Milan had its attractions even for the gay court of France. It was a devout and dissolute city; and we know how jovially, in some countries and at some times, dissoluteness and devotion have contrived to jog on together. Pastime and penitence, pleasure and penance, alternated among the courtiers of Charles VIII. with very agreeable variety; and it has been whispered that the young king himself was not unwilling either to finger forbidden fruit, or to express contrition afterward. At all events, he wasted many precious days in the Lombard capital. Morning after morning, fresh detachments of his army were sent forward to Pavia, till that city might be considered in possession of his troops; but still the young king lingered, and it was not till nine days after the events we have recorded in the last two or three chapters that the main host of France took its way southward.
How passed the intermediate time with those we have left in the Villa de Rovera? It was very sweetly. We must not dwell upon it, because it was so sweet; but a few words will tell all. Lorenzo almost longed to remain an invalid, that there might be a fair excuse for Leonora's tending; and Leonora feared to see him recover health and strength too soon, lest the order to depart should hurry him away.
Strange tales are told of the effects of Italian poisons in those days, and doubtless much exaggeration mingles with all the accounts we have received, but certain it is, that, though the youth recovered steadily, each day gaining a little, yet his convalescence was slow, and the subtle bane of Buondoni's sword was more or less felt for many after days. Still no order to march arrived, but every day, about noon, the good Lord de Vitry rode over, well attended, from Pavia to inquire after the health of his young friend; and although it is certain that Leonora could have given him more minute accounts of Lorenzo's state, and the old Count de Rovera could have furnished him with juster and more scientific views of Lorenzo's progress towards recovery, it was always Bianca Maria he first asked for. He speedily became a great favorite with the old count nevertheless. There was something in his frank, soldier-like bearing that pleased, and something in his ever merry conversation that amused the old man, so that he began to wish the day far distant when the noble Lord of Vitry would come no more.
Bianca Maria was very happy too, and she gave the rein to happiness without fear. Neither she nor De Vitry ever dreamed that he was making love. She thought herself too young to be the object of passion, and he thought so too. He fancied he should like to have a daughter just like herself, without the slightest change in thought or look--he would not have had a word she said altered--he would not have parted with one ringlet from her head; and she pictured to herself how pleasant it would have been to have an elder brother just like De Vitry.
At the house of the contadino all went on favourably likewise. Antonio visited the place every day, till at length, one morning early, he walked forth with a sandaled friar, who passed round the wall of the podere with him, and mounted a mule which was held by a little peasant-boy. Some ten minutes after, a troop of twenty French lances rode slowly on towards Pavia, and the friar, by Antonio's intercession, was permitted to join himself to the band. The contadino and the contadino's wife were for once satisfied with the same thing.
At length, however, the eventful day arrived when the King of France commenced his march from Milan against Naples. Drum, and trumpet, and pennon, and banderol, and long lines of glittering lances, and gorgeous surcoats, and splendid suits of armour, passed along the road within sight of the Villa Rovera, and though no absolute order had arrived commanding Lorenzo to join his troop and assume the command which had been bestowed upon him, yet, as he gazed upon the passing host from the higher windows, he felt that duty required him to linger no longer, and that the next day, at the latest, he was bound to tear himself away from those who, in the short space of a few weeks, had become so dear to him. He felt sad; and yet there was something to a young and eager mind like his, in the inspiring sight of military array, which had its consolatory influence. He thought of acquiring glory and renown for Leonora's sake, and returning to her with bright fame and a glorious name, with a proud consciousness of courage and of skill in arms. "If we must part--" he said to himself.
If they were to part! That was the consideration most painful, for he had flattered himself every day with the hope that the promised letter of Ramiro d'Orco would arrive, giving him authority to escort his fair promised bride to join her father: and oh! how many enchanted scenes had Fancy fabricated out of the vague shadows of that expected journey! No letter had arrived; the army was on its march; he could delay no longer; and the bitterness of disappointment was added to the bitterness of anticipated separation.
The last troopers of the main host of France disappeared; and Leonora gazed in Lorenzo's eyes, knowing, divining what was passing in his heart, as they stood, together, with Bianca Maria gazing from the neighbouring window.
"You must go, Lorenzo," said the beautiful girl, "you must go, I know it. Fear not to speak the words; Leonora would not keep you from the path of fame and honour if she could. It will be very terrible, but still you must go. I had hoped, indeed--"
"See! see!" cried Bianca Maria: "there are more horsemen coming. It is the king himself and his court; I remember well the array; and there is Count Ludovic, on the monarch's left."