all go about as if
nothing had happened.'

'But Messer Piacentini will not be very glad to see us.'

'He will be grinding his teeth, and inwardly spitting fire; but he will
take us to his arms and embrace us, and try to make us believe he loves
us with the most Christian affection.'

'Very well; come on!'

Donna Claudia, at all events, was delighted to see us, and she began
making eyes and sighing, and putting her hand to her bosom in the most
affecting manner.

'Why have you not been to see me, Messer Filippo?' she asked.

'Indeed, madam, I was afraid of being intrusive.'

'Ah,' she said, with a sweeping glance, 'how could you be! No, there was
another reason for your absence. Alas!'

'I dared not face those lustrous eyes.'

She turned them full on me, and then turned them up, Madonna-wise,
showing the whites.

'Are they so cruel, do you think?'

'They are too brilliant. How dangerous to the moth is the candle; and in
this case the candle is twain.'

'But they say the moth as it flutters in the flame enjoys a perfection
of ecstasy.'

'Ah, but I am a very sensible moth,' I answered in a matter-of-fact
tone, 'and I am afraid of burning my wings.'

'How prosaic!' she murmured.

'The muse,' I said politely, 'loses her force when you are present.'

She evidently did not quite understand what I meant, for there was a
look of slight bewilderment in her eyes; and I was not surprised, for I
had not myself the faintest notion of my meaning. Still she saw it was a
compliment.

'Ah, you are very polite!'

We paused a moment, during which we both looked unutterable things at
one another. Then she gave a deep sigh.

'Why so sad, sweet lady?' I asked.

'Messer Filippo,' she answered, 'I am an unhappy woman.' She hit her
breast with her hand.

'You are too beautiful,' I remarked gallantly.

'Ah no! ah no! I am unhappy.'

I glanced at her husband, who was stalking grimly about the room,
looking like a retired soldier with the gout; and I thought that to be
in the society of such a person was enough to make anyone miserable.

'You are right,' she said, following my eyes; 'it is my husband. He is
so unsympathetic.'

I condoled with her.

'He is so jealous of me, and, as you know, I am a pattern of virtue to
Forli!'

I had never heard her character so described, but, of course, I said,--

'To look at you would be enough to reassure the most violent of
husbands.'

'Oh, I have temptation enough, I assure you,' she answered quickly.

'I can well believe that.'

'But I am as faithful to him as if I were old and ugly; and yet he is
jealous.'

'We all have our crosses in this life,' I remarked sententiously.

'Heaven knows I have mine; but I have my consolations.'

So I supposed, and answered,--

'Oh!'

'I pour out my soul in a series of sonnets.'

'A second Petrarch!'

'My friends say some of them are not unworthy of that great name.'

'I can well believe it.'

Here relief came, and like the tired sentinel, I left the post of duty.
I thought of my sweet Giulia, and wondered at her beauty and charm; it
was all so much clearer and cleaner than the dross I saw around me. I
came away, for I was pining for solitude, and then I gave myself up to
the exquisite dreams of my love.

At last the time came, the long day had at last worn away, and the
night, the friend of lovers, gave me leave to go to Giulia.




XI


I was so happy. The world went on; things happened in Forli, the rival
parties agitated and met together and discussed; there was a general
ferment--and to it all I was profoundly indifferent. What matter all the
petty little affairs of life? I said. People work and struggle, plot,
scheme, make money, lose it, conspire for place and honour; they have
their ambitions and hopes; but what is it all beside love? I had entered
into the excitement of politics in Forli; I was behind the veil and knew
the intricacies, the ambitions, the emotions of the actors; but now I
withdrew myself. What did I care about the prospects of Forli, whether
taxes were put on or taken off, or whether A killed B or B killed A, it
really seemed so unimportant. I looked upon them as puppets performing
on a stage, and I could not treat their acts with seriousness. Giulia!
That was the great fact in life. Nothing mattered to me but Giulia. When
I thought of Giulia my heart was filled with ecstasy, and I spat with
scorn on all the silly details of events.

I would willingly have kept myself out of the stream which was carrying
along the others; but I could not help knowing what happened. And it was
indeed ridiculous. After the great scene at the Palace people had begun
to take steps as if for big events. Checco had sent a large sum of money
to Florence for the Medici to take care of; Bartolomeo Moratini had made
preparations; there were generally a stir and unrest. Girolamo was
supposed to be going to take some step; people were prepared for
everything; when they woke up in the morning they asked if aught had
taken place in the night; and Checco wore a coat of mail. On the Count's
side people were asking what Checco meant to do, whether the ovation he
had received would encourage him to any violent step. All the world was
agog for great events--and nothing happened. It reminded me of a mystery
play in which, after great preparation of dialogue, some great stage
effect is going to be produced--a saint is going to ascend to heaven, or
a mountain is to open and the devil spring out. The spectators are
sitting open-mouthed; the moment has come, everything is ready, the
signal is given; the mob have already drawn their breath for a cry of
astonishment--and something goes wrong and nothing happens.

The good Forlivesi could not understand it: they were looking for signs
and miracles, and behold! they came not. Each day they said to
themselves that this would be one to be remembered in the history of the
town; that to-day Girolamo would surely leave his hesitations; but the
day wore on quite calmly. Everyone took his dinner and supper as usual,
the sun journeyed from east to west as it had done on the previous day,
the night came, and the worthy citizen went to his bed at his usual
hour, and slept in peace till the following sunrise. Nothing happened,
and it seemed that nothing was going to happen. The troubled spirits
gradually came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be troubled
about, and the old quiet came over the town; there was no talk of new
taxes, and the world wagged on.... Checco and Matteo and the Moratini
resigned themselves to the fact that the sky was serene, and that they
had better pursue their way without troubling their little heads about
conspiracies and midnight daggers.

Meanwhile, I laughed, and admired their folly and my own wisdom. For I
worried myself about none of these things; I lived in Giulia, for
Giulia, by Giulia.... I had never enjoyed such happiness before; she was
a little cold, perhaps, but I did not mind. I had passion that lived by
its own flame, and I cared for nothing as long as she let me love her.
And I argued with myself that it is an obvious thing that love is not
the same on both sides. There is always one who loves and one who lets
himself be loved. Perhaps it is a special decree of Nature; for the man
loves actively, caresses and is passionate; while the woman gives
herself to him, and is in his embrace like some sweet, helpless animal.
I did not ask for such love as I gave; all I asked was that my love
should let herself be loved. That was all I cared for; that was all I
wanted. My love for Giulia was wonderful even to me. I felt I had lost
myself in her. I had given my whole being into her hand. Samson and
Delilah! But this was no faithless Philistine. I would have given my
honour into her keeping and felt it as sure as in my own. In my great
love I felt such devotion, such reverence, that sometimes I hardly dared
touch her; it seemed to me I must kneel and worship at her feet. I
learnt the great delight of abasing myself to the beloved. I could make
myself so small and mean in my humility; but nothing satisfied my wish
to show my abject slavery.... Oh, Giulia! Giulia!

       *       *       *       *       *

But this inaction on the part of Girolamo Riario had the effect of
persuading his subjects of his weakness. They had given over expecting
reprisals on his part, and the only conclusion they could come to was
that he dared do nothing against Checco. It was inconceivable that he
should leave unavenged the insults he had received; that he should bear
without remark the signs of popularity which greeted Checco, not only on
the day of the Council meeting, but since, every time he appeared in the
streets. They began to despise their ruler as well as hate him, and they
told one another stories of violent disputes in the Palace between the
Count and Caterina. Everyone knew the pride and passion which came to
the Countess with her Sforza blood, and they felt sure that she would
not patiently bear the insults which her husband did not seem to mind;
for the fear of the people could not stop their sarcasms, and when any
member of the household was seen he was assailed with taunts and jeers;
Caterina herself had to listen to scornful laughs as she passed by, and
the town was ringing with a song about the Count. It was whispered that
Girolamo's little son, Ottaviano, had been heard singing it in ignorance
of its meaning, and had been nearly killed by his father in a passion of
rage. Evil reports began to circulate about Caterina's virtue; it was
supposed that she would not keep faithful to such a husband, and another
song was made in praise of cuckoldry.

The Orsi would not be persuaded that this calm was to be believed in.
Checco was assured that Girolamo must have some scheme on hand, and the
quiet and silence seemed all the more ominous.

The Count very rarely appeared in Forli; but one Saint's day he went to
the Cathedral, and as he came back to the Palace, passing through the
piazza, saw Checco. At the same moment Checco saw him, and stopped,
uncertain what to do. The crowd suddenly became silent, and they stood
still like statues petrified by a magic spell. What was going to happen?
Girolamo himself hesitated a moment; a curious spasm crossed his face.
Checco made as if to walk on, pretending not to notice the Count. Matteo
and I were dumbfounded, absolutely at a loss. Then the Count stepped
forward, and held out his hand.

'Ah, my Checco! how goes it?'

He smiled and pressed warmly the hand which the Orsi gave him. Checco
was taken aback, pale as if the hand he held were the hand of death.

'You have neglected me of late, dear friend,' said the Count.

'I have not been well, my lord.'

Girolamo linked his arm in Checco's.

'Come, come,' he said, 'you must not be angry because I used sharp
words to you the other day. You know I am hot-tempered.'

'You have a right to say what you please.'

'Oh, no; I have only a right to say pleasant things.'

He smiled, but all the time the mobile eyes were shifting here and
there, scrutinising Checco's face, giving occasional quick glances to me
and Matteo. He went on,--

'You must show a forgiving spirit.' Then, to Matteo, 'We must all be
good Christians if we can, eh, Matteo?'

'Of course!'

'And yet your cousin bears malice.'

'No, my lord,' said Checco. 'I am afraid I was too outspoken.'

'Well, if you were, I have forgiven you, and you must forgive me. But we
will not talk of that. My children have been asking for you. It is
strange that this ferocious creature, who tells me I am the worst among
bad men, should be so adored by my children. Your little godson is
always crying for you.'

'Dear child!' said Checco.

'Come and see them now. There is no time like the present.'

Matteo and I looked at one another. Was all this an attempt to get him
in his hand, and this time not to let him go?

'I must pray you to excuse me, for I have some gentlemen coming to dine
with me to-day, and I fear I shall be late already.'

Girolamo gave us a rapid look, and evidently saw in our eyes something
of our thoughts, for he said good-humouredly,--

'You never will do anything for me, Checco. But I won't keep you; I
respect the duties of hospitality. However, another day you must come.'

He warmly pressed Checco's hand, and, nodding to Matteo and me, left us.

The crowd had not been able to hear what was said, but they had seen the
cordiality, and as soon as Girolamo disappeared behind the Palace doors,
broke out into murmurs of derision. The Christian sentiment clearly
gained little belief from them, and they put down the Count's act to
fear. It was clear, they said, that he found Checco too strong for him,
and dared nothing. It was a discovery that the man they had so feared
was willing to turn the other cheek when the one was smitten, and to all
their former hate they added a new hate that he had caused them terror
without being terrible. They hated him now for their own pusillanimity.
The mocking songs gained force, and Girolamo began to be known as
Cornuto, the Man of Horns.

Borne on this wave of contempt came another incident, which again showed
the Count's weakness. On the Sunday following his meeting with Checco,
it was known that Girolamo meant to hear mass at the church of San
Stefano, and Jacopo Ronchi, commander of a troop, stationed himself,
with two other soldiers, to await him. When the Count appeared,
accompanied by his wife and children and his suite, Jacopo pressed
forward and, throwing himself on his knees, presented a petition, in
which he asked for the arrears of pay of himself and his fellows. The
Count took it without speaking, and pursued his way. Then Jacopo took
hold of his legs to stop him, and said,--

'For Heaven's sake, my lord, give me a hearing. I and these others have
received nothing for months, and we are starving.'

'Let me go,' said the Count, 'your claim shall be attended to.'

'Do not dismiss me, my lord. I have presented three petitions before,
and to none of them have you paid attention. Now I am getting desperate,
and can wait no longer. Look at my tattered clothes. Give me my money!'

'Let me go, I tell you,' said Girolamo, furiously, and he gave him a
sweeping blow, so that the man fell on his back to the ground. 'How dare
you come and insult me here in the public place! By God! I cannot keep
my patience much longer.'

He brought out these words with such violence of passion that it seemed
as if in them exploded the anger which had been gathering up through
this time of humiliation. Then, turning furiously on the people, he
almost screamed,--

'Make way!'

They dared not face his anger, and with white faces, shrunk back,
leaving a path for him and his party to walk through.




XII


I looked at these events as I might have looked at a comedy of Plautus;
it was very amusing, but perhaps a little vulgar. I was wrapped up in my
own happiness, and I had forgotten Nemesis.

One day, perhaps two months from my arrival in Forli, I heard Checco
tell his cousin that a certain Giorgio dall' Aste had returned. I paid
no particular attention to the remark; but later, when I was alone with
Matteo, it occurred to me that I had not heard before of this person. I
did not know that Giulia had relations on her husband's side. I asked,--

'By the way, who is that Giorgio dall' Aste, of whom Checco was
speaking?'

'A cousin of Donna Giulia's late husband.'

'I have never heard him spoken of before.'

'Haven't you? He enjoys quite a peculiar reputation, as being the only
lover that the virtuous Giulia has kept for more than ten days.'

'Another of your old wives' tales, Matteo! Nature intended you for a
begging friar.'

'I have often thought I have missed my vocation. With my brilliant gift
for telling lies in a truthful manner, I should have made my way in the
Church to the highest dignities. Whereas, certain antiquated notions of
honour having been instilled into me during my training as a soldier, my
gifts are lost; with the result, that when I tell the truth people think
I am lying. But this is solemn truth!'

'All your stories are!' I jeered.

'Ask anyone. This has been going on for years. When Giulia was married
by old Tommaso, whom she had never seen in her life before the
betrothal, the first thing she did was to fall in love with Giorgio. He
fell in love with her, but being a fairly honest sort of man, he had
some scruples about committing adultery with his cousin's wife,
especially as he lived on his cousin's money. However, when a woman is
vicious, a man's scruples soon go to the devil. If Adam couldn't refuse
the apple, you can't expect us poor fallen creatures to do so either.
The result was that Joseph did not run away from Potiphar's wife so fast
as to prevent her from catching him.'

'How biblical you are.'

'Yes,' answered Matteo; 'I'm making love to a parson's mistress, and I
am cultivating the style which I find she is used to.... But, however,
Giorgio, being youthful, after a short while began to have prickings of
conscience, and went away from Forli. Giulia was heart-broken, and her
grief was so great that she must have half the town to console her. Then
Giorgio's conscience calmed down, and he came back, and Giulia threw
over all her lovers.'

'I don't believe a single word you say.'

'On my honour, it's true.'

'On the face of it, the story is false. If she really loves him, why do
they not keep together now that there is no hindrance?'

'Because Giulia has the heart of a strumpet and can't be faithful to any
one man. She's very fond of him, but they quarrel, and she takes a
sudden fancy for somebody else, and for a while they won't see one
another. But there seems some magical charm between them, for sooner or
later they always come back to one another. I believe, if they were at
the ends of the world, eventually they would be drawn together, even if
they struggled with all their might against it. And, I promise you,
Giorgio has struggled; he tries to part with her for good and all, and
each time they separate he vows it shall be for ever. But there is an
invisible chain and it always brings him back.'

I stood looking at him in silence. Strange, horrible thoughts passed
through my head and I could not drive them away. I tried to speak quite
calmly.

'And how is it when they are together?'

'All sunshine and storm, but as time goes on the storm gets longer and
blacker; and then Giorgio goes away.'

'But, good God! man, how do you know?' I cried in agony.

He shrugged his shoulders.

'They quarrel?' I asked.

'Furiously! He feels himself imprisoned against his will, with the door
open to escape, but not the strength to do it; and she is angry that he
should love her thus, trying not to love her. It rather seems to me that
it explains her own excesses; her other loves are partly to show him
how much she is loved, and to persuade herself that she is lovable.'

I did not believe it. Oh, no, I swear I did not believe it, yet I was
frightened, horribly frightened; but I would not believe a single word
of it.

'Listen, Matteo,' I said. 'You believe badly of Giulia; but you do not
know her. I swear to you that she is good and pure, whatever she may
have been in the past; and I do not believe a word of these scandals. I
am sure that now she is as true and faithful as she is beautiful.'

Matteo looked at me for a moment.

'Are you her lover?' he asked.

'Yes!'

Matteo opened his mouth as if about to speak, then stopped, and after a
moment's hesitation turned away.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening I went to Giulia. I found her lying full length on a divan,
her head sunken in soft cushions. She was immersed in reverie. I
wondered whether she was thinking of me, and I went up to her silently,
and, bending over her, lightly kissed her lips. She gave a cry, and a
frown darkened her eyes.

'You frightened me!'

'I am sorry,' I answered humbly. 'I wanted to surprise you.'

She did not answer, but raised her eyebrows, slightly shrugging her
shoulders. I wondered whether something had arisen to vex her. I knew
she had a quick temper, but I did not mind it; a cross word was so soon
followed by a look of repentance and a word of love. I passed my hand
over her beautiful soft hair. The frown came again, and she turned her
head away.

'Giulia,' I said, 'what is it?' I took her hand; she withdrew it
immediately.

'Nothing,' she answered.

'Why do you turn away from me and withdraw your hand?'

'Why should I not turn away from you and withdraw my hand?'

'Don't you love me, Giulia?'

She gave a sigh, and pretended to look bored. I looked at her, pained at
heart and wondering.

'Giulia, my dear, tell me what it is. You are making me very unhappy.'

'Oh, don't I tell you, nothing, nothing, nothing!'

'Why are you cross?'

I put my face to her's, and my arms round her neck. She disengaged
herself impatiently.

'You refuse my kisses, Giulia!'

She made another gesture of annoyance.

'Giulia, don't you love me?' My heart was beginning to sink, and I
remembered what I had heard from Matteo. Oh, God! could it be true?...

'Yes, of course I love you, but sometimes I must be left in peace.'

'You have only to say the word, and I will go away altogether.'

'I don't want you to do that, but we shall like one another much better
if we don't see too much of one another.'

'When one is in love, really and truly, one does not think of such wise
precautions.'

'And you are here so often that I am afraid of my good name.'

'You need have no fear about your character,' I answered bitterly. 'One
more scandal will not make much difference.'

'You need not insult me!'

I could not be angry with her, I loved her too much, and the words I had
said hurt me ten times more than they hurt her. I fell on my knees by
her side and took hold of her arms.

'Oh, Giulia, Giulia, forgive me! I don't mean to say anything to wound
you. But, for God's sake! don't be so cold. I love you, I love you. Be
good to me.'

'I think I have been good to you.... After all, it is not such a very
grave matter. I have not taken things more seriously than you.'

'What do you mean?' I cried, aghast.

She shrugged her shoulders.

'I suppose you found me a pretty woman, and thought you could occupy a
few spare moments with a pleasant amour. You can hardly have expected me
to be influenced by sentiments very different from your own.'

'You mean you do not love me?'

'I love you as much as you love me. I don't suppose either you are
Lancelot, or I Guinevere.'

I still knelt at her side in silence, and my head felt as if the vessels
in it were bursting....

'You know,' she went on quite calmly, 'one cannot love for ever.'

'But I love you, Giulia; I love you with all my heart and soul! I have
had loves picked up for the opportunity's sake, or for pure idleness;
but my love for you is different. I swear to you it is a matter of my
whole life.'

'That has been said to me so often....'

I was beginning to be overwhelmed.

'But do you mean that it is all finished? Do you mean that you won't
have anything more to do with me!'

'I don't say I won't have anything more to do with you.'

'But love? It is love I want.'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'But why not?' I said despairingly. 'Why have you given it me at all if
you want to take it away?'

'One is not master of one's love. It comes and goes.'

'Don't you love me at all?'

'No!'

'Oh, God! But why do you tell me this to-day?'

'I had to tell you some time.'

'But why not yesterday, or the day before? Why to-day particularly?'

She did not answer.

'Is it because Giorgio dall' Aste has just returned?'

She started up and her eyes flashed.

'What have they been telling you about him?'

'Has he been here to-day? Were you thinking of him when I came? Were you
languorous from his embraces?'

'How dare you!'

'The only lover to whom you have been faithful, more or less!'

'You vowed you did not believe the scandals about me, and now, when I
refuse you the smallest thing, you are ready to believe every word. What
a love is this! I thought I had heard you talk so often of boundless
confidence.'

'I believe every word I have heard against you. I believe you are a
harlot.'

She had raised herself from her couch, and we were standing face to
face.

'Do you want money? Look! I have as good money as another. I will pay
you for your love; here, take it.'

I took gold pieces from my pocket and flung them at her feet.

'Ah,' she cried in indignation, 'you cur! Go, go!'

She pointed to the door. Then I felt a sudden revulsion. I fell on my
knees and seized her hands.

'Oh, forgive me, Giulia. I don't know what I am saying; I am mad. But
don't rob me of your love; it is the only thing I have to live for. For
God's sake, forgive me! Oh, Giulia, I love you, I love you. I can't live
without you.' The tears broke from my eyes. I could not stop them.

'Leave me! leave me!'

I was ashamed of my abjectness; I rose up indignant.

'Oh, you are quite heartless. You have no right to treat me so. You were
not obliged to give me your love; but when once you have given it you
cannot take it away. No one has the right to make another unhappy as you
make me. You are a bad, evil woman. I hate you!'

I stood over her with clenched fists. She shrank back, afraid.

'Don't be frightened,' I said; 'I won't touch you. I hate you too much.'

Then I turned to the crucifix, and lifted my hands.

'Oh, God! I pray you, let this woman be treated as she has treated me.'
And to her,'I hope to God you are as unhappy as I am. And I hope the
unhappiness will come soon--you harlot!'

I left her, and in my rage slammed the door, so that the lock shattered
behind me.




XIII


I walked through the streets like a man who has received sentence of
death. My brain was whirling, and sometimes I stopped and pressed my
head with both hands to relieve the insupportable pressure. I could not
realise what had happened; I only knew it was terrible. I felt as if I
were going mad; I could have killed myself. At last, getting home, I
threw myself on my bed and tried to gather myself together. I cried out
against that woman. I wished I had my fingers curling round her soft
white throat, that I could strangle the life out of her. Oh, I hated
her!

At last I fell asleep, and in that sweet forgetfulness enjoyed a little
peace. When I woke I lay still for a moment without remembering what had
happened; then suddenly it came back to me, and the blood flushed to my
face as I thought of how I had humiliated myself to her. She must be as
hard as stone, I said to myself, to see my misery and not take pity on
me. She saw my tears and was not moved one jot. All the time I had been
praying and beseeching, she had been as calm as a marble figure. She
must have seen my agony and the passion of my love, and yet she was
absolutely, absolutely indifferent. Oh, I despised her! I had known even
when I adored her madly that it was only my love which gave her the
qualities I worshipped. I had seen she was ignorant and foolish, and
commonplace and vicious; but I did not care as long as I loved her and
could have her love in return. But when I thought of her so horribly
heartless, so uncaring to my unhappiness, I did more than hate her--I
utterly despised her. I despised myself for having loved her. I despised
myself for loving her still....

I got up and went about my day's duties, trying to forget myself in
their performance. But still I brooded over my misery, and in my heart I
cursed the woman. It was Nemesis, always Nemesis! In my folly I had
forgotten her; and yet I should have remembered that through my life all
happiness had been followed by all misery.... I had tried to ward off
the evil by sacrifice; I had rejoiced at the harm which befell me, but
the very rejoicing seemed to render the hurt of no avail, and with the
inevitableness of fate, Nemesis had come and thrown me back into the old
unhappiness. But of late I had forgotten. What was Nemesis to me now
when I thought my happiness so great that it could not help but last? It
was so robust and strong that I never thought of its cessation. I did
not even think the Gods were good to me at last. I had forgotten the
Gods; I thought of nothing but love and Giulia.

Matteo came asking me to go to the Palace with him and Checco, at the
particular desire of Girolamo, who wished to show them the progress of
the decorations. I would not go. I wanted to be alone and think.

But my thoughts maddened me. Over and over again I repeated every word
of the terrible quarrel, and more than ever I was filled with horror for
her cold cruelty. What right have these people to make us unhappy? Is
there not enough misery in the world already? Oh, it is brutal!

I could not bear myself; I regretted that I had not gone to the Palace.
I detested this solitude.

The hours passed like years, and as my brain grew tired I sank into a
state of sodden, passive misery.

At last they came back, and Matteo told me what had happened. I tried to
listen, to forget myself.... It appeared that the Count had been
extremely cordial. After talking to them of his house, and showing the
beautiful things he had collected to furnish it with, he took them to
Caterina's apartments, where they found the Countess surrounded by her
children. She had been very charming and gracious, even deigning to
compliment Matteo on his gallantry. How it interested me to know all
this! The children had run to Checco as soon as they saw him, dragging
him into their game. The others looked on while the Orsi played
good-humouredly with the little boys, and Girolamo, laying his hand on
Checco's shoulder, had remarked,--

'You see, dear friend, the children are determined that there should not
be enmity between us. And when the little ones love you so dearly, can
you think that I should hate you?'

And when they left he had accompanied them to the gates and been quite
affectionate in his farewell.

At last the night came and I could shut myself up in my room. I thought
with a bitter smile that it was the hour at which I was used to go to
Giulia. And now I should never go to Giulia again. My unhappiness was
too great for wrath; I felt too utterly miserable to think of my
grievances, or of my contempt. I only felt broken-hearted. I could not
keep the tears back, and burying my face in the pillows, I cried my
heart out. It was years and years since I had wept, not since I was
quite a boy, but this blow had taken from me all manliness, and I gave
myself over to my grief, passionately, shamelessly. I did not care that
I was weak; I had no respect for myself, or care for myself. The sobs
came, one on the heels of another like waves, and the pain, as they tore
my chest, relieved the anguish of my mind. Exhaustion came at last, and
with it sleep.

But I knew I could not hide the change in me, and Matteo soon noticed
it.

'What is the matter with you, Filippo?' he asked. I blushed and
hesitated.

'Nothing,' I answered at last.

'I thought you were unhappy.'

Our eyes met, but I could not stand his inquiring glance and looked
down. He came to me, and sitting on the arm of my chair, put his hand on
my shoulder and said affectionately,--

'We're friends, aren't we, Filippo?'

'Yes,' I answered, smiling and taking his hand.

'Won't you trust me?'

After a pause I answered,--

'I should so much like to.' I felt as if indeed it would relieve me to
be able to confide in somebody, I wanted sympathy so badly.

He passed his hand gently over my hair.

I hesitated a little, but I could not help myself, and I told him the
whole story from beginning to end.

'Poverino!' he said, when I had finished; then, clenching his teeth,
'She is a beast, that woman!'

'I ought to have taken your warning, Matteo, but I was a fool.'

'Who ever does take warning!' he answered, shrugging his shoulders. 'How
could you be expected to believe me?'

'But I believe you now. I am horrified when I think of her vice and
cruelty.'

'Ah, well, it is over now.'

'Quite! I hate her and despise her. Oh, I wish I could get her face to
face and tell her what I think of her.'

I thought my talk with Matteo had relieved me, I thought the worst was
over; but at night melancholy came on me stronger than ever, and I
groaned as I threw myself on my bed. I felt so terribly alone in the
world.... I had no relation but a half-brother, a boy of twelve, whom I
had hardly seen; and as I wandered through the land, an exile, I had
been continually assailed by the hateful demon of loneliness. And
sometimes in my solitude I had felt that I could kill myself. But when
I found I was in love with Giulia, I cried aloud with joy.... I threw
everything to the winds, gathering myself up for the supreme effort of
passion. All the storm and stress were passed; I was no longer alone,
for I had someone to whom I could give my love. I was like the ship that
arrives in the harbour, and reefs her sails and clears her deck,
settling down in the quietness of the waters.

And now all was over! Oh God, to think that my hopes should be shattered
in so short a time, that the ship should be so soon tossed about in the
storm, and the stars hidden by the clouds! And the past delight made the
present darkness all the more bitter. I groaned. In my misery I uttered
a prayer to God to help me. I could not think I should live henceforth.
How could I go on existing with this aching void in my heart? I could
not spend days and weeks and years always with this despair. It was too
terrible to last. My reason told me that time would remedy it; but time
was so long, and what misery must I go through before the wound was
healed! And as I thought of what I had lost, my agony grew more
unbearable. It grew vivid, and I felt Giulia in my arms. I panted as I
pressed my lips against hers, and I said to her,--

'How could you!'

I buried my face in my hands, so as better to enjoy my dream. I smelt
the perfume of her breath; I felt on my face the light touch of her
hair. But it would not last. I tried to seize the image and hold it
back, but it vanished and left me broken-hearted....

I knew I did not hate her. I had pretended to, but the words came from
the mouth. In my heart I loved her still, more passionately than ever.
What did I care if she was heartless and cruel and faithless and
vicious! It was nothing to me as long as I could hold her in my arms and
cover her with kisses. I did despise her; I knew her for what she was,
but still I loved her insanely. Oh, if she would only come back to me! I
would willingly forget everything and forgive her. Nay, I would ask her
forgiveness and grovel before her, if she would only let me enjoy her
love again.

I would go back to her and fall on my knees, and pray her to be
merciful. Why should I suppose she had changed in the few days. I knew
she would treat me with the same indifference, and only feel a wondering
contempt that I should so abase myself. It came like a blow in the face,
the thought of her cold cruelty and her calmness. No, I vowed I would
never subject myself to that again. I felt myself blush at the
remembrance of the humiliation. But perhaps she was sorry for what she
had done. I knew her pride would prevent her from coming or sending to
me, and should I give her no opportunity? Perhaps, if we saw one another
for a few moments everything might be arranged, and I might be happy
again. An immense feeling of hope filled me. I thought I must be right
in my idea; she could not be so heartless as to have no regret. How
willingly I would take her back! My heart leaped. But I dared not go to
her house. I knew I should find her on the morrow at her father's, who
was going to give a banquet to some friends. I would speak to her there,
casually, as if we were ordinary acquaintances; and then at the first
sign of yielding on her part, even if I saw but a tinge of regret in her
eyes, I would burst out. I was happy in my plan, and I went to sleep
with the name of Giulia on my lips and her image in my heart.




