The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
Giannotto's figure. "Remember these are all at thy commands--and, for
the present, then farewell."
To Valentine he said nothing, but turned away toward the palace with the
secretary.
Graziosa looked after him, a little pained; she had noticed he was
always different when his sister was there. Valentine had noticed it
too, and guessed the cause, and the knowledge gave a triumph to her
beauty that made it dazzling indeed.
"I fear I interrupted your discourse," she said with another curtsey.
"Indeed no, lady," replied Graziosa, timidly. "Will you not come within
with me from the sun?"
"Nay, that were too much of an honor," said Valentine. "Are you not my
brother's promised wife--and the savior of Milan?"
"I pray you, do not speak of it--I--I----" answered Graziosa hurriedly.
Valentine lifted her brows and opened her gray eyes wide.
"Do not speak of it? Why, 'tis a deed to be proud of--even when so well
rewarded, lady."
Graziosa flushed under the mock in her tone, and turned to one of her
ladies.
"We will go in--alone--since the Princess will not come," she said.
"Come and walk in the garden, madama," said Valentine. "At least it
seems like liberty--there will be little enough of that when you are
Duchess of Milan."
Graziosa, looking at her with frightened eyes, joined her meekly, having
not the spirit to refuse.
"Now, bid your ladies back a pace--at least Gian will allow us that,"
and Valentine motioned them away.
"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like
envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and
the superb carriage of her queenly head.
Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.
"Many things--among them this--get yourself a better tirewoman and you
will keep Visconti longer--learn a little spirit and you will keep him
longer still."
Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with
no such grace.
"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some
dignity--"nor of beauty--but of love alone."
Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between
rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from
the ladies following came gentle laughter.
"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.
"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.
Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's
betrothed like a whip-stroke.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me--you insult him!"
"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you
seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the
mind--worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying,
stealing and murdering?"
Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother
could look, her voice was very like his.
"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"
"I know you never raised a hand to save them--I know I love him!" cried
Graziosa.
"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he
is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a
man love--you?"
"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa,
white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."
"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti
loves her!"
Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too
full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But
Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a
loving gesture.
"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to
suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.
Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown
dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at
them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.
"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her
attendants, looking at her.
"No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart;
all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti,
all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all
been a mistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what
Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she
would not believe.
She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned
to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden
wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I
live this life and forget?"
But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning
over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice--and she
had his word for her father's safety.
Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made
splendid by Visconti's love.
"My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and
kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.
But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova,
near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and
five sword-thrusts through his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IN VISCONTI'S HANDS
Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It
stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich
with the Duke's gifts.
That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the
palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had
ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.
His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona;
there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino
della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the
rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the
new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness
publicly ratified.
From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to
hope.
The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had
always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed
by Carrara.
Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in
Milan.
As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts
for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a
prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted
escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before
the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not
offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories.
She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala
had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him--and in reward for her
treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to
flaunt her with her at every turn.
That morning Visconti had told her the war was drawing to a close--said
it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as
a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely
elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in
the air.
That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some
stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had
seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope
confirmed it.
She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to
care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este,
and bitter toward Count Conrad.
"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought
in hot anger, "I would not _live_ to grace Visconti's triumph."
The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the
church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard
them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by
their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.
"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she
was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.
The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense and a low chanting. One
only remained, putting out candles about the altar.
Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming
through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell
over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round
to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl,
his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.
"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and
swiftly he was gone.
Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him
wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on
fire.
Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her
stay.
"Count Conrad is in Milan!"
Did that mean that he would rescue her yet--was it Conrad himself who
spoke?
The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much
confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success--still, he
was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.
After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells
deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that
whisper in the church had given her new life.
The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have
been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding
the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one
of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her
guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.
San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti
had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for
his victories.
"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the
bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have
seen many messengers spur past."
Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at
the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its
surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the
banners of the Viper.
"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of
the Viper."
Costanza glanced at her.
"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing.
To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though
I am your friend, madama, I must say it."
"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by
splendor and power--you see no deeper than the skin!"
"Maybe," said the other lightly. "Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed,
and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to
all display."
"And his wife?" asked Valentine in a low tone. "Have you no thought for
her?"
Costanza shrugged her shoulders.
"Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war,
and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti's wife in
such a case--she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala
tear her from his foe himself--let him do as Visconti did when the Lady
Graziosa was in danger."
"Hold thy tongue," returned Valentine angrily. "You talk as a child--you
know not what you say."
"I only know this," retorted the other, "I would _I_ were the Lady
Graziosa," and she looked defiantly at Visconti's angry sister.
"For shame, Costanza," said Valentine. "Remember yourself."