The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
"Is it for that he hates Visconti?" asked Della Scala.
"Nay, my lord, he hath other wrongs": and Ligozzi proceeded to relate
the tale the little painter had poured into his ears that morning.
"'Not for naught did I conceal that passage!' he cried to me. My lord,
truly it was not for naught, seeing we shall thereby slay Visconti!"
"This man, Agnolo, he is to be trusted?" said Mastino.
"If ever man was! He would see Milan in ashes, an Visconti were among
them."
"And the girl?"
"I did not see the girl, but methinks she has the same cause to hate
Visconti."
"And that no one should know of this passage, it is strange," mused
Della Scala. "Thou art sure there is no trap, Ligozzi? Much
disappointment makes me wary."
"I will stake my life there is no trap, my lord, and that this man,
Agnolo Vistarnini, is dealing with the truth."
"Vistarnini," repeated Mastino. "Methinks I know the name--a painter,
didst thou say?"
"A painter, my lord; the house is near the western gate."
"The western gate! I remember. It was the day I found von Schulembourg.
Truly I think we may trust the man that I remember," and Mastino faintly
smiled. "There is no guile in him--nor in his daughter; poor lady! she
was happy then!"
"Visconti has left a guard of soldiers to protect the house; but not so
many that they will not be easily disposed of. Vistarnini speaks them
fair, they have no suspicion."
Mastino rose and held out his hand. "So thou hast done it, my friend,
thou and thy son. I owe thee much, Ligozzi. A poor man's thanks are but
an halting gift; some day, however, the Duke of Verona shall tell thee
what his gratitude is worth, my friend. I thank God, Ligozzi, for one
friend!"
* * * * *
In a thick wood near Milan, a man on a white horse was slowly picking
his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were close, and in
their dark shadow the place was nigh as black as night.
Great tufts of flowers grew in the cool shadows. There were no signs of
life, save the birds whirring through the leaves, the plants nodding in
the breeze.
The rider dismounted, and tied his horse to the low bough of a large
beech, flinging himself on the space of cleared ground beneath with a
sigh. He wore a dress of peacock-colored velvet, tumbled and torn, and,
save for a richly-jeweled dagger, more for ornament than use, was
unarmed; but in the fight from which Count Conrad had just engaged,
though a fight with two, weapons had not been needed; persuasion had
done the work, and he had come out victorious.
In a bundle on his saddle hung his spoils, and as he discontentedly
sucked the scratches on his wrist, he looked at them with interest and
triumph.
Presently he fell to fingering his hair, then, sitting suddenly upright,
drew his dagger with fine resolution.
He seized the first of his long curls and severed it.
Grimly, not giving himself time to pause, he proceeded to the next, and
one by one hacked them from his head, his beautiful blond, perfumed
curls.
Conrad sighed as he saw them lying on the grass, and felt his shorn
head. He longed for a mirror in which to see the extent of his
disfigurement, but there was not even a pool near.
Disconsolately he arose, and detaching the bundle from the saddle, he
laid it upon the ground and opened it.
It contained a monk's robe, a rosary, a book, a wallet, and a girdle.
Conrad opened the wallet, and found food therein, and he was growing
hungry; but when he came to consider it, he sickened at its coarseness.
Scraps of fat, sour, hard cakes, mostly soaked in stale wine--the refuse
of farmhouses.
"Have I parleyed with and robbed a begging friar?" cried the Count in
high disgust, and flung the wallet far into the bushes. "Food for hogs!"
Then with many sighs he removed the peacock-colored doublet and hose,
and donned the monk's garb, drawing the hood over his shorn head, tying
the girdle around his waist.
The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his
laced white shoes showed beneath.
"Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried
in a passion.
But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot.
"Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and
flung off his shoes and stockings.
The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it
smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I
warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege.
Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck--it was hatefully
heavy--and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the
wretched Count moaned at his fate.
He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it
through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on
the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.
On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him
adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in
his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony
road, made painful progress toward Milan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO
It was early morning of the second day since Ligozzi had discovered the
secret passage, and Milan lay peaceful, for in those two days there had
been no fighting; but the calm was the lull before the storm.
Agnolo Vistarnini stood in front of the secret door, with shining eyes.
The spring had just slipped back behind Tomaso, the last arrangements
had been made; to-night Della Scala should enter Milan--and he, Agnolo,
would be the means.
Agnolo looked across the courtyard now in shadow to where a soldier kept
his guard. The guard was the Duke's orders, and to the painter's face
the soldiery showed all respect; yet well Agnolo knew they laughed at
Visconti's whim, and shrugged their shoulders at the pale-faced girl who
was to be Duchess of Milan. And the painter had heard their talk among
themselves. "It was likely enough for the Duke to amuse himself in
disguise," they said, "but to marry a painter's daughter!"
"It were more reasonable had he dowered her to wed another, and yet 'tis
of a piece with all his madness!"