XIV


I went to the Moratini Palace, and with beating heart looked round for
Giulia. She was surrounded by her usual court, and seemed more lively
and excited than ever. I had never seen her more beautiful. She was
dressed all in white, and her sleeves were sewn with pearls; she looked
like a bride. She caught sight of me at once, but pretended not to see
me, and went on talking.

I approached her brother Alessandro and said to him casually,--

'I am told a cousin of your sister has come to Forli. Is he here
to-day?'

He looked at me inquiringly, not immediately understanding.

'Giorgio dall' Aste,' I explained.

'Oh, I didn't know you meant him. No, he's not here. He and Giulia's
husband were not friends, and so--'

'Why were they not friends?' I interrupted, on the spur of the moment,
not seeing the impertinence of the question till I had made it.

'Oh, I don't know. Relations always are at enmity with one another;
probably some disagreement with regard to their estates.'

'Was that all?'

'So far as I know.'

I recollected that in a scandal the persons most interested are the last
to hear it. The husband hears nothing of his wife's treachery till all
the town knows every detail.

'I should like to have seen him,' I went on.

'Giorgo? Oh, he's a weak sort of creature; one of those men who commit
sins and repent!'

'That is not a fault of which you will ever be guilty, Alessandro,' I
said, smiling.

'I sincerely hope not. After all, if a man has a conscience he ought not
to do wrong. But if he does he must be a very poor sort of a fool to
repent.'

'You cannot have the rose without the thorn.'

'Why not? It only needs care. There are dregs at the bottom of every
cup, but you are not obliged to drink them.'

'You have made up your mind that if you commit sins you are ready to go
to hell for them?' I said.

'It is braver than going to Heaven by the back door, turning pious when
you are too old to do anything you shouldn't.'

'I agree with you that one has little respect for the man who turns monk
when things go wrong with him.'

I saw that Giulia was alone, and seized the opportunity to speak with
her.

'Giulia,' I said, approaching.

She looked at me for a moment with an air of perplexity, as if she
really could not remember whom I was.

'Ah, Messer Filippo!' she said, as if suddenly recollecting.

'It is not so long since we met that you can have forgotten me.'

'Yes. I remember last time you did me the honour to visit me you were
very rude and cross.'

I looked at her silently, wondering.

'Well?' she said, steadily answering my gaze and smiling.

'Have you nothing more to say to me than that?' I asked in an undertone.

'What do you want me to say to you?'

'Are you quite heartless?'

She gave a sigh of boredom, and looked to the other end of the room, as
if for someone to come and break a tedious conversation.

'How could you!' I whispered.

Notwithstanding her self-control, a faint blush came over her face. I
stood looking at her for a little while and then I turned away. She was
quite heartless. I left the Moratini and walked out into the town. This
last interview had helped me in so far that it made certain that my love
was hopeless. I stood still and stamped on the ground, vowing I would
not love her. I would put her away from my thoughts entirely; she was a
contemptible, vicious woman, and I was too proud to be subject to her. I
wondered I did not kill her. I made up my mind to take my courage in
both hands and leave Forli. Once away, I should find myself attracted to
different matters, and probably I should not live long before finding
some other woman to take Giulia's place. She was not the only woman in
Italy; she was not the most beautiful nor the cleverest. Give me a month
and I could laugh at my torments....

The same evening I told Matteo I meant to leave Forli.

'Why?' he asked in astonishment.

'I have been here several weeks,' I answered; 'I don't want to outstay
my welcome.'

'That is rubbish. You know I should be only too glad for you to stay
here all your life.'

'That is very kind of you,' I replied, with a laugh, 'but the
establishment is not yours.'

'That makes no difference. Besides, Checco has become very fond of you,
and I'm sure he wishes you to stay.'

'Of course, I know your hospitality is quite unlimited; but I am
beginning to want to get back to Citta di Castello.'

'Why?' asked Matteo, doubtfully.

'One likes to return to one's native place.'

'You have been away from Castello for ten years; you cannot be in any
particular hurry to get back.'

I was beginning to protest when Checco came in, and Matteo interrupted
me with,--

'Listen, Checco, Filippo says he wants to leave us.'

'But he sha'n't,' said Checco, laughing.

'I really must!' I answered gravely.

'You really mustn't,' replied Checco. 'We can't spare you, Filippo.'

'There's no great hurry about your going home,' he added, when I had
explained my reasons, 'and I fancy that soon we shall want you here. A
good sword and a brave heart will probably be of good use to us.'

'Everything is as quiet as a cemetery,' I said, shrugging my shoulders.

'It is quiet above; but below there are rumblings and strange movements.
I feel sure this calm only presages a storm. It is impossible for
Girolamo to go on as he is now; his debts are increasing every day, and
his difficulties will soon be impracticable. He must do something. There
is certain to be a disturbance at any attempt to put on the taxes, and
then Heaven only knows what will happen.'

I was beginning to get a little vexed at their opposition, and I
answered petulantly,--

'No, I must go.'

'Stay another month; things must come to a head before then.'

A month would have been as bad as a year.

'I am out of health,' I answered; 'I feel I want to get into a different
atmosphere.'

Checco thought for a moment.

'Very well,' he said, 'we can arrange matters to suit us both. I want
someone to go to Florence for me to conclude a little business matter
with Messer Lorenzo de' Medici. You would be away a fortnight; and if
you are out of sorts the ride across country will put you right. Will
you go?'

I thought for a moment. It was not a very long absence, but the new
sights would distract me, and I wanted to see Florence again. On the
whole, I thought it would suffice, and that I could count on the cure
of my ill before the time was up.

'Very well,' I answered.

'Good! And you will have a pleasant companion. I had talked to Scipione
Moratini about it; it did not occur to me that you would go. But it will
be all the better to have two of you.'

'If I go,' I said, 'I shall go alone.'

Checco was rather astonished.

'Why?'

'Scipione bores me. I want to be quiet and do as I like.'

I was quite determined that neither of the Moratini should come with me.
They would have reminded me too much of what I wanted to forget.

'As you like,' said Checco. 'I can easily tell Scipione that I want him
to do something else for me.'

'Thanks.'

'When will you start?'

'At once.'

'Then come, and I will give you the instructions and necessary papers.'




XV


Next morning I mounted my horse and set out with Matteo, who was to
accompany me for a little way.

But at the town gate a guard stopped us and asked where we were going.

'Out!' I answered shortly, moving on.

'Stop!' said the man, catching hold of my bridle.

'What the devil d'you mean?' said Matteo. 'D'you know whom we are?'

'I have orders to let no one go by without the permission of my
captain.'

'What tyrants they are!' cried Matteo. 'Well, what the hell are you
standing there for? Go and tell your captain to come out.'

The man signed to another soldier, who went into the guard-house; he was
still holding my bridle. I was not very good-tempered that morning.

'Have the goodness to take your hands off,' I said.

He looked as if he were about to refuse.

'Will you do as you are told?' Then, as he hesitated, I brought down the
butt-end of my whip on his fingers, and with an oath bade him stand
off. He let go at once, cursing, and looked as if he would willingly
stab me if he dared. We waited impatiently, but the captain did not
appear.

'Why the devil doesn't this man come?' I said; and Matteo, turning to
one of the soldiers, ordered,--

'Go and tell him to come here instantly.'

At that moment the captain appeared, and we understood the incident, for
it was Ercole Piacentini. He had apparently seen us coming, or heard of
my intended journey, and had set himself out to insult us. We were both
furious.

'Why the devil don't you hurry up when you're sent for?' said Matteo.

He scowled, but did not answer. Turning to me he asked,--

'Where are you going?'

Matteo and I looked at one another in amazement at the man's impudence,
and I burst forth,--

'You insolent fellow! What do you mean by stopping me like this?'

'I have a right to refuse passage to anyone I choose.'

'Take care!' I said. 'I swear the Count shall be told of your behaviour,
and nowadays the Count is in the habit of doing as the Orsi tell him.'

'He shall hear of this,' growled the Piacentini.

'Tell him what you like. Do you think I care? You can tell him that I
consider his captain a very impertinent ruffian. Now, let me go.'

'You shall not pass till I choose.'

'By God! man,' I said, absolutely beside myself, 'it seems I cannot
touch you here, but if ever we meet in Citta di Castello--'

'I will give you any satisfaction you wish,' he answered hotly.

'Satisfaction! I would not soil my sword by crossing it with yours. I
was going to say that if ever we meet in Castello I will have you
whipped by my lacqueys in the public place.'

I felt a ferocious pleasure in throwing the words of contempt in his
face.

'Come on,' said Matteo; 'we cannot waste our time here.'

We put the spurs to our horses. The soldiers looked to their captain to
see whether they should stop us, but he gave no order, and we passed
through. When we got outside, Matteo said to me,--

'Girolamo must be planning something, or Ercole would not have dared to
do that.'

'It is only the impotent anger of a foolish man,' I answered. 'The Count
will probably be very angry with him when he hears of it.'

We rode a few miles, and then Matteo turned back. When I found myself
alone I heaved a great sigh of relief. I was free for a while at
least.... Another episode in my life was finished; I could forget it,
and look forward to new things.

As I rode on, the March wind got into my blood and sent it whirling
madly through my veins. The sun was shining brightly and covered
everything with smiles; the fruit trees were all in flower--apples,
pears, almonds--the dainty buds covered the branches with a snow of pink
and white. The ground beneath them was bespattered with narcissi and
anemones, the very olive trees looked gay. All the world laughed with
joy at the bright spring morning, and I laughed louder than the rest. I
drew in long breaths of the keen air, and it made me drunk, so that I
set the spurs to my horse and galloped wildly along the silent road.

I had made up my mind to forget Giulia, and I succeeded, for the
changing scenes took me away from myself, and I was intent on the world
at large. But I could not command my dreams. At night she came to me,
and I dreamed that she was by my side, with her arms round my neck,
sweetly caressing, trying to make me forget what I had suffered. And the
waking was bitter.... But even that would leave me soon, I hoped, and
then I should be free indeed.

I rode on, full of courage and good spirits, along endless roads,
putting up at wayside inns, through the mountains, past villages and
hamlets, past thriving towns, till I found myself in the heart of
Tuscany, and finally I saw the roofs of Florence spread out before me.

After I had cleaned myself at the inn and had eaten, I sauntered through
the town, renewing my recollections. I walked round Madonna del Fiore,
and leaning against one of the houses at the back of the piazza looked
at the beautiful apse, the marble all glistening in the moonlight. It
was very quiet and peaceful; the exquisite church filled me with a sense
of rest and purity, so that I cast far from me all vice.... Then I went
to the baptistery and tried to make out in the dim light the details of
Ghiberti's wonderful doors. It was late and the streets were silent as
I strolled to the Piazza della Signoria, and saw before me the grim
stone palace with its tower, and I came down to the Arno and looked at
the glistening of the water, with the bridge covered with houses; and as
I considered the beauty of it all I thought it strange that the works of
man should be so good and pure and man himself so vile.

Next day I set about my business. I had a special letter of introduction
to Lorenzo, and was ushered in to him by a clerk. I found two people in
the room; one, a young man with a long, oval face, and the bones of the
face and chin very strongly marked; he had a very wonderful skin, like
brown ivory, black hair that fell over his forehead and ears, and, most
striking of all, large brown eyes, very soft and melancholy. I thought I
had never before seen a man quite so beautiful. Seated by him, talking
with animation, was an insignificant man, bent and wrinkled and mean,
looking like a clerk in a cloth merchant's shop, except for the massive
golden chain about his neck and the dress of dark red velvet with an
embroidered collar. His features were ugly; a large, coarse nose, a
heavy, sensual mouth, small eyes, but very sharp and glittering; the
hair thin and short, the skin muddy, yellow, wrinkled--Lorenzo de'
Medici!

As I entered the room, he interrupted himself and spoke to me in a
harsh, disagreeable voice.

'Messer Filippo Brandolini, I think. You are very welcome.'

'I am afraid I interrupt you,' I said, looking at the youth with the
melancholy eyes.

'Oh no,' answered Lorenzo, gaily. 'We were talking of Plato. I really
ought to have been attending to very much more serious matters, but I
never can resist Pico.'

Then that was the famous Pico della Mirandola. I looked at him again and
felt envious that one person should be possessed of such genius and such
beauty. It was hardly fair on Nature's part.

'It is more the subject than I that is irresistible.'

'Ah, the banquet!' said Lorenzo, clasping his hands. 'What an
inexhaustible matter! I could go on talking about it all day and all
night for a year, and then find I had left unsaid half what I had in my
mind.'

'You have so vast an experience in the subject treated of,' said Pico,
laughing; 'you could give a chapter of comment to every sentence of
Plato.'

'You rascal, Pico!' answered Lorenzo, also laughing. 'And what is your
opinion of love, Messer?' he added, turning to me.

I answered, smiling,--

    _'Con tua promesse, et tua false parole,_
    _Con falsi risi, et con vago sembiante,_
    _Donna, menato hai il tuo fidele amante.'_

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Those promises of thine, and those false words,_
    _Those traitor smiles, and that inconstant seeming,_
    _Lady, with these thou'st led astray thy faithful lover.__

They were Lorenzo's own lines, and he was delighted that I should quote
them, but still the pleasure was not too great, and I saw that it must
be subtle flattery indeed that should turn his head.

'You have the spirit of a courtier, Messer Filippo,' he said in reply to
my quotation. 'You are wasted on liberty!'

'It is in the air in Florence--one breathes it in through every pore.'

'What, liberty?'

'No; the spirit of the courtier.'

Lorenzo looked at me sharply, then at Pico, repressing a smile at my
sarcasm.

'Well, about your business from Forli?' he said; but when I began
explaining the transaction he interrupted me. 'Oh, all that you can
arrange with my secretaries. Tell me what is going on in the town. There
have been rumours of disturbance.'

I looked at Pico, who rose and went out, saying,--

'I will leave you. Politics are not for me.'

I told Lorenzo all that had happened, while he listened intently,
occasionally interrupting me to ask a question. When I had finished, he
said--

'And what will happen now?'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'Who knows?'

'The wise man knows,' he said earnestly, 'for he has made up his mind
what will happen, and goes about to cause it to happen. It is only the
fool who trusts to chance and waits for circumstances to develop
themselves....'

'Tell your master--'

'I beg your pardon?' I interrupted.

He looked at me interrogatively.

'I was wondering of whom you were speaking,' I murmured.

He understood and, smiling, said,--

'I apologise. I was thinking you were a Forlivese. Of course, I remember
now that you are a citizen of Castello, and we all know how tenacious
they have been of their liberty and how proud of their freedom.'

He had me on the hip; for Citta di Castello had been among the first of
the towns to lose its liberty, and, unlike others, had borne its
servitude with more equanimity than was honourable.

'However,' he went on, 'tell Checco d'Orsi that I know Girolamo Riario.
It was his father and he who were the prime movers in the conspiracy
which killed my brother and nearly killed myself. Let him remember that
the Riario is perfectly unscrupulous, and that he is not accustomed to
forgive an injury--or forget it. You say that Girolamo has repeatedly
threatened Checco. Has that had no effect on him?'

'He was somewhat alarmed.'

'Besides?'

I looked at him, trying to seize his meaning.

'Did he make up his mind to sit still and wait till Girolamo found means
to carry his threats into effect?'

I was rather at a loss for an answer. Lorenzo's eyes were fixed keenly
upon me; they seemed to be trying to read my brain.

'It was suggested to him that it would be unwise,' I replied slowly.

'And what did he answer to that?'

'He recalled the ill results of certain recent--events.'

'Ah!'

He took his eyes off me, as if he had suddenly seen the meaning behind
my words, and was now quite sure of everything he wanted to know. He
walked up and down the room, thinking; then he said to me,--

'Tell Checco that Girolamo's position is very insecure. The Pope is
against him, though he pretends to uphold him. You remember that when
the Zampeschi seized his castle of San Marco, Girolamo thought they had
the tacit consent of the Pope, and dared make no reprisal. Lodovico
Sforza would doubtless come to the assistance of his half-sister, but he
is occupied with the Venetians--and if the people of Forli hate the
Count!'

'Then you advise--'

'I advise nothing. But let Checco know that it is only the fool who
proposes to himself an end when he cannot or will not attain it; but the
man who deserves the name of man, marches straight to the goal with
clearness of mind and strength of will. He looks at things as they are
and puts aside all vain appearances; and when his intelligence has shown
him the means to his end, he is a fool if he refuses them, and he is a
wise man if he uses them steadily and unhesitatingly. Tell that to
Checco!'

He threw himself into his chair with a little cry of relief.

'Now we can talk of other things. Pico!'

A servant came in to say that Pico had gone away.

'The villain!' cried Lorenzo. 'But I daresay you will want to go away
too, Messer Brandolini. But you must come to-morrow; we are going to act
the Menacchini of Plautus; and besides the wit of the Latin you will
see all the youth and beauty of Florence.'

As I took my leave, he added,--

'I need not warn you to be discreet.'




XVI


A few days later I found myself in sight of Forli. As I rode along I
meditated; and presently the thought came to me that after all there was
perhaps a certain equality in the portioning out of good and evil in
this world. When fate gave one happiness she followed it with
unhappiness, but the two lasted about an equal time, so that the balance
was not unevenly preserved.... In my love for Giulia I had gone through
a few days of intense happiness; the first kiss had caused me such
ecstasy that I was rapt up to heaven; I felt myself a god. And this was
followed by a sort of passive happiness, when I lived but to enjoy my
love and cared for nothing in the world besides. Then came the
catastrophe, and I passed through the most awful misery that man had
ever felt: even now as I thought of it the sweat gathered on my
forehead. But I noticed that strangely as this wretchedness was equal
with the first happiness, so was it equal in length. And this was
followed by a passive unhappiness when I no longer felt all the
bitterness of my woe, but only a certain dull misery, which was like
peace. And half smiling, half sighing, I thought that the passive misery
again was equal to the passive happiness. Finally came the blessed state
of indifference, and, except for the remembrance, my heart was as if
nothing had been at all. So it seemed to me that one ought not to
complain; for if the world had no right to give one continual misery,
one had no cause to expect unmingled happiness, and the conjunction of
the two, in all things equal, seemed normal and reasonable. And I had
not noticed that I was come to Forli.

I entered the gate with a pleasant sense of homecoming. I passed along
the grey streets I was beginning to know so well, and felt for them
something of the affection of old friends. I was glad, too, that I
should shortly see Checco and my dear Matteo. I felt I had been unkind
to Matteo: he was so fond of me and had always been so good, but I had
been so wrapped up in my love that his very presence had been
importunate, and I had responded coldly to his friendliness. And being
then in a sentimental mood, I thought how much better and more
trustworthy a friend is to the most lovely woman in the world. You could
neglect him and be unfaithful to him, and yet if you were in trouble you
could come back and he would take you to his arms and comfort you, and
never once complain that you had strayed away. I longed to be with
Matteo, clasping his hand. In my hurry I put the spurs to my horse, and
clattered along the street. In a few minutes I had reached the Palazzo,
leapt off my horse, sprung up the stairs, and flung myself into the arms
of my friend.

After the first greetings, Matteo dragged me along to Checco.

'The good cousin is most eager to hear your news. We must not keep him
waiting.'

Checco seemed as pleased to see me as Matteo. He warmly pressed my hand,
and said,--

'I am glad to have you back, Filippo. In your absence we have been
lamenting like forsaken shepherdesses. Now, what is your news?'

I was fully impressed with my importance at the moment, and the anxiety
with which I was being listened to. I resolved not to betray myself too
soon, and began telling them about the kindness of Lorenzo, and the play
which he had invited me to see. I described the brilliancy of the
assembly, and the excellence of the acting. They listened with interest,
but I could see it was not what they wanted to hear.

'But I see you want to hear about more important matters,' I said.
'Well--'

'Ah!' they cried, drawing their chairs closer to me, settling themselves
to listen attentively.

With a slight smile I proceeded to give them the details of the
commercial transaction which had been the ostensible purpose of my
visit, and I laughed to myself as I saw their disgust. Checco could not
restrain his impatience, but did not like to interrupt me. Matteo,
however, saw that I was mocking, and broke in.

'Confound you, Filippo! Why do you torment us when you know we are on
pins and needles?'

Checco looked up and saw me laughing, and implored,--

'Put us out of torture, for Heaven's sake!'

'Very well!' I answered. 'Lorenzo asked me about the state of Forli, and
I told him. Then, after thinking awhile, he said, "Tell this to
Checco--"'

And I repeated word for word what Lorenzo had said to me, and, as far as
I could, I reproduced his accent and gesture.

When I had finished they both sat still and silent. At last Matteo,
glancing to his cousin, said,--

'It seems sufficiently clear.'

'It is, indeed, very clear,' answered Checco, gravely.




XVII


I made up my mind to amuse myself now. I was sick of being grave and
serious. When one thinks how short a while youth lasts it is foolish not
to take the best advantage of it; the time man has at his disposal is
not long enough for tragedy and moaning; he has only room for a little
laughter, and then his hair gets grey and his knees shaky, and he is
left repenting that he did not make more of his opportunities. So many
people have told me that they have never regretted their vices, but
often their virtues! Life is too short to take things seriously. Let us
eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.

There was really so much to do in Forli that amusement became almost
hard work. There were hunting parties in which we scoured the country
all day and returned at night, tired and sleepy, but with a delicious
feeling of relief, stretching our limbs like giants waking from their
sleep. There were excursions to villas, where we would be welcomed by
some kind lady, and repeat on a smaller scale the Decameron of
Boccaccio, or imitate the learned conversations of Lorenzo and his
circle at Careggio; we could platonise as well as they, and we
discovered the charm of treating impropriety from a philosophic point of
view. We would set ourselves some subject and all write sonnets on it,
and I noticed that the productions of our ladies were always more highly
spiced than our own. Sometimes we would play at being shepherds and
shepherdesses, but in this I always failed lamentably, for my nymph
invariably complained that I was not as enterprising as a swain should
be. Then we would act pastoral plays in the shadow of the trees; Orpheus
was our favourite subject, and I was always set for the title part,
rather against my will, for I could never bring the proper vigour into
my lament for Eurydice, since it always struck me as both unreasonable
and ungallant to be so inconsolable for the loss of one love when there
were all around so many to console one....

And in Forli itself there was a continuous whirl of amusement,
festivities of every kind crowded on one, so that one had scarcely time
to sleep; from the gravity and instructive tedium of a comedy by Terence
to a drinking bout or a card party. I went everywhere, and everywhere
received the heartiest of welcomes. I could sing and dance, and play the
lute, and act, and I was ready to compose a sonnet or an ode at a
moment's notice; in a week I could produce a five-act tragedy in the
Senecan manner, or an epic on Rinaldo or Launcelot; and as I had not a
care in the world and was as merry as a drunken friar, they opened their
arms to me and gave me the best of all they had....

I was attentive to all the ladies, and scandalous tongues gave me half a
dozen mistresses, with details of the siege and capture. I wondered
whether the amiable Giulia heard the stories, and what she thought of
them. Occasionally I saw her, but I did not trouble to speak to her;
Forli was large enough for the two of us; and when people are
disagreeable why should you trouble your head about them?

       *       *       *       *       *

One afternoon I rode with Matteo a few miles out of Forli to a villa
where there was to be some festivity in honour of a christening. It was
a beautiful spot, with fountains and shady walks, and pleasant lawns of
well-mown grass; and I set myself to the enjoyment of another day. Among
the guests was Claudia Piacentini. I pretended to be very angry with her
because, at a ball which she had recently given, I had not received the
honour of an invitation. She came to me to ask forgiveness.

'It was my husband,' she said, which I knew perfectly well. 'He said he
would not have you in his house. You've had another quarrel with him!'

'How can I help it, when I see him the possessor of the lovely Claudia!'

'He says he will never be satisfied till he has your blood.'

I was not alarmed.

'He talked of making a vow never to cut his beard or his hair till he
had his revenge, but I implored him not to make himself more hideous
than a merciful Providence had already made him.'

I thought of the ferocious Ercole with a long, untrimmed beard and
unkempt hair falling over his face.

'He would have looked like a wild man of the woods,' I said. 'I should
have had to allow myself to be massacred for the good of society. I
should have been one more of the martyrs of humanity--Saint Philip
Brandolini!'

I offered her my arm, suggesting a saunter through the gardens.... We
wandered along cool paths bordered with myrtle and laurel and cypress
trees; the air was filled with the song of birds, and a gentle breeze
bore to us the scent of the spring flowers. By-and-by we came to a
little lawn shut in by tall shrubs; in the middle a fountain was
playing, and under the shadow of a chestnut-tree was a marble seat
supported by griffins; in one corner stood a statue of Venus framed in
green bushes. We had left the throng of guests far behind, and the place
was very still; the birds, as if oppressed with its beauty, had ceased
to sing, and only the fountain broke the silence. The unceasing fall of
water was like a lullaby in its monotony, and the air was scented with
lilac.

We sat down. The quiet was delightful; peace and beauty filled one, and
I felt a great sense of happiness pass into me, like some subtle liquid
permeating every corner of my soul. The smell of the lilac was beginning
to intoxicate me; and from my happiness issued a sentiment of love
towards all nature; I felt as though I could stretch out my arms and
embrace its impalpable spirit. The Venus in the corner gained flesh-like
tints of green and yellow, and seemed to be melting into life; the lilac
came across to me in great waves, oppressive, over-powering.

I looked at Claudia. I thought she was affected as myself; she, too, was
overwhelmed by the murmur of the water, the warmth, the scented air. And
I was struck again with the wonderful voluptuousness of her beauty; her
mouth sensual and moist, the lips deep red and heavy. Her neck was
wonderfully massive, so white that the veins showed clear and blue; her
clinging dress revealed the fulness of her form, its undulating curves.
She seemed some goddess of Sensuality. As I looked at her I was filled
with a sudden blind desire to possess her. I stretched out my arms, and
she, with a cry of passion, like an animal, surrendered herself to my
embrace. I drew her to me and kissed her beautiful mouth sensual and
moist, her lips deep red and heavy....

We sat side by side looking at the fountain, breathing in the scented
air.

'When can I see you?' I whispered.

'To-morrow.... After midnight. Come into the little street behind my
house, and a door will be opened to you.'

'Claudia!'

'Good-bye. You must not come back with me now, we have been away so
long, people would notice us. Wait here a while after me, and then there
will be no fear. Good-bye.'

She left me, and I stretched myself on the marble seat, looking at the
little rings which the drops made as they fell on the water. My love for
Giulia was indeed finished now--dead, buried, and a stone Venus erected
over it as only sign of its existence. I tried to think of a suitable
inscription.... Time could kill the most obstinate love, and a beautiful
woman, with the breezes of spring to help her, could carry away even
the remembrance. I felt that my life was now complete. I had all
pleasures imaginable at my beck and call: good wines to drink, good
foods to eat, nice clothes; games, sports and pastimes; and, last of
all, the greatest gift the gods can make, a beautiful woman to my youth
and strength. I had arrived at the summit of wisdom, the point aimed at
by the wise man, to take the day as it comes, seizing the pleasures,
avoiding the disagreeable, enjoying the present, and giving no thought
to the past or future. That, I said to myself, is the highest
wisdom--never to think; for the way of happiness is to live in one's
senses as the beasts, and like the ox, chewing the cud, use the mind
only to consider one's superiority to the rest of mankind.

I laughed a little as I thought of my tears and cries when Giulia left
me. It was not a matter worth troubling about; all I should have said to
myself was that I was a fool not to abandon her before she abandoned me.
Poor Giulia! I quite frightened her in the vehemence of my rage.

The following evening I would not let Matteo go to bed.

'You must keep me company,' I said, 'I am going out at one.'

'Very well,' he said, 'if you will tell me where you're going.'

'Ah, no, that is a secret; but I am willing to drink her health with
you.'

'Without a name?'

'Yes!'

'To the nameless one, then; and good luck!'

Then, after a little conversation, he said,--

'I am glad you have suffered no more from Giulia dall' Aste. I was
afraid--'

'Oh, these things pass off. I took your advice, and found the best way
to console myself was to fall in love with somebody else.'

There was a little excitement in going to this mysterious meeting. I
wondered whether it was a trap arranged by the amiable Ercole to get me
in his power and rid himself of my unpleasant person. But faint heart
never won fair lady; and even if he set on me with two or three others,
I should be able to give a reasonable account of myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

But there had been nothing to fear. On my way home, as the day was
breaking, I smiled to myself at the matter-of-fact way in which a woman
had opened the little door, and shown me into the room Claudia had told
me of. She was evidently well used to her business; she did not even
take the trouble to look into my face to see who was the newcomer. I
wondered how many well-cloaked gallants she had let in by the same door;
I did not care if they were half a hundred. I did not suppose the
beautiful Claudia was more virtuous than myself. Suddenly it occurred to
me that I had revenged myself on Ercole Piacentini at last; and the
quaint thought, coming unexpectedly, made me stop dead and burst into a
shout of laughter. The thought of that hang-dog visage, and the
beautiful ornaments I had given him, was enough to make a dead man
merry. Oh, it was a fairer revenge than any I could have dreamed of!

But, besides that, I was filled with a great sense of pleasure because I
was at last free. I felt that if some slight chain still bound me to
Giulia now, even that was broken and I had recovered my liberty. There
was no love this time. There was a great desire for the magnificent
sensual creature, with the lips deep red and heavy; but it left my mind
free. I was now again a complete man; and this time I had no Nemesis to
fear.




