CHAPTER XXIX.
I am about to quote from another who knew well the facts he recorded. His name matters not, but the whole is a translation, upon my word. "The king had remaining nine hundred men-at-arms, comprising his household troops, two thousand five hundred Swiss, two thousand of the French infantry, and about fifteen hundred men fit to bear arms that followed the army. These troops formed a body of nine thousand combatants at the utmost, with whom he had to cross all Italy.
"This small army was not yet out of Naples when Ferdinand had effected his landing on the coast of Calabria, at the head of some Spanish troops. Charles began his march on the 20th day of May, not long after his coronation. He met with no impediment on his march to Rome, from which city the pope had fled. He passed through it, strengthened himself by the reinforcements collected from various garrisons which he had left in the strong places of the ecclesiastical states, and sacked the small town of Toscanella, which refused to receive his troops."
So far my author; but after quitting Rome, whither did Charles direct his march? First to Viterbo, thence to Sienna, and from Sienna to Pisa. Was he bending his steps to Florence? Was the long-looked-for hour coming quick to Lorenzo Visconti? Poor youth! he could not tell. His heart beat when he thought of it. He formed eager and passionate plans--he dreamed dreams of joy. He would press Leonora to an immediate union; he would carry her with him to France; he would take her to the sweet banks of the Loire, and in that old chateau he so much loved he would see melt away at least some few of those bright days of youth which God made for happiness. Oh! the cup and the lip--the cup and the lip! How short the span that will contain many and momentous events!
The army arrived at Pisa, and every one asked his neighbour what was the direction of the next day's march. No one could tell. The morning broke, and no orders were given. The citizens of Pisa rejoiced, provided for the French soldiers as if they had been brothers, rivalled each other in showing kindness and courtesy, and lost no means in testifying that gratitude which they might well feel, or of conciliating that friendship which had already proved so valuable.
The King of France busied himself with their affairs, endeavoured to moderate between them and the Florentines, and enjoyed all the pleasures of that city in the fairest period of the year; but though every day increased his peril, he spoke not of the forward march, and never hinted an intention of visiting Florence ere his departure from Italy.
At length Lorenzo could endure suspense no longer, and craved permission to absent himself for a few days.
"They must be few indeed," said the king gravely. "If you can ride thither in one day and back in another, you can spend one day with your sweet lady, my good cousin. On the fourth we march forward for Pontremoli."
The time was very short, but still a day--an hour with Leonora was a boon not to be neglected. It was night when Lorenzo received the permission, and ere an hour was over he was on the way to Florence with a small train. The air was clear and calm, the moon was shining brightly, near the full, and the ghost-like, dreamy beauty of the white marble buildings harmonized with the lights that fell upon them. Oh fair Pisa! city of beauty, of sorrow, and of crime! Standing in thy streets and remembering thy past history, one knows not whether to admire, to grieve, or to abhor!
The word was given, the gates were opened, and the train passed out, not numerous enough for any military expedition, yet comprising too many men, and those too well armed, for any party of mere pleasure, except in days of war and peril. Then the country between Pisa and Florence was regarded as peaceful, as those days were; but peace was a mere name in the time I speak of, and it was well known that armed parties had ravaged the adjacent districts ever since the arrival of the King of France at Pisa.
Yet how calm and tranquil was the sky, how soft and soothing the early summer air, how melodiously peaceful the song of the choristers of the night, and even the voice of the cricket on the tree or the insects in the grass! The eternal warfare of earth and all earth's denizens seemed stilled as if the universal knell awaited the coming day.
Through scenes, oh, how fair! passed on Lorenzo and his train, twelve mounted men, fully equipped and armed, and half a dozen pages and servants, and as they rode, the same feelings--varied, but yet the same--were in the bosom of both leader and followers; a weariness of the turmoil and ever-irritating watchfulness of war, a sense of relief, a blessed sensation of repose in the quiet night's ride, and the peaceful moon, and sweet bird's song--a consciousness of calm, such as comes upon the seaman when the storm has blown out its fury, and the sky is clear, and the ocean smooth again.
The rudest man in all the train felt it, and all were silent as they rode, for few of them knew the sources of the emotions they experienced, fewer sought to analyse them, and only one was moved by passions which rendered the scenes and circumstances through which he passed accessories to the drama playing in his own heart. Lorenzo felt them all, it is true, but it was feeling without perception. The moonlight, and the trees, and the birds' song, and the glistening murmur of the river, all sank into his mind and became part of the dream in which he was living, and yet he remarked none of all these things distinctly, and gave every thought to Leonora.
