The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
They were at the house door, and Agnolo, stepping ahead into the dark
entrance, led the way up a flight of shallow wooden stairs.
"This is stirring news, Ambrogio," he called over his shoulder. "About
the Duke of Verona's escape, I mean. Do you think there will be war?"
"I am a man of peace," returned Ambrogio softly, his eyes on Graziosa.
"How should I know? Still, I do not think Della Scala will trouble the
peace of Milan much."
And now Agnolo, at the top of the flight of stairs, was holding open a
wide door through which they passed into Agnolo's workshop, filled with
the pleasant litter of his occupation. "I do not agree with thee," he
said. "Della Scala's is a great name. Were I Visconti, I should not feel
secure."
Graziosa and Ambrogio entered the long room, high and light, its windows
opening wide onto the street.
And Ambrogio, seating himself near one of the large easels, turned to
Agnolo, the while he drew Graziosa gently down beside him.
"What has the Duke of Milan to fear from Della Scala?" he asked.
"Everything," cried Vistarnini excitedly, for keenly did the little
painter love to air his views. "Everything. Mark me, Ambrogio, if the
Duke of Verona do not suddenly fall on one of Visconti's towns."
"He has no army," said the student. "He cannot rouse the d'Estes."
"He will!" cried Agnolo. "He will--he and Count Conrad. Didst thou not
rejoice, Ambrogio, when Count Conrad escaped? We heard of it from the
soldiers. Graziosa was glad at heart, as every man or woman or child
must be. Such a fate! Didst thou not rejoice he had escaped it?"
Ambrogio was mixing colors in a china saucer, and tapped his foot a
little impatiently.
"Why should we talk of Della Scala--and Visconti?" he said.
"Visconti! who wishes to talk of him?" returned the little painter.
"Tales have come to me about him, too terrible to repeat before our
Graziosa," he added, lowering his voice.
"You gossip too much with the soldiers, father," said Graziosa. "I do
not love the soldiers, nor should you listen to their tales about
Visconti."
"They would seem to tell them a little too freely," murmured her lover,
and drew his brows together.
"What dost thou mean, Graziosa?" cried her father, "as if it were only
from the soldiers we hear of the Duke. Lately some fine tales have got
about, and on no soldier's authority."
"Shall we not set to work on the pictures?" interrupted Ambrogio. "You
said, methinks, these tales were not for Graziosa's ears."
"Indeed, 'tis true," and the little painter bustled to the second easel
and drew the curtain that hung before the large panel, revealing an
almost completed picture of St. Catherine in scarlet robes.
"Thy work looks well, Ambrogio," he said, and removing a similar
covering from the easel by which Ambrogio sat, gazed at the companion
panel on which was depicted the archangel Michael. "But mine is better,"
he added, "as it should be: thy work will improve with thy years."
"'Tis as fine work as thy St. Michael, father," said Graziosa, "and a
good likeness."
"Nay, not so fair by half as thou art," murmured Ambrogio. "Thou art not
easy to copy, Graziosa."
Agnolo was studying his picture intently.
"'Twas an idle fancy to take thee as my model for St. Michael," he said
at length. "Thou dost not inspire me as St. Michael, Ambrogio."
"As what then?" asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness.
Agnolo laughed.
"As no saint at all," he said. "He is like nothing but the wicked young
man reclaimed in the legend of St. Francis, and not very reclaimed
either!"
Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his
lip.
"Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time," he said.
"Meanwhile, I will work on my St. Catherine's robe."
And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing
herself on the floor at his feet.
Agnolo scrutinized the St. Michael once more, but finally drew the
curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling
himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other
two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still,
and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the
young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of
St. Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious
monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What
could he know of the city's news?
"We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio," he said. "The Duke of
Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out
to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we
live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and
yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and
will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would
love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like."
Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made
small difference to the talkative little man, who continued:
"He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French Prince,
who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I
thought him well-looking enough."
"His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish," said Graziosa; "and
since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine."
"Thou art always sorrowing for some one," said her father. "A princess
never marries for love."
"Then I am glad I am no princess," smiled Graziosa, looking up at her
betrothed.
Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence.
Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again
with renewed glances from the window.
"A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant
as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular--some weeks
ago--we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode
to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's
work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio."
