CHAPTER XXX.
How much accident sometimes serves us--nay, how often our own follies and indiscretions lead us to better results than our wisdom and prudence could have attained!
"Conduct is fate," "Knowledge is power," are the favourite doctrines of those who believe they have conduct, or presume they have knowledge. Carried to the infinite, both axioms are true, but in every degree below the infinite they are false; and oh, how false with man! Every abstract, indeed, is often found to be a practical falsehood. The wisest and the best of men, from Socrates to Galileo, have, by the purest conduct, won the worst of fates; and power, either to do good or evil, slipped from the hands of Bacon just when he reached the acme of his knowledge. It seems as if God himself were pleased to rebuke continually the axioms of human vanity, and to show man that no conduct can overrule his will--no knowledge approach even to the steps of power.
It was unfortunate for Lorenzo that he had imprudently left all his men but Antonio below. There were two old monks sitting on the rocks just before the great gates of the monastery, and talking with each other earnestly. Both started and rose when they heard the sound of horses' feet; but as the place where they stood commanded a full view down the road, they could see at once that the party which approached was not formidable in point of numbers.
In troublous times men built their houses for defence as well as shelter, and the monks had found it necessary to use even as much precaution as their more mundane brethren. The monastery was well walled, and the rocks on which it stood were fortifications in themselves; but all the skill of the builder had been expended upon the great gates, which were assailable from the road leading directly to them. Two massy towers, however, one on either side, a portcullis with its herse ready to fall on the heads of any enemies who approached too near, a deep arch behind that, with loop-holes in the dark, shadowy sides, and machicolations above, and then two heavy iron-plated doors, gave sufficient defence against anything but cannon, which were not likely to be dragged up those heights.
One of the monks, as soon as he had satisfied himself of the number of the approaching party, seated himself again on the rock; the other retreated a few steps as if to re-enter the building, but stopped just under the portcullis.
"What seek you, my son?" said the first, as Lorenzo rode up and drew in his rein by his side. "We are in great trouble this morning, and the prior, though unwilling to stint our vowed hospitality, has commanded that no one be admitted."
"I came to seek intelligence regarding those most dear to me, father," replied Lorenzo; "there has been a terrible act committed at the Villa Morelli down below."
"Alas! alas!" said the old man, "a terrible act indeed."
The monk at the gate had by this time drawn nearer, and was looking steadfastly at Antonio. "Why, surely," he said, "I saw you at the villa some weeks ago with the ladies Francesca and Leonora."
"Assuredly," replied Antonio; "you came down seeking Brother Benevole, and stayed for an hour to hear of what was doing at Naples. It is those two ladies we are seeking. My young lord set out last night from Pisa, and we have travelled all night, for the purpose of visiting the Signora Leonora and Madonna Francesca, and when we arrive we find nothing but ruin and destruction."
"Alas! alas!" said the old monk who was seated on the rock, fixing a very keen, and Lorenzo thought a very meaning, look upon the other friar; "alas! alas! it is very terrible."
"But can you give me any information respecting these ladies, good fathers?" asked the young lord, somewhat impetuously. "If you knew how closely I am connected with them, you would comprehend what I would give for even the slightest information regarding them."
"Alas! we can give you none, my son," answered the old man; "can we, Brother Thomas? In the grey of the morning we were disturbed by the coming of that fiend in the shape of a man, and some of us ran out when they heard the cries and saw the flames, but the prior recalled us all by the bell, and made us shut the gates and keep quite close within till the man and his company was gone."
"Of whom are you speaking, father?" asked Lorenzo, abruptly. "Whom do you call 'the man' and 'that fiend'?"
"Do you not know?" exclaimed the monk. "I mean that demon, enemy of God and man, calling himself Cæsar, Cardinal of Borgia."
"He shall answer me for this, if it be in the Vatican!" said Lorenzo, setting his teeth hard. "Come, Antonio, I must follow these men, and may chance to bring those upon them who will take a bloody vengeance."
"Stay a moment, my lord," whispered Antonio; "there is more to be got here--there is some news, and it may be good news, lying hid somewhere. If they saw nothing but what the good monk says, how does he know it was Don Cæsar? Let me deal with him. Good Father Sylvester," he continued aloud----
"That is not my name, my son," said the monk upon the rock. "I am called Fra Nicolo, though sometimes men call me Fra Discreto."