"She will come with me," he thought, "she will surely come with me. What matters it that the time is short? It is not as if we were the mere acquaintances of a day. We have wandered half through Italy together; she has rested in my arms, and pillowed her head upon my bosom. She will never refuse to come, though there be but one day for decision and action. But then Mona Francesca, will she not oppose? She is one of those soft, considerate women of the world, who dress themselves at the world's eye, and regulate every look by rule. She cannot feel as we feel, and will think it easy for me to return a few months hence and claim my bride with all due ceremony--a few months, and a few months! Why life might slip away, and Leonora never be mine. The present only is ours in this fleeting world of change, and we must not let it fly from us unimproved. Yet Mona Francesca will certainly oppose. At all events, she will wish to consult some one, to shield herself under the opinions of others from the world's comments. On Leonora only can I rely, and on her must I rely alone. Here, Antonio, ride up beside me here: I wish to speak with you."
The man rode up, and Lorenzo questioned him much and often. He asked if there were not a church near the villa, and what he knew, if he knew anything, of the priest.
"There is a church some two miles off in the valley," said Antonio, "but I never saw the priest. The servants told me, however, he was a severe man, who exacted every due to the uttermost."
That was not the man for Lorenzo's purpose; and he paused and waited, and then propounded other questions, to which he received answers not much more satisfactory. At length Antonio exclaimed, with a laugh, "Tell me, my lord, what is it you want with a priest, and it shall go hard but your poor Antonio will find means to gratify you. You cannot want to confess, methinks, since you confessed last, or you must have sinned somewhat cunningly for me not to find you out."
"See here, Antonio," replied Lorenzo; "I must be back on the day after to-morrow at Pisa. Now, in a word, the Signora d'Orco must be mine ere I depart."
"Oh, then, my lord, take her home with you," said Antonio, with some feeling. "If your absence now has caused her such pain when you are but lovers, think how she would pine, poor lady, if you were so long absent from your wife."
"Such is my intention, Antonio," answered Lorenzo. "When I meet her again, I can part with her no more; but here is the difficulty: Mona Francesca will oppose our hasty union. It must, therefore, be private. Once mine by the bonds of the Church, and with her father's full consent, which I have in writing, no opposition can avail. She is mine beyond all power to separate us--she is mine, and for ever. Mona Francesca must perforce consent to her going with me to France, and, indeed, if she did not, her opposition would be vain."
"I wish you had brought more men with you, my lord," replied Antonio, "but that is neither here nor there. As we have begun, so we must go on. Then, next, as to a priest, which is now, I suppose, the all-important question. First, we must find one who is willing; next, we must find one who is sure; and, thirdly, we must find one who is dexterous. Give me but two hours, and I think I can make sure of the man. When I was telling you all about the Villa Morelli, I mentioned that there was a monastery just above, not a quarter of a mile up the mountain. You did not take much notice of what I said, for you did not know how serviceable it might be. Oh, my lord, you cannot imagine how useful convents and monasteries are on various occasions, nor what various sorts of men can be found within them. Now there are always many who have taken priest's orders, and in this monastery there is one, at least, qualified in every way to celebrate matrimony, or anything else you like. He is Madonna Francesca's director, and therefore must be a holy and devout man."
There was a slight touch of sarcasm in Antonio's tone, but that did not prevent Lorenzo from presenting the very reasonable objection that he was the last man who ought to be asked to perform the marriage ceremony of Mona Francesca's temporary ward without her knowledge and consent.
"My good lord is not much acquainted with priests and friars," said Antonio; "but just as certain as Monseigneur Breconnel steals the king's money just when his Majesty has most need of it himself, so will Fra Benevole marry you to the signora, and help to keep Madonna Francesca quiet and ignorant till all is over. Why, I have drunk more than one bottle with him; and for a sufficient sum--for the benefit of the monastery--always for the benefit of the monastery, you know--he will either give Mona Francesca such a penance for all the sins she has even wished to commit as will keep her in her own chamber all day, or he will drug her little cup of vino di Monte Capello, which she takes every morning, so as to make her sleep for four-and-twenty hours, or he will poison her outright and save you all further trouble about her, just as your lordship likes," and Antonio touched his cap with solemn irony.
"The two latter alternatives are rather too strong for my taste, Antonio," replied Lorenzo, "but the first will do well enough, if you can depend upon your boon companion."
"We can make him reliable, sir," said Antonio; "that depends entirely upon the ducats. Faith is a very good thing when it is of the right sort; but the only faith that is good is faith in God and the blessed Virgin. Faith in man must be tied with gold, and then it may hold fast. What am I to promise him if he perform the marriage ceremony, in the chapel of the villa, between you and the signorina some time to-morrow, and contrive the means?"
