The Hill of Venus
Francesco noted it all, and between the unmistakable gaze of derision
which came to him from the Frangipani and his associates, Ilaria's
seeming unconsciousness of his presence, and the well-nigh physical
discomfort of being the target of all present, in the seat assigned to
him, he felt ill at ease. Before he had entered the room he had
absolutely believed in his own ability to act. Now he perceived his
mistake. Do what he would, his heart and his expression failed him
together.
At last he fixed his eyes upon the figure of her who bore the flower
symbol of their relationship. Evidently the scarlet flower was being
commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld
Ilaria's color rise. Unexpectedly she turned her head to glance
stealthily at the faded petals that burned upon the cold purity of his
vestments. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of
mingled confusion and anger flitted across her face and, snatching
her own rose from her gown, she dropped it on the floor.
Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Francesco into a
state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. Yet, how little
did she guess the uselessness of that coquetry! What evermore would he
have to do with love or the dallying with it? What woman would be
enamored of a sackcloth gown? Yet, at this moment, he perceived that
his feeling for her had rooted deeper than he had admitted to himself.
And now it seemed to him that, were his well of bitterness to be
deepened by one jot, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of
thought were spun out in his tired brain, such a black look of despair
came upon his face that Ilaria was even prepared to smile upon him
when he turned to her again.
Galvano Lancia also saw that expression, and guessed that the
Viceroy's idle whim had made the youth uncomfortable enough for this
time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose which
Count Capece, who was looking on, understood.
"Francesco!"
The youth turned, to find Galvano Lancia's kindly eyes upon him.
"Your father is better of his illness?"
"It is well with my father!" Francesco replied laconically.
As the repast progressed, the situation was becoming almost unbearable
for the son of the Grand Master. Only the desire to avoid constituting
the target of the almost general curiosity, prompted Francesco to
remain at the Viceroy's table. He instinctively knew the eyes of
Ilaria to rest upon him and, although not another word had been
spoken, the situation was becoming greatly strained. But he did not
wish to exhibit the misery which racked his soul with a thousand pangs
before the gossiping courtiers and monks. Thus he ate or made a
pretence at eating in silence. He had become acutely susceptible to
the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat and
the heavy odor of meats and wines in the immense room, the flickering
glare of the torches, the shrillness of the many voices, the noises of
laughter which flowed together with the wine,--they all smote his
senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust and measureless
regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this. Now it was
going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened
him. He leaned upon the table, white and faint. His eyes were closed.
He had lost the courage to attempt further concealment. He
instinctively knew the Frangipani was watching him and there was a
suggestion in his gaze which filled him with an inward dread. How
would Ilaria take it? What would become of her, after he had gone? He
glanced down the board. Flagons of wine and platters of fruit were
beginning to be in great demand. Story-telling and jesting, which were
wont to drag out repasts to endless hours, had begun. In the midst of
it all Count Capece arose. His move was not instantly perceived, but
when he was heard to call upon one of the monks for a blessing, there
was a general stir at the board. The blessing given, the Viceroy
started from the hall, when he found himself accosted by Francesco,
who had stumbled blindly after him.
"May I have a word with you, my lord?"
Count Capece nodded and Francesco followed him to his private cabinet,
the doors of which closed behind him.
The Viceroy had seated himself and silently beckoned to the youth to
begin.
With an effort Francesco spoke:
"I returned from San Cataldo last night, but was denied admittance to
your Grace, wherefore my presence here may have startled you!--"
There was something like life in Francesco's tone, now the decisive
moment had come, and looking down he carefully noted the face of him
who was to be his judge.
A silent nod from the Viceroy bade him proceed.
"By your Grace's leave," he continued, with a marked effort, "this
must be my last day at the Court of Avellino. I am bidden on a long
and tedious journey. My father would have me set out upon it at once!
I had wished to acquaint your Grace of the matter last night. I crave
permission to quit the royal household, that I may be free to do my
father's bidding."
Francesco had spoken with marked slowness and precision, that he might
force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his own relief he
finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though
gravely uncomfortable under the Viceroy's steady, searching gaze.
Now, with a quiet gentleness that caused him to start painfully, he
felt the latter's hand laid almost tenderly upon his arm. He gave a
startled look into the frank, kindly face of the Apulian, and the
response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color into his
bloodless cheeks. He would have almost preferred the rude brutality of
Anjou's men to this generosity which left him no weapons for defence.
He moved uneasily where he stood, and his breath came fast.
He was very near to breaking.
"You have my permission to execute your father's behest," the Viceroy
replied while his eyes were fixed on the face of the youth. "Let but
the office wait its hour! You have heard the tidings which have
brought joy to every Ghibelline heart. You note our preparations to
depart. Conradino has crossed the Alps. To him belongs our first duty!