"Well, good Father Nicolo, then," said Antonio, "my young lord here, Signor Lorenzo Visconti, Knight, proposes to pursue yonder company of wicked men and bring upon them the whole power of the King of France, whose cousin he is."
"He will do a good deed," said the old monk, drily.
"But, good father, he cannot do so," said Antonio, "without food for his horses and men, and drink also. Now I will crave Fra Tomaso here to go into the prior, and tell him of our case. Ask him to speak with my young lord in person, for he has a dozen or two of men below, and as many horses, but he did not choose to approach your peaceful gates with such a force."
"Brother Thomas can do as he pleases," said the old monk, "but I don't think the prior can feed so many, especially the horses; so there is not much use of his going."
Fra Tomaso, however, thought differently, for he immediately turned to go into the convent; and Antonio, who had dismounted a moment or two before, went with him as far as the inner gate, whispering eagerly in his ear all the time. Lorenzo did not perceive that the friar answered anything, but Antonio's face was much more cheerful when he returned than it had been after witnessing the ruin of the Villa Morelli.
The old monk who remained did not appear to have any great benevolence in his nature, or it was not excited by Lorenzo and his servant. "It is useless," he said--"all useless. There is the prior's mule: that is all we have."
"Oh, we and our horses are soon satisfied," said Antonio, in his usual tone. "We only want a little hay and water for ourselves and a little white bread and wine for our horses."
"I think you are mocking me, my son," said the monk, with a very cloudy brow. "I do not bear mocking well."
"And yet your Heavenly Master was both mocked and scourged," said Antonio, "and he uttered not a word."
How far the dispute might have gone between Antonio and Fra Discreto or Nicolo, had it remained uninterrupted much longer, it is difficult to say, for the worthy monk was evidently waxing irate; but at that moment came, almost running forth from the gates, a portly, jovial-looking friar of some fifty-five or sixty years of age, who took Antonio in his arms, and gave him a mighty hug. "Welcome! welcome, my son!" cried Fra Benevole, for he it was; "thrice welcome at this moment, when we need better comfort than wine can give us--though, Heaven bless the Pulciano, it was the only thing that did me good at first. Now this is your young lord, I warrant, of whom you told me so much, and whom the signorina loves so well."
The very reference to Leonora's name brought down upon the jovial monk a whole host of questions, but he gave a suspicious look to the old man, who still continued to oppress the rock, and he likewise professed inability to answer. But there was something in his manner which renewed hope in the bosom of Lorenzo, though it did not remove apprehension. He had spoken of Leonora in the present tense too, not in the past, and that was something.
"But come to my cell," he cried; "come and rest, and have some light refreshment; for though I must touch nothing myself, for these three hours, I can always cater for my friends."
His face was turned toward Lorenzo as he spoke, as if the invitation was principally directed toward him, and the young nobleman answered, "I am afraid, good father, I must await the return of Fra Tomaso, who has gone to bear a message to the prior."
"Oh, Brother Thomas will know where to find you," replied Benevole. "It was he who told me of your arrival and sent me to you. He will be sure to seek you first in my cell."
But the monk's hospitable intentions were frustrated by the appearance of Tomaso himself, followed by no less dignified a person than the prior himself, a nobleman by birth and a churchman of fair reputation. Lorenzo dismounted to meet him, and their greetings were courteous, if not warm.
"I will beg you, my lord," the prior said, "to repose in my apartments for a time, while your horses and men are cared for by the monastery. All attention shall be paid to their wants and comfort, and if you will explain to Brother Benevole where they are exactly, he will have them brought up to the strangers' lodging."
"They are down by the ruins of the villa," said Lorenzo, "and one man must remain there to watch that brutal band, for, God willing, they shall not escape punishment. But I beseech you, reverend father, give my mind some ease as to the fate----"
The prior bowed his head with graceful dignity, saying, "Of that presently, my son; let us always trust in God. As to your sentinel, neither he nor any need remain. We have a watchman in the campanile of the church. He can see farther than any one below, and will mark everything at least as well. I lead the way."
Lorenzo followed, leaving Antonio with his friend Benevole and the horses, and the prior conducted him through a wide court, past the church, and through the cloister-court to a suite of apartments which spoke more the habits of a somewhat luxurious literary man than a severe ecclesiastic.
"These are, by right," said the prior, "the apartments of the abbot; but an election, as it is called, has not been held for some years, and may not, perhaps, till a new pope blesses the Church. Pray be seated, my lord. I see you are impatient," he added, closing the door, and looking round to assure himself that what he said could not be overheard. "Set your mind at rest. She for whom I know you feel the deepest interest has not been injured."
