“You will never learn,” said the more subtle Cesare. “You must forever be leaving traces where traces are not to be desired.”
Gandia looked up into that keen, handsome young face.
“You are right,” he said; and crumpled the letter in his hand.
Then he looked at the messenger and hesitated.
“I am in Madonna's confidence,” said the man in the mask.
Gandia rose. “Then say—say that her letter has carried me to Heaven; that I but await her commands to come in person to declare myself. But bid her hasten, for within two weeks from now I go to Naples, and thence I may return straight to Spain.”
“The opportunity shall be found, Magnificent. Myself I shall bring you word of it.”
The Duke loaded him with thanks, and in his excessive gratitude pressed upon him at parting a purse of fifty ducats, which Giovanni flung into the Tiber some ten minutes later as he was crossing the Bridge of Sant' Angelo on his homeward way.
The Lord of Pesaro proceeded without haste. Delay and silence he knew would make Gandia the more sharp-set, and your sharp-set, impatient fellow is seldom cautious. Meanwhile, Antonia had mentioned to her father that princely stranger who had stared so offendingly one evening, and who for an hour on the following morning had haunted the street beneath her window. Pico mentioned it to Giovanni, whereupon Giovanni told him frankly who it was.
“It was that libertine brother-in-law of mine, the Duke of Gandia,” he said. “Had he persisted, I should have bidden you look to your daughter. As it is, no doubt he has other things to think of. He is preparing for his journey to Naples, to accompany his brother Cesare, who goes as papal legate to crown Federigo of Aragon.”