Think what a sharp stab this must have been to the heart of the poor girl; but she tried to do her best, and secretly comforted herself with the thought that even if the Duchess had withdrawn her favor from her, she had not forfeited it by her own fault.
Meanwhile Cecchino had become a man-at-arms of the Duke, who had taken him to Rome. He was doubtful whether Maria could go with him or not, but considering that it would be shameful for him to leave his aged mother entirely alone, he decided that she had better remain, the more easily as he hoped to be able often to visit his home. But fate frustrated his intentions, till, hoping vainly from month to month, three years had passed; and in this interval of time, to the sincerest grief of himself and his wife, his mother had departed to a better world. Then Maria wrote to him, that as there was nothing now remaining to keep her at Florence, and as she had grown tired of it, she wished to join him at Rome immediately; but Cecchino, in reply, begged her to remain, as the Duke could not delay many days longer his return to Florence, and that they should all return with him; and it did not appear safe to him that she, a woman, should venture alone upon the journey, while the roads were so beset with large bands of banditti, and even in Rome itself it was insecure. The good Maria, bearing her disappointment patiently, expected her husband every day.
It was the evening of the fourth of July, 1576, and Maria was spinning, alone and in silence, after having sung several verses of the song of Giosafatte and of Barlaam, and the whole episode of the death of Zerbino and Isabella, the pathetic fancy of Lodovico Ariosto,[41] when she heard a knock at the door. She started, like one whose heart has been watching, sprang to her feet, and lifting the latch of the door, went to the head of the stairs with a light in her hand, hardly daring to hope that she might see her Cecchino appear: she beheld, instead, a man dressed in black, who entering with much caution, closed the door carefully, and then began slowly to ascend the stairs. Maria felt a little alarmed, but she had too much spirit to allow herself to be overcome by fear, and looking more closely at him, she recognised Don Inigo, the taciturn major-domo of the Duchess.
"Good evening, Don Inigo, welcome; what strange chance has brought you here?"
Inigo, in words which, though they retained nothing of his native Spanish, were yet far from being good Italian, replied:
"God and the holy Virgin del Pilar keep you, Señora Maria," and continued to ascend the stairs; when he reached the room he stopped a moment to rest, and then said:
"My lady sent me to tell you to go as cautiously as possible, towards midnight, to the secret side-door of the palace; knock twice and it will be opened to you. You will learn the rest from my Lady, who begs of you to preserve the utmost secresy, as it concerns a matter of life and death. Good night."
And rising, Don Inigo departed as he had come.
"Don Inigo, hear me, stop a moment; tell me something more. Oh! what is this? Mother of God! lighten my trouble! If you know anything do not leave me in this perplexity."
Meanwhile, Don Inigo having reached the bottom of the stairs, lifted the latch, and in passing the threshold, turned and bowed to Maria, then, without another word, closed the door and disappeared.