"But is she free? Have not those men carried her off, as they did others?" exclaimed Lorenzo, in as much impatience as ever.
"She is safe--she is in no danger," replied the prior; "let that suffice you for the present. If you proposed to follow those daring, wicked men to rescue her from their hands, the attempt would have been madness and without object, for she is not with them."
"Let me be sure that we speak of the same person," said Lorenzo, still unsatisfied.
"Of the Signorina Leonora d'Orco," replied the monk.
"Thank God! oh, thank God!" exclaimed Lorenzo, with a deep sigh. "And Mona Francesca?" he asked, after a pause; "you have said nothing of her fate, reverend father."
"Alas! my son," replied the prior, "her fate has been perhaps less happy, perhaps more so than that of her younger and fairer companion. It will be as God's grace is granted to her. Let us speak no more of this. Have you anything else to ask?"
"Simply this," replied Lorenzo; "you are doubtless aware, father, as you seem to have full knowledge of my relations with the Signora d'Orco, that she is my promised wife, with the full consent of her father and the blessing of the good Cardinal Julian de Rovera. It is absolutely necessary that I should see her, and see her speedily, as I am obliged to rejoin his Majesty of France at an early hour to-morrow."
"I fear, my son, that is not possible," said the prior; but the door opened to admit some of the servitory of the monastery bearing more than one kind of food and wine, and the good monk stopped suddenly in his reply. As soon as the refreshments had been spread on a small stone table, and the room was again clear, he pressed Lorenzo to take some meat and wine, saying, "I can speak to you while you eat, my son."
Lorenzo seated himself at the table, and, before he ate anything, filled the large silver goblet with wine, and drank it off. The mind was more depressed by anxiety than the body by fatigue. The monk watched him; for, removed as he was from much active participation in the world's affairs, he had long been a spectator of the great tragedy of human life, and comprehended at once, by slight indications, what was passing in the shadow of the bosoms around him.
"I fear it is impossible, my son," he said, "that you should see the lady so speedily as you wish. I can communicate with her, it is true, and can procure for you, under her own hand, assurance which you cannot doubt, that she is, as I have told you, safe and well; but more I cannot promise."
"Father, I do not doubt you," said Lorenzo, ceasing from his meal before more than one mouthful had been tasted. "You would not deceive me, I am sure; but you cannot tell what I feel--you cannot comprehend what I endure, and shall endure till I see her again--till I can clasp her to my heart, and, after she has escaped such a peril, thank God, with her, for her preservation. In your blessed exemption from the passions as well as the cares of secular life, you cannot even imagine the eager, the burning desire I feel to see her, to touch her hand, to assure myself by every sense that she is safe--that she is mine. Could you conceive it, you would find or force a way to bring me to her presence ere I depart for France."
"My son, you are mistaken," said the prior, in a tone of solemn, even melancholy earnestness. "I can conceive the whole. God help us, poor sinful mortals that we are. When we renounce the world we renounce its indulgences; but can we, do we, renounce its passions? How many a heart beneath the cowl--ay, beneath the mitre--thrills with all the warmest impulses of man's nature! How many--how terrible are the struggles, not to subdue the unsubduable passions, but to curb and regulate them; to bring them into subjection to an ever-present sense of duty; to chasten, not to kill the most fiery portion of our immortal essence! My son, you are mistaken; I can conceive your feelings--nay, I can feel with you and for you. God forbid that, as some do, I should say these impulses, these sentiments, these sensations are unconquerable, and therefore must be indulged. On such principles let the Borgias act. But I say that we--even we churchmen--must tolerate their existence in our hearts while we refrain from their indulgence, and that thereby we retain that sympathy with our fellow-mortals which best enables us to counsel them aright under all temptations. I will do my best for you, and, if it be possible, you shall see your Leonora for a time. When must you go hence?"
"I should set out by sun-down, father," replied Lorenzo; "the King of France must make a hasty march. Would to Heaven indeed it had been hastier, for the news we have is bad."
"Can you not remain behind?" said the monk; "you are an Italian, and not his subject, and it might serve many an excellent purpose if you could tarry here even for a few days."
