The Honour of Savelli: A Romance
of three huge chestnuts. A further examination showed two figures
standing in the shade of the trees, one of them was St. Armande, and
the other, his secretary, the abbe. But what surprised me, was that
the chevalier appeared to be overcome with some powerful emotion, for
he was leaning with his arm against the trunk of the tree, against
which his face was pressed, and his figure shook as if he were
weeping. The abbe stood by him, with a look of compassion on his
features, and was endeavouring to pacify him.
It was clear that I was looking at something I was not intended to
see, and with a low, "Quiet, Bran," to the dog, which the well-trained
beast instantly obeyed, I rose, and whistling a catch loudly, walked
down the avenue, with my back towards St. Armande and the abbe, Bran
stalking by my side. I did not look round, and of course could not
tell what happened, but I could not help wondering what it was that
affected St. Armande so strongly. It was hardly the place for the
confessional. Yet it was no business of mine to pry into other
people's affairs. So handing over Bran to a lackey of Bayard, I went
up to my apartment, and attempted to resume my interest in my book.
This, however, was not possible, for in a few minutes I found myself
with the volume in my lap, my eyes staring into vacancy, and thinking
of St. Armande. I began to try and analyse my feelings towards him,
but beyond that I was certain he had inspired me with a strong
friendship I could go no further. It was this friendship that urged me
to accede to his request to be allowed to share in my coming
adventure, although I was well able to see that he was anything but
fitted for a desperate deed. Still somehow, I could not find it in my
heart to refuse him, although I felt I was doing an unwise thing. I
consoled myself, or rather tried to console myself, with the
reflection that he would have to take his chance like any other man of
my troop, and if he fell, well, there was an end of it, and of him.
Yet I was not comfortable, and then, to give my thoughts another turn,
I bent them on other matters, and it came to my mind that it was a
little surprising I had not heard of D'Entrangues in Rome.
When Bayard told me of his petition to the king, I had asked whether
anything was known of D'Entrangues' movements, and he said he did not
know. It was curious, too, how I appeared to have entirely mastered
that mad longing for revenge, which at first held me. It was a direct
answer, as it were, to my prayer, and, so thinking, I began to realise
how close in reality a man is to the divine power, which he often, too
often, thinks far from him. And a certain feeling of satisfaction came
upon me at the thought of the strength I had gained by my victory over
myself. Indeed, I felt sure, that if my enemy was in my power at the
moment that I would not injure him, but let him go without harm.
In this manner, attempting to read, and trying to think, without very
much success in either undertaking, I passed my time until my lackey
came to assist me to dress, in order to be ready to accompany the
cardinal to the Vatican. After dressing, I descended the stairs, and
mounting Castor, placed myself at the head of my men, and joined De
Briconnet at the grand entrance of the palace. The captain of the
cardinal's guard had his full force of thirty swords out, it being a
reception night of some importance, and with great courtesy allowed me
to place Jacopo and my six men in front of his troop, drawing his own
horse alongside of mine, and discussing, with much cunning, of
falconry, in which he was more than an adept.
We had to wait some little time for the cardinal, but at length he
came, accompanied as usual by Bayard, and with him all the gentlemen
of his suite including St. Armande. On reaching the foot of the
stairs, D'Amboise enquired somewhat sharply for me; but changed his
tone to one of pleasant greeting when he saw I was in waiting.
"St. Dennis!" he exclaimed, "I thought you were not coming after all."
We had but a few yards to ride, and our passage along the Via
Alessandrina to the Portone Bronse, took but a few minutes. As we rode
up there, we kept the obelisk in the centre of the Piazza di S. Pietro
to our left, and saw before us the walls of the new cathedral of St.
Peter, then about four or five feet high, the ruins of the old church
still standing around it. At the time I speak of, nothing had been
done for about fifty years towards advancing the work, begun by
Nicholas V., and the great design, afterwards altered and put into
execution by Giuliano della Rovere, when he became Pope as Julius II.,
was then in a skeleton form, looking more like the remains of some
sacked shrine than the beginning of a new work. The fifty years of
neglect having the effect of making the new work almost as ruinous as
the old church founded by Constantine.
Although, as I have mentioned, there were to be great doings at the
Vatican that evening, there was no crowd assembled in the Piazza of
St. Peter. It was full of soldiers, but the people of Rome, who might
have been expected to be there in numbers, to see the processions
of nobles and their followers, were conspicuous by their absence.
Men-at-arms there were in store, but no happy, jostling crowd of the
commons, for a terror was on Rome, and men kept as far as possible
from the Borgo. The piazza was, however, brilliantly lit up, and the
body guards of the various notables were strictly confined to the
places assigned to them, order being maintained by about a thousand
men of the Spanish guards of the Pope, under the immediate command of
De Leyva. The light from the lamps was reflected back by the
glittering arms of the men, and the various ensigns of the great
houses were distinctly visible. The single column of Colonna, rose
side by side with the eagle and griffin of Borghese, the six lilies of
Farnese trembled in the wind, near Colleoni's two-headed lion, and a
little in the background was drawn up a solid looking body of cavalry,
over whom fluttered the standard of the Borgia; these were Cesare's
own lambs, as he called them, veterans of many a hard fought field.
