“Ahè!” she wailed. “And I am different also.”
Her hand lay on his knee; he looked at it and wondered if the things he had heard of her were true. She had been the beloved child of her father, the old Pope, rotten with bitter wickedness; she had been the friend of her brother, the dreadful Cesare–her other brother, Francesco, and her second husband–was it not supposed that she knew how both had died?
But for twenty-one years she had lived in Ferrara, patroness of poet and painter, companion of such as the courteous gentle Venetian, Pietro Bembo.
And Alfonso d’Este, her husband, had found no fault with her; as far as the world could see, there had been no fault to find.
Ormfredo Orsini stared at the hand sparkling on his knee and wondered.
“Suppose that I was to make you my father confessor?” she said. The white mantle had fallen apart and the bosom of her gown glittered, even in the twilight.
“What sins have you to confess, Madonna?” he questioned.
She peered at him sideways.
“A Pope’s daughter should not be afraid of the Judgment of God,” she answered. “And I am not. I shall relate my sins at the bar of Heaven and say I have repented–Ahè–if I was young again!”
“Your Highness has enjoyed the world,” said Orsini.