"It cannot be, father," answered the young man; "were I to follow my own will, I would remain for ever by Leonora's side, but I am bound to King Charles by every tie of gratitude and honour. Those, indeed, I fear me, I might break in any common circumstance, and trust the king would pardon me upon the excuse of love; but, father, this is a moment when I dare not, for my honour, be absent from his force. There are dangers before and all around him. A battle must be fought ere we can cut our way to France. His army is small enough, and even one weak hand may turn the chance for or against him. I had hoped indeed, and I will own it frankly, that my beloved girl, with her father's full sanction to our union, which she has, would have consented to be mine by a hasty marriage, and go with me to France; but, alas! I fear----"
"My son, my son," exclaimed the monk, in a reproachful tone, "you would not surely dream of taking her into such scenes of danger as you speak of: nay, that is selfish."
"Is she not in greater danger here in Tuscany?" asked Lorenzo.
"She is in none, I trust," replied the prior. "It was imprudent, beyond doubt, to come in such times as these to a defenceless villa; but in Florence she will be safe as any one can be where wrong and rapine rage as here in Italy. But what you wish is quite impossible. If you have duties that must take you hence, she has duties also that must bind her here. I will keep my promise with you; but you must give up vain wishes and purposes that cannot be executed. She herself will tell you that it is impossible. Stay a moment; I must ask some questions."
The prior rose and left the room. He did not close the door behind him, and Lorenzo heard him give orders to some one without to go up to the belfry and ascertain if anything could still be seen of the party who had burned the villa. That done, he rejoined his young guest, but did not renew the conversation, merely pressing him to eat. In a few moments, a good fat monk rolled into the room, and announced that the party of the Borgias were still in sight.
"They have halted, and seem regaling themselves in the gardens of the Villa Morone," he said; "but I see--at least I think I see, and so does Brother Luigi--that there are movements taking place about the gates of the city, and if they stay much longer the Signoria will most likely send out troops to drive them hence."
"Let them be watched well, good father, I beseech you," exclaimed Lorenzo; "for if the Florentine troops come forth to attack them, I will go down to help."
"What an appetite have some men for fighting!" said the prior, making the monk a sign to depart; "but, my son, you will be better here. Though our gates and walls may set them at defiance, I do believe, yet to know that we have some men whose trade is war within might save us from attack. Now, my son, will you sit here and read, or go with me to our church and hear high mass? The latter I would counsel, if your mind be in a fitting state; if not, I never wish any one to attend the offices of religion with wandering thoughts and inattentive ears."
"I will go with you, father," said the young knight. "I have much to be thankful for although some hopes may be disappointed; and my thoughts, I trust, will not wander from my God when I have most cause to praise Him for sparing to me still the most valuable of all the blessings he has given me. But is it really the hour for high mass? How the time flies from us!"
"It wants but a few minutes," said the prior. "Time does fly quickly to all and every one; but it is only towards the close of life we really feel how quickly it has flown. Then--then, my son, we know the value of the treasures we have cast away neglected. Come, I will show you the way. At the church door I must leave you, and perhaps may not see you again for several hours; but you can find your way back here and read or think, if the curiosity of our good brethren be too great for your patience."
"But you promised," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "that I should see the Signora Leonora for a time."
"If it be possible," replied the monk; "such was the tenor of my promise, and it shall not be forgotten. I think it will be possible," he added, seeing a shade of disappointment, or, rather, of anxiety, upon Lorenzo's brow; "but the continued presence of those bad men in the valley scares away from us those we most need at the present moment."
He explained himself no further, but led the way onward to the church.
It cannot perhaps be said that the attention of the young nobleman was not sometimes diverted from the office in which he came to take part; but there was a soothing influence in the music, and a still more comforting balm in the very act of prayer. They who reject religion little know the strength and the consolation, the vigour and the assurance which is derived even from the acknowledgment of our dependence upon a Being whom we know to be all-powerful and all-good--how we can dare all, and endure all, and feel comfort in all when we raise our hearts in faith to him who can do all for us. How often in the course of each man's life has he to say--and oh! with what different feelings and in what different circumstances is it said--"Help, Lord, I sink!" Nor is it ever said without some consolation; nor is it ever asked but it is granted--ay, some help is granted, either in strength, or in resolution, or in patience, or in deliverance. The fearful exclamation might show some want of faith in him who had been eye-witness to a thousand miracles, but with us it shows some faith also. We call upon whom we know to be able to help, and in the hour of adversity or the moment of peril we remember the Lord our God, and put our last, best trust in Him.