"I would sooner see her dead," thought the little painter, "than Duchess
of Milan, the Visconti's wife."
The white agonized face of Isotta rose before him, the fierce rebellious
hate that marred Valentine Visconti's beauty, and Visconti's own
expression as he stooped to mock a woman in his power; the gallant heart
of the little painter throbbed with wrath and honest fury against the
tyrant who played with hearts, who thought the offer of a crown he had
usurped atoned for crimes as black as hell.
"To-night, to-night!" he murmured to himself as he mounted the stair to
seek for his daughter. "To-night we shall both avenge the use of us to
please a whim."
He entered his studio; it was empty, the two pictures stood with their
backs to the room. Agnolo looked at them grimly. How often had Visconti
sat painting that St. Catherine, unarmed! how easy then to have struck
him low! What would Lombardy have said!
"Graziosa!" he called. He was eager to tell her Tomaso had been again.
He never doubted for a moment that her love had turned, as his had done,
to a passion of outraged pride.
"Graziosa!"
But no answer came, and Agnolo mounted the stair and entered her little
chamber in the turret. It was circular, lit by three long windows, and
now ablaze with the morning sun.
The walls were hung with painted linen, faded browns, and in each window
stood a rough stone jar of lilies, drooping neglected in the sun.
Seated on the floor near one of them was Graziosa, her face buried in
her hands, but at her father's entrance she raised her head and looked
out of the window.
"Graziosa," said Agnolo, and there was a boyish triumph in his voice,
"Visconti dies to-night."
She did not move.
"To-night Della Scala enters Milan; there is no chance of failure."
"None?" she asked. Her voice was dull.
"None! Ah, Graziosa, Visconti roused more dangerous foes than he
reckoned on when he played with me and thee."
The girl moved impatiently; her father's words jarred on her senses.
"Father, I am tired," she said wearily, "and my heart is very sore----"
"Never fear, my daughter; to-night, to-night!"
Graziosa turned to him; her face was white and strained.
"But if--he--the Duke--should not be--be slain?" she said. "He has a new
army here in Milan."
"Aye, but a surprise at dead of night is worth two armies to the others.
The palace is near; Visconti will be in their hands even while he
sleeps----"
"In Della Scala's hands----" she breathed. "That means, indeed--he--O
God, it means Ambrogio dies!"
The last words were breathed so low Agnolo did not hear them, but he saw
the pain on his daughter's face and came gently to her side.
"Forgive me if I pain thee, my dearest. God knows, if I speak lightly
'tis but to hide a bitter grief----"
But Graziosa interrupted him with a passionate cry, and seizing his
hands covered them with kisses.
"Take no heed of me!" she cried. "I am half distraught--soon I shall be
better."
"After to-night there will be a shadow gone from off us, Graziosa, and
not from off us alone."
"There is no chance of failure?" asked the girl again.
"Comfort thyself--none."
Graziosa said no more, and Agnolo turned to leave, for there were the
soldiers still to hoodwink, but at the door his daughter called him:
"At what hour do Della Scala's men enter?" she asked, in a low voice,
her head still turned away.
"One hour after midnight," returned the little painter.
"Della Scala leads them?"
"Della Scala himself," said Agnolo, proudly. "He is a noble prince."
His daughter made no answer; long after the little painter had left her
again alone she sat there listless in the sunny, silent chamber,
listless, with her white face, leaning back against the window frame.
"There was no possibility of failure." The words beat upon her heart
till she thought it would break.
"To-morrow he will be dead!"
She sprang to her feet with sudden energy; the sun was rising high--the
time was short.
It was silent, maddeningly silent; Graziosa grew afraid of it--the
silence and the sun; she wished she were dead; it came to her to kill
herself, yet full well she knew that she had not the courage.
She twisted her damp, cold hands together; she wondered if she shut her
eyes and leaped from the window she might die without knowing it, and
nerving herself looked out.
But the stone courtyard seemed far away, hard and cruel, and she winced
back again.
In her own heart she knew she was a coward, and wept to think it was
so--wept to think she could not rise to act, in any way to act.
There was no tinge of greatness in Graziosa's soul; she would have gone
through life, if unmolested, merry, gentle, sweetness and happiness
itself, content to always stand aside for others, eager to do little
kindnesses that came within her compass, never tempted because never
seeing the temptation, happy in utter simplicity and ignorance; but a
great moment found her wanting, a crisis she could not face; as she
tried to think, right and wrong grew strangely confused. She only knew
she loved Visconti, and that he was in danger.
She was too weak to kill herself, although she did not shrink from the
cowardice of it, only from the pain; she was too weak to tell her father
she still loved Visconti; she could not bear to see his face should she
confess it; he would never understand.
"I will lock the door," she said, with wild eyes, "lock the door, and
let no one enter till it is all over--and perhaps my heart will break,"
she added pitifully.