XVIII


And so my life went on for a little while, filled with pleasure and
amusement. I was contented with my lot, and had no wish for change. The
time went by, and we reached the first week in April. Girolamo had
organised a great ball to celebrate the completion of his Palace. He had
started living in it as soon as there were walls and roof, but he had
spent years on the decorations, taking into his service the best artists
he could find in Italy; and now at last everything was finished. The
Orsi had been invited with peculiar cordiality, and on the night we
betook ourselves to the Palace.

We walked up the stately staircase, a masterpiece of architecture, and
found ourselves in the enormous hall which Girolamo had designed
especially for gorgeous functions. It was ablaze with light. At the
further end, on a low stage, led up to by three broad steps, under a
dais, on high-backed, golden chairs, sat Girolamo and Caterina Sforza.
Behind them, in a semicircle, and on the steps at each side, were the
ladies of Caterina's suite, and a number of gentlemen; at the back,
standing like statues, a row of men-at-arms.

'It is almost regal!' said Checco, pursing up his lips.

'It is not so poor a thing to be the Lord of Forli,' answered Matteo.
Fuel to the fire!

We approached, and Girolamo, as he saw us, rose and came down the steps.

'Hail, my Checco!' he said, taking both his hands. 'Till you had come
the assembly was not complete.'

Matteo and I went to the Countess. She had surpassed herself this night.
Her dress was of cloth of silver, shimmering and sparkling. In her hair
were diamonds shining like fireflies in the night; her arms, her neck,
her fingers glittered with costly gems. I had never seen her look so
beautiful, nor so magnificent. Let them say what they liked, Checco and
Matteo and the rest of them, but she was born to be a queen. How strange
that this offspring of the rough Condottiere and the lewd woman should
have a majesty such as one imagines of a mighty empress descended from
countless kings.

She took the trouble to be particularly gracious to us. Me she
complimented on some verses she had seen, and was very flattering in
reference to a pastoral play which I had arranged. She could not
congratulate my good Matteo on any intellectual achievements, but the
fame of his amours gave her a subject on which she could playfully
reproach him. She demanded details, and I left her listening intently to
some history which Matteo was whispering in her ear; and I knew he was
not particular in what he said.

I felt in peculiarly high spirits, and I looked about for someone on
whom to vent my good humour. I caught sight of Giulia. I had seen her
once or twice since my return to Forli, but had never spoken to her. Now
I felt sure of myself; I knew I did not care two straws for her, but I
thought it would please me to have a little revenge. I looked at her a
moment. I made up my mind; I went to her and bowed most ceremoniously.

'Donna Giulia, behold the moth!' I had used the simile before, but not
to her, so it did not matter.

She looked at me undecidedly, not quite knowing how to take me.

'May I offer you my arm,' I said as blandly as I could.

She smiled a little awkwardly and took it.

'How beautiful the Countess is to-night!' I said. 'Everyone will fall in
love with her.' I knew she hated Caterina, a sentiment which the great
lady returned with vigour. 'I would not dare say it to another; but I
know you are never jealous: she is indeed like the moon among the
stars.'

'The idea does not seem too new,' she said coldly.

'It is all the more comprehensible. I am thinking of writing a sonnet on
the theme.'

'I imagined it had been done before; but the ladies of Forli will
doubtless be grateful to you.'

She was getting cross; and I knew by experience that when she was cross
she always wanted to cry.

'I am afraid you are angry with me,' I said.

'No, it is you who are angry with me,' she answered rather tearfully.

'I? Why should you think that?'

'You have not forgiven me for--'

I wondered whether the conscientious Giorgio had had another attack of
morality and ridden off into the country.

'My dear lady,' I said, with a little laugh, 'I assure you that I have
forgiven you entirely. After all, it was not such a very serious
matter.'

'No?' She looked at me with a little surprise.

I shrugged my shoulders.

'You were quite right in what you did. Those things have to finish some
time or other, and it really does not so much matter when.'

'I was afraid I had hurt you,' she said in a low voice.

The scene came to my mind; the dimly-lit room, the delicate form lying
on the couch, cold and indifferent, while I was given over to an agony
of despair. I remembered the glitter of the jewelled ring against the
white hand. I would have no mercy.

'My dear Giulia--you will allow me to call you Giulia?'

She nodded.

'My dear Giulia, I was a little unhappy at first, I acknowledge, but one
gets over those things so quickly--a bottle of wine, and a good sleep:
they are like bleeding to a fever.'

'You were unhappy?'

'Naturally; one is always rather put out when one is dismissed. One
would prefer to have done the breaking oneself.'

'It was a matter of pride?'

'I am afraid I must confess to it.'

'I did not think so at the time.'

I laughed.

'Oh, that is my excited way of putting things. I frightened you; but it
did not really mean anything.'

She did not answer. After a while I said,--

'You know, when one is young one should make the most of one's time.
Fidelity is a stupid virtue, unphilosophical and extremely
unfashionable.'

'What do you mean?'

'Simply this; you did not particularly love me, and I did not
particularly love you.'

'Oh!'

'We had a passing fancy for one another, and that satisfied there was
nothing more to keep us together. We should have been very foolish not
to break the chain; if you had not done so, I should have. With your
woman's intuition, you saw that and forestalled me!'

Again she did not answer.

'Of course, if you had been in love with me, or I with you, it would
have been different. But as it was--'

'I see my cousin Violante in the corner there; will you lead me to her?'

I did as she asked, and as she was bowing me my dismissal I said,--

'We have had a very pleasant talk, and we are quite good friends, are we
not?'

'Quite!' she said.

I drew a long breath as I left her. I hoped I had hurt; I hoped I had
humiliated her. I wished I could have thought of things to say that
would have cut her to the heart. I was quite indifferent to her, but
when I remembered--I hated her.

I knew everyone in Forli by now, and as I turned away from Giulia I had
no lack of friends with whom to talk. The rooms became more crowded
every moment. The assembly was the most brilliant that Forli had ever
seen; and as the evening wore on the people became more animated; a
babel of talk drowned the music, and the chief topic of conversation was
the wonderful beauty of Caterina. She was bubbling over with high
spirits; no one knew what had happened to make her so joyful, for of
late she had suffered a little from the unpopularity of her husband, and
a sullen look of anger had replaced the old smiles and graces. But
to-night she was herself again. Men were standing round talking to her,
and one heard a shout of laughter from them as every now and then she
made some witty repartee; and her conversation gained another charm from
a sort of soldierly bluntness which people remembered in Francesco
Sforza, and which she had inherited. People also spoke of the cordiality
of Girolamo towards our Checco; he walked up and down the room with him,
arm in arm, talking affectionately; it reminded the onlookers of the
time when they had been as brothers together. Caterina occasionally gave
them a glance and a little smile of approval; she was evidently well
pleased with the reconciliation.

I was making my way through the crowd, watching the various people,
giving a word here and there or a nod, and I thought that life was
really a very amusing thing. I felt mightily pleased with myself, and I
wondered where my good friend Claudia was; I must go and pay her my
respects.

'Filippo!'

I turned and saw Scipione Moratini standing by his sister, with a number
of gentlemen and ladies, most of them known to me.

'Why are you smiling so contentedly?' he said. 'You look as if you had
lost a pebble and found a diamond in its place.'

'Perhaps I have; who knows?'

At that moment I saw Ercole Piacentini enter the room with his wife; I
wondered why they were so late. Claudia was at once seized upon by one
of her admirers, and, leaving her husband, sauntered off on the
proffered arm. Ercole came up the room on his way to the Count. His grim
visage was contorted into an expression of amiability, which sat on him
with an ill grace.

'This is indeed a day of rejoicing,' I said; 'even the wicked ogre is
trying to look pleasant.'

Giulia gave a little silvery laugh. I thought it forced.

'You have a forgiving spirit, dear friend,' she said, accenting the last
word in recollection of what I had said to her. 'A truly Christian
disposition!'

'Why?' I asked, smiling.

'I admire the way in which you have forgiven Ercole for the insults he
has offered you; one does not often find a gentleman who so charitably
turns his other cheek to the smiter!'

I laughed within myself; she was trying to be even with me. I was glad
to see that my darts had taken good effect. Scipione interposed, for
what his sister had said was sufficiently bitter.

'Nonsense, Giulia!' he said. 'You know Filippo is the last man to
forgive his enemies until the breath is well out of their bodies; but
circumstances--'

Giulia pursed up her lips into an expression of contempt.

'Circumstances. I was surprised, because I remembered the vigour with
which Messer Filippo had vowed to revenge himself.'

'Oh, but Messer Filippo considers that he has revenged himself very
effectively,' I said.

'How?'

'There are more ways of satisfying one's honour than by cutting a hole
in a person's chest.'

'What do you mean, Filippo?' said Scipione.

'Did you not see as he passed?'

'Ercole? What?'

'Did you not see the adornment of his noble head, the elegant pair of
horns?'

They looked at me, not quite understanding; then I caught sight of
Claudia, who was standing close to us.

'Ah, I see the diamond I have found in place of the pebble I have lost.
I pray you excuse me.'

Then as they saw me walk towards Claudia they understood, and I heard a
burst of laughter. I took my lady's hand, and bowing deeply, kissed it
with the greatest fervour. I glanced at Giulia from the corner of my
eyes and saw her looking down on the ground, with a deep blush of anger
on her face. My heart leapt for joy to think that I had returned
something of the agony she had caused me.

The evening grew late and the guests began to go. Checco, as he passed
me, asked,--

'Are you ready?'

'Yes!' I said, accompanying him to Girolamo and the Countess to take our
leave.

'You are very unkind, Checco,' said the Countess. 'You have not come
near me the whole evening.'

'You have been so occupied,' he answered.

'But I am not now,' she replied, smiling.

'The moment I saw you free I came to you.'

'To say good-bye.'

'It is very late.'

'No, surely; sit down and talk to me.'

Checco did as he was bid, and I, seeing he meant to stay longer,
sauntered off again in search of friends. The conversation between
Checco and the Countess was rather hindered by the continual
leave-takings, as the people began to go away rapidly, in groups. I sat
myself down in a window with Matteo, and we began comparing notes of our
evening; he told me of a new love to whom he had discovered his passion
for the first time.

'Fair wind, foul wind?' I asked, laughing.

'She pretended to be very angry,' he said, 'but she allowed me to see
that if the worst came to the worst she would not permit me to break my
heart.'

I looked out into the room and found that everyone had gone, except
Ercole Piacentini, who was talking to the Count in undertones.

'I am getting so sleepy,' said Matteo. We went forward to the Countess,
who said, as she saw us come,--

'Go away, Matteo! I will not have you drag Checco away yet; we have been
trying to talk to one another for the last half-hour, and now that we
have the chance at last I refuse to be disturbed.'

'I would not for worlds rob Checco of such pleasure,' said Matteo;
adding to me, as we retired to our window, 'What a nuisance having to
wait for one's cousin while a pretty woman is flirting with him!'

'You have me to talk to--what more can you want!'

'I don't want to talk to you at all,' he answered, laughing.

Girolamo was still with Ercole. His mobile eyes were moving over the
room, hardly ever resting on Ercole's face, but sometimes on us, more
often on Checco. I wondered whether he was jealous.

At last Checco got up and said Good-night. Then Girolamo came forward.

'You are not going yet,' he said. 'I want to speak with you on the
subject of those taxes.'

It was the first time he had mentioned them.

'It is getting so late,' said Checco, 'and these good gentlemen are
tired.'

'They can go home. Really, it is very urgent.'

Checco hesitated, and looked at us.

'We will wait for you,' said Matteo.

Girolamo's eyes moved about here and there, never resting a moment, from
Checco to me, from me to Matteo, and on to his wife, and then on again,
with extraordinary rapidity--it was quite terrifying.

'One would think you were afraid of leaving Checco in our hands,' said
the Countess, smiling.

'No,' returned Matteo; 'but I look forward to having some of your
attention now that Checco is otherwise occupied. Will you let me
languish?'

She laughed, and a rapid glance passed between her and the Count.

'I shall be only too pleased,' she said, 'come and sit by me, one on
each side.'

The Count turned to Ercole.

'Well, good-night, my friend,' he said. 'Good-night!'

Ercole left us, and Girolamo, taking Checco's arm, walked up and down
the room, speaking. The Countess and Matteo commenced a gay
conversation. Although I was close to them I was left alone, and I
watched the Count. His eyes fascinated me, moving ceaselessly. What
could be behind them? What could be the man's thoughts that his eyes
should never rest? They enveloped the person they looked at--his head,
every feature of his face, his body, his clothes; one imagined there was
no detail they had not caught; it was as if they ate into the very soul
of the man.

The two men tramped up and down, talking earnestly; I wondered what they
were saying. At last Girolamo stopped.

'Ah, well, I must have mercy on you; I shall tire you to death. And you
know I do not wish to do anything to harm you.'

Checco smiled.

'Whatever difficulty there has been between us, Checco, you know that
there has never on my part been any ill-feeling towards you. I have
always had for you a very sincere and affectionate friendship.'

And as he said the words an extraordinary change came over him. The
eyes, the mobile eyes, stopped still at last; for the first time I saw
them perfectly steady, motionless, like glass; they looked fixedly into
Checco's eyes, without winking, and their immobility was as strange as
their perpetual movement, and to me it was more terrifying. It was as if
Girolamo was trying to see his own image in Checco's soul.

We bade them farewell, and together issued out into the silence of the
night; and I felt that behind us the motionless eyes, like glass, were
following us into the darkness.




XIX


We issued out into the silence of the night. There had been a little
rain during the day, and the air in consequence was fresh and sweet; the
light breeze of the spring made one expand one's lungs and draw in long
breaths. One felt the trees bursting out into green leaves, and the buds
on the plants opening their downy mantles and discovering the flower
within. Light clouds were wandering lazily along the sky, and between
them shone out a few dim stars. Checco and Matteo walked in front, while
I lingered enjoying the spring night; it filled me with a sweet sadness,
a reaction from the boisterous joy of the evening, and pleasant by the
contrast.

When Matteo fell behind and joined me, I received him a little
unwillingly, disappointed at the interruption of my reverie.

'I asked Checco what the Count had said to him of the taxes, but he
would not tell me; he said he wanted to think about the conversation.'

I made no answer, and we walked on in silence. We had left the piazza,
and were going through the narrow streets bordered by the tall black
houses. It was very late, and there was not a soul about; there was no
sound but that of our own footsteps, and of Checco walking a few yards
in front. Between the roofs of the houses only a little strip of sky
could be seen, a single star, and the clouds floating lazily. The warm
air blew in my face, and filled me with an intoxication of melancholy. I
thought how sweet it would be to fall asleep this night, and never again
to wake. I was tired, and I wanted the rest of an endless sleep....

Suddenly I was startled by a cry.

I saw from the shadow of the houses black forms spring out on Checco. An
arm was raised, and a glittering instrument flashed in the darkness. He
staggered forward.

'Matteo,' he cried. 'Help! Help!'

We rushed forward, drawing our swords. There was a scuffle, three of us
against four of them, a flash of swords, a cry from one of the men as he
reeled and fell with a wound from Matteo's sword. Then another rush, a
little band of men suddenly appeared round the corner, and Ercole
Piacentini's voice, crying,--

'What is it? What is it?'

And Matteo's answer,--

'Help us, Ercole! I have killed one. Checco is stabbed.'

'Ah!' a cry from Ercole, and with his men he rushed into the fray.

A few more cries, still the flash of swords, the fall of heavy bodies on
the stones.

'They are done for!' said Matteo.

The shouts, the clang of metal woke up the neighbours; lights were seen
at the windows, and night-capped women appeared shrieking; doors were
thrown open, and men came out in their shirts, sword in hand.

'What is it? What is it?'

'Checco, are you hurt?' asked Matteo.

'No; my coat of mail!'

'Thank God you had it on! I saw you stagger.'

'It was the blow. At first I did not know whether I was hurt or not.'

'What is it? What is it?'

The neighbours surrounded us.

'They have tried to murder Checco! Checco d'Orsi!'

'My God! Is he safe?'

'Who has done it?'

All eyes were turned to the four men, each one lying heaped up on the
ground, with the blood streaming from his wounds.

'They are dead!'

'Footpads!' said Ercole; 'they wanted to rob you, and did not know you
were accompanied.'

'Footpads! Why should footpads rob me this night?' said Checco. 'I wish
they were not dead.'

'Look, look!' said a bystander, 'there is one moving.'

The words were hardly out of the man's mouth before one of Ercole's
soldiers snatched up his dagger and plunged it in the man's neck,
shouting,--

'Bestia!'

A tremor went through the prostrate body, and then it was quite still.

'You fool!' said Matteo, angrily. 'Why did you do that?'

'He is a murderer,' said the soldier.

'You fool, we wanted him alive, not dead. We could have found out who
hired him.'

'What do you mean?' said Ercole. 'They are common robbers.'

'Here is the guard,' cried someone.

The guard came, and immediately there was a babel of explanation. The
captain stepped forward, and examined the men lying on the ground.

'They are all dead,' he said.

'Take them away,' said Ercole. 'Let them be put in a church till
morning.'

'Stop!' cried Checco. 'Bring a light, and let us see if we can recognise
them.'

'Not now, it is late. To-morrow you can do what you like.'

'To-morrow it will be later, Ercole,' answered Checco. 'Bring a light.'

Torches were brought, and thrust into the face of each dead man.
Everyone eagerly scrutinised the features, drawn up in their last agony.

'I don't know him.'

Then to another.

'No.'

And the other two also were unknown. Checco examined the face of the
last, and shook his head. But a man broke out excitedly,--

'Ah! I know him.'

A cry from us all.

'Who is it?'

'I know him. It is a soldier, one of the Count's guard.'

'Ah!' said Matteo and Checco, looking at one another. 'One of the
Count's guard!'

'That is a lie,' said Ercole. 'I know them all, and I have never seen
that face before. It is a footpad, I tell you.'

'It is not. I know him well. He is a member of the guard.'

'It is a lie, I tell you.'

'Ercole is doubtless right,' said Checco. 'They are common thieves. Let
them be taken away. They have paid a heavy price for their attempt.
Good-night, my friends. Good-night, Ercole, and thanks.'

The guard took hold of the dead men by the head and by the feet, and one
after another, in single file, they bore them off down the dark street.
We three moved on, the crowd gradually melted away, and everything again
became dark and silent.

We walked home side by side without speaking. We came to the Palazzo
Orsi, entered, walked upstairs, one after the other, into Checco's
study, lights were brought, the door closed carefully, and Checco turned
round to us.

'Well?'

Neither I nor Matteo spoke. Checco clenched his fist, and his eyes
flashed as he hissed out,--

'The cur!'

We all knew the attempt was the Count's....

'By God! I am glad you are safe,' said Matteo.

'What a fool I was to be taken in by his protestations! I ought to have
known that he would never forget the injury I had done him.'

'He planned it well,' said Matteo.

'Except for the soldier,' I remarked. 'He should not have chosen anyone
who could be recognised.'

'Probably he was the leader. But how well he managed everything,
keeping us after the others, and nearly persuading Filippo and me to go
home before you. Caterina was in the plot.'

'I wonder he did not defer the attempt when he found you would not be
alone,' I said to Checco.

'He knows I am never alone, and such an opportunity would not easily
occur again. Perhaps he thought they could avoid you two, or even murder
you as well.'

'But Ercole and his men?' I said.

'Yes, I have been thinking about them. The only explanation I have is
that he placed them there to cover their flight if they succeeded, and
if they failed or could not escape, to kill them.'

'As, in fact, they did. I thought I saw Ercole make a sign to the
soldier who stabbed the only living one.'

'Possibly. The idea was evidently to destroy all witnesses and all
opportunity for inquiry.'

'Well,' said Matteo, 'it will show others that it is dangerous to do
dirty work for the Riario.'

'It will indeed!'

'And now, what is to happen?' said Matteo.

Checco looked at him, but did not reply.

'Do you still refuse to do to Girolamo as he has tried to do to you?'

Checco answered quietly,--

'No!'

'Ah!' we both cried. 'Then you consent?'

'I see no reason now for not taking the law into my own hands.'

'Assassination?' whispered Matteo.

And Checco answered boldly,--

'Assassination!' Then, after a pause, 'It is the only way open to me. Do
you remember Lorenzo's words? They have been with me every day, and I
have considered them very, very deeply: "Let Checco know that it is only
the fool who proposes to himself an end, when he cannot or will not
attain it; but the man who deserves the name of man marches straight to
the goal with clearness of mind and strength of will. He looks at things
as they are, putting aside all vain appearances, and when his
intelligence has shown him the means to his end, he is a fool if he
refuses them, and he is a wise man if he uses them steadily and
unhesitatingly." I know the end, and I will attain it. I know the means,
and I will use them steadily, without hesitation.'

'I am glad to hear you speak like that at last!' said Matteo. 'We shall
have plenty to help us. The Moratini will join at once. Jacopo Ronchi
and Lodovico Pansecchi are so bitter against the Count they will come
with us as soon as they hear you have decided to kill the enemy of us
all.'

'You are blind, Matteo. Do you not see what we must do? You mistake the
means for the end.'

'What do you mean?'

'The death of Girolamo is only a means. The end is further and higher.'

Matteo did not speak.

'I must keep my hands clean from any base motive. It must not seem that
I am influenced by any personal incentive. Nothing must come from me.
The idea of assassination must come from outside.'

'Whom do you--'

'I think Bartolomeo Moratini must propose it, and I will yield to his
instances.'

'Good! then I will go to him.'

'That will not do either. Neither you nor I must be concerned in it.
Afterwards it must be clear to all minds that the Orsi were influenced
solely by the public welfare. Do you see? I will tell you how it must
be. Filippo must help us. He must go to Bartolomeo, and from his great
affection for us talk of our danger and intreat Bartolomeo to persuade
me to the assassination. Do you understand, Filippo?'

'Perfectly!'

'Will you do it?'

'I will go to him to-morrow.'

'Wait till the news of the attempt has spread.'

I smiled at the completeness with which Checco had arranged everything;
he had evidently thought it all out. How had his scruples disappeared?

The blackness of the night was sinking before the dawn when we bade one
another good-night.




XX


I seemed to have slept a bare half-hour when I was awakened by a great
noise downstairs. I got up, and looking out of the window saw a crowd
gathered in the street below; they were talking and gesticulating
furiously. Then I remembered the occurrence of the night, and I saw that
the news had spread and these were citizens come to gather details. I
went downstairs and found the courtyard thronged. Immediately I was
surrounded by anxious people asking for news. Very contrary reports had
circulated; some said that Checco had been killed outright, others that
he had escaped, while most asserted that he was wounded. All asked for
Checco.

'If he is unhurt, why does he not show himself?' they asked.

A servant assured them that he was dressing, and would be with them at
once.... Suddenly there was a shout. Checco had appeared at the top of
the stairs. They rushed towards him, surrounding him with cries of joy;
they seized his hand, they clung to his legs, some of them touched him
all over to see that he was indeed unwounded, others kissed the lappets
of his coat.... Bartolomeo Moratini entered the court with his sons, and
the people shrunk back as he came forward and embraced Checco.

'Thank God you are saved!' he said. 'It will be an evil day for Forli
when anything happens to you.'

The people answered in shouts. But at that moment another sound was
heard without--a long and heavy murmur. The people surrounding the
doorway looked out and turned in astonishment to their neighbours,
pointing to the street; the murmur spread. What was it?

'Make way! Make way!'

A strident voice called out the words, and ushers pushed the people
aside. A little troop of men appeared in the entrance, and as they sank
back there stepped forward the Count. The Count! Checco started, but
immediately recovering himself advanced to meet his visitor. Girolamo
walked up to him, and taking him in his arms kissed him on the cheeks,
and said,--

'My Checco! My Checco!'

We who knew and the others who suspected looked on with astonishment.

'As soon as I heard the terrible news I rushed to find you,' said the
Count. 'Are you safe--quite safe?'

He embraced him again.

'You cannot think what agony I suffered when I heard you were wounded.
How glad I am it was not true. Oh, God in Heaven, I thank Thee for my
Checco!'

'You are very kind, my lord,' answered our friend.

'But it is some consolation that the miscreants have met the end which
they deserved. We must take steps to free the town of all such dangerous
persons. What will men say of my rule when it is known that the peaceful
citizen cannot walk home at night without danger to his life? Oh,
Checco, I blame myself bitterly.'

'You have no cause, my lord, but--would it not be well to examine the
men to see if they are known in Forli? Perhaps they have associates.'

'Certainly; the idea was in my mind. Let them be laid out in the
market-place so that all may see them.'

'Pardon, sir,' said one of his suite, 'but they were laid in the Church
of San Spirito last night, and this morning they have disappeared.'

Matteo and I looked at one another. Checco kept his eyes fixed on the
Count.

'Disappeared!' cried the latter, displaying every sign of impatience.
'Who is responsible for this? Offer a reward for the discovery of their
bodies and of any accomplices. I insist on their being discovered!'

Shortly afterwards he took his leave, after repeatedly kissing Checco,
and warmly congratulating Matteo and myself on the assistance we had
given to our friend. To me he said,--

'I regret, Messer Filippo, that you are not a Forlivese. I should be
proud to have such a citizen.'

Bartolomeo Moratini was still at the Palazzo Orsi, so, seizing my
opportunity, I took him by the arm and walked with him to the statue
gallery, where we could talk in peace.

'What do you think of all this?' I said.

He shook his head.

'It is the beginning of the end. Of course it is clear to all of us that
the assassination was ordered by the Count; he will persuade nobody of
his innocence by his pretended concern. All the town is whispering his
name.

'Having made a first attempt and failed, he will not hesitate to make a
second, for if he could forgive the injury which he has received from
Checco, he can never forgive the injury which he himself has done him.
And next time he will not fail.'

'I am terribly concerned,' I said. 'You know the great affection I have
for both the Orsi.'

He stopped and warmly shook my hand.

'I cannot let Checco throw away his life in this way,' I said.

'What can be done?'

'Only one thing, and you suggested it.... Girolamo must be killed.'

'Ah, but Checco will never consent to that.'

'I am afraid not,' I said gravely. 'You know the delicacy of his
conscience.'

'Yes; and though I think it excessive, I admire him for it. In these
days it is rare to find a man so honest and upright and conscientious as
Checco. But, Messer Filippo, one must yield to the ideas of the age one
lives in.'

'I, too, am convinced of his noble-mindedness, but it will ruin him.'

'I am afraid so,' sighed the old man, stroking his beard.

'But he must be saved in spite of himself. He must be brought to see the
necessity of killing the Count.' I spoke as emphatically as I could.

'He will never consent.'

'He must consent; and you are the man to make him do so. He would not
listen to anything that Matteo or I said, but for you he has the
greatest respect. I am sure if anyone can influence him it is you.'

'I have some power over him, I believe.'

'Will you try? Don't let him suspect that Matteo or I have had anything
to do with it, or he will not listen. It must come solely from you.'

'I will do my best.'

'Ah, that is good of you. But don't be discouraged by his refusals; be
insistent, for our sake. And one thing more, you know his unselfishness;
he would not move his hand to save himself, but if you showed him that
it is for the good of others, he could not refuse. Let him think the
safety of us all depends on him. He is a man you can only move by his
feeling for others.'

'I believe you,' he answered. 'But I will go to him, and I will leave no
argument unused.'

'I am sure that your efforts will be rewarded.'

Here I showed myself a perfectly wise man, for I only prophesied because
I knew.




XXI


In the evening Bartolomeo returned to the Palace and asked for Checco.
At his request Matteo and I joined him in Checco's study, and besides
there were his two sons, Scipione and Alessandro. Bartolomeo was graver
than ever.

'I have come to you now, Checco, impelled by a very strong sense of
duty, and I wish to talk with you on a matter of the greatest
importance.'

He cleared his throat.

'Firstly, are you convinced that the attempt on your life was plotted by
Girolamo Riario?'

'I am sorry for his sake, but--I am.'

'So are we all, absolutely. And what do you intend to do now?'

'What can I do? Nothing!'

'The answer is not nothing. You have something to do.'

'And that is?'

'To kill Girolamo before he has time to kill you.'

Checco started to his feet.

'They have been talking to you--Matteo and Filippo. It is they who have
put this in your head. I knew it would be suggested again.'

'Nothing has given me the idea but the irresistible force of
circumstances.'

'Never! I will never consent to that.'

'But he will kill you.'

'I can die!'

'It will be the ruin of your family. What will happen to your wife and
children if you are dead?'

'If need be they can die too. No one who bears the name of Orsi fears
death.'

'You cannot sacrifice their lives in cold blood.'

'I cannot kill a fellow-man in cold blood. Ah, my friend, you don't know
what is in me. I am not religious; I have never meddled with priests;
but something in my heart tells me not to do this thing. I don't know
what it is--conscience or honour--but it is speaking clearly within me.'

He had his hand on his heart, and was speaking very earnestly. We
followed his eyes and saw them resting on a crucifix.

'No, Bartolomeo,' he said, 'one cannot forget God. He is above us
always, always watching us; and what should I say to Him with the blood
of that man on my hands? You may say what you like, but, believe me, it
is best to be honest and straight-forward, and to the utmost of one's
ability to carry out the doctrines which Christ has left us, and upon
which he set the seal with the blood of His hands and feet and the wound
in His side.'

Bartolomeo looked at me as if it were hopeless to attempt anything
against such sentiments. But I signed him energetically to go on; he
hesitated. It would be almost tragic if he gave the matter up before
Checco had time to surrender. However, he proceeded,--

'You are a good man, Checco, and I respect you deeply for what you have
said. But if you will not stir to save yourself, think of the others.'

'What do you mean?' said Checco, starting as if from a dream.

'Have you the right to sacrifice your fellowmen? The citizens of Forli
depend on you.'

'Ah, they will easily find another leader. Why, you yourself will be of
greater assistance to them than I have ever been. How much better will
they be in your strong hands than with me!'

'No, no! You are the only man who has power here. You could not be
replaced.'