At the entrance steps we halted, and were met by two chamberlains,
who, with their staffs of office in their hands, ushered us to the
bronze gates, by which we were to enter the Vatican. We passed through
amidst a blare of trumpets, each side of the passage being lined with
pikemen, standing stiff and motionless as statues. Our way led to the
Torre Borgia, the portion of the Vatican occupied by Alexander, and
the distant strains of music caught our ears as we went on, and
shortly entered the noble reception rooms, which were crowded with
people.
The Pope himself stood at the extreme end of the apartment, surrounded
by a brilliant group of ladies and gentlemen, and as we came up to
make our duty, I had good opportunity of observing him. Alexander was
fully seventy years of age, but so hale, hearty, and strong-looking,
that he might have easily passed for a man of middle age. He was
dressed as a private gentleman, in Spanish costume, with high boots, a
jewelled dagger at his side, and a smart velvet cap on his head. But
the face itself struck me as remarkable to a degree. He was clean
shaven, so that all the features were clearly discernible, the heavy
sensual chin, the wide cruel mouth, surmounted by a nose almost Jewish
in its curve, the retreating forehead bulging over the eyes, and the
eyes themselves, in which there seemed to burn the fires of insatiable
appetite, and passion without end; all these, combined together to
make up a countenance which was a fitting mask for the evil soul
within. I made my obeisance with the others, stifling with difficulty
a sudden desire to fling aside the hand I touched, and walk out of the
room.
I moved slightly aside, and watched the various groups as they
wandered to and fro, or stood together conversing; and the hum of
voices, the gay strains of music, and the brilliant dresses made up
together a scene well worth the looking at.
The Florentine ambassador was talking to the Cardinal of Santa
Susanna, a few feet from me. I caught the tones of his voice, and as
he turned round our eyes met. Machiavelli, for it was he, glanced at
me as at a perfect stranger, and then, slightly adjusting his purple
lined robe, moved slowly onwards with his companion.
"We mount yet higher, signore---_excelsior!_"
The words were breathed rather than whispered into my ear, and Corte
stood beside me.
"_Excelsior!_" I repeated with a smile, "but are you not putting your
head in the lion's mouth?"
He smiled back upon me, more of a snarl than a smile. "The beast is
gorged now. He will not think of me--see, there is some one coming
your way--adieu!"
He turned and passed into the groups, and St. Armande touched my arm.
"You are to be presented to the Lady Lucrezia," he said, and the next
moment I found myself bowing over the hand of one of the most
beautiful, and certainly the most infamous woman of her age. She was
barely twenty-three; had already wedded three husbands, and was to
become a wife again, and marry Alfonso of Ferrara. She was seated in a
low lounge, and as I came up she extended her hand to me with a
charming smile. Standing before her, looking at her large limpid eyes,
at the small red bow of the lips, and the clear cut features set in a
mass of red gold hair, I could not imagine that the stories I had
heard were true. It could not be that this fair young woman who was
before me had smilingly committed crimes of nameless horror. I would
not believe it.
"So, cavaliere, you have come to the court at last! I thought you were
never going to do us that honour."
"His Eminence of Strigonia said you meant to take the vows," and a
lady, who was leaning over Lucrezia's seat, laughed as she put in
these words. I recognised the peculiar unmusical laugh I had heart at
the gate St. Paul, and glanced at her with some interest.
"My sister-in-law, Giulia Farnese--Giulia Bella, is it not?" and
Lucrezia touched her lightly on the arm.
"Oh, yes, Giulia Bella--and are you really going to become a hermit?"
"I might have had such thoughts until I came here," I said, "but I
must now put them aside."
"Neatly turned, cavaliere--St. Armande himself could not have put it
better--sit here, chevalier," and Lucrezia made room for St. Armande
on her lounge.
At this moment a commotion at the entrance attracted our attention,
and a man robed in black, followed by two others, walked up towards
the Pope.
"Heavens!" said Lucrezia, "it is Cesare!" and a look that was not
sisterly came over her face as she glanced at her brother, who moved
slowly up the room, men falling away from each side of him, and
greeting no one. He kept himself covered, and below his square velvet
cap, I saw a resolute face, the mouth and chin, covered by a moustache
and short beard, not so hidden, however, but that one could distinctly
see against the dark hair on his face, the full red line of the lips,
set in a habitual sneer. Bad as the whole brood of the Borgia were,
this was the worst of them all. He was as far beyond them in infamy as
they were beyond the rest of mankind in evil doing. The very room was
hushed into silence as he entered, and I watched with more interest
than I can tell, the stately figure of this wicked man, as he went up
to meet his only less wicked father. It was their first meeting since
the murder of Pierrot, and Alexander, who stood in dread of his son,
began to tremble violently as he approached, looking this way and
that, as if he would avoid him. At last they came together face to
face, Cesare speaking no word, but lifting his cap with a low bow.