The Hill of Venus
Ischia and Capri, like twin outposts guarding an earthly paradise. He
had arrived at the hour of dusk, which had soon faded into the swift
southern night, and much of the magic of the scene had thus been
veiled before his gaze. Now he saw and marvelled.
All around stretched the bay in its azure immensity, its sweeping
curves bounded on the left by the rocky Sorrentine promontory, with
Sorrento, Meta and a cluster of little fishing villages, nestling on
the olive-clad precipices, half hidden by orange groves and vineyards
and the majestic form of Monte Angelo towering above. Farther along
the coast rose Vesuvius, the tutelary genius of the scene, its
vine-clad lower slopes presenting a startling contrast to the dark
smoke-wreathed cone of the mountain. On the right the graceful
undulations of the Camaldoli hills descended to the beautifully
indented bay of Putcoli, while Naples herself, with Portici and Torre
del Greco, reposed as a marble quarry between the blue waters of the
bay. Beyond, in the far background, the view was shut in by a phantom
range of snowy peaks, an offshoot of the Abruzzi mountains, faintly
discerned in the purple haze of the horizon.
As Francesco strode along his wonder increased step by step. He seemed
to have invaded the realms of the sun, who sent his unrelenting light
rays down upon glistening pavements composed of lava, reflecting the
beams with all the brilliancy of mosaic. Notwithstanding the glare of
August, balconies, casements, terraces and galleries were enlivened by
a gay and merry crowd. The gloomy fronts of marble and granite had
disappeared under silken hangings and garlands of flowers. Everywhere
there was joy and gladness, and the bells from Santa Chiara rang as
joyously over the city and gulf as if the papal Inderdict held no
terrors for these children of an azure sky.
The situation was nevertheless acute. A Clementine court and a
Ghibelline populace, who defied alike the Pontiff and their
self-imposed ruler. Excommunication was hanging black over the leaders
of this movement; the court was in evil moral repute, and it was
difficult to foresee whither matters were drifting under these
sun-fraught, cloudless skies.
Francesco requested and obtained immediate audience of the Duke of
Lerma, Anjou's representative in the kingdom of Sicily. The interview
being terminated, and his duties outlined, he strode out into the
palace gardens, which sloped in picturesque terraces down towards the
bay.
With fevered pulses he leaned against the parapet of the broad stone
wall which encircled the gardens, his eyes resting on the enchanted
landscape, the clustered towers of Naples, beyond which rose the
smoke-wreathed cone of Vesuvius. Thence his gaze wandered to the sea,
which glowed from rose to violet and sapphire, all melting into unity
of lapis lazuli, and finally down into the Parthenopean fields, where
the atmosphere heaved with the pulsing intensity of high noon.
On all sides the spell of Circe enfolded him triumphantly. Truly, here
all painful broodings might be forgotten, where thought and sight
were alike suffused with the radiance of sea and sky. It was a place
of dawns and sunsets, of lights rising amber in the East over purple
hills and amethystine waters; of magic glows at evening in the west
with cypresses and yews carven in ebony against primrose skies, while
the terraces blazed with flower-filled urns, and roses overspread the
balustrade with crimson flame.
How vivid the life of the past weeks stood out before Francesco's
eyes, a life crowned by the memory of his arrival in this Siren City,
and his strange meeting with Ilaria. It seemed like a mocking dream;
yet, the pain in his heart informed him, it was true!
How long he had stood there, he did not know, when he suddenly gave a
start.
An opening door,--a light foot-fall--he stood face to face with
Ilaria.
She paused; stately, unsmiling, reserved. A white silence seemed to
enfold her as their eyes met.
"There is some error," she said, with a retrograde movement. "I will
withdraw--"
"There is no error!" the words leaped from Francesco's lips. "Or
perchance there is! Well,--is it true?"
The words were uttered almost brutally.
"I do not understand!" she replied icily.
"Why are you at Naples?"
His face was a mere whiteness amid shadows.
"Why are you here?" she replied, straightening with a sharp lifting of
the head.
"Perhaps I am here to spy on you!"
"The office does you honor! First, a traitor--then, a spy--"
Her words were fierce and bitter.
"What are you saying?" he flashed. "Betrayal is not man's prerogative
alone!"
She shuddered. His words bit brutally into the truth. For a moment she
stood rigid, searching his eyes and the very depths of his soul.
And so, for a brief space, they faced each other in silence. Francesco
acknowledged anew, and with a mortal pang, that here was a woman for
whom a man might give his life and count it naught. A woman to gain
whose love, a man might sell his soul. Ilaria had come into her own,
as never in her earlier youth. Like all great beauty, hers was
serious. It had acquired a touch of majesty and mystery, a depth of
intensity and significance.
"Is Raniero at Naples?" Francesco spoke at last.
She faced him defiantly, as if resenting his attitude.
"I knew not you were concerned in your former rival!"
Her utterance seemed part of the incomprehensible cruelty of life. His
face was hard and white as he regarded her.
"Perchance my concern is all for my present one!"
"I do not understand--" she faltered, her hands over her bosom. Yet
her tone had lost its defiant ring.
As in mute questioning her eyes were on his face.
"As I passed down the Via Forinara last night, I passed a woman and a
man. The woman was garbed in crimson, and there was no sign of
recognition in her eyes. The woman I knew. Who was the man?"