'But what can I do more than I am doing. I do not seek to leave Forli; I
will stay here and protect myself as much as I can. I cannot do more.'

'Oh, Checco, look at their state. It cannot continue. They are ground
down now; the Count must impose these taxes, and what will be their
condition then? The people are dying in their misery, and the survivors
hold happy those who die. How can you look on and see all this? And you,
you know Girolamo will kill you; it is a matter of time, and who can
tell how short a time? Perhaps even now he is forging the weapon of your
death.'

'My death! My death!' cried Checco. 'All that is nothing!'

'But what will be the lot of the people when you are gone? You are the
only curb on Riario's tyranny. When you are dead, nothing will keep him
back. And when once he has eased his path by murder he will not fail to
do so again. We shall live under perpetual terror of the knife. Oh, have
mercy on your fellow-citizens.'

'My country!' said Checco. 'My country!'

'You cannot resist this. For the good of your country you must lead us
on.'

'And if my soul--'

'It is for your country. Ah! Checco, think of us all. Not for ourselves
only, but for our wives, our innocent children, we beg you, we implore.
Shall we go down on our knees to you?'

'Oh, my God, what shall I do?' said Checco, extremely agitated.

'Listen to my father, Checco!' said Scipione. 'He has right on his
side.'

'Oh, not you, too! Do not overwhelm me. I feel you are all against me.
God help me! I know it is wrong, but I feel myself wavering.'

'Do not think of yourself, Checco; it is for others, for our liberty,
our lives, our all, that we implore you.'

'You move me terribly. You know how I love my country, and how can I
resist you, appealing on her behalf!'

'Be brave, Checco!' said Matteo.

'It is the highest thing of all that we ask you,' added Bartolomeo. 'Man
can do nothing greater. We ask you to sacrifice yourself, even your
soul, may be, for the good of us all.'

Checco buried his face in his hands and groaned,--

'Oh, God! Oh, God!'

Then, with a great sigh, he rose and said,--

'Be it as you will.... For the good of my country!'

'Ah, thanks, thanks!'

Bartolomeo took him in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks. Then
suddenly Checco tore himself away.

'But listen to this, all of you. I have consented, and now you must let
me speak. I swear that in this thing I have no thought of myself. If I
alone were concerned I would not move; I would wait for the assassin's
knife calmly. I would even sacrifice my wife and children, and God knows
how dearly I love them! I would not stir a finger to save myself. And I
swear, by all that is most holy to me, that I am actuated by no base
motive, no ambition, no thought of self, no petty revenge. I would
willingly forgive Girolamo everything. Believe me, my friends, I am
honest. I swear to you that I am only doing this for the welfare of the
men I love, for the sake of you all, and--for Liberty.'

They warmly pressed his hands.

'We know it, Checco, we believe it. You are a great and a good man.'

A little later we began to discuss the ways and means. Everyone had his
plan, and to it the others had the most conclusive objections. We all
talked together, each one rather annoyed at the unwillingness of the
others to listen to him, and thinking how contemptible their ideas were
beside his own. Checco sat silent. After a while Checco spoke,--

'Will you listen to me?'

We held our tongues.

'First of all,' he said, 'we must find out who is with us and who is
against us.'

'Well,' interrupted Scipione, 'there are the two soldiers, Jacopo
Ronchi and Lodovico Pansecchi; they are furious with the Count, and said
to me a long while since that they would willingly kill him.'

'Our six selves and those two make eight.'

'Then there are Pietro Albanese, and Paglianino, and Marco Scorsacana.'

They were devoted adherents of the house of Orsi, and could be trusted
to follow the head of the family to the bottomless pit.

'Eleven,' counted Bartolomeo.

'And then--'

Each mentioned a name till the total was brought to seventeen.

'Who else?' asked Matteo.

'That is enough,' said Checco. 'It is as foolish to have more than
necessary as to have less. Now, once more, who are they?'

The names were repeated. They were all known enemies of the Count, and
most of them related to the Orsi.

'We had better go to them separately and talk to them.'

'It will want care!' said Bartolomeo.

'Oh, they will not be backward. The first word will bring their
adhesion.'

'Before that,' said Checco, 'we must make all arrangements. Every point
of the execution must be arranged, and to them nothing left but the
performance.'

'Well, my idea is--'

'Have the goodness to listen to me,' said Checco. 'You have been talking
of committing the deed in church, or when he is out walking. Both of
those ways are dangerous, for he is always well surrounded, and in the
former, one has to remember the feeling of horror which the people have
for sacrilege. Witness Galeazzo in Milan and the Medici in Florence. One
is always wise to respect the prejudices of the mob....'

'What do you propose?'

'After the mid-day meal the--our friend is in the habit of retiring to a
private room while his servants dine. He is then almost alone. I have
often thought it would be an excellent opportunity for an assassin; I
did not know it would be myself to take the opportunity.'

He paused and smiled at the pleasantness of the irony.

'Afterwards we shall raise the town, and it is well that as many of our
partisans as possible be present. The best day for that is a market-day,
when they will come in, and we shall have no need of specially summoning
them, and thus giving rise to suspicion.'

Checco looked at us to see what we thought of his idea; then, as if from
an after thought, he added,--

'Of course, this is all on the spur of the moment.'

It was well he said that, for I was thinking how elaborately everything
was planned. I wondered how long he had the scheme in his head.

We found nothing to say against it.

'And who will do the actual deed?'

'I will!' answered Checco, quietly.

'You!'

'Yes, alone. I will tell you your parts later.'

'And when?'

'Next Saturday. That is the first market-day.'

'So soon.' We were all surprised; it was only five days off, it gave us
very little time to think. It was terribly near. Alessandro voiced our
feelings.

'Does that give us enough time? Why not Saturday week? There are many
needful preparations.'

'There are no needful preparations. You have your swords ready; the
others can be warned in a few hours. I wish it were to-morrow.'

'It is--it is very soon.'

'There is less danger of our courage failing meanwhile. We have our goal
before us, and we must go to it straight, with clearness of mind and
strength of will.'

There was nothing more to be said. As we separated, one of the Moratini
asked,--

'About the others, shall we--'

'You can leave everything to me. I take all on my hands. Will you three
come here to play a game of chess on Friday night at ten? Our affairs
will occupy us so that we shall not meet in the interval. I recommend
you to go about as much as possible, and let yourselves be seen in all
assemblies and parties....'

Checco was taking his captaincy in earnest. He would allow no
contradiction, and no swerving from the path he had marked out--on the
spur of the moment.

We had four days in which to make merry and gather the roses; after
that, who knows? We might be dangling from the Palace windows in an even
line, suspended by elegant hempen ropes; or our heads might be
decorating spear heads and our bodies God knows where. I suggested
these thoughts to Matteo, but I found him singularly ungrateful. Still,
he agreed with me that we had better make the most of our time, and as
it accorded with Checco's wishes, we were able to go to the devil from a
sense of duty. I am sure Claudia never had a lover more ardent than
myself during these four days; but, added to my duties towards that
beautiful creature, were routs and banquets, drinking-parties,
gaming-parties, where I plunged heavily in my uncertainty of the future,
and consequently won a fortune. Checco had taken on his own shoulders
all preparations, so that Matteo and I had nothing to do but to enjoy
ourselves; and that we did. The only sign I had that Checco had been
working was a look of intelligence given me by one or two of those whose
names had been mentioned in Checco's study. Jacopo Ronchi, taking leave
of me on the Thursday night, said,--

'We shall meet to-morrow.'

'You are coming to play chess, I think,' I said, smiling.

When, at the appointed hour, Matteo and I found ourselves again in
Checco's study, we were both rather anxious and nervous. My heart was
beating quite painfully, and I could not restrain my impatience. I
wished the others would come. Gradually they made their way in, and we
shook hands quietly, rather mysteriously, with an air of schoolboys
meeting together in the dark to eat stolen fruit. It might have been
comic if our mind's eye had not presented us with so vivid a picture of
a halter.

Checco began to speak in a low voice, slightly trembling; his emotion
was real enough this time, and he did all he could to conceal it.

'My very dear and faithful fellow-citizens,' he began, 'it appears that
to be born in Forli, and to live in it in our times, is the very
greatest misfortune with which one can be born or with which one can
live.'

I never heard such silence as that among the listeners. It was awful.
Checco's voice sank lower and lower, but yet every word could be
distinctly heard. The tremor was increasing.

'Is it necessary that birth and life here should be the birth and life
of slaves? Our glorious ancestors never submitted to this terrible
misfortune. They were free, and in their freedom they found life. But
this is a living death....'

He recounted the various acts of tyranny which had made the Count
hateful to his subjects, and he insisted on the insecurity in which they
lived.

'You all know the grievous wrongs I have suffered at the hands of the
man whom I helped to place on the throne. But these wrongs I freely
forgive. I am filled only with devotion to my country and love to my
fellowmen. If you others have private grievances, I implore you to put
them aside, and think only that you are the liberators from oppression
of all those you love and cherish. Gather up to your hearts the spirit
of Brutus, when, for the sake of Freedom, he killed the man whom above
all others he loved.'

He gave them the details of the plot; told them what he would do
himself, and what they should do, and finally dismissed them.

'Pray to God to-night,' he said earnestly, 'that He will look with
favour upon the work which we have set ourselves, and implore Him to
judge us by the purity of our intentions rather than by the actions
which, in the imperfection of our knowledge, seem to us the only means
to our end.'

We made the sign of the cross, and retired as silently as we had come.




XXII


My sleep was troubled, and when I woke the next morning the sun had only
just risen.

It was Saturday, the 14th of April 1488.

I went to my window and saw a cloudless sky, brilliantly yellow over in
the east, and elsewhere liquid and white, hardening gradually into blue.
The rays came dancing into my room, and in them incessantly whirled
countless atoms of dust. Through the open window blew the spring wind,
laden with the scents of the country, the blossoms of the fruit trees,
the primroses and violets. I had never felt so young and strong and
healthy. What could one not do on such a day as this! I went into
Matteo's room, and found him sleeping as calmly as if this were an
ordinary day like any other.

'Rise, thou sluggard!' I cried.

In a few minutes we were both ready, and we went to Checco. We found him
seated at a table polishing a dagger.

'Do you remember in Tacitus,' he said, smiling pleasantly, 'how the plot
against Nero was discovered by one of the conspirators giving his
dagger to his freedman to sharpen? Whereupon the freedman became
suspicious, and warned the Emperor.'

'The philosophers tell us to rise on the mistakes of others,' I remarked
in the same tone.

'One reason for my affection towards you, Filippo,' he answered, 'is
that you have nice moral sentiments, and a pleasant moral way of looking
at things.'

He held out his dagger and looked at it. The blade was beautifully
damaskeened, the hilt bejewelled.

'Look,' he said, showing me the excellence of the steel, and pointing
out the maker's name. Then, meditatively, 'I have been wondering what
sort of blow would be most effective if one wanted to kill a man.'

'You can get most force,' said Matteo, 'by bringing the dagger down from
above your head--thus.'

'Yes; but then you may strike the ribs, in which case you would not
seriously injure your friend.'

'You can hit him in the neck.'

'The space is too small, and the chin may get in the way. On the other
hand, a wound in the large vessels of that region is almost immediately
fatal.'

'It is an interesting subject,' I said. 'My opinion is that the best of
all blows is an underhand one, ripping up the stomach.'

I took the dagger and showed him what I meant.

'There are no hindrances in the way of bones; it is simple and certainly
fatal.'

'Yes,' said Checco, 'but not immediately! My impression is that the best
way is between the shoulders. Then you strike from the back, and your
victim can see no uplifted hand to warn him, and, if he is very quick,
enable him to ward the blow.'

'It is largely a matter of taste,' I answered, shrugging my shoulders.
'In these things a man has to judge for himself according to his own
idiosyncrasies.'

After a little more conversation I proposed to Matteo that we should go
out to the market-place and see the people.

'Yes, do!' said Checco, 'and I will go and see my father.'

As we walked along, Matteo told me that Checco had tried to persuade his
father to go away for a while, but that he had refused, as also had his
wife. I had seen old Orso d'Orsi once or twice; he was very weak and
decrepit; he never came downstairs, but stayed in his own rooms all day
by the fireside, playing with his grand-children. Checco was in the
habit of going to see him every day, morning and evening, but to the
rest of us it was as if he did not exist. Checco was complete master of
everything.

The market-place was full of people. Booths were erected in rows, and on
the tables the peasant women had displayed their wares: vegetables and
flowers, chickens, ducks and all kinds of domestic fowls, milk, butter,
eggs; and other booths with meat and oil and candles. And the sellers
were a joyful crew, decked out with red and yellow handkerchiefs, great
chains of gold around their necks, and spotless headdresses; they were
standing behind their tables, with a scale on one hand and a little
basin full of coppers on the other, crying out to one another,
bargaining, shouting and joking, laughing, quarrelling. Then there were
the purchasers, who walked along looking at the goods, picking up
things and pinching them, smelling them, tasting them, examining them
from every point of view. And the sellers of tokens and amulets and
charms passed through the crowd crying out their wares, elbowing,
cursing when someone knocked against them. Gliding in and out, between
people's legs, under the barrow wheels, behind the booths, were
countless urchins, chasing one another through the crowd unmindful of
kicks and cuffs, pouncing on any booth of which the proprietor had
turned his back, seizing the first thing they could lay hands on, and
scampering off with all their might. And there was a conjurer with a
gaping crowd, a quack extracting teeth, a ballad singer. Everywhere was
noise, and bustle, and life.

'One would not say on the first glance that these people were miserably
oppressed slaves,' I said maliciously.

'You must look beneath the surface,' replied Matteo, who had begun to
take a very serious view of things in general. I used to tell him that
he would have a call some day and end up as a shaven monk.

'Let us amuse ourselves,' I said, taking Matteo by the arm, and dragging
him along in search of prey. We fixed on a seller of cheap jewellery--a
huge woman, with a treble chin and a red face dripping with
perspiration. We felt quite sorry for her, and went to console her.

'It is a very cold day,' I remarked to her, whereupon she bulged out her
cheeks and blew a blast that nearly carried me away.

She took up a necklace of beads and offered it to Matteo for his lady
love. We began to bargain, offering her just a little lower than she
asked, and then, as she showed signs of coming down, made her a final
offer a little lower still. At last she seized a broom and attacked us,
so that we had to fly precipitately.

I had never felt in such high spirits. I offered to race Matteo in every
way he liked--riding, running and walking--but he refused, brutally
telling me that I was frivolous. Then we went home. I found that Checco
had just been hearing mass, and he was as solemn and silent as a
hangman. I went about lamenting that I could get no one to talk to me,
and at last took refuge with the children, who permitted me to join in
their games, so that, at 'hide-and-seek' and 'blind man's buff,' I
thoroughly amused myself till dinner-time. We ate together, and I tried
not to be silenced, talking the greatest nonsense I could think of; but
the others sat like owls and did not listen, so that I too began to feel
depressed....

The frowns of the others infected me, and the dark pictures that were
before their eyes appeared to mine; my words failed me and we all three
sat gloomily. I had started with an excellent appetite, but again the
others influenced me, and I could not eat. We toyed with our food,
wishing the dinner over. I moved about restlessly, but Checco was quite
still, leaning his face on his hand, occasionally raising his eyes and
fixing them on Matteo or me. One of the servants dropped some plates; we
all started at the sound, and Checco uttered an oath; I had never heard
him swear before. He was so pale I wondered if he were nervous. I asked
the time: still two hours before we could start. How long would they
take to pass! I had been longing to finish dinner, so that I might get
up and go away. I felt an urgent need for walking, but when the meal was
over a heaviness came to my legs and I could do nothing but sit and look
at the other two. Matteo filled his tankard and emptied it several
times, but after awhile, as he reached over for the wine, he saw
Checco's eyes fixed on the flagon, with a frown on his forehead, and the
curious raising of one corner of the mouth, which was a sign he was
displeased. Matteo withdrew his hand and pushed his mug away; it rolled
over and fell on the floor. We heard the church bell strike the hour; it
was three o'clock. Would it never be time! We sat on and on. At last
Checco rose and began walking up and down the room. He called for his
children. They came, and he began talking to them in a husky voice, so
that they could scarcely understand him. Then, as if frightened of
himself, he took them in his arms, one after the other, and kissed them
convulsively, passionately, as one kisses a woman; and he told them to
go. He stifled a sob. We sat on and on. I counted the minutes. I had
never lived so long before. It was awful....

At last!

It was half-past three; we got up and took our hats.

'Now, my friends!' said Checco, drawing a breath of relief, 'our worst
troubles are over.'

We followed him out of the house. I noticed the jewelled hilt of his
dagger, and every now and then I saw him put his hand to it to see that
it was really there. We passed along the streets, saluted by the
people. A beggar stopped us, and Checco threw him a piece of gold.

'God bless you!' said the man.

And Checco thanked him fervently.

We walked along the narrow streets in the shade, but as we turned a
corner the sun came full on our faces. Checco stopped a moment and
opened his arms, as if to receive the sunbeams in his embrace, and,
turning to us, with a smile, he said,--

'A good omen!'

A few more steps brought us to the piazza.




XXIII


Among the members of the Count's household was Fabrizio Tornielli, a
cousin of the Orsi on the mother's side. Checco had told him that he
wished to talk with Girolamo about the money he owed him, and thought
the best opportunity would be when the Count was alone after the meal
which he was in the habit of taking at three. But as he was very anxious
to find the Count entirely by himself, he begged his cousin to make him
a sign when the time came.... Fabrizio had agreed, and we had arranged
to stroll about the piazza till we saw him. We came across our friends;
to me they looked different from everyone else. I wondered that people
as they passed did not stop them and ask what was disturbing them.

At last, one of the Palace windows was opened, and we saw Fabrizio
Tornielli standing in it, looking down on the piazza. Our opportunity
has come. My heart beat so violently against my chest that I had to put
my hand to it. Besides Matteo and myself, Marco Scorsacana, Lodovico
Pansecchi and Scipione Moratini were to accompany Checco into the
Palace. Checco took my arm and we walked slowly up the steps while the
others followed on our heels. The head of the Orsi had a key of gold,
that is to say he was admitted to the ruler's presence whenever he
presented himself, and without formality. The guard at the door saluted
as we passed, making no question. We ascended to Girolamo's private
apartments, and were admitted by a servant. We found ourselves in an
ante-room, in one wall of which was a large doorway, closed by
curtains....

'Wait for me here,' said Checco. 'I will go in to the Count.'

The servant raised the curtain; Checco entered, and the curtain fell
back behind him.

Girolamo was alone, leaning against the sill of an open window. He
stretched out his hand kindly.

'Ah, Checco, how goes it?'

'Well; and you?'

'Oh, I am always well when I get among my nymphs.'

He waved his hand to the frescoes on the walls. They were the work of a
celebrated artist, and represented nymphs sporting, bathing, weaving
garlands and offering sacrifice to Pan; the room had been christened the
Chamber of the Nymphs.

Girolamo looked round with a contented smile.

'I am glad everything is finished at last,' he said. 'Eight years ago
the stones with which the house is built had not been hewn out of the
rock, and now every wall is painted, everything is carved and decorated,
and I can sit down and say, "It is finished."'

'It is indeed a work to be proud of,' said Checco.

'You don't know how I have looked forward to this, Checco. Until now I
have always lived in houses which others had built, and decorated, and
lived in; but this one has grown up out of my own head; I have watched
every detail of its construction, and I feel it mine as I have never
felt anything mine before.'

He paused a minute, looking at the room.

'Sometimes I think I have lost in its completion, for it gave me many
pleasant hours to watch the progress. The hammer of the carpenter, the
click of the trowel on the brick were music to my ears. There is always
a melancholy in everything that is finished; with a house, the moment of
its completion is the commencement of its decay. Who knows how long it
will be before these pictures have mouldered off the walls, and the very
walls themselves are crumbling to dust?'

'As long as your family reigns in Forli your palace will preserve its
splendour.'

'Yes, and it seems to me that as the family will preserve the house, so
the house will preserve the family. I feel myself firmer and more
settled in Forli; this seems like a rock to which my fortunes can cling.
But I am full of hope. I am still young and strong. I have a good thirty
years of life before me, and what can one not do in thirty years? And
then, Checco, my children! What a proud day it will be for me when I can
take my son by the hand and say to him, "You are a full-grown man, and
you are capable of taking up the sceptre when death takes it from my
hand." And it will be a good present I shall leave him. My head is full
of plans. Forli shall be rich and strong, and its prince shall not need
to fear his neighbours, and the Pope and Florence shall be glad of his
friendship.'

He looked into space, as if he saw the future.

'But, meanwhile, I am going to enjoy life. I have a wife whom I love, a
house to be proud of, two faithful cities. What more can I want?'

'You are a fortunate man,' said Checco.

There was a short silence. Checco looked at him steadily. The Count
turned away, and Checco put his hand to his dagger. He followed him. As
he was approaching, the Count turned again with a jewel that he had just
taken from the window sill.

'I was looking at this stone when you came,' he said. 'Bonifazio has
brought it me from Milan, but I am afraid I cannot afford it. It is very
tempting.'

He handed it to Checco to look at.

'I don't think it is better than the one you have on your neck,' he
said, pointing to the jewel which was set in a medallion of gold hanging
from a heavy chain.

'Oh yes,' said Girolamo. 'It is much finer. Look at the two together.'

Checco approached the stone he held in his hand to the other, and, as he
did so, with his other fingers pressed against the Count's chest. He
wanted to see whether by any chance he wore a coat of mail; he did not
mean to make the same mistake as the Count.... He thought there was
nothing; but he wished to make quite sure.

'I think you are right,' he said, 'but the setting shows off the other,
so that at first sight it seems more brilliant. And no wonder, for the
chain is a masterpiece.'

He took it up as if to look at it, and as he did so put his hand on the
Count's shoulder. He was certain now.

'Yes,' said Girolamo, 'that was made for me by the best goldsmith in
Rome. It is really a work of art.'

'Here is your stone,' said Checco, handing it to him, but awkwardly, so
that when Girolamo wanted to take it, it fell between their hands.
Instinctively he bent down to catch it. In a moment Checco drew his
dagger and buried it in the Count's back. He staggered forward and fell
in a heap on his face.

'Oh God!' he cried, 'I am killed.'

It was the first thing we had heard outside. We heard the cry, the heavy
fall. The servant rushed to the curtain.

'They are killing my master,' he cried.

'Be quiet, you fool!' I said, seizing his head from behind and with my
hands on his mouth dragging him backwards. At the same moment Matteo
drew his dagger and pierced the man's heart. He gave a convulsive leap
into the air, and then as he fell I pushed him so that he rolled to one
side.

Immediately afterwards the curtain was lifted and Checco appeared,
leaning against the door-post. He was as pale as death, and trembling
violently. He stood silent for a moment, open-mouthed, so that I thought
he was about to faint; then with an effort he said in a hoarse, broken
voice,--

'Gentlemen, we are free!'

A cry burst from us,--

'Liberty!'

Lodovico Pansecchi asked,--

'Is he dead?'

A visible shudder passed through Checco, as if he had been struck by an
icy wind. He staggered to a chair and groaned,--

'Oh God!'

'I will go and see,' said Pansecchi, lifting the curtain and entering.

We stood still, waiting for him. We heard a heavy sound, and as he
appeared, he said,--

'There is no doubt now.'

There was blood on his hands. Going up to Checco, he handed him the
jewelled dagger.

'Take this. It will be more use to you than where you left it.'

Checco turned away in disgust.

'Here, take mine,' said Matteo. 'I will take yours. It will bring me
good luck.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a step was heard outside.
Scipione looked out cautiously.

'Andrea Framonti,' he whispered.

'Good luck, indeed!' said Matteo.

It was the captain of the guard. He was in the habit of coming every day
about this hour to receive the password from the Count. We had forgotten
him. He entered.

'Good-day to you, gentlemen! Are you waiting to see the Count?'

He caught sight of the corpse lying against the wall.

'Good God! what is this? What is--?'

He looked at us, and stopped suddenly. We had surrounded him.

'Treason!' he cried. 'Where is the Count?'

He looked behind him; Scipione and Matteo barred the door.

'Treason!' he shouted, drawing his sword.

At the same moment we drew ours and rushed for him. He parried a few of
our blows, but we were too many, and he fell pierced with a dozen
wounds.

The sight of the fray had a magical effect on Checco. We saw him
standing up, drawn to his full height, his cheeks aflame, his eyes
flashing.

'Good, my friends, good! Luck is on our side,' he said. 'Now we must
look alive and work. Give me my dagger, Matteo; it is sacred now. It has
been christened in blood with the name of Liberty. Liberty, my friends,
Liberty!'

We flourished our swords and shouted,--

'Liberty!'

'Now, you, Filippo, take Lodovico Pansecchi and Marco, and go to the
apartment of the Countess; tell her that she and her children are
prisoners, and let no one enter or leave. Do this at any cost.... The
rest of us will go out and rouse the people. I have twenty servants
armed whom I told to wait in the piazza; they will come and guard the
Palace and give you any help you need. Come!'

I did not know the way to the Countess's chamber, but Marco had been a
special favourite and knew well the ins and outs of the Palace. He
guided me to the door, where we waited. In a few minutes we heard cries
in the piazza, and shouts of 'Liberty.' There came a tramp of feet up
the stairs. It was Checco's armed servants. Some of them appeared where
we were. I sent Marco to lead the others.

'Clear the Palace of all the servants. Drive them out into the piazza,
and if anyone resists, kill him.'

Marco nodded and went off. The door of the Countess's apartments was
opened, and a lady said,--

'What is this noise?'

But immediately she saw us, she gave a shriek and ran back. Then,
leaving two men to guard the door, I entered with Pansecchi and the
rest. The Countess came forward.

'What is the meaning of this?' she said angrily. 'Who are you? What are
these men?'

'Madam,' I said, 'the Count, your husband, is dead, and I have been sent
to take you prisoner.'

The women began to weep and wail, but the Countess did not move a
muscle. She appeared indifferent to my intelligence.

'You,' I said, pointing to the ladies and women servants, 'you are to
leave the Palace at once. The Countess will be so good as to remain here
with her children.'

Then I asked where the children were. The women looked at their
mistress, who said shortly,--

'Bring them!'

I signed to Pansecchi, who accompanied one of the ladies out of the
room, and reappeared with the three little children.

'Now, madam,' I said, 'will you dismiss these ladies?'

She looked at me a moment, hesitating. The cries from the piazza were
growing greater; it was becoming a roar that mounted to the Palace
windows.

'You can leave me,' she said.

They broke again into shrieks and cries, and seemed disinclined to obey
the order. I had no time to waste.

'If you do not go at once, I shall have you thrown out!'

The Countess stamped her foot.

'Go when I tell you! Go!' she said. 'I want no crying and screaming.'

They moved to the door like a flock of sheep, trampling on one another,
bemoaning their fate. At last I had the room free.

'Madam,' I said, 'you must allow two soldiers to remain in the room.'

I locked the two doors of the chamber, mounted a guard outside each, and
left her.




XXIV


I went out into the piazza. It was full of men, but where was the
enthusiasm we had expected, the tumult, the shouts of joy? Was not the
tyrant dead? But they stood there dismayed, confounded, like sheep....
And was not the tyrant dead? I saw partisans of Checco rushing through
the crowd with cries of 'Death to all tyrants,' and 'Liberty, liberty!'
but the people did not move. Here and there were men mounted on barrows,
haranguing the people, throwing out words of fire, but the wind was
still and they did not spread.... Some of the younger ones were talking
excitedly, but the merchants kept calm, seeming afraid. They asked what
was to happen now--what Checco would do? Some suggested that the town
should be offered to the Pope; others talked of Lodovico Sforza and the
vengeance he would bring from Milan.

I caught sight of Alessandra Moratini.

'What news? What news?'

'Oh God, I don't know!' he said with an expression of agony. 'They won't
move. I thought they would rise up and take the work out of our hands.
But they are as dull as stones.'

'And the others?' I asked.

'They are going through the town trying to rouse the people. God knows
what success they will have!'

At that moment there was a stir at one end of the square, and a crowd of
mechanics surged in, headed by a gigantic butcher, flourishing a great
meat-axe. They were crying 'Liberty!' Matteo went towards them and began
to address them, but the butcher interrupted him and shouted coarse
words of enthusiasm, at which they all yelled with applause.

Checco came on the scene, accompanied by his servants. A small crowd
followed, crying,--

'Bravo, Checco! bravo!'

As soon as the mechanics saw him, they rushed towards him, surrounding
him with cries and cheers.... The square was growing fuller every
moment; the shops had been closed, and from all quarters came swarming
artisans and apprentices. I made my way to Checco and whispered to
him,--

'The people! Fire them, and the rest will follow.'

'A leader of rabble!'

'Never mind,' I said. 'Make use of them. Give way to them now, and they
will do your will. Give them the body of the Count!'

He looked at me, then nodded and whispered,--

'Quickly!'

I ran to the Palace and told Marco Scorsacana what I had come for. We
went into the Hall of the Nymphs; the body was lying on its face,
almost doubled up, and the floor was stained with a horrible stream of
blood; in the back were two wounds. Lodovico had indeed made sure that
the Count was safe.... We caught hold of the body; it was not yet cold,
and dragged it to the window. With difficulty we lifted it on to the
sill.

'Here is your enemy!' I cried.

Then hoisting him, we pushed him out, and he fell on the stones with a
great, dull thud. A mighty shout burst from the mob as they rushed at
the body. One man tore the chain off his neck, but as he was running
away with it another snatched at it. In the struggle it broke, and one
got away with the chain, the other with the jewel. Then, with cries of
hate, they set on the corpse. They kicked him and slapped his face and
spat on him. The rings were wrenched off his fingers, his coat was torn
away; they took his shoes, his hose; in less than a minute everything
had been robbed, and he was lying naked, naked as when he was born. They
had no mercy those people; they began to laugh and jeer, and make foul
jokes about his nakedness.