We are bound for Pavia!"
Francesco gave an involuntary start.
"I also am bound northward!" he said, and wished he had not spoken.
The Viceroy nodded.
"The better so! You ride with us!"
Francesco looked up appealingly. His misery received a new shock from
the Viceroy's lack of comprehension.
"I fear that may not be," he faltered, then noting the Viceroy's
puzzled look, he added:
"The office I am bidden to perform, brooks no delay!"
Count Capece eyed him curiously.
"What business may that be, more cogent than our own? On the
hoof-beats of our horses hang the destinies of a kingdom! None may
falter, none may turn back! I pry not into the nature of the office
you are bidden to perform. Yet all personal interests should be
suspended before the one all-absorbing task, that beckons us towards
the Po!"--
"This business may not wait!"
It was almost a wail that broke from Francesco's lips. How could he
make him understand without revealing his father's shame!
A shadow flitted across the Viceroy's brow.
"You will move the more swiftly in our train!"
A choking sensation had seized the youth.
"It may not be,--I must ride,--alone!" he stammered. All the color had
forsaken his face and his knees barely supported his body.
"And when shall you return?" asked the Viceroy, feigning acquiescence.
There was a moment's silence ere Francesco replied:
"I fear, my lord,--I shall not return!"
Count Capece started.
"You speak as if you were about to renounce the Court of Avellino
forever," he replied after a brief pause, charged with apprehension.
"What is the meaning of this? Why do you tremble? Your father is
better of his illness! No messenger has reached us from San Cataldo.
Is not your presence here proof of his recovery?"
"When I left my father's side, his sickness was in nowise lessened,"
responded Francesco laconically.
"Not lessened!" exclaimed the Viceroy. "Then how came you here?"
"At my father's command I am here!"
"For what purpose?"
"To acquaint you of my choice--of the Church!"
He spoke the words in a hard and dry tone.
Count Capece had arisen. He was hardly less pale than Francesco, but
there was a light in his eyes that burnt into the very soul of the
youth.
"You said, your choice?"
"My choice!"
"Ingrate! Renegade!"
Francesco bowed his head.
He no longer attempted to reply, or to vindicate himself. His head had
fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed
dully. He had known it from the start. They would misjudge him, they
would misjudge his motives. Years of loyalty spent at the Court of
Avellino would not mitigate the judgment of the step he was about to
take; they would rather aggravate it. They believed him bought by the
Guelphs. And his lips must remain sealed forever! Dared he divulge his
father's shame? Dared he cast an aspersion upon the guiltless head of
her who had given him birth and life? A life he had not desired,
forsooth, yet one that it was his to bear to the end,--whatever that
end!--
The Viceroy seemed to await some explanation, some apology--an apology
he could not give. What would words avail? Had not he, Francesco,
bartered his life, his soul, his destiny into eternal bondage? But now
his misery gave way to his pride. Once again he raised his head; but
in his pallid face there lay an expression of haughtiness, of
defiance, with which he met the Viceroy's hostile gaze.
"I take my leave, my lord! As for my future life, it is not of
sufficient import to require or merit your consideration."
The Viceroy pointed silently to the door.
As one dazed, Francesco crept to his chamber.
There with a great sob he sank into a settle.
He gazed about. Nothing seemed altered since the days when he had been
alive. Not a trifle was changed because a human soul, a living human
soul had been struck down. The chamber was just the same as before.
Outside the water plashed in the fountain, the birds carolled in the
trees. As for himself,--he was dead, quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of his couch and stared straight into space.
His head ached. The very centre of his brain seemed to burst. It was
all so dull, so stupid,--life so utterly meaningless.
He remembered he had not spoken with Ilaria. At the very thought
everything grew black before his vision. Yet he could not leave with
the stigma upon his soul. She at least would understand, she at least
would pity him. He felt like one looking down into a self-dug grave.
He arose and stepped to the window.
It was now past the hour of high noon. The activity in the courtyard,
abandoned during the heated term of the day, began gradually to
revive. There was no time to be lost.
Hastily he scratched a few lines on a fragment of vellum which lay
close at hand, called an attendant and bade him despatch it at once to
Ilaria Caselli.
Then, weary and tired, he gathered together his scant belongings, so
scant indeed as not to encumber his steed; then, his arms propped on
his knees, he sat down once more and awaited the coming of dusk.
CHAPTER VI
THE BROKEN TROTH
Spring triumphed with a vaunting pageant in the park of Avellino,
where the gravelled walks were snowy beneath the light of the higher
risen moon, and were in shadows transmuted to dim, violet tints. The
sombre foliage of yew and box and ilex contrasted strangely with the
pale glow of the young grass, sloping in emerald tinted terraces down
to where the lake shimmered through the trees.
It was an enchanted spot, second only to the gardens of Castel