There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the
darkening sky.
Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face.
"I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary."
His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told
it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but
Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely
cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and
overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now
but his pale face.
"No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St.
Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food."
Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.
"And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with
a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy
bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I
come never to return."
"Finished," murmured the girl, her head against his arm. "When?"
"By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?"
"I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier;
still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished."
Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly.
"If I could only stay," he said, and kissed her again.
"Surely it is still early, even for St. Joseph?" said Agnolo.
Ambrogio glanced out into the dusky street, where several gayly attired
horsemen were riding.
"The Prior begged my early return," he said. "And so farewell, my
father, for a little while, farewell!"
"Well, if it must be, it must," said Vistarnini cheerfully, "thou wilt
never fail for lack of industry. Still, Graziosa, even if thy lover
goes, there is something left to amuse us. This evening the nobles ride
in to attend the feast Visconti gives to-night to the French Duke.
'Twill be a noble feast, yet I doubt if the Lady Valentine be as happy
as thou art, Graziosa."
But his daughter returned no answer, for she was not there, but at the
top of the dark stairway: she was saying farewell to her betrothed; and
when Agnolo turned from the window, she was leaning on his arm across
the courtyard, for a last word at the gate.
"When comest thou again?" she whispered.
"Thy father jeers me for my industry, yet heaven knows what it costs me
to leave thee, sweet. In two days' time I will again be with thee."
They were at the door, but still he lingered, gazing on her gentle face.
"Farewell," he said at last, with a smile. "For two days, my beautiful
Graziosa." He took her face between his hands and kissed her.
"Farewell," she smiled, and with a sudden effort he was gone.
But once well clear of the house, Graziosa's lover paused as if
undecided, then drew his hood, and wrapped himself closely in his mantle
and walked rapidly into the city, keeping close to the wall. After some
time he drew the bandage from his hand and flung it aside.
His left hand was as whole as his right.
Again he walked on rapidly, until, at the corner of a quiet street, a
man with bent shoulders and dressed in black stepped from the shadow of
a building.
It was Giannotto.
"News, Giannotto?" asked Graziosa's lover in a whisper.
"I am waiting for you, my lord, to tell you they are growing impatient.
Your absence is causing surprise."
Two horsemen passed, and Ambrogio drew his mantle closer around him.
"No one has seen thee waiting here?" he asked.
"No, my lord, I am too careful."
"'Tis well," said the other. "Lead on toward the palace, Giannotto. I
will follow."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST
The Visconti palace was brilliant with lights and gay with the hum of
voices.
Splendidly attired, in all that wealth or taste could desire, the French
guests seemed to diffuse some of their own light-hearted gayety over the
somber abode of the Visconti.
The entrance stairs of fine white marble were spread with a purple silk
carpet, the golden balustrades intertwined with roses emitting their
fragrance, and the long gallery opening from the stairway and lit by
wide windows, deep set in the stone, showed the long, low balcony
smothered in myrtles, lemons, citrons, oranges, and gorgeous flowers,
scented and abundant, filling the corridors with the sense of summer and
mingling their slender trails with the stiff folds of the rare and
costly tapestries that covered the walls and were laid upon the floor.
At intervals stood statues, masterpieces of ancient art, faintly lit by
the golden glimmer of the swinging lamps.
And all the stairs and corridors and gallery were alive and brilliant
with the magnificent guests of the Visconti--lords and ladies, the
finest the dismantled court of France could boast. Yet, used to
splendors as they were, coming from the most refined court of Europe,
the costly display made by an Italian usurper impressed them with
wonder, almost with awe.
Tisio Visconti, most richly dressed and adorned with all his favorite
jewels, mingled in the throng, gay and happy, forgetful of everything
save the lights and the colors, the kindly respectful tones in which he
was addressed, unheeding the silent page that followed him.
The wide, usually so somber, entrance of the palace stood open upon the
street, and the red flare of torches, the gleam of richly-caparisoned
horses, the bustle of pages and men-at-arms, were visible to the
courtiers within, and blended city and palace in one splendor.
"I would the French were always here," cried Tisio, excitedly. "I love
the palace to be light and gay."
The gay flutter of silk and satin, the elegant grace of the strangers,