The piazza was thronged, and every moment people entered; the women of
the lower classes had come, joining their shrill cries to the shouts of
the men. The noise was stupendous, and above all rang the cries of
Liberty and Death.

'The Countess! The Countess!'

It became the general cry, drowning the others, and from all quarters.

'Where is the Countess? Bring her out. Death to the Countess!'

A cry went up that she was in the Palace, and the shout became,--

'To the Palace! To the Palace!'

Checco said to us,--

'We must save her. If they get hold of her she will be torn to pieces.
Let her be taken to my house.'

Matteo and Pansecchi took all the soldiers they could and entered the
Palace. In a few minutes they appeared with Caterina and her children;
they had surrounded her and were walking with drawn swords.

A yell broke from these thousands of throats, and they surged towards
the little band. Checco shouted out to them to let her go in peace, and
they held back a little; but as she passed they hissed and cursed and
called her foul names. Caterina walked proudly, neither turning to the
right nor to the left, no sign of terror on her face, not even a pallid
cheek. She might have been traversing the piazza amidst the homage of
her people. Suddenly it occurred to a man that she had jewels concealed
on her. He pushed through the guards and put his hand to her bosom. She
lifted her hand and hit him in the face. A cry of rage broke from the
populace, and they made a rush. Matteo and his men stopped, closing
together, and he said,--

'By God! I swear I will kill any man who comes within my reach.'

They shrank back frightened, and taking advantage of this, the little
band hurried out of the piazza.

Then the people looked at one another, waiting for something to do, not
knowing where to begin. Their eyes were beginning to flame, and their
hands to itch for destruction. Checco saw their feeling, and at once
pointed to the Palace.

'There are the fruits of your labours, your money, your jewels, your
taxes. Go and take back your own. There is the Palace. We give you the
Palace.'

They broke into a cheer, a rush was made, and they struggled in by the
great doors, fighting their way up the stairs in search of plunder,
dispersing through the splendid rooms....

Checco looked at them disappearing through the gateway.

'Now, we have them at last.'

In a few minutes the stream at the Palace gates became double, for it
consisted of those coming out as well as of those going in. The
confusion became greater and greater, and the rival bands elbowed and
struggled and fought. The windows were burst open and things thrown
out--coverlets, linen, curtains, gorgeous silks, Oriental brocades,
satins--and the women stood below to catch them. Sometimes there was a
struggle for possession, but the objects were poured out so fast that
everyone could be satisfied. Through the doors men could be seen coming
with their arms full, their pockets bulging, and handing their plunder
to their wives to take home, while they themselves rushed in again. All
the little things were taken first, and then it was the turn of the
furniture. People came out with chairs or coffers on their heads,
bearing them away quickly lest their claim should be disputed. Sometimes
the entrance was stopped by two or three men coming out with a heavy
chest or with the pieces of a bedstead. Then the shouting and pushing
and confusion were worse than ever.... Even the furniture gave out under
the keen hands, and looking round they saw that the walls and floors
were bare. But there was still something for them. They made for the
doors and wrenched them away. From the piazza we saw men tear out the
window frames, even the hinges were taken, and they streamed out of the
Palace heavily laden, their hands bloody from the work of destruction.

All over the town the bells were ringing, and still people surged into
the piazza. Thousands had got nothing from the Palace, and they cried
out in anger against their companions, envious at their good luck. Bands
had formed themselves with chiefs, and they were going about exciting
the others. Checco stood among them, unable to restrain them. Suddenly
another cry rose from a thousand throats,--

'The Treasury!'

And irresistible as the sea, they rushed to the Gabella. In a few
minutes the same ruin had overtaken it, and it was lying bare and empty.

Scarcely one of them remained in the piazza. The corpse was lying on the
cold stones, naked, the face close to the house in which the living man
had taken such pride; and the house itself, with the gaping apertures
from the stolen windows, looked like a building which had been burnt
with fire, so that only the walls remained. And it was empty but for a
few rapacious men, who were wandering about like scavengers to see
whether anything had been left unfound.

The body had done its work and it could rest in peace. Checco sent for
friars, who placed it on a stretcher, covering its nakedness, and bore
it to their church.

Night came, and with it a little peace. The tumult with which the town
was filled quietened down; one by one the sounds ceased, and over the
city fell a troubled sleep....




XXV


We were up betimes. The town was ours, except the citadel. Checco had
gone to the fortress, which stood above the town, to one side, and had
summoned the Castellan to surrender. He had refused, as we expected; but
we were not much troubled, for we had Caterina and her children in our
power, and by their means thought we could get hold of the castle.

Checco had called a meeting of the Council to decide what should be done
with the town. It was purely a measure of politeness, for he had already
made up his mind and taken steps in accordance. With the town so
troubled, the citadel still in our opponent's hands, and the armies of
Lodovico Moro at Milan, it was hopeless to suggest standing alone; and
Checco had decided to offer Forli to the Pope. This would give a
protection against external enemies and would not greatly interfere with
the internal relations. The real power would belong to the chief
citizen, and Checco knew well enough whom that was. Further, the lax
grasp of the Pope would soon be loosed by death, and in the confusion of
a long conclave and a change of rulers, it would not be impossible to
change the state of dependence into real liberty, and for Checco to add
the rights and titles of lordship to the power. On the previous night he
had sent a messenger to the Protonotary Savello, the papal governor of
Cesena, with an account of what had happened and the offer of the town.
Checco had requested an immediate reply, and was expecting it every
minute.

The Council was called for ten o'clock. At nine Checco received
Savello's secret consent.

The President of the Council was Niccolo Tornielli, and he opened the
sitting by reminding his hearers of their object, and calling for their
opinions. At first no one would speak. They did not know what was in
Checco's mind, and they had no wish to say anything that might be
offensive to him. The Forlivesi are a cautious race! After a while an
old man got up and timidly expressed the thanks of the citizens for the
freedom which Checco had bestowed upon them, suggesting also that he
should speak first. The lead thus given, the worthies rose, one after
another, and said the same things with an air of profound originality.

Then Antonio Sassi stood up. It was he who had advised Girolamo to
impose the taxes on the town; and he was known to be a deadly enemy of
Checco. The others had been sufficiently astonished when they saw him
enter the Council chamber, for it was thought that he had left the town,
as Ercole Piacentini and others of the Count's favourites had done. When
he prepared to speak, the surprise was universal.

'Our good friend, Niccolo,' he said, 'has called upon us to decide what
shall be done with the town.

'Your thoughts seem to be inclining to one foreign master or another.
But my thoughts are inclining to the Liberty, in whose name the town has
been won.

'Let us maintain the Liberty which these men have conquered at the risk
of their lives....

'Why should we doubt our ability to preserve the Liberty of our
ancestors? Why should we think that we, who are descended from such
fathers, born from their blood, bred in their houses, should have
degenerated so far as to be incapable of seizing the opportunity which
is presented to us?

'Let us not fear that the Mighty Monarch, who defends and protects him
who walks the path of the Just, will fail to give us spirit and strength
to introduce and firmly to implant in this city the blessed state of
Liberty.'

At the end of the sentence Antonio Sassi paused to see the effect on his
auditors.

He went on,--

'But as the example of Our Master has shown us that the shepherd is
necessary for the preservation of the flock; and as He seems to point
out our guardian by the success which He has granted to his arms in the
extermination of the Wolf, I propose that we surrender our Liberty to
the hands of him who is best able to preserve it--Checco d'Orsi.'

A cry of astonishment burst from the Councillors. Was this Antonio
Sassi? They looked at Checco, but he was impassive; not even the shadow
of a thought could be read on his face. They asked themselves whether
this was pre-arranged, whether Checco had bought his enemy, or whether
it was a sudden device of Antonio to make his peace with the victor. One
could see the agitation of their minds. They were tortured: they did not
know what Checco thought. Should they speak or be silent? There was a
look of supplication in their faces which was quite pitiful. Finally,
one of them made up his mind, and rose to second Antonio Sassi's motion.
Then others took their courage in both hands and made speeches full of
praise for Checco, begging him to accept the sovereignty.

A grave smile appeared on Checco's face, but it disappeared at once.
When he thought there had been sufficient talking he rose to his feet,
and, after thanking his predecessors for their eulogies, said,--

'It is true that we have conquered the city at the risk of our lives;
but it was for the city, not for ourselves.... No thought of our own
profit entered our minds, but we were possessed by a grave sense of our
duty towards our fellowmen. Our watch-words were Liberty and the
Commonweal! From the bottom of my heart I thank Antonio Sassi and all of
you who have such confidence in me that you are willing to surrender the
town to my keeping. In their good opinion I find a sufficient reward for
all I have done. But, God knows, I have no desire to rule. I want the
love of my fellow-citizens, not the fear of subjects; I look with dismay
upon the toils of a ruler. And who would believe in my disinterestedness
when he saw me take up the sceptre which the lifeless hand has dropped?

'Forgive me; I cannot accept your gift.

'But there is one who can and will. The Church is not wont to close her
breast to him who seeks refuge beneath her sacred cloak, and she will
pardon us for having shaken from our necks the hard yoke of Tyranny. Let
us give ourselves to the Holy Father--'

He was interrupted by the applause of the councillors: they did not want
to hear further, but agreed unanimously; and it was forthwith arranged
that an embassy should be sent to the Governor of Cesena to make the
offer. The meeting was broken up amidst shouts of praise for Checco. If
he had been strong before, he was ten times stronger now, for the better
classes had been afraid of the mob and angry that he should depend on
them; now they were won too.

The people knew that the Council was assembled to consult on the
destinies of the town, and they had come together in thousands outside
the Council House. The news was made known to them at once, and when
Checco appeared at the top of the stairs a mighty shout burst from them,
and they closed round him with cries and cheers.

'Bravo! Bravo!'

He began to walk homewards, and the crowd followed, making the old grey
streets ring with their shouts. On each side people were thronging and
stood on tiptoe to see him, the men waving their caps and throwing them
in the air, the women madly flourishing handkerchiefs; children were
hoisted up that they might see the great man pass, and joined their
shrill cries to the tumult. Then it occurred to someone to spread his
cloak for Checco to walk on, and at once everyone followed his example,
and the people pressed and struggled to lay their garments before his
feet. And baskets of flowers were obtained and scattered before him, and
the heavy scent of the narcissi filled the air. The shouts were of all
kinds; but at last one arose, and gathered strength, and replaced the
others, till ten thousand throats were shouting,--

_'Pater Patriae! Pater Patriae!'_

Checco walked along with bare head, his eyes cast down, his face quite
white. His triumph was so great--that he was afraid!

The great procession entered the street in which stood the Palazzo Orsi,
and at the same moment, from the gates of the palace issued Checco's
wife and his children. They came towards us, followed by a troop of
noble ladies. They met and Checco, opening his arms, clasped his wife to
his breast and kissed her tenderly; then, with his arm round her waist,
the children on each side, he proceeded towards his house. If the
enthusiasm had been great before, now it was ten times greater. The
people did not know what to do to show their joy; no words could express
their emotion; they could only give a huge deafening shout,--

_'Pater Patriae! Pater Patriae!'_




XXVI


After a while the formal embassy sent to Cesena came back with the
message that the Protonotary Savello had been filled with doubts as to
whether he should accept the town or no; but seeing the Forlivesi firm
in their desire to come under the papal rule, and being convinced that
their pious wish had been inspired by the most High Ruler of Kings, he
had not ventured to contradict the manifest will of Heaven, and
therefore would come and take possession of the city in person.

Checco smiled a little as he heard of the worthy man's doubts and the
arguments used by the ambassadors to persuade him; but he fully agreed
with Monsignor Savello's decision, thinking the reasons very cogent....

The protonotary was received with all due honour. Savello was a
middle-sized, stout man, with a great round belly and a fat red face,
double-chinned and bull-necked. He had huge ears and tiny eyes, like
pig's eyes, but they were very sharp and shrewd. His eyebrows were pale
and thin, so that with the enormous expanse of shaven cheek his face
had a look of almost indecent nakedness. His hair was scanty and his
crown quite bald and shiny. He was gorgeously dressed in violet. After
the greetings and necessary courtesies, he was informed of the state of
things in Forli. He was vexed to find the citadel still in the hands of
the Castellan, who had been summoned with great courtesy to surrender to
the papal envoy, but without any courtesy at all had very stoutly
declined. Savello said he would speak to the Countess and make her order
the Castellan to open his gates. I was sent forward to inform Caterina
of the last occurrences and of the protonotary's desire for an
interview.

The Countess had received apartments in the Orsi Palace, and it was in
one of these rooms that the good Savello was ushered.

He stopped on the threshold, and lifting up his arm stretched out two
fingers, and in his thick, fat voice, said,--

'The peace of God be upon you!'

Caterina bowed and crossed herself. He went up to her and took her hand
in his.

'Madam, it has always been my hope that I should some day meet the lady
whose fame has reached me as the most talented, most beautiful, and most
virtuous of her time. But I did not think that the day of our meeting
would be one of such bitterness and woe!'

He expressed himself in measured tones, grave and slow, and very fit to
the occasion.

'Ah, lady, you do not know the grief I felt when I was made acquainted
with your terrible loss. I knew your dear husband in Rome, and I always
felt for him a most profound affection and esteem.'

'You are very kind!' she said.

'I can understand that you should be overwhelmed with grief, and I trust
you do not think my visit importunate. I have come to offer you such
consolation as is in my power; for is it not the most blessed work that
our Divine Master has imposed upon us, to comfort the afflicted?'

'I was under the impression that you had come to take over the city on
behalf of the Pope.'

'Ah, lady, I see that you are angry with me for taking the city from
you; but do not think I do it of myself. Ah, no; I am a slave, I am but
a servant of his Holiness. For my part, I would have acted far
otherwise, not only for your own merits, great as they are, but also for
the merits of the Duke, your brother.'

His unction was most devout. He clasped his hand to his heart and looked
up to Heaven so earnestly that the pupils of his eyes disappeared
beneath the lids, and one could only see the whites. In this attitude he
was an impressive picture of morality.

'I beseech you, madam, bravely to bear your evil fortunes. Do we not
know that fortune is uncertain? If the city has been taken from you it
is the will of God, and as a Christian you must, with resignation,
submit yourself to His decrees. Remember that the ways of the Almighty
are inscrutable. The soul of the sinner is purified by suffering. We
must all pass through the fire. Perhaps these misfortunes will be the
means of saving your soul alive. And now that this city has returned to
the fold of the Master--for is not the Holy Father the Vicar of
Christ--be assured that the loss you have suffered will be made good to
you in the love of his Holiness, and that eventually you will receive
the reward of the sinner who has repented, and sit amongst the elect
singing hymns of praise to the glory of the Master of all things.'

He paused to take breath. I saw Caterina's fingers convulsively close
round the arm of her chair; she was restraining herself with difficulty.

'But the greatest grief of all is the loss of your husband, Girolamo.
Ah, how beautiful is the grief of a widow! But it was the will of God.
And what has he to complain of now? Let us think of him clad in robes of
light, with a golden harp in his hands. Ah, lady, he is an angel in
heaven, and we are miserable sinners upon earth. How greatly to be
envied is his lot! He was a humble, pious man, and he has his reward.
Ah--'

But she could hold back no longer. She burst forth like a fury.

'Oh, how can you stand before me, uttering these hypocrisies? How dare
you say these things to me, when you are enjoying the fruits of his
death and my misfortune? Hypocrite! You are the vulture feeding with the
crows, and you come and whine and pray and talk to me of the will of
God!'

She clasped her hands and lifted them passionately towards heaven.

'Oh, I hope that my turn will come, and then I will show you what is the
will of God. Let them take care!'

'You are incensed, dear lady, and you know not what you say. You will
regret that you have accepted my consolations with disdain. But I
forgive you with a Christian spirit.'

'I do not want your forgiveness. I despise you.'

She uttered the words like the hiss of a serpent. Savello's eyes
sparkled a little, and his thin lips were drawn rather thinner than
before, but he only sighed, and said gently,--

'You are beside yourself. You should turn to the Consoler of Sorrow.
Watch and pray!'

'What is it you want with me?' she said, taking no notice of his remark.

Savello hesitated, looking at her. She beat her foot impatiently.

'Quick!' she said. 'Tell me, and let me remain in peace. I am sick of
you.'

'I came to offer you consolation, and to bid you be of good faith.'

'Do you think I am a fool? If you have no further business with me--go!'

The priest now had some difficulty in containing himself; his eyes
betrayed him.

'I am a man of peace, and I desire to spill no blood. Therefore I wished
to propose that you should come with me and summon the Castellan to give
up the citadel, which may be the means of avoiding much bloodshed, and
also of gaining the thanks of the Holy Father.'

'I will not help you. Shall I aid you to conquer my own town?'

'You must remember that you are in our hands, fair lady,' he answered
meekly.

'Well?'

'I am a man of peace, but I might not be able to prevent the people from
revenging themselves on you for your refusal. It will be impossible to
hide from them that you are the cause of the holding back of the
citadel.'

'I can well understand that you would hesitate at nothing.'

'It is not I, dear lady--'

'Ah, no; you are the servant of the Pope! It is the will of God!'

'You would be wise to do as we request.'

There was a look of such ferocity in his face that one saw he would
indeed hesitate at nothing. Caterina thought a little....

'Very well,' she said, to my intense surprise, 'I will do my best.'

'You will gain the gratitude of the Holy Father and my own thanks.'

'I put an equal value upon both.'

'And now, madam, I will leave you. Take comfort, and apply yourself to
pious exercises. In prayer you will find a consolation for all your
woes.'

He raised his hand as before, and, with the outstretched fingers,
repeated the blessing.




XXVII


We went to the fortress in solemn procession, the people, as we passed,
mingling shouts of praise for Checco with yells of derision for
Caterina. She walked on with her stately indifference, and when the
protonotary addressed her, repelled him with disdain.

The Castellan was summoned, and the Countess addressed him in the words
which Savello had suggested,--

'As Heaven has taken the Count from me, and also the city, I beg you, by
the confidence I showed in choosing you as Castellan, to surrender this
fortress to the ministers of His Holiness the Pope.'

There was a light tinge of irony in her voice, and her lips showed the
shadow of a smile.

The Castellan replied gravely,--

'By the confidence you showed in choosing me as Castellan, I refuse to
surrender this fortress to the ministers of his Holiness the Pope. And
as Heaven has taken the Count from you, and also the city, it may take
the citadel too, but, by God! madam, no power on earth shall.'

Caterina turned to Savello,--

'What shall I do?'

'Insist.'

She solemnly repeated her request, and he solemnly made his reply.

'It is no good,' she said, 'I know him too well. He thinks I am speaking
under compulsion. He does not know that I am acting of my own will, for
the great love I bear the Pope and the Church.'

'We must have the citadel,' said Savello, emphatically. 'If we do not
get it, I cannot answer for your safety.'

She looked at him; then an idea seemed to occur to her.

'Perhaps if I went in and spoke to him he would consent to surrender.'

'We cannot allow you out of our power,' said Checco.

'You would have my children as hostages.'

'That is true,' mused Savello; 'I think we can let her go.'

Checco disapproved, but the priest overruled him, and the Castellan was
summoned again, and ordered to admit the Countess. Savello warned her,--

'Remember that we hold your children, and shall not hesitate to hang
them before your eyes if--'

'I know your Christian spirit, Monsignor,' she interrupted.

       *       *       *       *       *

But when she was inside she turned to us, and from the ramparts
addressed us with mocking laughter. The fury which had been boiling
within her burst out. She hurled at us words of foul abuse, so that one
might have thought her a fishwife; she threatened us with death, and
every kind of torture, in revenge for the murder of her husband....

We stood looking up at her with open mouths, dumbfounded. A cry of rage
broke from the people; Matteo uttered an oath. Checco looked angrily at
Savello, but said nothing. The priest was furious; his big red face grew
purple, and his eyes glistened like a serpent's.

'Bastard!' he hissed. 'Bastard!'

Trembling with anger, he ordered the children to be sent for, and he
cried out to the Countess,--

'Do not think that we shall hesitate. Your sons shall be hanged before
your very eyes.'

'I have the means of making more,' she replied scornfully.

She was lion-hearted. I could not help feeling admiration for the
extraordinary woman. Surely she could not sacrifice her children! And I
wondered if a man would have had the courage to give that bold answer to
Savello's threats.

Savello's expression had become fiendish. He turned to his assistants.

'Let a double scaffold be erected here, at once and quickly.'

The chiefs of the conspiracy retired to a sheltered place, while the mob
gathered in the piazza; and soon the buzz of many voices mingled with
hammering and the cries of workmen. The Countess stood above looking at
the people, watching the gradual erection of the scaffold.

In a little while its completion was announced. Savello and the others
came forward, and the priest once more asked her whether she would
surrender. She did not deign to answer. The two boys were brought
forward--one was nine, the other seven. As the people looked upon their
youth a murmur of pity passed through them. My own heart began to beat a
little. They looked at the scaffold and could not understand; but
Cesare, the younger, seeing the strange folk round him and the angry
faces, began to cry. Ottaviano was feeling rather tearful too; but his
superior age made him ashamed, and he was making mighty efforts to
restrain himself. All at once Cesare caught sight of his mother, and he
called to her. Ottaviano joined him, and they both cried out,--

'Mother! Mother!'

She looked at them, but made not the slightest motion, she might have
been of stone.... Oh, it was horrible; she was too hard!

'Once more, I ask you,' said Savello, 'will you surrender the castle?'

'No--no!'

Her voice was quite steady, ringing clear as a silver bell.

Savello made a sign, and two men approached the boys. Then suddenly they
seemed to understand; with a shriek they ran to Checco, and, falling at
his feet, clasped his knees. Ottaviano could hold out no longer; he
burst into tears, and his brother, at the elder's weakness, redoubled
his own cries.

'Oh, Checco, don't let them touch us!'

Checco took no notice of them; he looked straight in front of him. And
even when the Count had just fallen under his dagger he had not been so
ghastly pale.... The children were sobbing desperately at his knees. The
men hesitated; but there was no pity in the man of God; he repeated his
sign more decisively than before, and the men advanced. The children
clung to Checco's legs, crying,--

'Checco, don't let them touch us!'

He made no sign. He held his eyes straight in front of him, as if he saw
nothing, heard nothing. But his face! Never have I seen such agony....

The children were torn from him, their hands bound behind their backs.
How could they! My heart was bursting within me, but I dared say
nothing. They were led to the scaffold. A sobbing cry came from the
people and wailed through the heavy air.

The Countess stood still, looking at her children. She made not the
slightest motion; she might have been of stone.

The children cried out,--

'Checco! Checco!'

It was heartbreaking.

'Go on!' said Savello.

A groan burst from Checco, and he swayed to and fro, as if he were going
to fall.

'Go on!' said Savello.

But Checco could not bear it.

'Oh, God! Stop!--stop!'

'What do you mean?' said Savello, angrily. 'Go on!'

'I cannot! Untie them!'

'You fool! I threatened to hang them, and I will. Go on!'

'You shall not! Untie them, I tell you!'

'I am master here. Go on!'

Checco strode towards him with clenched fists.

'By God, Master Priest, you shall go the way you came, if you thwart me.
Untie them!'

In a moment Matteo and I had pushed aside the men who held them, and cut
their cords. Checco staggered towards the children, and they with a
bound threw themselves into his arms. He clasped them to him
passionately, and covered them with kisses. A shout of joy broke from
the people, and many burst into tears.

Suddenly we saw a commotion on the castle walls. The Countess had fallen
back, and men were pressing round her.

She had fainted.




XXVIII


We went home rather troubled. Savello was walking alone, very angry,
with a heavy frown between his eyes, refusing to speak.... Checco was
silent and angry too, half blaming himself for what he had done, half
glad, and Bartolomeo Moratini was by his side, talking to him. Matteo
and I were behind with the children. Bartolomeo fell back and joined us.

'I have been trying to persuade Checco to apologise to Savello, but he
will not.'

'Neither would I,' said Matteo.

'If they quarrel, it will be the worse for the town.'

'If I were Checco, I would say that the town might go to the devil, but
I would not apologise to that damned priest.'

When we reached the Palazzo Orsi a servant came out to meet us, and told
Checco that a messenger was waiting with important news. Checco turned
to Savello, and said gloomily,--

'Will you come? It may need some consultation.'

The protonotary did not answer, but walked sulkily into the house.
After a few minutes, Checco came to us, and said,--

'The Duke of Milan is marching against Forli with five thousand men.'

No one spoke, but the expression on the protonotary's face grew darker.

'It is fortunate we have preserved the children,' said Bartolomeo. 'They
will be more useful to us alive than dead.'

Savello looked at him; and then, as if trying to mend the breach, but
rather against his will, said ungraciously,--

'Perhaps you were right, Checco, in what you did. I did not see at the
moment the political wisdom of your act.'

He could not help the sneer. Checco flushed a little, but on a look from
Bartolomeo answered,--

'I am sorry if I was too quick of tongue. The excitement of the moment
and my temper made me scarcely responsible.'

Checco looked as if it were a very bitter pill he had been forced to
swallow; but the words had a reasonable effect, and the clouds began to
clear away. An earnest discussion was commenced on the future movements.
The first thing was to send for help against the Duke Lodovico. Savello
said he would apply to Rome. Checco counted on Lorenzo de' Medici, and
messengers were forthwith despatched to both. Then it was decided to
gather as much victuals as possible into the town, and fortify the
walls, so that they might be prepared for a siege. As to the citadel, we
knew it was impossible to take it by storm; but it would not be
difficult to starve it into surrender, for on the news of the Count's
death the gates had been shut with such precipitation that the garrison
could not have food for more than two or three days.

Then Checco sent away his wife and children; he tried to persuade his
father to go too, but the Orso said he was too old and would rather die
in his own town and palace than rush about the country in search of
safety. In the troubled days of his youth he had been exiled many times,
and now his only desire was to remain at home in his beloved Forli.

The news of Lodovico's advance threw consternation into the town, and
when cartloads of provisions were brought in, and the fortifications
worked at day and night, the brave citizens began to quake and tremble.
They were going to have a siege and would have to fight, and it was
possible that if they did not sufficiently hide themselves behind the
walls, they might be killed. As I walked through the streets, I noticed
that the whole populace was distinctly paler.... It was as if a cold
wind had blown between their shoulders, and bleached and pinched their
faces. I smiled, and said to them, in myself,--

'You have had the plunder of the Palace and the custom-houses, my
friends, and you liked that very well; now you will have to pay for your
pleasure.'

I admired Checco's wisdom in giving them good reasons for being faithful
to him. I imagined that, if the beneficent rule of the Countess
returned, it would fare ill with those who had taken part in the
looting....

Checco had caused his family to leave the town as secretly as possible;
the preparations had been made with the greatest care, and the departure
effected under cover of night. But it leaked out, and then the care he
had taken in concealing the affair made it more talked of. They asked
why Checco had sent away his wife and children. Was he afraid of the
siege? Did he intend to leave them himself? At the idea of a betrayal,
anger mixed itself with their fear, and they cried out against him! And
why did he want to do it so secretly? Why should he try to conceal it? A
thousand answers were given, and all more or less discreditable to
Checco. His wonderful popularity had taken long enough to reach the
point when he had walked through the streets amidst showers of narcissi;
but it looked as if less days would destroy it than years had built it
up. Already he could walk out without being surrounded by the mob and
carried about in triumph. The shouts of joy had ceased to be a burden to
him; and no one cried 'Pater Patriae' as he passed. Checco pretended to
notice no change, but in his heart it tormented him terribly. The change
had begun on the day of the fiasco at the fortress; people blamed the
leaders for letting the Countess out of their hands, and it was a
perpetual terror to them to have the enemy in their very midst. It would
have been bearable to stand an ordinary siege, but when they had their
own citadel against them, what could they do?

The townspeople knew that help was coming from Rome and Florence, and
the general hope was that the friendly armies would arrive before the
terrible Duke. Strange stories were circulated about Lodovico. People
who had seen him at Milan described his sallow face with the large,
hooked nose and the broad, heavy chin. Others told of his cruelty. It
was notorious that he had murdered his nephew after keeping him a
prisoner for years. They remembered how he had crushed the revolt of a
subject town, hanging in the market-place the whole council, young and
old, and afterwards hunting up everyone suspected of complicity, and
ruthlessly putting them to death, so that a third of the population had
perished. The Forlivesi shuddered, and looked anxiously along the roads
by which the friendly armies were expected.

Lorenzo de' Medici refused to help.

There was almost a tumult in the town when the news was told. He said
that the position of Florence made it impossible for him to send troops
at the present moment, but later he would be able to do whatever we
wished. It meant that he intended to wait and see how things turned out,
without coming to open war with the Duke unless it was certain that
victory would be on our side. Checco was furious, and the people were
furious with Checco. He had depended entirely on the help from Florence,
and when it failed the citizens murmured openly against him, saying that
he had entered into this thing without preparation, without thought of
the future. We begged Checco not to show himself in the town that day,
but he insisted. The people looked at him as he passed, keeping perfect
silence. As yet they neither praised nor blamed, but how long would it
be before they refrained from cursing him they had blessed? Checco
walked through with set face, very pale. We asked him to turn back, but
he refused, slackening his pace to prolong the walk, as if it gave him a
certain painful pleasure to drain the cup of bitterness to the dregs. In
the piazza we saw two councillors talking together; they crossed over to
the other side, pretending not to see us.

Now our only hope was in Rome. The Pope had sent a messenger to say that
he was preparing an army, and bidding us keep steadfast and firm.
Savello posted the notice up in the market-place, and the crowd that
read broke out into praises of the Pope and Savello. And as Checco's
influence diminished Savello's increased; the protonotary began to take
greater authority in the councils, and often he seemed to contradict
Checco for the mere pleasure of overbearing and humiliating him. Checco
became more taciturn and gloomy every day.