"Why, Cynic, he will demand the money in hand," said his young master. "Why should he trust to your faith if you will not trust to his?"
"We will both trust half way, my lord," replied Antonio, "and then it will be the interest of neither to deceive the other. If you please, we will give him half the money for his promise, and the other half after his performance. He shall have one moiety when he says he will do it; and the other when he gives you, under his own hand, the certificate of the marriage. What do you think he ought to have?"
"Whatever he asks," replied Lorenzo; "a couple of hundred ducats."
"Oh! the extravagance of youth!" exclaimed Antonio; "he would poniard his own father for a quarter of that sum. If I understand you right, I am to offer him anything he seeks under two hundred ducats."
"Nay, I placed not that limit absolutely, my good friend," answered the youth; "the truth is, Antonio, this marriage must take place at once. I will not leave my Leonora again, and now she can only go with me as my wife. Whatever he asks he must have. I have about five hundred ducats with me, and he can surely trust my word for more, should it be necessary."
"Heaven forgive us!" exclaimed Antonio; "you are almost blasphemous, sir, to suppose that a priest of the Catholic Church would set such a price upon matrimony when he charges so little for any other sin you please to mention. I will arrange the matter for you easily, now I know how far you will go. You have no mind, perhaps, to have any cardinal assassinated, or any rich lord put out of the way, for I dare say I could get it done gratis, as a sort of make-weight, when your lordship is so liberal about matrimony! But look upon that matter as all arranged. You have nothing to do but prepare the lady and obtain her consent, and I will let you know, within four hours after we arrive, the when, and the where, and the how."
"You have but a sad opinion of the clergy of your own country, my good Antonio," said Lorenzo, with a mind greatly relieved by his companion's promises.
"On my life, it is not of the clergy alone I have such a favourable opinion," replied Antonio, laughing; "from prince to peasant it is all the same thing, only the clergy have the best opportunities. Look at our friend Ludovic of Milan; look at your friend Cardinal Cæsar; pope, prince, lawyer, doctor, friar, it is all the same thing. We have got into a few trifling bad habits here in Italy, what between Guelphs and Ghibelines, popes and emperors. Those who dare not draw a sword, unsheath a dagger; and those who wish not to spill blood, because people say it leaves a mark behind it, use poison, which leaves none. Buondoni, who came near killing you, was, I do believe, one of the best of all the rascals in Italy. He was always ready to peril his own life, and rather preferred it. Why, he could have had you put out of the way by something dropped into a cup of wine or scattered on a bunch of grapes for half a sequin."
"What! in the Villa Rovera?" asked Lorenzo, in a tone of doubt.
"It might have been difficult there, it is true," replied Antonio, "and perhaps Ludovic was in a hurry; otherwise he would have had it performed, as they call it, anywhere on your journey, for less than it cost Buondoni to feed his horses on the road to Milan. Death is cheap here, my lord. But let us talk of business again. I had better lighten your purse at once of a hundred ducats, that I may be prepared when we arrive to go to early mass, which I can do safely, as I have nothing on my conscience but a small trifle of matrimony, which we are told is a holy state."
Lorenzo not only gave him readily the money he required, but would fain have pressed more upon him, for he was fearful even of the least impediment occurring to frustrate or delay the execution of his plan.
Throughout the livelong night he and Antonio continued to discuss every part and particular of the scheme they had devised; not, indeed, that there was anything more of importance to be said, but Lorenzo loved to dwell upon details which gave rise to happy thoughts, and Antonio had an amiable toleration for his master's passion.
Day dawned at length, and found the party of horsemen some five miles from the city of Florence; but their course was no longer to be pursued in that direction. Under the guidance of Antonio, they left the broad highway between Pisa and Florence, and began to ascend by a narrower and steeper path toward the villa they were seeking. It was a wild and somewhat savage region through which they now passed--beautiful, indeed, but stern in its beauty.
The sides of the Apennines in those days were covered with dense forests, which, long after, were cut down to take away their shelter from the robbers which infested them; and the oaks and chestnuts had even in some places encroached upon the road. In other spots, however, large masses of rock appeared; and in others, again, the path, having been cut along the side of the hill, displayed a grand view over the wide and beautiful valley of the Arno and the surrounding country. At the first of these gaps, where the open landscape presented itself, neither Lorenzo nor Antonio looked toward it, for both had matter of thought within which made them somewhat indifferent to external objects. They might have even passed the second and third without notice, but one of the soldiers who followed exclaimed, "That is a good large body of men, my lord."
"Ha!" cried Lorenzo, immediately turning his eyes to the open country. "Indeed it is, Parisot. There must be full five hundred spears."
