"But who is this good lord to whom you are going to send me?" asked the man. "Is he a courtier or a soldier."
"A little of both," answered Antonio, "but more a man of counsel than either. His name is Ramiro d'Orco."
"Ah! I have heard of him," said Mardocchi. "He puzzles the people about the court. All men think that at heart he has vast ambition, and yet none can tell you why he thinks so. All agree in that, though some think he is a philosopher, some a simpleton."
"Well, well," answered Antonio, "the first thing is for you to recover health and strength, the next to get you safely away, the third to make you known to the Signor Ramiro. He is the sort of man to suit your views. I know him well. He is rich, and, as you say, ambitious. He is wise, too, in a certain way; and though he has not yet found a path to the objects he aims at, he will find one in time, or make one, even were he to hew it through his own flesh and blood. He wants serviceable men about him, and that is the reason I send you to him. If he rises, he will pull you up; if he falls, there is no need he should pull you down with him. But we will converse more to-morrow; to-day you have talked enough, perhaps too much."
"But, Antonio, Antonio," said the other, eagerly catching his sleeve, "you will tell no one that I am here?"
"No one on earth," answered Antonio; and, bidding him farewell, he left him.
The journey of Antonio back to the villa was somewhat longer than it needed to have been. He took devious and circuitous paths, and even turned back for a part of the way more than once. It was not, however, that he fancied himself watched, or that he feared that any one might discover where he had been; but his brain was very busy, and he did not wish his thoughts interrupted till they had reached certain conclusions from which they were distant when he set out. He asked himself if he could really trust to Mardocchi's word, knowing but too well how predominant the desire of revenge is in every Italian heart. He half accused himself of folly in having promised him so much; and though he was, in truth, a good and sincere man, yet the common habits and feelings of his country every now and then suggested that it would be easy to put an end to all doubt and suspicion, if he saw cause, by the use of the Italian panacea, the stiletto. "But yet," he said to himself, "it may be better to take my chance of his good faith, and let him live. I never knew him break his word, and by his means, perhaps, I may penetrate some of Signor Ramiro's purposes in regard to young Lorenzo. I will tie him down to some promise on that point too. He will need my help yet in many ways; and though I will not set a man to betray his master, yet I may well require him to warn his friends."
It was an age and a country in which men dealt peculiarly in subtleties, so much so, indeed, that right and truth were often refined away to nothing, especially in the higher and better educated classes of society. The bravo, indeed, was often a more straightforward and truthful man than the nobleman who employed him. He would own frankly that he was committing a great sin; but then he had faith in the Virgin, and she would obtain remission for him. His employer would find a thousand reasons to justify the deed, and would so pile up motives and necessities in self-defence that it would seem almost doubtful which was most to be pitied, himself or his victim. Antonio was by no means without this spirit of casuistry; and though no man could cut through a long chain of pretences with more trenchant wit than he could, in the case of another, yet he might not unfrequently employ them in his own. He resolved, therefore, not to engage Mardocchi to betray his master's secrets, but only to reveal them when it was necessary that he, Antonio, should know them. The difference, indeed, was very slight, but it was sufficient to satisfy him.
Antonio's mind then naturally reverted to Ramiro d'Orco, and he asked himself again and again what could be the motive which led a man so famous for stoical hardness to show such tenderness and consideration for Lorenzo Visconti. "It may be," he thought, "that this grim old tyrant thinks it a splendid match for his daughter. But then they say she has a magnificent fortune of her own--her dower that of a princess. There must be some other end in view. She is a glorious creature too, midway between Juno and Sappho. Well, we must wait and watch. Heaven knows how it will all turn out. Perhaps, after all, Ramiro has some scheme against one of the princes of Romagna, in which he hopes to engage the King of France through young Lorenzo's influence.--It is so, I think--it is so, surely. He wants serviceable men, too, and asked me if I knew of any. Well, I think I have fitted him with one at least, and he will owe me something for the good turn. But I must hie homeward, and keep these things to myself. No more interfering between Lorenzo and his young love. He bore my warnings badly this morning: I must let things take their course, and try to guide without opposing."