CHAPTER XXI.
Rome, still grand even in her ruin, was in the hands of Charles of France. He had never in his life seen a stroke stricken in actual warfare, except at the insignificant town of Vivizano; he had never made a conquest more important than that of a village, nor obtained a victory over more than a score or two of men, and yet he felt himself almost on a par with Charlemagne when he stood in Rome exercising all the powers of an emperor. "He suited his corps de gardes and placed his sentinels in the squares of the noble city," says Old Brantome, "with many rounds and patrols, planted his courts of justice with gallowses and whipping-posts in five or six places; requisitions were made in his name; his edicts and ordonnances were cried and published with the sound of the trumpet as in Paris. Go find me a King of France who has ever done such things, except Charlemagne; and even he, I think, proceeded not with an authority so proud and imperious."
The morning dawned and found Charles in possession, full and entire, of all Rome, except the Castle of St. Angelo; and what is of more importance than the mere fact of being in full possession, he was so with the cordial assent of the whole Roman people. They had groaned under oppression and wrong for years, and the very fact that the oppression was exercised by the most despicable of men, had driven the iron deeper into their souls. Any change was to them a deliverance; and so strongly was this felt, that when at daybreak some women stood to gaze at the corpse of a robber who had been caught and hanged by his provosts in the night, they shrugged their shoulders, with a laugh, saying, "No more robbers now."
Not long after that early hour, and not far from the spot where some of the orations of Cicero were poured to the admiring people, a young gentleman, in the garb of peace, but with sword by his side and dagger in his girdle, walked slowly up and down, as if waiting for some one, and presently after a small man, in a monk's gown, whom Lorenzo had once seen before, came up, and saluting him led him away in the direction of some buildings, at that time appropriated to the use of distinguished visitors or great favourites of the Papal Court.
They were not unwatched, however; for from behind an old column which stood there not many years ago--it may stand there still for aught I know--glided out the figure of our friend Antonio, and followed them at some distance, keeping in the deep shade cast by the rising sun upon the eastern side of the street. His keen sharp eye was fixed upon them with a suspicious and even anxious look; "By my faith," he said, "good old Master Esopas was right when he warned us not to warm vipers. I fear me still that one which I helped to save when he was tolerably well frost-bitten, will some day turn and bite me, or, what is worse, bite young Lorenzo. Perhaps I had better warn his youthful knighthood. He is mighty docile for a young man, and will take a hint from me. But then he knows I love him, and that is the secret of it, I do believe; for love's a rarity as this world goes, and, poor boy, having neither father nor mother, who is there to love him but Antonio. By Hercules! I had forgotten the signorina. I am half jealous of the girl, and the only way I can manage to escape being so quite is to love her myself. Ha! they are stopping at that gate; Ramiro lodges there for a score of ducats. Well, well, I will even go in after them, and have a chat with my friend the friar. It is well the holy man should know that he has an intimate acquaintance near."
By this time Lorenzo and the monk had disappeared under the archway and ascended a staircase on the right. It was dirty and dark enough, but the door at the top led into a suite of rooms of almost regal splendour and oriental luxury. The first and the second chambers were vacant; but in the third Ramiro d'Orco was walking up and down with slow steps, and his stern, thoughtful eyes bent upon the ground. It is probable that he had heard the step of Lorenzo from his first entrance; but he was one of those men who never show emotion of any kind, whatever they may feel--men who are never known to start; and it was not till the young man and the friar were quite near that he even looked up.
"Welcome to Rome, Lorenzo," he said, without embracing him as most Italians would have done, or giving him his hand as an Englishman would not have failed to do. "Friar, you may leave us, and do not let us be interrupted. Sit, Lorenzo, sit! Will you rest on that pile of cushions or on that stuffed dais--stuffed with the inner down of some strange northern bird?"
"I thank you, Signor d'Orco," replied Lorenzo, "but I have been lately taught to sit and lie hard enough. You have, indeed, every sort of luxury here."
"Do not call them mine," said Ramiro, with a bitter smile. "They belong to my landlord, the holy and noble Cardinal Borgia. Men propose to themselves different objects in life, young sir. Some judge our short space here was given only for enjoyment; others, again, think it should be a time of active enterprise; one man seeks glory; another power; another wealth. They mostly imagine that they are only, in every object, seeking a means to an end--the covetous will enjoy his wealth hereafter--the ambitious only desires power to benefit his friends or crush his enemies--but they deceive themselves. Only Cæsar Borgia and I admit the naked truth. He says enjoyment in life. I say ambition is enjoyment. But an ambitious man must not sit on soft stools. There is my common seat," and he drew towards him an old wooden chair of the rudest and most uneasy form.
"So," he continued abruptly, after they were seated, "you have not brought Leonora with you."