"More than that, sir," replied the man; "but they are not coming our way."
"Nor going to Florence, either," remarked Antonio. "They are no Florentine troops, Monsieur Parisot."
"I do not know what they are," said the soldier, "but I know what they are not. They are not French troops, or you would see them in better order. Why, they are riding along like a flock of Sarcelles."
"Ay, I see," said Antonio; "not half the regularity of a flock of wild geese."
"Don't you think, my lord," continued Parisot, without remarking Antonio's quiet sneer at his boast of his countrymen's military array, "don't you think they look like one of those irregular bands which we sometimes saw in the Roman States? people said they were kept up by Cardinal Borgia. They go flying about just in the same way, shifting from flank to rear--now in line, now in hedge, and now in no order at all."
"They do look like them," said Lorenzo; "but I should hardly think the cardinal would venture his men so far as this."
"Oh, my lord, you cannot tell how far he will venture," said Antonio, "especially when he is only taking the dues of the Church. He and his holy father have a right to tithes, and those bands are merely sent out to collect a tenth of all the property in Italy. But what are they doing now? Some twenty of them have gone to that pretty little villa to get a draught of water, I warrant."
"Well, let us pass on," said Lorenzo; "they do not see us up here, or they might prove troublesome fellow-travellers."
But before he could move on beyond the break in the trees from which he had been observing the cavalry in the valley below, a thin white smoke rose up from the villa, and the detachment which had ridden up to it was seen retreating towards the main body of their comrades, who had paused upon the high road. The next moment a flash of flame mingled with the smoke, and then, from two of the windows, lines of fire were seen to extend along a verandah, probably of wood, which ran round three sides of the house. Another moment, and all was in flames, while indistinctly were seen several persons, apparently women, in the hands of the brutal soldiery.
Lorenzo shut his teeth close and rode on. He uttered not a word aloud, but he thought, "Oh that I had supreme power over this beautiful land, if but for a brief space of time, I would be a tyrant for the people's good--remorseless, cruel to all such fiends as these. But I would stop the crimes that make a hell of a paradise, or die."
The ascent seemed very long. Oh, how long the last portion of any journey seems when we are hastening to those we love! "Is it much farther, Antonio? is it much farther?" asked Lorenzo, repeatedly.
"Only a mile, my lord--only half a mile," replied the man. But the mile seemed a day's journey, the half mile a league.
At length the joyful words were heard, "We turn off here, signor." But still the chestnut woods hid the villa from sight; and though Lorenzo now pushed on his jaded horse fast along the more level ground they had reached, some more slow moments passed ere he came upon the smooth, free turf-ground, bedizened with flowers, which Antonio had described at the approach to the villa. It opened out at a turn of the road very suddenly, and the young knight was upon it ere he was aware. But in an instant he reined in his horse, and was still gazing forward with a look of dismay and anguish when his men came up.
There indeed stood the Villa Morelli--at least what was left of it. There were the old towers firm and perfect externally, though the windows were cracked and broken; but the more modern edifice which was turned towards the west for the purpose of catching the full influence of the most beautiful hour of Italy, with its light graceful architecture, its richly-ornamented windows, and fairy colonnade, where was it?
Parts still stood shattered and toppling over, as if about to fall the next moment; part lay in fragments upon the terrace, and part had fallen inward, crushing the luxurious halls and splendidly-furnished chambers, while here and there a wandering wreath of smoke, and even a creeping line of fire among scorched and broken beams, told by what agency the ruin had been produced.
Old men hardened in the petrifying experience of the world, and men of iron souls created and fashioned for the sterner things of life, may be brought suddenly into the presence of such scenes, may even have personal interest in them, without feeling more than a vague general sense of disgust and horror at those who have produced them, and the sorrow which is natural to the human mind in seeing fair things blighted, either by gradual decay or sudden accident. But Lorenzo Visconti was not one of those. There was a certain degree of firmness--even perhaps sternness in his character, it is true; but he was full of emotions, and sensitive, and very young.
There had dwelt his young bride when last he heard of her; there he had every reason to believe she had been dwelling peacefully within a few short hours. Is it wonderful that, besides all the terrible fears which rushed in an indistinct crowd through his head, a thousand wild thoughts should crowd upon his brain and seem to paralyse its functions.
Where was she now? What had become of her? Had she been carried off by the baud of ruthless marauders he had seen below? Was she buried in those dreadful ruins? These and a thousand other fearful questions were flooding his mind like the waves of a sea stirred by a hurricane.