But the high spirits of the townsmen sank when it was announced that
Lodovico's army was within a day's march, and nothing had been heard
from Rome. Messengers were sent urging the Pope to hasten his army, or
at least to send a few troops to divert the enemy and encourage the
people. The citizens mounted the ramparts and watched the two roads--the
road that led from Milan and the road that led to Rome. The Duke was
coming nearer and nearer; the peasants began to flock into the town,
with their families, their cattle, and such property as they had been
able to carry with them. They said the Duke was approaching with a
mighty army, and that he had vowed to put all the inhabitants to the
sword to revenge the death of his brother. The fear of the fugitives
spread to the citizens, and there was a general panic. The gates were
closed, and all grown men summoned to arms. Then they began to lament,
asking what inexperienced townsmen could do against the trained army of
the Duke, and the women wept and implored their husbands not to risk
their precious lives; and above all rose the murmur against Checco.

When would the army come from Rome? They asked the country folk, but
they had heard of nothing; they looked and looked, but the road was
empty.

And suddenly over the hills was seen appearing the vanguard of the
Duke's army. The troops wound down into the plain, and others appeared
on the brow of the hills; slowly they marched down and others again
appeared, and others and others, and still they appeared on the summit
and wound down into the plain. They wondered, horror-stricken, how large
the army was--five, ten, twenty thousand men! Would it never end? They
were panic-stricken. At last the whole army descended and halted; there
was a confusion of commands, a rushing hither and thither, a bustling, a
troubling; it looked like a colony of ants furnishing their winter home.
The camp was marked out, entrenchments were made, tents erected, and
Forli was in a state of siege.




XXIX


The night fell and was passed without sleep or rest. The citizens were
gathered together on the walls, talking anxiously, trying to pierce the
darkness to see the rescuing army from Rome. Now and then someone
thought he heard the tramp of cavalry or saw a gleam of armour, and then
they stood still, holding their breaths, listening. But they heard
nothing, saw nothing.... Others were assembled in the piazza, and with
them a crowd of women and children; the churches were full of women
praying and weeping. The night seemed endless. At last a greater
chilliness of the air told them that the dawn was at hand; gradually the
darkness seemed to thin away into a cold pallor, and above a bank of
cloud in the east appeared a sickly light. More anxiously than ever our
eyes turned towards Rome; the mist hid the country from us, but some of
the watchers thought they saw a black mass, far away. They pointed it
out to the others, and all watched eagerly; but the black mass grew
neither larger nor clearer nor nearer; and as great yellow rays shot up
above the clouds, and the sun rose slowly, we saw the road stretched out
before us, and it was empty, empty, empty.

It was almost a sob that burst from them, and moaningly they asked when
help was coming. At that moment a man ascended the ramparts and told us
that the protonotary had received a letter from the Pope, in which he
informed him that relief was on the way. A cheer broke from us. At last!

The siege began in earnest with a simultaneous attack on the four gates
of the town, but they were well defended, and the enemy easily beaten
off. But all at once we heard a great sound of firing, and shouts, and
shrieks, and we saw flames burst from the roof of a house. In our
thought of Lodovico we had forgotten the enemy in our midst, and a
terrible panic broke out when it was found that the citadel had opened
fire. The Castellan had turned his cannon on the houses surrounding the
fortress, and the damage was terrible. The inhabitants hurried out for
their lives, taking with them their chattels and fled to safer parts of
the town. One house had been set on fire and for a while we feared that
others would catch and a general conflagration be added to our woes.
People said it was a visitation of God; they talked of Divine vengeance
for the murder of the Count, and when Checco hurried to the scene of the
fire they did not care to restrain themselves any longer, but broke out
into yells and hisses. Afterwards, when the flames had been extinguished
and Checco was passing through the piazza, they surrounded him, hooting,
and would not let him pass.

'Curs!' he hissed, looking at them furiously, with clenched fists. Then,
as if unable to contain himself he drew his sword, shouting,--

'Let me pass!'

They shrank back and he went his way. But immediately he had gone the
storm redoubled, and the place rang with their cries.

'By God,' said Checco, 'how willingly I would turn the cannon on them
and mow them down like grass!'

They were the first words he had said of the change of feeling....

It was the same with us, when we walked through the streets--Matteo and
I and the Moratini--they hissed and groaned at us. And a week before
they would have licked our boots and kissed the ground we trod on!

The bombardment continued, outside and in, and it was reported through
the town that Lodovico had vowed to sack the place and hang every third
citizen. They knew he was the man to keep his word. The murmurs began to
grow even louder, and voices were heard suggesting a surrender.... It
had occurred to all of them, and when the most timid, driven to boldness
by their fear, spoke the word, they looked at one another guiltily. They
gathered together in little knots, talking in undertones, suspicious,
stopping suddenly if they saw near anyone who was known to be in favour
of the party of Liberty. They discussed how to make terms for
themselves; some suggested giving up the town unconditionally, others
proposed an agreement. At last they spoke of appeasing the Duke by
handing over to him the seventeen conspirators who had planned the
murder of Girolamo. The thought frightened them at first, but they soon
became used to it. They said the Orsi had really had no thought of the
common good, but it was for their private ends that they had killed the
Count and brought this evil on the town. They railed against Checco for
making them suffer for his own ambition; they had lauded him to the
skies for refusing the sovereignty, but now they said he had only
feigned, and that he intended to seize the city at the first good
opportunity. And as to the others, they had helped for greed and petty
malice. As they talked they grew more excited, and soon they said it
would only be justice to hand over to the Duke the authors of their
troubles.

The day passed, and the second night, but there were no signs of the
help from Rome.

Another night passed by and still nothing came; the dawn, and the road
was as empty as before.

And the fourth night came and went and still there was nothing. Then a
great discouragement fell upon the people; the army was on the way, but
why did it not arrive? Suddenly here and there people were heard asking
about the letter from the Pope. No one had seen the messenger. How had
it come? And a horrible suspicion seized the people, so that they rushed
to the Palazzo Orsi, asking for Savello. As soon as he appeared they
broke out clamorously.

'Show us the letter!'

Savello refused! They insisted; they asked for the messenger who had
brought it. Savello said he had been sent back. None of us had seen
letter or messenger; the suspicion seized us too, and Checco asked,--

'Is there a letter?'

Savello looked at him for a moment, and answered,--

'No!'

'Oh God, why did you say there was?'

'I felt sure the army was on the way. I wanted to give them confidence.'

'You fool! Now they will believe nothing. You fool, you have muddled
everything!'

'It is you! You told me that the city was firm for the Pope.'

'So it was till you came with your lies and your treacheries.'

Savello closed his fist, and I thought he was going to strike Checco. A
yell burst from the people.

'The letter! the messenger!'

Checco sprang to the window.

'There is no letter! The protonotary has lied to you. No help is coming
from Rome nor from Florence!'

The people yelled again, and another cry arose,--

'Surrender! Surrender!'

'Surrender at your pleasure,' shouted Checco, 'but do not think that the
Duke will forgive you for stripping the Count and insulting his body and
sacking his Palace.'

Savello was standing alone, struck dumb in his rage. Checco turned to
him and smiled mockingly.




XXX


Next day there was a secret meeting of the council, of which neither
Checco nor his friends knew anything. But it leaked out that they had
been discussing terms which Lodovico had offered. And the Duke's
proposal was that Riario's children should be surrendered to him and the
town ruled by a commission, appointed partly by him, partly by the
Forlivesi. About mid-day a servant came and told us that Niccolo
Tornielli and the other members of the council were below, seeking
admission. Checco went down, and as soon as he saw him Niccolo said,--

'Checco, we have decided that it will be better for us to have charge of
the children of Count Girolamo; and therefore we have come to summon you
to give them into our hands.'

Checco's answer was short and pointed.

'If that is all you came for, Niccolo, you can go.' ...

At this Antonio Sassi broke in,--

'We shall not go without the children.'

'I imagine that depends on me; and I intend to keep the children.'

'Take care, Checco; remember that you are not our master.'

'And who are you, Antonio, I should like to know?'

'I am a member of the council of Forli, just as you are; no more, no
less.'

'No,' said Checco, furiously; 'I will tell you whom you are. You are the
miserable cur who pandered to the tyrant and helped him to oppress the
people which I liberated; and the people spat upon you! You are the
miserable cur who fawned upon me when I had killed the tyrant, and in
your slavish adulation you proposed to make me ruler in his stead; and I
spat upon you! And now you are afraid again and you are trying to make
peace with the Duke by betraying me, and it is from you that come the
propositions to give me up to Lodovico. That is what you are! Look at
yourself and be proud!'

Antonio was about to give a heated answer, but Niccolo interrupted him.

'Be quiet, Antonio! Now, Checco, let us have the children.'

'I will not, I tell you! I saved their lives, and they are mine by
right. They are mine because I killed the Count; because I took them
prisoners; because I hold them; and because they are necessary for my
safety.'

'They are necessary for our safety, too, and we, the council of Forli,
summon you, Checco d'Orsi, to surrender them.'

'And I, Checco d'Orsi, refuse!'

'Then we shall take them by force.'

Niccolo and Antonio stepped forward. Checco whipped out his sword.

'By God, I swear I will kill the first man who crosses this threshold!'

Gradually the people had collected, till behind the councillors there
was a formidable crowd. They watched with eagerness the dispute, hailing
with joy the opportunity of humiliating their old hero. They had broken
out in mocking laughter while Checco was railing at Antonio, now they
shouted,--

'The children! Surrender the children!'

'I will not, I tell you!'

They began to hoot and hiss, calling Checco foul names, accusing him of
causing all their troubles, naming him tyrant and usurper. Checco stood
looking at them, trembling with rage. Niccolo stepped forward once more.

'Give them up, Checco, or it will be the worse for you.'

'Advance one step further and I will kill you!'

The people grew suddenly exasperated; a shower of stones fell on us, and
one, striking Checco, caused a long streak of blood to flow down his
forehead.

'Give us the children! Give us the children!'

'We will call the guard,' said Antonio.

'The children!' shouted the mob. 'He will kill them. Take them from
him.'

There was a rush from behind; the councillors and their supporters were
driven forward; they were met by our drawn swords; in another moment it
would have been too late, and against two hundred we should have been
helpless. Suddenly Bartolomeo appeared at the head of the great
staircase with the boys.

'Stop!' he cried. 'Here are the children. Stop!'

Checco turned round to him.

'I will not have them given up. Take them away!'

'I have never asked you anything before, Checco,' said Bartolomeo; 'I
have always done as you commanded; but this time I implore you to give
way.'

I joined my words to his.

'You must give way. We shall all be massacred.'

Checco stood for a moment undecided, then, without speaking, he turned
into a room looking on the court. We took it for consent, and Bartolomeo
handed the frightened children to the councillors. A shout of joy broke
from the people and they marched off with their prize in triumph....

I sought Checco and found him alone. As he heard the shouts of the
people, a sob came from him in the misery of his humiliation.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Jacopo Ronchi and the two sons of Bartolomeo were sent out to
discover what was going on. We could not think what had driven the
council to their step; but we felt sure they must have good reasons for
acting so courageously. We felt also that we had lost all power, all
hope. The wheel had turned, and now we were at the bottom. After several
hours, Alessandro Moratini came back and said,--

'The council has been meeting again, and it has been receiving
messengers; but that is all I know. Everyone looks upon me with an evil
eye and becomes silent at my approach. I ask questions and they say
they know nothing, have seen nothing, heard nothing.'

'Brutes!' said Matteo.

'And for these people we risked our lives and fortunes!' said
Bartolomeo.

Checco looked at him curiously; and, like him, I thought of our
disinterestedness! Alessandro, having given his news, filled a glass
with wine and sat down. We all kept silence. The time went on, and the
afternoon began to close; the hours seemed interminable. At last Jacopo
Ronchi came panting.

'I have discovered everything,' he said. 'The council has resolved to
surrender the town to the Duke, who promises, in return for the
children, to forgive everything and allow them to rule themselves, with
half the council appointed by him.'

We sprang up with a cry.

'I will not allow it,' said Checco.

'If the conspirators make any disturbance, they are to be outlawed and a
price set upon their heads.'

'How far have the negotiations gone?' I asked.

'The messengers have been sent to the Duke now.'

'In that case there is no time to lose,' I said.

'What do you mean?' said Checco.

'We must escape.'

'Escape!'

'Or we shall be taken alive; and you know what to expect from Caterina
and Lodovico. Do not think of their promises of pardon.'

'I put no trust in their promises,' said Checco, bitterly.

'Filippo is right,' said Bartolomeo. 'We must escape.'

'And quickly!' I said.

'I cannot throw up the game,' said Checco. 'And without me, what will
happen to my supporters?'

'They may find forgiveness in submission. But you can do no good here.
If you are in safety, you may be of some assistance. Anyhow, you will
have life.'

Checco buried his face in his hands.

'I cannot, I cannot.'

The Moratini and I insisted. We adduced every argument. Finally he
consented.

'We must go together,' I said; 'we may have to fight our way through.'

'Yes,' said Scipione. 'Let us meet at the gate by the river--at two.'

'But go there separately. If the people find we are attempting to
escape, they will set upon us.'

'I wish they would,' said Matteo. 'It would give me such satisfaction to
put my sword into half a score of their fat bellies!'

'There is no moon.'

'Very well; at two!'

       *       *       *       *       *

The night was cloudy, and if there had been a moon, it would have been
covered. A thin, cold rain was falling, and it was pitch dark. When I
got to the river gate, four or five of them were already there. We felt
too cold and miserable to speak; we sat on our horses, waiting. As new
arrivals came, we peered into their faces, and then, on recognising
them, bent back and sat on silently. We were all there but Checco. We
waited for a time. At last Bartolomeo Moratini whispered to Matteo,--

'Where did you leave Checco?'

'In the house. He told me to go on, saying he would follow shortly. Two
horses were saddled besides mine.'

'Whom was the second for?'

'I don't know!'

We waited on. The rain fell thin and cold. It struck half-past two.
Immediately afterwards, we heard the sound of hoofs, and through the
mist saw a black form coming towards us.

'Is it you, Checco?' we whispered, for the guard of the gate might have
heard us. We were standing in a little plot of waste ground, ten yards
from the walls.

'I cannot go with you,' said Checco.

'Why?' we cried.

'Ssh!' said Checco. 'I intended to bring my father, but he will not
come.'

None of us had thought of old Orso Orsi.

'He says he is too old, and will not leave his native town. I did all I
could to persuade him, but he bade me go, and said they would not dare
to touch him. I cannot leave him; therefore go, all of you, and I will
remain.'

'You must come, Checco; without you we are helpless.'

'And what of your wife and children?'

'Your presence will exasperate the tyrants. You can do no good, only
harm.'

'I cannot leave my father unprotected.'

'I will stay, Checco,' I said. 'I am not well known as you are. I will
take care of your father, and you can watch over your family and your
interests in safety.'

'No, you must go. It is too dangerous for you.'

'Not half so dangerous as for you. I will do my best to preserve him.
Let me stay.'

'Yes,' said the others, 'let Filippo stay. He may escape detection, but
you would have no chance.'

The clock struck three.

'Come, come; it is getting late. We must be thirty miles away before
daybreak.'

We had already arranged to go to Citta di Castello, which was my native
place, and in case of accident I had given them letters, so that they
might be housed and protected for the present.

'We must have you, Checco, or we will all stay.'

'You will take care of him?' said Checco to me at last.

'I swear it!'

'Very well! Good-bye, Filippo, and God bless you!'

They advanced to the gate, and Checco summoned the captain.

'Open the gate,' he said shortly.

The captain looked at them undecisively. I stood behind in the shade, so
that I could not be seen.

'If you make a sound, we will kill you,' said Checco.

They drew their swords. He hesitated, and Checco repeated,--

'Open the gate!'

Then he brought out the heavy keys; the locks were turned, the gate
growled on its hinges, and one by one they filed out. Then the gate
swung back behind them. I heard a short word of command, and the
clatter of horses' hoofs. I put the spurs to my own, and galloped back
into the town.

In half an hour the bells were ringing furiously; and it was announced
from house to house that the conspirators had fled and the town was
free.




XXXI


In the morning the council met again and resolved that the town should
return to its old obedience, and by surrendering without conditions
hoped to receive pardon for its offences. Lodovico Moro entered in
triumph, and going to the fortress was received by Caterina, who came
forth from the citadel and with him proceeded to the cathedral to hear
mass. The good Forlivesi were getting used to ovations; as the Countess
passed through the streets they received her with acclamation, thronging
the road on each side, blessing her, and her mother, and all her
ancestors. She went her way as indifferent as when she had crossed the
same streets a few days back amid the execrations of her faithful
subjects. The keen observers noticed the firm closing of her mouth,
which boded no particular good to the Forlivesi, and consequently
redoubled their shouts of joy.

The protonotary Savello had mysteriously disappeared when the news of
Checco's flight had been brought him; but Caterina was soon informed
that he had taken refuge in a Dominican monastery. A light smile broke
over her lips as she remarked,--

'One would rather have expected him to take refuge in a convent.'

Then she sent people to him to assure him of her good will and beg him
to join her. The good man turned pale at the invitation, but he dared
not refuse it. So, comforting himself with the thought that she dared
not harm the legate of the Pope, he clothed himself in all his courage
and his most gorgeous robes, and proceeded to the cathedral.

When she saw him she lifted up two fingers and said solemnly,--

'The peace of God be upon you!'

Then, before he could recover himself, she went on,--

'Sir, it has always been my hope that I should some day meet the
gentleman whose fame has reached me as the most talented, most beautiful
and most virtuous of his day.'

'Madam--' he interrupted.

'Sir, I beseech you bravely to bear your evil fortunes. Do you not know
that fortune is uncertain? If the city has been taken from you, it is
the will of God, and as a Christian you must with resignation submit
yourself to His decrees.'

It was the beginning of her revenge, and one could see how sweet it was.
The courtiers were sniggering at Caterina's speech, and Savello was the
picture of discomfort.

'Messer Savello,' she proceeded, 'on a previous meeting you made me some
very excellent admonitions on the will of God; now, notwithstanding
your order, I am going to be so bold as to give you some equally
excellent lessons on the same subject. If you will take your place by my
side, you will have every opportunity of examining the ways of the
Almighty, which, as you may remember you remarked, are inscrutable.'

Savello bowed and advanced to the place pointed out to him.




XXXII


The first thing I had done on returning to the Palazzo Orsi was to strip
myself of my purple and fine linen, shave my beard and moustache, cut my
hair short, put on the clothes of a serving-man, and look at myself in a
mirror. If I had met in the street the image I saw I should have passed
on without recognising it. Still I was not dissatisfied with myself, and
I smiled as I thought that it would not be too extraordinary if a lady's
wench lost her heart to such a serving-man.

I went to the old Orso's apartments, and found everything quiet; I lay
down on a couch outside the doors and tried to sleep; but my thoughts
troubled me. My mind was with the sad horsemen galloping through the
night, and I wondered what the morrow had in store for them and me. I
knew a price would be set upon my head, and I had to remain here in the
midst of my enemies as the only protection of an old man of eighty-five.

In a little while I heard the bells which told the town that the
conspirators had fled, and at last I fell into a restless sleep. At six
I was awakened by a hurry and bustle in the house.... The servants told
one another that Checco had gone, and the Countess would come out of the
fortress in a little while; and then God only knew what would happen.
They cowered about, whispering, taking no notice of the new serving-man
who had appeared in the night. They said that the Palace would be given
over to the vengeance of the people, that the servants would suffer
instead of the master; and soon one of them gave the signal; he said he
would not stay, and since his wages had not been paid he would take them
with him. He filled his pockets with such valuables as he could find,
and going down a back staircase slid out of a little side door and was
lost in the labyrinth of streets. The others were quick to follow his
example, and the Palace was subjected to a looting in miniature; the old
steward stood by, wringing his hands, but they paid no attention to him,
thinking only of their safety and their pockets. Before the sun had had
time to clear away the early mists, they had all fled; and besides the
old man, the house contained only the white-haired steward, a boy of
twenty, his nephew, and myself; and Checco had been such a sweet and
gentle master!

We went in to the old Orso. He was seated in a large arm-chair by the
fireside, huddled up in a heavy dressing-gown. He had sunk his head down
in his collar to keep warm, so that one could only see the dead eyes,
the nose, and the sunken, wrinkled cheeks; a velvet cap covered his hair
and forehead. He was holding his long, shrivelled hands to the fire, and
the flames almost shone through them; they trembled incessantly. He
looked up at the sound of our entrance.

'Ah, Pietro!' he said to the steward. Then, after a pause, 'Where is
Fabrizio?'

Fabrizio was the servant in whose particular charge the Orso had been
put, and the old man had become so fond of him that he would take food
only from his hand, and insisted on having him near at every moment of
the day. He had been among the first to fill his pockets and decamp.

'Why does not Fabrizio come?' he asked querulously. 'Tell him I want
him. I will not be neglected in this way.'

Pietro did not know what to answer. He looked about him in
embarrassment.

'Why does not Fabrizio come? Now that Checco is master here, they
neglect me. It is scandalous. I shall talk to Checco about it. Where is
Fabrizio? Tell him to come immediately on pain of my displeasure.'

His voice was so thin and weak and trembling it was like that of a
little child ill with some fever. I saw that Pietro had nothing to say,
and Orso was beginning to moan feebly.

'Fabrizio has been sent away,' I said, 'and I have been put in his
place.'

Pietro and his nephew looked at me. They noticed for the first time that
my face was new, and they glanced at one another with upraised brows.

'Fabrizio sent away! Who sent him away? I won't have him sent away.'

'Checco sent him away.'

'Checco had no right to send him away. I am master here. They treat me
as if I were a child. It is shameful! Where is Fabrizio? I will not have
it, I tell you. It is shameful! I shall speak to Checco about it. Where
is Checco?'

None of us answered.

'Why don't you answer when I speak to you? Where is Checco?'

He raised himself in his chair and bent forward to look at us, then he
fell back.

'Ah, I remember now,' he murmured. 'Checco has gone. He wanted me to go
too. But I am too old, too old, too old. I told Checco what it would be.
I know the Forlivesi; I have known them for eighty years. They are more
fickle and cowardly than any other people in this cesspool which they
call God's earth. I have been an exile fourteen times. Fourteen times I
have fled from the city, and fourteen times I have returned. Ah yes, I
have lived the life in my time, but I am tired now. I don't want to go
out again; and besides, I am so old. I might die before I returned, and
I want to die in my own house.'

He looked at the fire, murmuring his confidences to the smouldering
ashes. Then he seemed to repeat his talk with Checco.

'No, Checco, I will not come. Go alone. They will not touch me. I am
Orso Orsi. They will not touch me; they dare not. Go alone, and give my
love to Clarice.'

Clarice was Checco's wife. He kept silence for a while, then he broke
out again,--

'I want Fabrizio.'

'Will I not do instead?' I asked.

'Who are you?'

I repeated patiently,--

'I am the servant placed here to serve you instead of Fabrizio. My name
is Fabio.'

'Your name is Fabio?' he asked, looking at me.

'Yes.'

'No, it is not! Why do you tell me your name is Fabio? I know your face.
You are not a serving-man.'

'You are mistaken,' I said.

'No, no. You are not Fabio. I know your face. Who are you?'

'I am Fabio.'

'Who are you?' he asked again querulously. 'I cannot remember whom you
are. Why don't you tell me? Can't you see that I am an old man? Why
don't you tell me?'

His voice broke into the moan, and I thought he would cry. He had only
seen me twice, but among his few visitors the faces of those he saw
remained with him, and he recognised me partly.

'I am Filippo Brandolini,' I said. 'I have remained here to look after
you and see that no harm happens. Checco wished to stay himself, but we
insisted on his going.'

'Oh, you are a gentleman,' he answered. 'I am glad of that.'

Then, as if the talk had tired him, he sank deeper down in his chair and
fell into a dose.

I sent Andrea, the steward's nephew, to see what was happening in the
town, and Pietro and I sat in the large window talking in undertones.
Suddenly Pietro stopped and said,--

'What is that?'

We both listened. A confused roar in the distance; it resembled the
raging of the sea very far away. I opened the window and looked out. The
roar became louder, louder, and at last we discovered that it was the
sound of many voices.

'What is it?' asked Pietro again.

There was a scrambling up the stairs, the noise of running feet. The
door was burst violently open, and Andrea rushed in.

'Save yourselves!' he cried. 'Save yourselves!'

'What is it?'

'They are coming to sack the Palace. The Countess has given them leave,
and the whole populace is up.'

The roar increased, and we could distinctly hear the shouting.

'Be quick!' cried Andrea. 'For God's sake be quick! They will be here in
a moment!'

I looked to the door, and Pietro, seeing my thoughts, said,--

'Not that way! Here is another door which leads along a passage into a
side street.'

He lifted the tapestry and showed a tiny door, which he opened. I ran to
old Orso and shook him.

'Wake up!' I said; 'wake up and come with me!'

'What is it?' he asked.

'Never mind; come with me!'

I took his arm and tried to lift him out of his chair, but he caught
hold of the handles and would not stir.

'I will not move,' he said. 'What is it?'

'The mob is coming to sack the Palace, and if they find you here they
will kill you.'

'I will not move. I am Orso Orsi. They dare not touch me.'

'Be quick! be quick!' screamed Andrea from the window. 'The first of
them have appeared in the street. In a moment they will be here.'

'Quick! quick!' cried Pietro.

Now the roar had got so loud that it buzzed in one's ears, and every
instant it grew louder.

'Be quick! be quick!'

'You must come,' I said, and Pietro joined his prayers to my commands,
but nothing would move the old man.

'I tell you I will not fly. I am the head of my house. I am Orso Orsi. I
will not fly like a dog before the rabble.'

'For your son's sake--for our sake,' I implored. 'We shall be killed
with you.'

'You may go. The door is open for you. I will stay alone.'

He seemed to have regained his old spirit. It was as if a last flame
were flickering up.

'We will not leave you,' I said. 'I have been put by Checco to protect
you, and if you are killed I must be killed too. Our only chance is to
fly.'

'Quick! quick!' cried Andrea. 'They are nearly here!'

'Oh, master, master,' cried Pietro, 'accept the means he offers you!'

'Be quick! be quick!'

'Would you have me slink down a back passage, like a thief, in my own
house? Never!'

'They have reached the doors,' cried Andrea.

The noise was deafening below. The gates had been closed, and we heard a
thunder of blows; stones were thrown, sticks beaten against the iron;
then they seemed to take some great instrument and pound against the
locks. Again and again the blows were repeated, but at last there was a
crash. A mighty shout broke from the people, and we heard a rush. I
sprang to the door of the Orso's room and locked and bolted it, then,
calling the others to help me, I dragged a heavy chest against it. We
placed another chest on the first, and dragged the bedstead up, pushing
it against the chests.

We were only just in time, for, like water rushing at once through every
crevice, the mob surged up and filled every corner of the house. They
came to our door and pushed it. To their surprise it did not open.
Outside someone cried,--

'It's locked!'

The hindrance excited them, and the crowd gathered greater outside.

'Break it open,' they cried.

Immediately heavy blows thundered down on the lock and handle.

'For God's sake, come,' I said, turning to Orso. He did not answer.
There was no time to lose, and I could not conquer his obstinacy.

'Then I shall force you,' I cried, catching hold of both his arms and
dragging him from the chair. He held on as tight as he could, but his
strength was nothing against mine. I caught hold of him, and was lifting
him in my arms when the door was burst open. The rush of people threw
down the barricade, and the crowd surged into the room. It was too late.
I made a rush for the little door with Orso, but I could not get to it.
They crowded round me with a shout.

'Take him,' I cried to Pietro, 'while I defend you.'

I drew my sword, but immediately a bludgeon fell on it and it smashed in
two. I gave a shout and rushed at my assailants, but it was hopeless. I
felt a crushing blow on my head. I sank down insensible.




XXXIII


When I opened my eyes I found myself on a bed in a darkened room. By my
side was sitting a woman. I looked at her, and wondered who she was.

'Who the devil are you?' I asked, somewhat impolitely.

At the words someone else stepped forward and bent over me. I recognised
Andrea; then I recollected what had occurred.

'Where is the Orso?' I asked. 'Is he safe?'

'Do you feel better?' he said.

'I am all right. Where is the Orso?' I tried to sit up, but my head
swam. I felt horribly sick and sank back.

'What is the matter?' I moaned.

'Only a broken head,' said Andrea, with a little smile. 'If you had been
a real serving-man, instead of a fine gentleman masquerading, you
wouldn't think twice about it.'

'Have pity on my infirmities, dear boy,' I murmured faintly. 'I don't
pretend that my head is as wooden as yours.'

Then he explained.

'When you were beaten down they made a rush for the old master and bore
him off.'

'Oh!' I cried. 'I promised Checco to look after him. What will he
think!'

'It was not your fault.' At the same time he renewed the bandages round
my head and put cooling lotions on.

'Good boy!' I said, as I enjoyed the cold water on my throbbing head.

'When I saw the blows come down on your head, and you fall like a stone,
I thought you were killed. With you soft-headed people one never knows!'

'It appears to amuse you,' I said. 'But what happened afterwards?'

'In the excitement of their capture they paid no attention to us, and my
uncle and I dragged you through the little door, and eventually carried
you here. You are a weight!'

'And where am I?'

'In my mother's house, where you are requested to stay as long as it
suits your convenience.'

'And Orso?'

'My uncle went out to see, and reports that they have put him in prison.
As yet no harm has been done him. The palace has been sacked; nothing
but the bare walls remain.'

At that moment Pietro came in panting.

'Two of the conspirators have been taken.'

'My God, not Checco or Matteo!'

'No; Pietro Albanese and Marco Scorsacana.'

'How did the others escape?'

'I don't know. All I heard was that the horse of Marco broke down, and
Pietro refused to leave him. At a village close to the frontier Pietro
was recognised, and they were both arrested and sent here for the sake
of the reward.'

'My God!'

