Be it, however, in justice told, with respect to the Lady Cammilla, for, when he had spurned the dead body of the Grand Duchess, and hypocritically sad, had followed the remains of his poisoned brother to San Lorenzo, he went right off to the convent of Santa Monica, and acquainted her personally with the fact of delivery from a living tomb.
They had only met very occasionally during the last few years, and she had changed greatly—perhaps he had, too. Her terrible trials, her bodily sicknesses, and her mental derangements had made ineffaceable marks in the erstwhile beauteous girl, and Cammilla de’ Medici was no longer possible as the wife of the renegade Cardinal. Marriage was out of the question for her; indeed, her very existence was at stake, and all that Ferdinando could do was to alleviate the sufferings of his innamorata, and to cheer her declining days.
Many years before, Ferdinando had purchased a piece of ground at the confluence of the Arno and Pesa, and, upon it, he built the Villa Ambrogiana, which he furnished in lavish style, boasting that “it will be handy when I come into my own!” This estate, with a sufficient household, he made over to the Lady Cammilla, for her own free use. Before, however, she took up her residence, Ferdinando, now, of course, Grand Duke of Tuscany, placed at her disposal a country villa in the Val d’Ema, to which the suffering Signora was taken, in the hope that the fresh air and pleasant outlook would assist the recovery of her health and spirits.
She improved wonderfully in every way—the fact that she was again her own mistress and free to come and go at will, fortified her immensely, and she determined to devote the residue of her life to the interests of Ferdinando. Called upon, at his succession to the throne, to renounce his spiritual character—it was a character, indeed, which ill-fitted him—the new Grand Duke devoted himself to the duties of his high station. The Lady Cammilla, who had been his confidante in days gone by, was still retained as counseller and guide. Marriage was the most urgent necessity of the Grand Duke for the procreation of legitimate heirs.
He was surrounded by heirs-presumptive and aspirants to the throne—Don Antonio, his brother’s adopted son; Don Giovanni, his father’s legitimatised son by Eleanora degli Albizzi; his brother Piero, and any one of his bastard sons, and several other scions of the house. The Lady Cammilla entered heartily into all her stepson’s ideas, and quickly, though doubtlessly regretfully, agreed with him that a brilliant foreign alliance was an absolute necessity.
Together they passed in review the names of all the eligible princesses in Europe, and at last their choice fell upon Princess Christina, the young daughter of Charles, Duke of Lorraine, and nephew of Queen Caterina de’ Medici. She was received in Florence with joy, and married to the Grand Duke in 1589. The Lady Cammilla graced the nuptials with her presence, laying aside the dark-hued garments of sorrow which she had assumed and worn so long.
That was the last time Cammilla was seen in public; she retired first to her villa on the Arno, and then, seeing that the symptoms of illness were returning, she voluntarily retired once more into what had been her prison and her home—the convent of Santa Monica, where she breathed her last on the 30th of May 1590, at the early age of forty-five, to the unutterable sorrow of the devoted ladies of her suite and her faithful attendants. In the Libri de’ Morti (1577-1591) we read under that date: “La Signora Cammilla d’il Serenissimo Gran Duca Cosimo de’ Medici, despositata in San Lorenzo.” Some say she died imbecile.
Upon the reverse of one medal, which Cosimo had struck in honour of their nuptials, was cut around the heraldic emblazonment of an oak tree and a dragon, her legend: “Uno avulso non deficit alter aureus.” This may be the epitome of her life’s history, and upon it one may moralise at will; and certainly readers of the “Tragedy of Cammilla de’ Martelli” will admit that a spoilt life is as great a catastrophe as a violent death.
It requires no great stretch of the imagination to picture the morals and the manners of society in Tuscany during the last half of the sixteenth century. The superabundance of private riches and the enervation of idle leisure destroyed the framework of domestic economy; “Di fare il Signore!”—to play the gentleman—was the current mode. Everyone strove to surpass his neighbours in luxury and extravagance.