The Hill of Venus
surrounding marshes the wild, rock-strewn maremmas, while a stagnant
pool below the Groves of Circe reflected an indigo sky, pierced by the
blazing constellations of the south.
As in a dream, he turned his steps towards the hostelry, where,
despite the protests of the Regent, he had persisted in remaining. It
suffered him not in the palace, amid that gay gentry of the court,
near Ilaria, whose society he must forego, while others, less
constrained, might bask in the perfume of her presence. Forever he
thought of her as of a flower, entrusted by a generous divinity to
earth-born men, to tend and to surround with care.
Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by a
throng of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure before
midnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greeted
him civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examined
the cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him with
his close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room,
started upstairs to his chamber.
Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through the
crowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at him
vaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face.
"Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he said
awkwardly.
Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder.
"What is your business with me?"
"I am sent to bring you to one who is dying."--
Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly to
go, but on a sudden impulse he lingered.
"Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving.
"Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause:
"He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!"
"Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve.
The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street.
"He is in fearsome pain,--about to die," he said. "He is very anxious
about his soul's salvation."--
Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his
soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts
came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright
vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning,
vanishing.
The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image
could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the
unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a
sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched.
A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with
relief.
"Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the
confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen
you--Messer Capitano, I withdraw--" he stammered, for the awful eyes
had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound.
Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and
something else in his face.
"Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"--
Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and
horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face.
"Must I ask twice?"
Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness.
Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly
he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura.
He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction.
"That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's
blessing should have great power,--should it not? You ought to know
about such things!"
He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have been
supposed possible.
"It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco.
"Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curious
look. "I shall be honest,--and thorough! Have you the indulgence,--and
the last absolution,--and the Host,--and--the oil?" he continued
hoarsely. "They make a good showing,--if one is really holy! One takes
one's little precautions!"
Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as he
spoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "And
now,--for you and me!"--
White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath the
light of cunning.
Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love of
God!
"I am waiting!" growled Raniero, eyeing the other fiercely. "Speak the
prayer for the dying!"
Francesco moved not. He looked at the sick man spellbound, as a bird
would at a snake. The words he wanted to speak died in the utterance.
"I have never questioned one of the Church's doctrines," said Raniero.
"Apparently you are more of a heretic than I."--
"It may well be," said Francesco absently.
The other eyed him coldly, and a silence fell. In the heart of it grew
and deepened a significance.
At last Raniero spoke.
"Of all men living, I have hated you the most!"
He was rolling his eyes fearfully; the face was on guard.
"I have never injured you," replied Francesco. "Look within my heart.
Naught is there towards you but compassion!"
"Looking in--your heart, I find therein the image--of my wife, Ilaria.
As ever,--looking in her heart,--I find therein--your own!"
Raniero hissed the words; the dilated glaring eyes were as a weapon to
pierce the heart of which he spoke.
"It is true!" Francesco cried out with bitter shame. "Yet if your eyes
can see, they behold in my heart the image of the purest woman, before
whom all my thoughts do worship, save rebels still unconquered."
Listening on the stair without, soldier and priest nodded to each
other at the sound of the "De Profundis clamavi ad te." All was going
suitably in the death-chamber.
And Raniero listened, as the other knelt. A spasm seemed to pass over
his face.
"Do you still hate me?" asked Francesco anxiously, when the invocation
was ended. It was painful to him to think that his shadow stood
between this man and eternity.
"A little," replied Raniero with that curious smile. "But I am almost
sure that I shall hate you less--in a moment. You remember--I have
taken from you--Ilaria!"
There was a strange note of triumph in his speech.
"Do you forgive even that?" asked Raniero with some anxiety.
"I have forgiven," said the other with bowed head.
"Come hither then!" cried Raniero. Craving was in his tones and eyes.
"Make on my forehead, and on my breast, in token of your
forgiveness,--the sign of the holy cross!"
He seemed to grow faint. A strange restlessness had seized him. He had
closed his eyes; his lips moved as in prayer. One hand stirred beneath
the cover.
Francesco came to his side, and stooping began solemnly to trace the
sign.
Concentrated hate, loosed from its leash, snarled, shone in Raniero's
face. Francesco saw nothing. A lifted hand,--a glittering flash: the
knife struck fierce and deep. But the hand that guided it, trembled;
it missed the heart. With an outcry of pain Francesco staggered and
fell backward.