'They were brought into the town on asses, with their hands tied behind
their backs, and the mob yelled with derision, and threw stones and
refuse at them.'

'And now?'

'They have been taken to the prison, and--'

'Well?'

'The execution is to take place to-morrow.'

I groaned. Pietro Albanese and Marco had been like Damon and Pythias. I
shuddered as I thought of the fate in store for them. They had been
conspicuous in their hatred of the Count, and it was they who had helped
to throw the body into the piazza. I knew there would be no forgiveness
in Caterina's heart, and all the night I wondered what vengeance she was
meditating.




XXXIV


Next day I insisted on getting up. Andrea helped me to dress, and we
went out together.

'No one would mistake you for a gentleman to-day,' he laughed.

My clothes were shabby enough in the first instance, and in the scuffle
of the previous day they had received usage which did not improve them;
moreover, I had a two days' beard, and my head muffled up in bandages,
so that I could well imagine that my appearance was not attractive. But
I was too sore at heart to smile at his remark, or make retort. I could
not help thinking of the terrible scene which awaited us.

We found the piazza crowded. Opposite the Riario Palace was erected a
stage on which were seats, but these were empty. The sky was blue, the
sun shone merrily on the people, and the air was soft and warm. Nature
was full of peace and goodwill; but in men's hearts was lust of
blood.... A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of Caterina and
her suite. Amid ringing cheers she entered the square, accompanied by
her half-brother, the Duke of Milan, and by the Protonotary Savello.
They took their seats on the platform, the Duke on her right, Savello on
her left. She turned to the priest and talked most amiably to him; he
smiled and bowed, but his agitation was shown by the twitching of his
hands fidgeting with the lappet of his cloak.

A beating of drums was heard, followed by a sudden silence. A guard of
soldiers entered the piazza, tramping steadily with heavy footsteps;
then two steps behind them a single figure, without a doublet, hatless,
his shirt all torn, his hands tied behind his back. It was Marco
Scorsacana. The foul mob broke out into a yell at the sight of him; he
walked slowly, but with his head proudly erect, paying no heed to the
hooting and hissing which rang in his ears. On each side walked a
barefooted monk, bearing a crucifix.... He was followed by another troop
of soldiers, and after them came another bare-headed figure, his hands
also tied behind his back; but he kept his head bent over his chest and
his eyes fixed on the ground, shrinking at the yells of derision. Poor
Pietro! He, too, was accompanied by the solemn monks; the procession was
finished by the drummers, beating their drums incessantly, maddeningly.

They advanced to the platform, and there, the soldiers falling back, the
prisoners were left standing before their judges.

'Marco Scorsacana and Pietro Albanese,' said the Countess, in a clear,
calm voice, 'you have been found guilty of murder and treason; and as it
was you who cast the body of my dear husband out of the Palace window
on to the hard stones of the piazza, so you are sentenced to be hanged
from that same window, and your bodies cast down on to the hard stones
of the piazza.'

A murmur of approval came from the populace. Pietro winced, but Marco
turned to him and said something which I could not hear; but I saw the
glance of deep affection, and the answering smile of Pietro as he seemed
to take courage.

The Countess turned to Savello.

'Do you not agree that the judgment is just?'

'Most just!' he whispered.

'The protonotary says, "Most just!"' she called aloud, so that all
should hear. The man winced.

Marco looked at him scornfully, and said, 'I would ten times rather be
in my place than in yours.'

The Countess smiled at the priest and said, 'You see, I carry out the
will of God in doing unto others as they themselves have done.'

She made a sign, and the two men were led to the Palace and up the
stairs. The window of the Hall of Nymphs was thrown open, and a beam
thrust out, to which was attached a rope. Pietro appeared at the window,
with one end of the rope round his neck.

'Good-bye, sweet friend,' he said to Marco.

'Good-bye, Pietrino,' and Marco kissed him.

Then two men hurled him from the sill, and he swung in mid-air; a
horrible movement passed through his body, and it swayed from side to
side. There was a pause; a man stretched out with a sword and cut the
rope. From the people came a huge shout, and they caught the body as it
fell and tore it to pieces. In a few minutes Marco appeared at the
window, but he boldly sprang out into space, needing no help. In a
little while he was a hanging corpse, and in a little while more the mob
had fallen on him like wolves. I hid my face in my hands. It was awful!
Oh, God! Oh, God!

Then another beating of drums broke through the tumult. I looked up,
wondering what was coming. A troop of soldiers entered the square, and
after them an ass led by a fool with bells and bauble; on the ass was a
miserable old man, Orso Orsi.

'Oh,' I groaned. 'What are they going to do to him?'

A shout of laughter burst from the mob, and the clown flourished his
bauble and bowed acknowledgments from side to side. A halt was made
before the stage, and Caterina spoke again.

'Orso Orsi. You have been sentenced to see your palace destroyed before
your eyes--stone by stone.'

The people shouted, and a rush was made for the Orsi Palace. The old man
said nothing and showed no sign of hearing or feeling. I hoped that all
sensation had left him. The procession moved on until it came to the old
house, which stood already like a wreck, for the pillagers had left
nothing which could be moved. Then the work began, and stone by stone
the mighty building was torn to pieces. Orso looked on indifferently at
the terrible work, for no greater humiliation can be offered to the
Italian nobleman than this. The Orso Palace had stood three hundred
years, and the most famous architects, craftsmen and artists had worked
on it. And now it was gone.

The old man was brought back into the piazza, and once more the cruel
woman spoke.

'You have received punishment for yourself, Orso, and now you are to
receive punishment for your son. Make room!'

And the soldiers, repeating her words, cried,--

'Make room!'

The people were pushed and hustled back till they were crammed against
the house walls, leaving in the centre an enormous empty space. Then a
flourish of trumpets, and the people made an opening at the end of the
square to allow the passage of a horse and man, the horse--a huge black
stallion--prancing and plunging, and on each side a man was holding the
bridle. On his back sat a big man, dressed all in flaming red, and a red
hood covered his head and face, leaving two apertures for the eyes. A
horrified whisper ran round the square.

'The hangman!'

In the centre of the piazza he stopped. Caterina addressed the Orso.

'Have you anything to say, Orso Orsi?'

At last he seemed to hear, he looked at her and then, with all the
strength he had, hurled the word at her,--

'Bastard!'

She flushed angrily and made a sign. Two men seized the old man and
dragged him off the mule; they caught hold of his legs, throwing him to
the ground, and with a thick rope tied his ankles together.

At this I understood. I was seized with sudden horror, and I cried out.
Obeying a sudden impulse, I started forward; I don't know what I was
going to do; I felt I must protect him or die with him. I started
forward, but Andrea threw his arms round me and held me back.

'Let me go,' I said, struggling.

'Don't be a fool!' he whispered. 'What can you do against all these?'

It was no use; I gave way. Oh, God! that I should stand by and see this
awful thing and be utterly powerless. I wondered the people could suffer
this last atrocity; I thought they must scream and rush to save the
wretched man. But they watched--they watched eagerly....

By his feet they dragged him to the horse, and the end of the rope round
his ankles they tied to the horse's tail and about the rider's waist.

'Ready?' cried the hangman.

'Yes!' answered the soldiers.

They all sprang back; the hangman dug the spurs into his horse. The
people gave a huge shout, and the fiery beast went careering round the
square at full tilt. The awful burden dragging behind terrified him, and
with head strained forward and starting eyes he galloped madly. The mob
urged him on with cries, and his rider dug the spurs in deeply; the
pavement was scattered with blood.

God knows how long the wretched man lived. I hope he died at once. At
last the brute's furious career was stopped, the ropes were cut, the
corpse fell back, and, the people again making passage, horse and rider
disappeared. In the middle of the piazza, in a pool of blood, lay a
shapeless mass. It was ordered that it should be left there till
nightfall as an example to evildoers.

Andrea wanted to come away, but I insisted on staying to see what
happened more. But it was the end, for Caterina turned to Savello and
said,--

'I do not forget that all power comes from God, Monsignor, and I wish
solemnly to render thanks to the Divine Majesty, who has saved me, my
children and the State. Therefore, I shall order a grand procession
which shall march round the town and afterwards hear mass at the
cathedral.'

'It shows, madam,' replied Savello, 'that you are a pious and truly
Christian woman.'




XXXV


When it was night and the piazza deserted, Andrea and I and the old
steward went out and made our way to the place where the horrible corpse
was lying. We wrapped it in a long black cloth and took it up silently,
bearing it to the church where for generations the Orsi had been buried.
A dark-robed monk met us in the nave and led the way to a door, which he
opened; then, as if frightened, left us. We found ourselves in the
cloisters. We laid the body down under an arch and advanced into the
centre, where was a plot of green scattered over with little crosses. We
took spades and began to dig; a thin rain drizzled down and the ground
was stiff and clayey. It was hard work and I sweated; I took off my coat
and allowed the rain to fall on me unprotected; I was soon wet to the
skin. Silently Andrea and I turned up the soil, while Pietro, beneath
the cloisters, watched by the body and prayed. We were knee deep now,
and still we threw up heavy spadefuls of clay. At last I said,--

'It is enough.'

We climbed out and went to the body. We took it up and bore it to the
grave, and reverently we laid it in. Pietro placed a crucifix on the old
master's breast, and then we began to pile in the earth.

And so without priests, without mourning, in the dead of night, and by
the drizzling rain, was buried Orso Orsi, the great head of the family.
In his time he had been excellent in war and in all the arts of peace.
He had been noted for his skill in commerce; in politics he had been the
first of his city, and, besides, he had been a great and generous patron
of the arts. But he lived too long, and died thus miserably.

Next day I set about thinking what I should do. I could be of no more
use to anyone in Forli; indeed, I had never been of use, for I had only
stood by and watched while those I loved and honoured were being put to
cruel deaths. And now I must see that my presence did not harm my kind
hosts. Caterina had thrown into prison some fifty of those who had taken
part in the rebellion, notwithstanding her solemn promise of amnesty,
and I knew well enough that if I were discovered Pietro and Andrea would
suffer as severe a punishment as myself. They gave no sign that my
presence was a menace to them, but in the woman's eyes, Andrea's mother,
I saw an anxious look, and at any unexpected sound she would start and
look fearfully at me. I made up my mind to go immediately. When I told
Andrea, he insisted on coming with me, and although I painted the danger
in lively colours he would not be dissuaded. The next day was
market-day, and we resolved to slip out in a cart as soon as the gates
were opened. We would be taken for tradesmen, and no one would pay
attention to us.

I was anxious to see what was happening in the town and what people were
talking of; but I thought it prudent not to venture out, for my disguise
might be seen through, and if I were discovered I knew well what to
expect. So I sat at home twiddling my thumbs and chattering with Andrea.
At last, getting tired of doing nothing, and seeing the good woman about
to scrub out her courtyard, I volunteered to do it for her. I got a
broom and a pail of water and began sweeping away vigorously, while
Andrea stood in the doorway scoffing. For a little while I forgot the
terrible scene in the piazza.

There was a knock at the door. We stopped and listened; the knock was
repeated, and as no answer was given, the latch was raised and the door
opened. A servant-maid walked in and carefully closed it behind her. I
recognised her at once; it was Giulia's maid. I shrank back, and Andrea
stood in front of me. His mother went forward.

'And pray, madam, what can I do for you?'

The maid did not answer, but stepped past her.

'There is a serving-man here for whom I have a message.'

She came straight towards me, and handed me a piece of paper; then,
without another word, slid back to the door and slipped out.

The note contained four words, 'Come to me to-night,' and the
handwriting was Giulia's. A strange feeling came over me as I looked at
it, and my hand trembled a little.... Then I began pondering. Why did
she want me? I could not think, and it occurred to me that perhaps she
wished to give me up to the Countess. I knew she hated me, but I could
not think her as vile as that; after all, she was her father's daughter,
and Bartolomeo was a gentleman. Andrea looked at me questioningly.

'It is an invitation from my greatest enemy to put myself in her hands.'

'But you will not?'

'Yes,' I said, 'I will.'

'Why?'

'Because it is a woman.'

'But do you think she would betray you?'

'She might.'

'And you are going to take the risk?'

'I think I should be glad to prove her so utterly worthless.'

Andrea looked at me open-mouthed; he could not understand. An idea
struck him.

'Are you in love with her?'

'No; I was.'

'And now?'

'Now, I do not even hate her.'




XXXVI


The night came, and when everyone had gone to bed and the town was
quiet, I said to Andrea, 'Wait for me here, and if I do not come back in
two hours you will know--'

He interrupted me.

'I am coming with you.'

'Nonsense!' I said. 'I don't know what danger there may be, and there is
no object in your exposing yourself to it.'

'Where you go I will go too.'

I argued with him, but he was an obstinate youth.

We walked along the dark streets, running like thieves round corners
when we heard the heavy footsteps of the watch. The Palazzo Aste was all
dark; we waited outside a little while, but no one came, and I dared not
knock. Then I remembered the side door. I still had the key, and I took
it from my pocket.

'Wait outside,' I said to Andrea.

'No, I am coming with you.'

'Perhaps there is an ambush.'

'Two are more likely to escape than one.'

I put the key in the lock, and as I did so my heart beat and my hand
trembled, but not with fear. The key turned, and I pushed the door open.
We entered and walked up the stairs. Sensations which I had forgotten
crowded upon me, and my heart turned sick.... We came to an ante-room
dimly lit. I signed Andrea to wait, and myself passed into the room I
knew too well. It was that in which I had last seen Giulia--the Giulia I
had loved--and nothing was altered in it. The same couch stood in the
centre, and on it lay Giulia, sleeping. She started up.

'Filippo!'

'At your service, madam.'

'Lucia recognised you in the street yesterday, and she followed you to
the house in which you are staying.'

'Yes.'

'My father sent me a message that you were still here, and if I wanted
help would give it me.'

'I will do whatever I can for you.'

What a fool I was to come. My head was in a whirl, my heart was
bursting. My God! she was beautiful! I looked at her, and suddenly I
knew that all the dreary indifference I had built up had melted away at
the first look into her eyes. And I was terrified.... My love was not
dead; it was alive, alive! Oh, how I adored that woman! I burned to take
her in my arms and cover her soft mouth with kisses.

Oh, why had I come? I was mad. I cursed my weakness.... And, when I saw
her standing there, cold and indifferent as ever, I felt so furious a
rage within me that I could have killed her. And I felt sick with
love....

'Messer Filippo,' she said, 'will you help me now? I have been warned by
one of the Countess's women that the guard have orders to arrest me
to-morrow; and I know what the daughter of Bartolomeo Moratini may
expect. I must fly to-night--at once.'

'I will help you,' I answered.

'What shall I do?'

'I can disguise you as a common woman. The mother of my friend Andrea
will lend you clothes; and Andrea and I will accompany you. Or, if you
prefer, after we have safely passed the gates, he shall accompany you
alone wherever you wish to go.'

'Why will you not come?'

'I feared my presence would make the journey more tedious to you.'

'And to you?'

'To me it would be a matter of complete indifference.'

She looked at me a moment, then she cried,--

'No, I will not come!'

'Why not?'

'Because you hate me.'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'I should have thought my sentiments were of no consequence.'

'I will not be helped by you. You hate me too much. I will stay in
Forli.'

'You are your own mistress.... Why do you mind?'

'Why do I mind? Shall I tell you?' She came close up to me.
'Because--because I love you.'

My head swam, and I felt myself stagger.... I did not know what was
happening.

'Filippo!'

'Giulia!'

I opened my arms, and she fell into them, and I held her close to my
heart, and I covered her with kisses.... I covered her mouth and eyes
and neck with kisses.

'Giulia! Giulia!'

But I wrenched myself away, and taking hold of her shoulders, said
almost savagely.

'But this time I must have you altogether. Swear that you will--'

She lifted her sweet face and smiled, and nestling close up to me,
whispered,--

'Will you marry me?'

I kissed her.

'I loved you always,' I said. 'I tried to hate you, but I could not.'

'Do you remember that night at the Palace? You said you had never cared
for me.'

'Ah, yes! but you did not believe me.'

'I felt it was not true, but I did not know; and it pained me. And then
Claudia--'

'I was so angry with you, I would have done anything to revenge myself;
but still I loved you.'

'But, Claudia--you loved her too?'

'No,' I protested, 'I hated her and despised her; but I tried to forget
you; and I wanted you to feel certain that I no longer cared for you.'

'I hate her.'

'Forgive me,' I said.

'I forgive you everything,' she answered.

I kissed her passionately; and I did not remember that I too had
something to forgive.

The time flew on, and when a ray of light pierced through the windows I
started up in surprise.

'We must make haste,' I said. I went into the ante-room and found Andrea
fast asleep. I shook him.

'At what time do the gates open?' I asked.

He rubbed his eyes, and, on a repetition of the question, answered,
'Five!'

It was half-past four; we had no time to lose. I thought for a minute.
Andrea would have to go to his mother's and find the needful clothes,
then come back; it would all take time, and time meant life and death.
Then, the sight of a young and beautiful woman might arouse the guard's
attention, and Giulia might be recognised.

An idea struck me.

'Undress!' I said to Andrea.

'What?'

'Undress! Quickly.'

He looked at me blankly, I signed to him, and as he was not rapid enough
I tore off his coat; then he understood and in a minute he was standing
in his shirt while I had walked off with his clothes. I handed them to
Giulia and came back. Andrea was standing in the middle of the room, the
very picture of misery. He looked very ridiculous.

'Look here, Andrea,' I said. 'I have given your clothes to a lady, who
is going to accompany me instead of you. Do you see?'

'Yes, and what am I to do?'

'You can stay with your mother for the present, and then, if you like,
you can join me at my house in Citta di Castello.'

'And now?'

'Oh, now you can go home.'

He did not answer, but looked at me dubiously, then at his bare legs and
his shirt, then again at me. I pretended not to understand.

'You seem troubled, my dear Andrea. What is the matter?'

He pointed to his shirt.

'Well?' I said.

'It is usual to go about in clothes.'

'A broad-minded youth like you should be free from such prejudice,' I
answered gravely. 'On such a morning you will find life much pleasanter
without hose and doublet.'

'Common decency--'

'My dear boy, are you not aware that our first parents were content with
fig-leaves, and are you not satisfied with a whole shirt? Besides, have
you not a fine pair of legs and a handsome body; what are you ashamed
of?'

'Everyone will follow me.'

'All the more reason to have something to show them.'

'The guard will lock me up.'

'How will the jailor's daughter be able to resist you in that costume!'

Then another idea struck me, and I said,--

'Well, Andrea, I am grieved to find you of so unpoetical a turn of mind;
but I will deny you nothing.' I went to Giulia, and taking the clothes
she had just cast off brought them to Andrea.

'There!'

He gave a cry of delight, but on seizing them, and discovering
petticoats and flounces, his face fell. I leant against the wall and
laughed till my sides ached.

Then Giulia appeared, a most fascinating serving-boy....

'Good-bye,' I cried, and hurried down the stairs. We marched boldly to
the city gate, and with beating hearts and innocent countenances, passed
through and found ourselves in the open country.




XXXVII


The Orsi and the Moratini had taken my advice and gone to Citta di
Castello; so it was to that city we directed our way, and eventually
reached it in safety. I did not know where Bartolomeo Moratini was, and
I did not wish to take Giulia to my own house, so I placed her in a
Benedictine convent, the superior of which, on hearing my name, promised
to give her guest every care.

Then I went to the old palace which I had not seen for so many years. I
had been too excited to get really home to notice anything of the
streets as I passed through them; but as I came in view of the
well-remembered walls, I stopped, overcome with strange emotions.... I
remembered the day when news had been brought me that the old Vitelli,
who was then ruler of Castello, had murmured certain things about me
which caused my neck to itch uncomfortably--and upon this I had
entrusted my little brother to a relative, who was one of the canons of
the cathedral, and the palace to my steward, and mounting my horse,
ridden off with all possible haste. I had supposed that a few months
would calm the angry Vitelli, but the months had lengthened out into
years, and his death had come before his forgiveness. But now I really
was back, and I did not mean to go away; my travels had taught me
caution, and my intrigues at Forli given me enough excitement for some
time. Besides, I was going to marry and rear a family; for, as if
Fortune could not give scantily, I had gained a love as well as a home,
and everything I wished was granted.

My meditations were interrupted.

'_Corpo di Bacco!_'

It was Matteo, and in a moment I was in his arms.

'I was just asking myself what that fool was staring at this house for,
and thinking of telling him it was impolite to stare, when I recognised
the house's owner.'

I laughed, and shook his hand again.

'Well Filippo, I am sure we shall be very pleased to offer you
hospitality.'

'You are most kind.'

'We have annexed the whole place, but I daresay you will be able to find
room somewhere. But come in.'

'Thanks,' I said, 'if you do not mind.'

I found Checco, Bartolomeo and his two sons sitting together. They
jumped up when they saw me.

'What news? What news?' they asked.

Then suddenly I remembered the terrible story I had to tell, for in my
own happiness I had forgotten everything that went before. I suddenly
became grave.

'Bad news,' I said. 'Bad news.'

'Oh, God! I have been foreboding it. Every night I have dreamed awful
things.'

'Checco,' I answered. 'I have done all I could; but, alas! it has been
of no avail. You left me as a protector and I have been able to protect
no one.'

'Go on!'

Then I began my story. I told them how the Council had opened the gates,
surrendering unconditionally, and how the Countess had sallied forth in
triumph. That was nothing. If there had been no worse news for them than
that! But Checco clenched his hands as I related the sacking of his
palace. And I told him how old Orso had refused to fly and had been
seized, while I had lain senseless on the floor.

'You did your best, Filippo,' said Checco. 'You could do nothing more.
But afterwards?'

I told them how Marco Scorsacana and Pietro had been taken prisoners,
and led into the town like thieves caught in the act; how the crowd had
gathered together, and how they had been brought to the square and
hanged from the Palace window, and their bodies torn to pieces by the
people.

'Oh, God!' uttered Checco. 'And all this is my fault.'

I told them that the old Orso was brought forward and taken to his
palace, and before his eyes it was torn down, stone after stone, till
only a heap of ruins marked the site.

Checco gave a sob.

'My palace, my home!'

And then, as if the blow was too great, he bent his head and burst into
tears.

'Do not weep yet, Checco,' I said. 'You will have cause for tears
presently.'

He looked up.

'What more?'

'Your father.'

'Filippo!'

He started up, and stepping back, stood against the wall, his arms
against it, outstretched, with white and haggard face and staring eyes,
like a hunted beast at bay.

I told him how they had taken his father and bound him, and thrown him
down, and tied him to the savage beast, and how he had been dragged
along till his blood spattered on the pavement and his soul left him.

Checco uttered a most awful groan, and, looking up to heaven, as if to
call it in witness, cried,--

'Oh, God!'

Then, sinking into a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and in his
agony swayed from side to side. Matteo went up to him and put his hand
on his shoulder, trying to comfort him; but he motioned him aside.

'Let me be.'

He rose from his seat, and we saw that his eyes were tearless, for his
grief was too great for weeping. Then, with his hands before him like a
blind man, he staggered to the door and left us.

Scipione, the weak man, was crying.




XXXVIII


One does not really feel much grief at other people's sorrows; one
tries, and puts on a melancholy face--thinking oneself brutal for not
caring more, but one cannot; and it is better, for if one grieved too
deeply at other people's tears life would be unendurable; and every man
has sufficient sorrows of his own without taking to heart his
neighbour's. The explanation of all this is that three days after my
return to Citta di Castello I was married to Giulia.

Now I remember nothing more. I have a confused idea of great happiness;
I lived in an intoxication, half fearing it was all a dream, enchanted
when anything occurred to assure me it was true. But the details of our
life I have forgotten; I remember I was happy. Is it not a curious irony
that we should recall our miseries with such plainness, and that our
happiness should pass over us so indistinctly, that when it has gone we
can scarcely realise that it ever existed? It is as though Fortune were
jealous of the little happiness she has given us, and to revenge herself
blots it out of the memory, filling the mind with miseries past.

But some things I recollect about others. I came across Ercole
Piacentini and his wife Claudia. Castello being his native place, he had
gone there on the death of the Count; and now, although the Riarii were
restored to power, he remained, presumably to watch our movements and
report them at Forli. I inquired whom he was, and after some difficulty
discovered that he was the bastard of a Castello nobleman and the
daughter of a tradesman. I saw that he did not lie when he said he had
in his veins as good blood as I. Still I did not think him a very
desirable acquisition to the town, and as I was in some favour with the
new Lord I determined to procure his expulsion. Matteo proposed picking
a quarrel with him and killing him, but that was difficult, because the
bold man had become singularly retiring, and it was almost impossible to
meet him. The change was so noticeable that we could not help thinking
he had received special instructions from Forli; and we determined to
take care.

I invited the Moratini to live with me; but they preferred to take a
house of their own. The old man, when I asked him for his daughter's
hand, told me he wished no better son-in-law, and was very contented to
see his daughter again settled under a man's protection. Scipione and
Alessandro were both most pleased, and they redoubled the affection they
had felt for me before. It all made me extremely happy; for after my
long years of wandering I yearned very much for the love of others, and
the various affections that surrounded me soothed and comforted me. From
Giulia I could ask for nothing more, and I thought she really loved
me--of course, not as I loved her, for that would have been impossible;
but I was happy. Sometimes I wondered perplexedly at the incident which
had separated us, for I could understand nothing of it; but I put it
away from me, I did not want to understand, I wanted only to forget.

Then there were Checco and Matteo. The Orsi family had bought a palace
in Castello, and there they could have settled themselves happily enough
had they not been driven on by an unextinguishable desire to regain what
they had lost. Checco was rich even now, able to live as luxuriously as
before, and in a little while he might have gained in Castello as much
power as he had lost in Forli, for the young Vitelli had been singularly
attracted by him, and was already inclined to give trust to his
counsels; but the wretched man was filled with sadness. All day his
thoughts were in the town he loved so well, and now his love was
increased tenfold.... Sometimes he would think of Forli before the
troubles, when he was living a peaceful life surrounded by his friends;
and in mind, he wandered through the quiet streets, every house of which
he knew. He would go from room to room in his palace, looking at the
pictures, the statues, the armour; from the window at night he gazed
upon the dark, silent town, with the houses rising like tall phantoms;
in the morning a silver mist covered the earth, and as it rose left the
air cool and fresh. But when his house appeared before him, a bare heap
of ruins, with the rain beating down on the roofless stones, he would
bury his face in his hands, and so remain during long hours of misery.
Sometimes he would review the stirring events, which began with the
attempted assassination of himself and ended with the ride out of the
gate by the river in the cold open country beyond; and as they passed
before him, he would wonder what he had done wrong, what he might have
done differently. But he could alter nothing; he saw no mistake other
than of trusting the populace who vowed to follow him to death, and of
trusting the friends who promised to send him help. He had done his
part, and what had followed was impossible to foresee. Fortune was
against him and that was all....

But he did not entirely give himself over to vain regrets; he had opened
up communication with Forli, and through his spies had learnt that the
Countess had imprisoned and put to death all those who had been in any
way connected with the rebellion, and that the town lay cowed,
submissive as a whipped dog. And there was no hope for Checco from
within, for his open partisans had suffered terrible punishments, and
the others were few and timid. Then Checco turned his attention to the
rival states; but everywhere he received rebuffs, for the power of Milan
overshadowed them all, and they dared nothing while the Duke Lodovico
was almighty. 'Wait,' they said, 'till he has roused the jealousy of the
greater states of Florence and Venice, then will be your opportunity,
and then will we willingly give you our help.' But Checco could not
wait, every lost day seemed to him a year. He grew thin and haggard.
Matteo tried to comfort him, but gradually Checco's troubles weighed on
him too; he lost his mirth and became as moody and silent as his
cousin. So passed a year, full of anxiety and heartburning for them,
full of the sweetest happiness for me.

One day Checco came to me and said,--

'Filippo, you have been very good to me; now I want you to do me one
more favour, and that shall be the last I will ask you.'

'What is it?'

Then he expounded to me a scheme for interesting the Pope in his
affairs. He knew how angry his Holiness had been, not only at the loss
of the town, but also at the humiliation he had received through his
lieutenant. There was a difficulty at the time between the Duke of Milan
and Rome respecting certain rights of the former, and he did not think
it unlikely that the Pope would be willing to break off negotiations and
recover his advantage by making a sudden attack on Forli. Caterina's
tyranny had become insupportable, and there was no doubt that at the
sight of Checco leading the papal army they would open their gates and
welcome him as the Pope's representative.

I did not see of what use I could be, and I was very unwilling to leave
my young wife. But Checco was so anxious that I should come, seeming to
think I should be of such assistance, that I felt it would be cruel to
refuse. Moreover, I reckoned a month would bring me back to Castello,
and if the parting was bitter, how sweet would be the return! And I had
certain business of my own in Rome, which I had delayed for months
because I could not bear the thought of separation from Giulia. So I
decided to go.

A few days later we were riding towards Rome. I was sad, for it was the
first time I had left my wife since our marriage, and the parting had
been even more painful than I expected. A thousand times I had been on
the verge of changing my mind and saying I would not go; but I could
not, for Checco's sake. I was also a little sad because I thought Giulia
was not so pained as I was, but then I chid myself for my folly. I
expected too much. After all, it was only four short weeks, and she was
still too great a child to feel very deeply. It is only when one is old
or has greatly suffered that one's emotions are really powerful.

We reached Rome and set about soliciting an audience from the Pope. I
cannot remember the countless interviews we had with minor officials,
how we were driven from cardinal to cardinal, the hours we spent in
ante-rooms waiting for a few words from some great man. I used to get so
tired that I could have dropped off to sleep standing, but Checco was so
full of eagerness that I had to accompany him from place to place. The
month passed, and we had done nothing. I suggested going home, but
Checco implored me to stay, assuring me that the business would be
finished in a fortnight. I remained, and the negotiations dragged their
weary length through weeks and weeks. Now a ray of hope lightened our
struggles, and Checco would become excited and cheerful; now the hope
would be dashed to the ground, and Checco begin to despair. The month
had drawn itself out into three, and I saw clearly enough that nothing
would come of our endeavours. The conferences with the Duke were still
going on, each party watching the other, trying by means of untruth and
deceit and bribery to gain the advantage. The King of Naples was brought
in; Florence and Venice began to send ambassadors to and fro, and no one
knew what would be the result of it all.