Ilaria's face was very pale.
"What is he to you,--the monk?"
He came a step nearer.
"Who was the man?"
She gave a little nervous laugh.
"Stefano Maconi,--one of the nobles of the court!" she said, with a
drooping of the head. Then with a quick touch of resentment: "Have you
heard the name before?"
Francesco ignored the irony of her tones.
"What is he to you?" he queried sternly. His face looked pale and
drawn, his eyes shone with an almost supernatural lustre.
"Really," she squirmed, "I knew not that I stood in need of a
confessor. I have one already,--and I do not intend to supplant him
with another!"
"You have not answered my question!" he insisted. "To the office of
your confessor I do not aspire. I am not suited for that exalted
position!"
There was something in his eyes that frightened her.
"And why?"--she faltered.
"I should not prove so passive a listener!"
For a moment she faced him in silence. Then, with a sudden return of
her old hauteur, she flashed:
"Of what do you accuse me?"
He did not speak. But the look he gave her sent the hot blood curdling
to her cheeks; ebbing back, it left them paler than before.
"You have not answered my question!" he said at last.
She lifted heavy lids and eyed him wondering, as one waking from a
dream.
"What do you want of me?"
"What is Stefano Maconi to you?" he queried more fiercely, grasping
her wrists, and compelling her to raise her eyes to his.
"Stefano Maconi is nothing to me!" she replied hoarsely.
Never had he spoken thus to her. As their eyes met, she noted that he
had changed. With a quick pang she saw how thin and haggard he had
grown.
"Is this the truth?" Gropingly her hands went out to him, her
witch-like eyes held his own and like the cry of a tortured soul it
came from her lips:
"It is the truth!"
Her voice died in a sob; her whole body was shaken with convulsive
tremors, when she found herself caught up in his arms.
For a moment she abandoned herself wholly to his embrace, while terms
of endearment fell deliriously from his lips. Again and again he
kissed the pale lips, the eyes of the woman he loved better than life.
How long, it seemed to Ilaria, since she had leaned over the parapets
of Avellino, had watched the sunset light fade into the night! And one
night of all, how slowly the moon had risen! How white the magnolias
had shimmered, while the distant Liris sang his slumber song! How the
red roses burned in the moonlight, as she stole down the path to meet
him!
How long ago was it? Now, she could remember every detail of that
night; how she started when a sleeping bird uttered a dream note among
the leafy boughs, how she listened to her own heart-beats, how she
found herself caught up in Francesco's arms.
All her youth, all her days had been poisoned by the thought of what
she had done. Resolutely, day after day, month after month, had she
fought against the demon of remorse. She had shut eyes and ears to the
haunting spectre of the past. And now, steadily, pitilessly, she went
back, step for step, through the hell of her past life, the mockery
that was bitterer than death, the horror of loneliness, the slow,
grinding, relentless agony of her nights and days.
The crowding phantoms of the past would not release her from their
shadowy grip. Why had he again come into her life? Why had he again
crossed her path?
Staggering, he released her at last, took a backward step and covered
his face with his hands.
"I have tried not to lay hands on a thing that it is not mine to
touch."
She pointed to his garb. A wondering look passed into her eyes.
At first he noted it not, in the thrall of his own emotions. Then, as
she touched him lightly upon the arm, he understood.
"I am here, the legate of Clement, carrying the Interdict, unless
Naples acknowledges the supremacy of the Church! For this I have laid
aside the cowl!"
Ilaria shivered. He was still a monk,--after all.
There was nothing she could do to help him. That was the bitterest
thing of all!
Silence seemed to bind the world into a golden swoon.
"Francesco," she cried, almost with a sob.
He came nearer and took her hands again.
"Let us go down among the terraces!" she said in a whisper. "Let us
forget the loud, insistent clamor of the world. Let us be quite
still,--as if we were among the poppy-flowers!"
By some strange echoing of the mind the idyls of past days woke like
the songs of birds after a storm of rain. Her whole soul yearned out
with a wistfulness borne of infinite regret.
Silently they walked down the flower-bordered path.
The panorama from the spot was enchanting. Far below lay the blue
waters of the bay; out to seaward lay ancient Baiae with her thousand
palaces and the forest of masts at Puteoli; beyond these Sorento and
the shimmering islands, bathed by the boundless sea. The vaporous
cloud from Vesuvius hung like a cone of snow in the still blue
atmosphere.
The foreground was no less enchanting. All round the pavilion lay a
verdant, luxuriant wilderness. The mysterious silence of noon brooded
over the whole landscape; only a faint hum of life came up from the
city. All else was still. Not a living creature seemed to breathe
within ear-shot.
He led her to where a fountain plashed in the sun and stone steps
ringed a quiet pool.
In the silence she bent over him, her hand on his dark hair.
The tonsure burned her fingers like living fire.
"Why have you done this thing?"
He felt the scorn in her voice; he felt the swift repellence of her
body.
Francesco raised his face to that of the woman. It was very pale from
the fierceness of the struggle to keep down even the suspicion of
emotional sentimentality.
"You ask why I have done this thing?" he spoke dryly at last. "The
hour has come when I must tell you, Ilaria! Not that it can steer the