“Yes; our great grandfather,” mused the living Duke, casting his eye about the stairway. “Still, I should be none the less proud of him had he lavished less on his walls and more on his posterity.”
They ascended the broad steps, and Donna Beatrice, primed with the lore of the place, began to radiate her knowledge. The staircase, with its balustrade of richly carved Carrara, she announced was a product of Vanitelli, and the solitary work Milan possessed of that great architect. This acquisition, as well as many more to which she drew his attention, proved a surprise to the new lord of the palace. The idea of buying the mediæval pile came to Tarsis—so he believed—as an inspiration, and he had lost not a second in giving it practical form. Accompanied by the owner—a Genoese money-lender—he went there one morning, and spent something less than half an hour looking about the palace, the stables, and the grounds. Before the day was out he had bound the bargain with his check. Within twenty-four hours the contractor and his gang attacked the house, armed with authority to renovate and restore.
It was with a newly-awakened interest, therefore—not unmixed with an appreciation of its humorous side—that Tarsis listened to Donna Beatrice’s running talk. In a manner that made him think of the guides in the Brera Gallery she reeled off the history of this painting or that medallion, explained the frescoes of the ceiling, and identified the busts in the niches, with their age-old faces shining again like newly scrubbed schoolboys.
A sculptured frieze that bordered the staircase pictured a battle between the Lombards and the Barbiondi in the days of King Alboin. Above it, following the long flight of steps, unfolded a panorama of scenes from the life of Mary. At the top of the staircase, set in the wall, was a trophy that had been sawed out of a church by some conquering Barbiondi. It depicted St. Mark preaching at Alexandria. In the banquet hall were some less pious conceptions of beauty. Here the mural art found expression in a hunting scene and a mediæval dance with the hills of the Brianza in the background.
The grand saloon—a gorgeous chamber in marble and gold—was worthy of a royal abode. It had been known for centuries as the Atlantean chamber. Engaging the eye before all else were two rows of Atlantes supporting the ceiling on either side, all of heroic size. They were equal in number to the windows, between which they rested on pedestals of grained marble. A huge fist of each gripped a bronze candelabra of many lights. Their torsos were undraped, but the rest of them was lost in chiselled oak leaves. On the ceiling pink sea nymphs sported in silvery foam and gods and angels revelled in rosy vapours. Through the stained glass of a dome the sun flowed down upon the mellow fairness of the tessellated pavement.
They all paused before a large painting. It was a vivid picture of Italy’s chief industry during the era of her free cities—men slaying one another in furious combat. Where the glory of war shone brightest—where the blood flowed fastest—there could be seen a great car, drawn by oxen, flying the standard of Milan, and bearing an altar with the host. The leather-clad warriors of the time called it their caroccio. Like the Israelites’ ark of the covenant, it was a rallying point in battle, and reminded the artisans that they had a church as well as a city to fight for.
“It is the car of Heribert,” said Hera, for the enlightenment of Tarsis, “an Archbishop of Milan. He was of our race.”
“And the inventor of the caroccio,” added Donna Beatrice, proudly.
“And the first labour agitator. Isn’t that so?” put in Don Riccardo, keeping a straight face.
“I don’t know what that is,” replied his sister.