At last one day Checco came to me and threw himself on my bed.

'It's no good,' he said, in a tone of despair. 'It is all up.'

'I'm very sorry, Checco.'

'You had better go home now. You can do nothing here. Why should I drag
you after me in my unhappiness?'

'But you, Checco, if you can do no good, why will not you come too?'

'I am better here than at Castello. Here I am at the centre of things,
and I will take heart. War may break out any day, and then the Pope will
be more ready to listen to me.'

I saw it was no use that I should stay, and I saw I could not persuade
him to come with me, so I packed up my things, and bidding him good-bye,
started on the homeward journey.




XXXIX


What shall I say of the eagerness with which I looked forward to seeing
my dear wife, the rapture with which, at last, I clasped her in my arms?

       *       *       *       *       *

A little later I walked out to find Matteo. He was quite astonished to
see me.

'We did not expect you so soon.'

'No,' I answered; 'I thought I should not arrive till after to-morrow,
but I was so impatient to get home that I hurried on without stopping,
and here I am.'

I shook his hand heartily, I was so pleased and happy.

'Er--have you been home?'

'Of course,' I answered, smiling; 'it was the first thing I thought of.'

I was not sure; I thought a look of relief came over Matteo's face. But
why? I could not understand, but I thought it of no consequence, and it
passed from my memory. I told Matteo the news I had, and left him. I
wished to get back to my wife.

On my way I happened to see Claudia Piacentini coming out of a house. I
was very surprised, for I knew that my efforts had succeeded, and
Ercole's banishment decreed. I supposed the order had not yet been
issued. I was going to pass the lady without acknowledgment, for since
my marriage she had never spoken to me, and I could well understand why
she did not want to. To my astonishment she stopped me.

'Ah, Messer Filippo!'

I bowed profoundly.

'How is it that now you never speak to me? Are you so angry with me?'

'No one can be angry with so beautiful a woman.'

She flushed, and I felt I had said a stupid thing, for I had made
remarks too similar on another occasion. I added, 'But I have been
away.'

'I know. Will you not come in?' She pointed to the house from which she
had just issued.

'But I shall be disturbing you, for you were going out.'

She smiled as she replied. 'I saw you pass my house a little while ago;
I guessed you were going to Matteo d'Orsi, and I waited for you on your
return.'

'You are most kind.'

I wondered why she was so anxious to see me. Perhaps she knew of her
husband's approaching banishment, and the cause of it.

We went in and sat down.

'Have you been home?' she asked.

It was the same question as Matteo had asked. I gave the same answer.

'It was the first thing I thought of.'

'Your wife must have been--surprised to see you.'

'And delighted.'

'Ah!' She crossed her hands and smiled.

I wondered what she meant.

'You were not expected for two days, I think.'

'You know my movements very well. I am pleased to find you take such
interest in me.'

'Oh, it is not I alone. The whole town takes interest in you. You have
been a most pleasant topic of conversation.'

'Really!' I was getting a little angry. 'And what has the town to say of
me?'

'Oh, I do not want to trouble your peace of mind.'

'Will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean?'

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled enigmatically.

'Well?' I said.

'If you insist, I will tell you. They say that you are a complaisant
husband.'

'That is a lie!'

'You are not polite,' she answered calmly.

'How dare you say such things, you impudent woman!'

'My good sir, it is true, perfectly true. Ask Matteo.'

Suddenly I remembered Matteo's question, and his look of relief. A
sudden fear ran through me. I took hold of Claudia's wrists and said,--

'What do you mean? What do you mean?'

'Leave go; you hurt me!'

'Answer, I tell you. I know you are dying to tell me. Is this why you
lay in wait for me, and brought me here? Tell me.'

A sudden transformation took place in Claudia; rage and hate broke out
and contorted her face, so that one would not have recognised it.

'Do you suppose you can escape the ordinary fate of husbands?' She broke
into a savage laugh.

'It is a lie. You slander Giulia because you are yourself impure.'

'You were willing enough to take advantage of that impurity. Do you
suppose Giulia's character has altered because you have married her? She
made her first husband a cuckold, and do you suppose that she has
suddenly turned virtuous? You fool!'

'It is a lie. I will not believe a word of it.'

'The whole town has been ringing with her love for Giorgio dall' Aste.'

I gave a cry; it was for him that she abandoned me before....

'Ah, you believe me now!'

'Listen!' I said. 'If this is not true, I swear by all the saints that I
will kill you.'

'Good; if it is not true, kill me. But, by all the saints, I swear it is
true, true, true!' She repeated the words in triumph, and each one fell
like the stab of a dagger in my heart.

I left her. As I walked home, I fancied the people were looking at me,
and smiling. Once I was on the verge of going up to a man, and asking
him why he laughed, but I contained myself. How I was suffering! I
remembered that Giulia had not seemed so pleased to see me; at the time
I chid myself, and called myself exacting, but was it true? I fancied
she turned away her lips when I was imprinting my passionate kisses on
them. I told myself I was a fool, but was it true? I remembered a slight
movement of withdrawal when I clasped her in my arms. Was it true? Oh
God! was it true?

I thought of going to Matteo, but I could not. He knew her before her
marriage; he would be willing to accept the worst that was said of her.
How could I be so disturbed at the slanders of a wicked, jealous woman?
I wished I had never known Claudia, never given her reason to take this
revenge on me. Oh, it was cruel! But I would not believe it; I had such
trust in Giulia, such love. She could not betray me, when she knew what
passionate love was poured down upon her. It would be too ungrateful.
And I had done so much for her, but I did not wish to think of that....
All that I had done had been for pure love and pleasure, and I required
no thanks. But surely if she had no love, she had at least some tender
feeling for me; she would not give her honour to another. Ah no, I would
not believe it. But was it true, oh God! was it true?

I found myself at home, and suddenly I remembered the old steward, whom
I had left in charge of my house. His name was Fabio; it was from him
that I got the name when I presented myself as a serving-man to old
Orso. If anything had taken place in the house he must know it; and she,
Claudia, said the whole town knew it.

'Fabio!'

'My master!'

He came into my room, and I looked at him steadily.

'Fabio, have you well looked after all I left in your hands when I went
to Rome?'

'Your rents are paid, your harvests taken in, the olives all gathered.'

'I left in your charge something more precious than cornfields and
vineyards.'

'My lord!'

'I made you guardian of my honour. What of that?'

He hesitated, and his voice as he answered trembled.

'Your honour is--intact.'

I took him by the shoulders.

'Fabio, what is it? I beseech you by your master, my father, to tell
me.'

I knew he loved my father's memory with more than human love. He looked
up to heaven and clasped his hands; he could hardly speak.

'By my dear master, your father, nothing--nothing!'

'Fabio, you are lying.' I pressed his wrists which I was holding
clenched in my hands.

He sank down on his knees.

'Oh, master, have mercy on me!' He buried his face in his hands. 'I
cannot tell you.'

'Speak, man, speak!'

At last, with laments and groans, he uttered the words,--

'She has--oh God, she has betrayed you!'

'Oh!' I staggered back.

'Forgive me!'

'Why did you not tell me before?'

'Ah, how could I? You loved her as I have never seen man love woman.'

'Did you not think of my honour?'

'I thought of your happiness. It is better to have happiness without
honour, than honour without happiness.'

'For you,' I groaned, 'but not for me.'

'You are of the same flesh and blood, and you suffer as we do. I could
not destroy your happiness.'

'Oh, Giulia! Giulia!' Then, after a while, I asked again, 'But are you
sure?'

'Alas, there is no doubt!'

'I cannot believe it! Oh God, help me! You don't know how I loved her!
She could not! Let me see it with my own eyes, Fabio.'

We both stood silent; then a horrible thought struck me.

'Do you know--when they meet?' I whispered.

He groaned. I asked again.

'God help me!'

'You know? I command you to tell me.'

'They did not know you were coming back till after to-morrow.'

'He is coming?'

'To-day.'

'Oh!' I seized him by the hand. 'Take me, and let me see them.'

'What will you do?' he asked, horror-stricken.

'Never mind, take me!'

Trembling, he led me through ante-rooms and passages, till he brought me
to a staircase. We mounted the steps and came to a little door. He
opened it very quietly, and we found ourselves behind the arras of
Giulia's chamber. I had forgotten the existence of door and steps, and
she knew nothing of them. There was an opening in the tapestry to give
exit.

No one was in the room. We waited, holding our breath. At last Giulia
entered. She walked to the window and looked out, and went back to the
door. She sat down, but sprang up restlessly, and again looked out of
window. Whom was she expecting?

She walked up and down the room, and her face was full of anxiety. I
watched intently. At last a light knock was heard; she opened the door
and a man came in. A small, slight, thin man, with a quantity of
corn-coloured hair falling over his shoulders, and a pale, fair skin. He
had blue eyes, and a little golden moustache. He looked hardly twenty,
but I knew he was older.

He sprang forward, seizing her in his arms, and he pressed her to his
heart, but she pushed him back.

'Oh, Giorgio, you must go,' she cried. 'He has come back.'

'Your husband?'

'I hoped you would not come. Go quickly. If he found you he would kill
us both.'

'Tell me you love me, Giulia.'

'Oh yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.'

For a moment they stood still in one another's arms, then she tore
herself away.

'But go, for God's sake!'

'I go, my love. Good-bye!'

'Good-bye, beloved!'

He took her in his arms again, and she placed hers around his neck. They
kissed one another passionately on the lips; she kissed him as she had
never kissed me.

'Oh!' I gave a cry of rage, and leaped out of my concealment. In a bound
I had reached him. They hardly knew I was there; and I had plunged my
dagger in his neck. Giulia gave a piercing shriek as he fell with a
groan. The blood spattered over my hand. Then I looked at her. She ran
from me with terror-stricken face, her eyes starting from her head. I
rushed to her and she shrieked again, but Fabio caught hold of my arm.

'Not her, not her too!'

I wrenched my hand away from him, and then--then as I saw her pallid
face and the look of deathly terror--I stopped. I could not kill her.

'Lock that door,' I said to Fabio, pointing to the one from which we had
come. Then, looking at her, I screamed,--

'Harlot!'

I called to Fabio, and we left the room. I locked the door, and she
remained shut in with her lover....

I called my servants and bade them follow me, and went out. I walked
proudly, surrounded by my retainers, and I came to the house of
Bartolomeo Moratini. He had just finished dinner, and was sitting with
his sons. They rose as they saw me.

'Ah, Filippo, you have returned.' Then, seeing my pale face, they cried,
'But what is it? What has happened?'

And Bartolomeo broke in.

'What is that on your hand, Filippo?'

I stretched it out, so that he might see.

'That--that is the blood of your daughter's lover.'

'Oh!'

'I found them together, and I killed the adulterer.'

Bartolomeo kept silence a moment, then he said,--

'You have done well, Filippo.' He turned to his sons. 'Scipione, give me
my sword.'

He girded it on, and then he spoke to me.

'Sir,' he said, 'I beg you to wait here till I come.'

I bowed.

'Sir, I am your servant.'

'Scipione, Alessandro, follow me!'

And accompanied by his sons, he left the room, and I remained alone.

The servants peeped in at the door, looking at me as if I were some
strange beast, and fled when I turned round. I walked up and down, up
and down; I looked out of window. In the street the people were going to
and fro, singing, and talking as if nothing had happened. They did not
know that death was flying through the air; they did not know that the
happiness of living men had gone for ever.

At last I heard the steps again, and Bartolomeo Moratini entered the
room, followed by his sons; and all three were very grave.

'Sir,' he said, 'the stain on your honour and mine has been effaced.'

I bowed more deeply than before.

'Sir, I am your very humble servant.'

'I thank you that you allowed me to do my duty as a father; and I
regret that a member of my family should have shown herself unworthy of
my name and yours. I will detain you no longer.'

I bowed again, and left them.




XL


I walked back to my house. It was very silent, and as I passed up the
stairs the servants shrunk back with averted faces, as if they were
afraid to look at me.

'Where is Fabio?' I asked.

A page whispered timidly,--

'In the chapel.'

I turned on my heel, and passed through the rooms, one after another,
till I came to the chapel door. I pushed it open and entered. A dim
light came through the painted windows, and I could hardly see. In the
centre were two bodies covered with a cloth, and their heads were
lighted by the yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt an old man,
praying. It was Fabio.

I advanced and drew back the cloth; and I fell on my knees. Giulia
looked as if she were sleeping. I had so often leant over her, watching
the regular heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought her
features as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. But now the breast
would no more rise and fall, and its wonderful soft whiteness was
disfigured by a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips half
parted, and the only difference from life was the fallen jaw. Her face
was very pale; the rich waving hair encircled it as with an aureole.

I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair hair contrasted
wonderfully with hers. He looked so young!

Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, I thought of all
that had happened, and I tried to understand. The dim light from the
window gradually failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out more
brightly; each was surrounded by a halo of light, and lit up the dead
faces, throwing into deeper night the rest of the chapel.

Little by little I seemed to see into the love of these two which had
been so strong, that no ties of honour, faith, or truth had been able to
influence it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

When she was sixteen, I thought, they married her to an old man she had
never seen, and she met her husband's cousin, a boy no older than
herself. And the love started and worked its way. But the boy lived on
his rich cousin's charity; from him he had received a home and
protection and a thousand kindnesses; he loved against his will, but he
loved all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a woman,
passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. In the sensual violence
of her love she had carried him away, and he had yielded. Then with
enjoyment had come remorse, and he had torn himself away from the
temptress and fled.

I hardly knew what had happened when she was left alone, pining for her
lover. Scandal said evil things.... Had she, too, felt remorse and tried
to kill her love, and had the attempt failed? And was it then she flung
herself into dissipation to drown her trouble? Perhaps he told her he
did not love her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in the arms
of other lovers. But he loved her too strongly to forget her; at last he
could not bear the absence and came back. And again with enjoyment came
remorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, despising her.

The years passed by, and her husband died. Why did he not come back to
her? Had he lost his love and was he afraid? I could not understand....

Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. Did she love me? Perhaps
his long absence had made her partly forget him, and she thought he had
forgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I--I loved her with all my
heart. I knew she loved me then; she must have loved me! But he came
back. He may have thought himself cured, he may have said that he could
meet her coldly and indifferently. Had I not said the same? But as they
saw one another the old love burst out, again it burnt them with
consuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I had made her faithless to
the lover of her heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

The candles were burning low, throwing strange lights and shadows on the
faces of the dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

Poor fool! His love was as powerful as ever, but he fought against it
with all the strength of his weak will. She was the Evil One to him;
she took his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his strength; he
felt that her kisses degraded him, and as he rose from her embrace he
felt vile and mean. He vowed never to touch her again, and every time he
broke the vow. But her love was the same as ever--passionate, even
heartless. She cared not if she consumed him as long as she loved him.
For her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. She cared for
nothing; it was all and all for love.

He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me once more. Perhaps she felt
sorry for my pain, perhaps she fancied my love would efface the
remembrance of him. And we were married. Ah! now that she was dead I
could allow her good intentions. She may have intended to be faithful to
me; she may have thought she could truly love and honour me. Perhaps she
tried; who knows? But love--love cares not for vows. It was too strong
for her, too strong for him. I do not know whether she sent for him, or
whether he, in the extremity of his passion, came to her; but what had
happened so often happened again. They threw everything to the winds,
and gave themselves over to the love that kills....

The long hours passed as I thought of these things, and the candles were
burnt to their sockets.

At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard Fabio's voice.

'Master, it is nearly morning.'

I stood up, and he added,--

'They put him in the chapel without asking me. You are not angry?'

'They did well!'

He hesitated a moment and then asked,--

'What shall I do?'

I looked at him, not understanding.

'He cannot remain here, and she--she must be buried.'

'Take them to the church, and lay them in the tomb my father
built--together.'

'The man too?' he asked. 'In your own tomb?'

I sighed and answered sadly,--

'Perhaps he loved her better than I.'

As I spoke I heard a sob at my feet. A man I had not seen took hold of
my hand and kissed it, and I felt it wet with tears.

'Who are you?' I asked.

'He has been here all the night,' said Fabio.

'He was my master and I loved him,' replied the kneeling figure in a
broken voice. 'I thank you that you do not cast him out like a dog.'

I looked at him and felt deep pity for his grief.

'What will you do now?' I asked.

'Alas! now I am a wreck that tosses on the billows without a guide.'

I did not know what to say to him.

'Will you take me as your servant? I will be very faithful.'

'Do you ask me that?' I said. 'Do you not know--'

'Ah, yes! you took the life that he was glad to lose. It was almost a
kindness; and now you bury him peacefully, and for that I love you. You
owe it to me; you have robbed me of a master, give me another.'

'No, poor friend! I want no servants now. I too am like a wreck that
drifts aimlessly across the seas. With me, too, it is finished.'

I looked once more at Giulia, and then I replaced the white cloth, and
the faces were covered.

'Bring me my horse, Fabio.'

In a few minutes it was waiting for me.

'Will you have no one to accompany you?' he asked.

'No one!'

Then, as I mounted and arranged the reins in my hand, he said,--

'Where are you going?'

And I despairingly answered,--

'God knows!'




XLI


And I rode away out of the town into the open country. The day was
breaking, and everything was cold and grey. I paid no heed to my course;
I rode along, taking the roads as they came, through broad plains,
eastwards towards the mountains. In the increasing day I saw the little
river wind sinuously through the fields, and the country stretched flat
before me, with slender trees marked out against the sky. Now and then a
tiny hill was surmounted by a village, and once, as I passed, I heard
the tinkling of a bell. I stopped at an inn to water the horse, and
then, hating the sight of men, I hurried on. The hours of coolness had
passed, and as we tramped along the shapeless roads the horse began to
sweat, and the thick white dust rose in clouds behind us.

At last I came to a roadside inn, and it was nearly mid-day. I
dismounted, and giving the horse to the ostler's care, I went inside and
sat at a table. The landlord came to me and offered food. I could not
eat, I felt it would make me sick; I ordered wine. It was brought; I
poured some out and tasted it. Then I put my elbows on the table and
held my head with both hands, for it was aching so as almost to drive me
mad.

'Sir!'

I looked up and saw a Franciscan friar standing by my side. On his back
he bore a sack; I supposed he was collecting food.

'Sir, I pray you for alms for the sick and needy.'

I drew out a piece of gold and threw it to him.

'The roads are hard to-day,' he said.

I made no answer.

'You are going far, sir?'

'When one gives alms to a beggar, it is so that he may not importune
one,' I said.

'Ah, no; it is for the love of God and charity. But I do not wish to
importune you, I thought I might help you.'

'I want no help.'

'You look unhappy.'

'I beg you to leave me in peace.'

'As you will, my son.'

He left me, and I returned to my old position. I felt as if a sheet of
lead were pressing upon my head. A moment later a gruff voice broke in
upon me.

'Ah, Messer Filippo Brandolini!'

I looked up. At the first glance I did not recognise the speaker; but
then as I cleared my mind I saw it was Ercole Piacentini. What was he
doing here? Then I remembered that it was on the road to Forli. I
supposed he had received orders to leave Castello and was on his way to
his old haunts. However, I did not want to speak to him; I bent down,
and again clasped my head in my hands.

'That is a civil way of answering,' he said. 'Messer Filippo!'

I looked up, rather bored.

'If I do not answer, it is evidently because I do not wish to speak to
you.'

'And if I wish to speak to you?'

'Then I must take the liberty of begging you to hold your tongue.'

'You insolent fellow!'

I felt too miserable to be angry.

'Have the goodness to leave me,' I said. 'You bore me intensely.'

'I tell you that you are an insolent fellow, and I shall do as I
please.'

'Are you a beggar, that you are so importunate? What do you want?'

'Do you remember saying in Forli that you would fight me when the
opportunity presented itself. It has! And I am ready, for I have to
thank you for my banishment from Castello.'

'When I offered to fight you, sir, I thought you were a gentleman. Now
that I know your condition, I must decline.'

'You coward!'

'Surely it is not cowardice to refuse a duel with a person like
yourself?'

By this time he was wild with rage; but I was cool and collected.

'Have you so much to boast?' he asked furiously.

'Happily I am not a bastard!'

'Cuckold!'

'Oh!'

I sprang up and looked at him with a look of horror. He laughed
scornfully and repeated,--

'Cuckold!'

Now it was my turn. The blood rushed to my head and a terrible rage
seized me. I picked up the tankard of wine which was on the table and
flung it at him with all my might. The wine splashed over his face, and
the cup hit him on the forehead and cut him so that the blood trickled
down. In a moment he had drawn his sword, and at the same time I
wrenched mine from its sheath.

He could fight well.

He could fight well, but against me he was lost. All the rage and agony
of the last day gathered themselves together. I was lifted up and cried
aloud in the joy of having someone on whom to wreak my vengeance. I felt
as if I had against me the whole world and were pouring out my hate at
the end of my sword. My fury lent me the strength of a devil. I drove
him back, I drove him back, and I fought as I had never fought before.
In a minute I had beaten the sword from his hand, and it fell to the
floor as if his wrist were broken, clattering down among the cups. He
staggered back against the wall, and stood there with his head thrown
back and his arms helplessly outspread.

'Ah, God, I thank thee!' I cried exultingly. 'Now I am happy.'

I lifted my sword above my head to cleave his skull, my arm was in the
swing--when I stopped. I saw the staring eyes, the white face blanched
with terror; he was standing against the wall as he had fallen,
shrinking away in his mortal anxiety. I stopped; I could not kill him.

I sheathed my sword and said,--

'Go! I will not kill you. I despise you too much.'

He did not move, but stood as if he were turned to stone, still
terror-stricken and afraid. Then, in my contempt, I took a horn of water
and flung it over him.

'You look pale, my friend,' I said. 'Here is water to mix with your
wine.'

Then I leant back and burst into a shout of laughter, and I laughed till
my sides ached, and I laughed again.

I threw down money to pay for my entertainment, and went out. But as I
bestrode my horse and we recommenced our journey along the silent roads
I felt my head ache worse than ever. All enjoyment was gone; I could
take no pleasure in life. How long would it last? How long? I rode along
under the mid-day sun, and it fell scorching on my head; the wretched
beast trotted with hanging head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth,
parched and dry. The sun beat down with all the power of August, and
everything seemed livid with the awful heat. Man and beast had shrunk
away from the fiery rays, the country folk were taking the noonday rest,
the cattle and the horses sheltered by barns and sheds, the birds were
silent, and even the lizards had crept into their holes. Only the horse
and I tramped along, miserably--only the horse and I. There was no
shade; the walls on either side were too low to give shelter, the road
glaring and white and dusty. I might have been riding through a furnace.

Everything was against me. Everything! Even the sun seemed to beat down
his hottest rays to increase my misery. What had I done that all this
should come to me? I clenched my fist, and in impotent rage cursed
God....

At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with dark fir trees; I
came nearer, and the sight of the sombre green was like a draught of
cool water. I could no longer bear the horror of the heat. From the main
road another smaller one led winding up the hill. I turned my horse, and
soon we were among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight in the
coolness. I dismounted and led him by the bridle; it was enchanting to
walk along the path, soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious green
smell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, where was a little
pond; I watered the poor beast, and, throwing myself down, drank deeply.
Then I tied him to a tree and advanced a few steps alone. I came to a
sort of terrace, and going forward found myself at the edge of the hill,
looking over the plain. Behind, the tall fir trees gave me shade and
coolness; I sat down, looking at the country before me. In the cloudless
sky it seemed now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I could see
the walls and towers of some city, and to it in broad curves wound a
river; the maze and corn, vines and olive trees, covered the land, and
in the distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why should the world be
so beautiful, and I so miserable?

'It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.'

I looked up and saw the monk whom I had spoken with at the inn. He put
down his sack and sat by my side.

'You do not think me importunate?' he asked.

'I beg your pardon,' I replied, 'I was not civil to you; you must
forgive me. I was not myself.'

'Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came down to you to offer you
our hospitality.'

I looked at him questioningly; he pointed over his shoulder, and
looking, I saw, perched on the top of the hill, piercing through the
trees, a little monastery.

'How peaceful it looks!' I said.

'It is, indeed. St Francis himself used sometimes to come to enjoy the
quiet.'

I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the life I hated, and also
enjoy the quiet? I felt the monk was watching me, and, looking up, I met
his glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply-sunken eyes and hollow
cheeks. And he was pale and worn from prayer and fasting. But his voice
was sweet and very gentle.

'Why do you look at me?' I said.

'I was in the tavern when you disarmed the man and gave him his life.'

'It was not for charity and mercy,' I said bitterly.

'I know,' he answered, 'it was from despair.'

'How do you know?'

'I watched you; and at the end I said, '"God pity his unhappiness."'

I looked with astonishment at the strange man; and then, with a groan, I
said,--

'Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.'

He took my hands in his, and with the gentleness of the mother of God
herself replied,--

'"Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."'

Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried my face in his bosom, and
burst into tears.




EPILOGUE


And now many years have passed, and the noble gentleman, Filippo
Brandolini is the poor monk Giuliano; the gorgeous clothes, velvets and
satins, have given way to the brown sackcloth of the Seraphic Father;
and instead of golden belts my waist is girt with a hempen cord. And in
me, what changes have taken place! The brown hair, which women kissed,
is a little circlet in sign of the Redeemer's crown, and it is as white
as snow. My eyes are dim and sunken, my cheeks are hollow, and the skin
of my youth is ashy and wrinkled; the white teeth of my mouth have gone,
but my toothless gums suffice for the monkish fare; and I am old and
bent and weak.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day in the spring I came to the terrace which overlooks the plain,
and as I sat down to warm myself in the sunshine, gazing at the broad
country which now I knew so well, and the distant hills, the wish came
to me to write the history of my life.

And now that, too, is done. I have nothing more to tell except that
from the day when I arrived, weary of soul, to the cool shade of the fir
trees, I have never gone into the world again. I gave my lands and
palaces to my brother in the hope that he would make better use of his
life than I, and to him I gave the charge of seeing that heirs were
given to the ancient name. I knew I had failed in everything. My life
had gone wrong, I know not why; and I had not the courage to adventure
further. I withdrew from the battle in my unfitness, and let the world
pass on and forget my poor existence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Checco lived on, scheming and intriguing, wearing away his life in
attempts to regain his fatherland, and always he was disappointed,
always his hopes frustrated, till at last he despaired. And after six
years, worn out with his fruitless efforts, mourning the greatness he
had lost, and pining for the country he loved so well, he died of a
broken heart, an exile.

Matteo went back to his arms and the reckless life of the soldier of
fortune, and was killed bravely fighting against the foreign invader,
and died, knowing that his efforts, too, had been in vain, and that the
sweet land of Italy lay fallen and enslaved.

And I do not know whether they had not the better lot; for they are at
peace, while I--I pursue my lonely pilgrimage through life, and the goal
is ever far off. Now it cannot be much longer, my strength is failing,
and soon I shall have the peace I wished for. Oh God, I do not ask You
for crowns of gold and heavenly raiment, I do not aspire to the bliss
which is the portion of the saint, but give me rest. When the great
Release comes, give me rest; let me sleep the long sleep without
awakening, so that at last I may forget and be at peace. O God, give me
rest!

Often, as I trudged along the roads barefooted to gather food and alms,
have I wished to lay myself in the ditch by the wayside and die.
Sometimes I have heard the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death;
but he has taken the strong and the happy, and left me to wander on.

The good man told me I should receive happiness; I have not even
received forgetfulness. I go along the roads thinking of my life and the
love that ruined me. Ah! how weak I am; but, forgive me, I cannot help
myself! Sometimes when I have been able to do good I have felt a strange
delight, I have felt the blessed joy of charity. And I love my people,
the poor folk of the country round. They come to me in their troubles,
and when I can help them I share their pleasure. But that is all I have.
Ah! mine has been a useless life, I have wasted it; and if of late I
have done a little good to my fellowmen, alas! how little!

I bear my soul in patience, but sometimes I cannot help rising up
against fate, and crying out that it is hard that all this should happen
to me. Why? What had I done that I should be denied the little happiness
of this world? Why should I be more unhappy than others? But then I
chide myself, and ask whether I have indeed been less happy. Are they
any of them happy? Or are those right who say that the world is misery,
and that the only happiness is to die? Who knows?

Ah, Giulia, how I loved thee!

    O Ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova?
    Tutti tornate alla gran madre antica,
    E'l nome vostro appena si ritrova.

         . . . . . . . .

    Blind that ye are! How doth this struggle profit you?
    Return ye must to the great Antique Mother,
    And even your name scarcely remains.


THE END

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The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext
transcriber:

somone=>someone

get's over those things so=>get's over those things so

off on the proferred arm=>off on the proffered arm

the inns and outs of the Palace=>the ins and outs of the Palace

The door off the Countess's apartments was opened=>The door of the
Countess's apartments was opened

where was the enthuiasm we had expected=>where was the enthusiasm we had
expected

We stood looking up at her with open mouths, dumbfoundered>=We stood
looking up at her with open mouths, dumbfounded

The castellan had turned his=>The Castellan had turned his

They shank back and he went his way.=>They shrank back and he went his
way.

fidgetting with the lappet of his cloak.=>fidgeting with the lappet of
his cloak.

might have done differenly.=>might have done differently.

leave me me in peace.=>leave me in peace.

He vowed never to touch her again, and every time be broke the vow.=>He
vowed never to touch her again, and every time he broke the vow.

the horse's owner.=>the house's owner.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Making of a Saint, by William Somerset Maugham

*** 