All paused in awe-struck silence for a moment, and then Lorenzo struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on up the terrace even among the still hot fragments. "Ho! is there any one here?" he cried--"is there any one here? For the love of God, answer if there be! Ride round to the back, Antonio. Parisot, take that other way to the left. See if you can find any to answer. But be quick--be quick! there is no time to spare."
"But what would you do, my lord?" asked Antonio, in a sad tone.
"Pursue the villains to the gates of hell!" cried Lorenzo. "I will, I tell you! quick!"
More than once Lorenzo repeated the shout, "Ho! is there any one there?" while the men were absent, and sometimes he would think of sending some of the men down to a small peasant-house he saw about half a mile below, and then he would remember that he might need them all at a moment's notice; and often would he mutter words to himself, such as "They dare not resist a French pennon. What if they do? Then die. Better to die a thousand times than live to think of her in their hands."
The few minutes the men were absent passed thus as if in a dream; but at length Antonio re-appeared, bringing a man with him pressed tightly by the arm. It was a peasant of the middle age, who seemed somewhat unwilling to come where he was led, and was evidently afraid; but, if one might judge from the expression of his face, the dull, heavy look of despair, there was sorrow mingled with his fear.
"You need not hold me so hard, signor," he said, in the rich but somewhat rough Tuscan tongue; "I will come. I only ran from you because I thought you were a party of the band."
"Here!" cried Lorenzo, springing up to meet them; "tell me who has done this. What of the ladies who were here? Where are they? What has become of them? Speak, man, quick! I am half mad."
"Oh, signor, if you had seen your daughter carried away by ruffians you might be whole mad," answered the peasant, and his eyes gushed forth with tears.
"I am sorry for you from my heart," replied Lorenzo, in an altered tone; "yet, my good friend, give me any information in your power. My bride may be where your daughter is, and if so I will pursue them."
The man gave a hopeless, nay, almost a contemptuous look at the handful of men which followed the young lord.
"Never mind," said Lorenzo, well understanding what he meant; "only tell me what you know, and leave the rest to me."
"All I know is very little, signor," replied the man. "A little before daybreak, when it was just grey, I heard a great many horses go by my house yonder, coming this way, and, thinking it strange, I got up and looked after them. I then saw it was a great band of armed men. My heart misgave me, for my poor Judita was up here helping the people at the villa. As fast as I could I crept through the vines; but of course they were a long way before me, and I found that the way to the villa was guarded. I know not how long I stayed, for if it had been but a minute it would have seemed an hour, but I saw after awhile a bright light in the windows of that big old tower, and then the windows of the great new hall were all in a blaze. Everything had been silent till then--at least I could not hear anything where I lay hid by that big stone, covered with the old uva Sant Angelica--but just when the glare came in the windows, there were sounds made themselves heard--cries, and shrieks, and such noises as make men's hair stand on end. Then a whole party came hurrying out, with a fine, handsome man at their head--and he was laughing, too--who said to the first of those that followed, 'Put them on the horses and away. You are sure that fire has taken everywhere.' What the other answered I do not know, for just then I caught sight of the women they were dragging out."
"Who were they?" said Lorenzo, eagerly. "It must have been day by that time. You must have seen their faces."
"I saw no one but my daughter, signor," said the poor man, simply; and after a pause, he added, "and she was soon out of sight for ever. Her body will be in the Arno or the Mugnione to-morrow, and we shall be childless."
Lorenzo's head drooped, and for some moments he kept silence. There was an intensity of grief in the poor parent's tone which awed even his grief.
"Could you distinguish any of these men," he asked at length, "so as to know them again?"
"I saw nothing very clearly," replied the other--"nothing but Judita; only I know that one of the men called the other 'Monsignore.' He looked to me more like a devil than a cardinal, and yet he was a handsome man too."
"My lord, you can see the band from here," said one of Lorenzo's troop; they are taking the Pisa road. "They will fall in with our outposts, if they do not mind."
"Well, they must be followed, and, if possible, cut off," replied his lord, who had now recovered some presence of mind. "If they take their way toward Pisa we shall have them."
"Your pardon, my lord," said Antonio, "but will it not be better to go up to the monastery, and make inquiries there? Depend upon it, the good fathers did not stand looking on at the burning of the villa without marking all, if they did not do all they could. They had no daughters in the villa, and saw more than this poor man, depend upon it. Five minutes will take you thither. You can see one of the towers up yonder, just above the tree-tops."
"Well bethought," replied his lord; "we may, indeed, hear tidings there. But we must not lose sight of the enemy. Parisot, ride on to the verge of the rocks there. You can see them thence for ten miles, at least, I should think. Keep good watch upon them. All the rest stay here. I will be back speedily;" and, so saying, with Antonio for a guide, he rode on.