Piccino wandered about picking up odds and ends, a castle here, a town there, but Carmagnola refused to move. Filippo, wild with delight, hovered in his neighbourhood, sending taunts and insults to him on every opportunity; but the old tiger lay in his lair.
He had been defeated at Soncino, and though that was a small and unimportant event in itself, yet taken in conjunction with the disaster to the fleet it became a disaster too. A distemper arose among the horses that year in Italy, which accounts, in a large degree, for Carmagnola’s inaction, and, though he roused himself sufficiently to defeat the Hungarians at Friuli, he relapsed again afterwards into inactivity.
No signs of impatience or mistrust escaped the Senate, however. Instead, they sent a splendid deputation, begging him to give himself the trouble of returning to Venice for a while to consult with the Signoria as to the conduct of the coming campaign; and he, never doubting that his position was unchanged, and that, surrounded by enemies, Venice still looked to him as the one man who could save her, rode through Lombardy in April 1432, accompanied by Gonzaga, the Lord of Mantua, and embarked on the Brenta, hailed by the populace and loaded with marks of deference and confidence by the great men of the Senate who went out to meet him. All along the waterway crowds turned out to greet the hope of Venice, and the rich and noble, whose country houses stood along the banks of the river, turned out likewise, decorating their homes and making festas as he passed.
A gay people they were, with their satins and their music and their dancing and their love-making. April in Venice is made for kissing, it is the only suitable occupation for any one with a spark of life in his soul, and one can imagine the boats on the slow-moving river, as the evening came on, and the lovers’ moon came out over the water—music, love, youth, and fire.
It was through this that the great captain journeyed, leisurely, as became his dignity. At Mestre he was met by some gentlemen of his acquaintance, all smiles and bows and compliments, in whose company he crossed the shadowy lagoons and disembarked.
Nine Senators, red-robed, capped, monuments of the dignity of the State, were waiting for him here, and his progress to the Palace of the Doge was almost regal in its splendour. With all formality he was introduced into the presence of the Senate, and given a chair of honour. He was welcomed, praised, and listened to with deferential attention. It was growing late by now, and the Senate Chamber was becoming too dim to distinguish the faces of those about him. But no lights were called for, and he, dreaming no doubt of seeing his wife and children again that night, sat on, while one Senator after another rose and spoke and sat down again.
He had other things upon his mind too. Filippo—old days—old triumphs. The promise that had been made him, that if he could but extinguish the Visconti for ever, his old estates were to be given back to him, besides new ones here in Venice. It had even been hinted, and hinted strongly, that the only obstacle to his becoming Duke of Milan himself was the man who called himself the Duke—Filippo Visconti. There seemed to be no bar to his advancement to any position he might choose—he, the son of a peasant, picked up at dusk by a wandering trooper in Savoy!
Dusk! It was getting towards dark now!
He stirred in his chair and looked about him. The place seemed less crowded than it had been when he had last observed it, and thinking that the moment had arrived when he could, at last, fling aside the world and return to his family, he rose to depart.
What were those dark shapes hovering near his chair? Those were no Senators! He peered at them as he passed; but they paid him no attention, and he moved on towards the door.