"Gr-r-r-h!" snarled Raniero, like a great cat, growling over its prey,
as he leaped from the bed.
At the sound of the fall the two waiting without had rushed in.
Seizing the opportune moment, Raniero dashed past them, out into the
darkness, leaving them with his unconscious victim.
Removed to the inn, where Raniero's messenger had found him,
Francesco's unconscious state slowly gave way to a delirium, which
made constant attendance imperative. Terror-stricken by the act and
its probable consequences, the two who had been present in Raniero's
sick-chamber had summoned a leech, whose efforts to break the delirium
of the sufferer seemed at first of little avail.
Now he was at Avellino, in the garden, at dusk. Roses were
everywhere, in riotous profusion,--flame roses, every one curled into
fiery petal-whorls, dancing in the garden-dusk under a red, red sky.
Now the chariot of Amor! The rose chaplet has burned Amor's brow! Oh!
Turn away from the tortured face of the poor young God of Love! No
matter, we will see the pageant out! But that woman with the Scarlet
Robe must not be in the show! She is the Woman of the Red Tower! Lead
her away! Francesco must wear the fiery circlet and march with the
rest!
Now he is at Viterbo! Clement, most Holy Father, do not caper about so
strangely! Take off those striped clothes! At least, if you will wear
them, put your tiara aside. Yes,--you juggle excellently well with
those many balls. White! Black! How high you toss them up! How deftly
you catch them! Ha! We see the trick. With each toss a white ball
turns black. They are all black now, and Messere, the Cardinals are
grinning! Horror! Are those the Cardinals? Hoofs in red stockings?
Horns peering out under the cap? The scarlet robes are flames of a
burning village, and the Cardinals point long claws and hiss applause,
while the mountebank weeps. And Francesco weeps too!
Now the serene peace of the wide-glimmering sea! Golden columns are
shining through the water! He turns to the shore,--and as he turns the
great sea stirs. It heaves, it writhes, it rises! With onward
movement, as of a coiling snake, the whole vast liquid brilliance
rushes upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curve and break in
sheets of whitest foam,--not foam, rather the soft limbs of
sea-nymphs. Within the green translucence,--ah! the threatening
splendor! Behold the awful, tottering walls!
The crash has come! In the depths of the sea Francesco stands alone!
The temple still rises around him, no more a ruin, but perfect in
every part! The light is emerald. He stands by an altar,--no, it is
Fonte Gaia! Bending down he beholds first a dizzying glimmer, as of
sun-rays reflected from wet bright pebbles, set in gay patterns at the
bottom. Presently his own reflection clears: the face of Ilaria,
lovely beyond all memory or dream, is bending beside it.
The White Lady! She is there in her gown, creeping with brightest
broideries. She offers him a golden cup! "Drink, Francesco!" she
implores. Strange sea-lights waver about her beauty; in a way she is
changed; but it is the voice of the girl he has loved better than all
the world. Suddenly a shadow stands between them. He shivers in the
warm air.--
What is there between Ilaria and Stefano Maconi!
Now some one flies past, a cord around his neck.
"Beware!" cries a voice, and on the rainbow brightness of Ilaria falls
the shadow of mighty wings. Swooping down from the roof, one of the
great demons of Lecceto hovers, poised hawk-like. The face is
Raniero's; the body, that of a vulture. Francesco, horror-stricken,
watches for the fiend to dart, to fasten his claws in Ilaria's dusky
hair, to bear her aloft, away, her shrieks trailing after her. But
this does not happen. In a faint light, like a mountain-mist at dawn,
the whole scene fades away, and Francesco bursts into wild and violent
weeping that seems as if it would drain his soul away.
When, after a few days, Francesco opened his eyes, he found himself in
a high-vaulted room of the palace, Ilaria bending over him wide-eyed,
pale of face. With a choked outcry he grasped the soft white hands to
his lips, his eyes raised to her in long, mute questioning. She bent
over him and kissed his lips.
"I love you," she whispered, then looked away.
His questionings at last elicited the response that at the behest of
the Regent he had been brought to the palace, where Ilaria herself had
been tending to his comfort. The name of his assailant had remained no
secret. Yet, beyond vague whisperings, it was not again alluded to.
Sleep, deep and dreamless, blessed the racked body throughout the day;
the sleep that leaves one's past life far behind and from which one