The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
"Another wedding gift!" he cried in ringing tones, and struck Visconti
full upon the breast.
Then an utter confusion fell upon Count Conrad. He was seized and
pinioned tight amid wild yells, while the dagger, glancing off the armor
beneath the soft rose-colored velvet, fell on the steps unheeded.
"Count Conrad?" said Visconti clearly through the babble of voices.
"Conrad von Schulembourg?"
"Aye," said Conrad wildly, struggling between the two soldiers who held
him. "Complete your triumph, Visconti. I would have killed you; kill
me--kill me! You tried before and failed. I have tried and I fail. End
it."
He would have added more defiances, but the soldiers hauled him roughly
back, and choked the words back into his throat.
"Count Conrad?" asked Valentine, in a clear tone. "Did he say Count
Conrad?"
Visconti motioned to d'Orleans.
"Take the Duchess on, my lord. I will remain and deal with this crazy
friar."
"Surely he needs but little dealing with!" said the Frenchman. "An
assassin! there is the gallows ready!"
"There is also your wedding procession waiting," returned Visconti
quietly, and he motioned the train onward, and Conrad forward, the eager
people in the street all straining every nerve to know what might have
happened; appeased by the oncoming train, they gave only half a thought
to the little knot pressed round the steps, and what the Duke had paused
for.
Conrad stood between his guards, with a flushed face and a proud
bearing. He would have liked to kiss his hand to Valentine, stepping
into her gorgeous litter, looking back with half-awakened eyes; but his
hands were held firmly, and his feet lashed together.
"Well, Visconti," he said, with a still higher carriage of his head,
"what is it this time--starvation or the rack?"
Visconti made no answer: he was looking down at the flowers on the
steps.
"Take those away," he said to a page, and pointed to a spray of white
roses.
The boy obeyed, and glanced at his companions, wondering.
"Saint Hubert!" cried Conrad, with a sudden laugh. "You are full of
whims as of old! How long must I wait for my death, at your good
pleasure, my lord?"
The Duke turned his eyes on him.
"You are strangely foolish," he said, and hesitated, looking at Conrad
with a moody face.
"Foolish indeed, or I had never been Visconti's friend!" retorted
Conrad. "Foolish--or I had never trusted to this friendship. But call me
also bold, my lord, to be here now, buying with my life the pleasure of
saying so!"
"The impudent German!" murmured a lady in Visconti's ear. "Heaven has
given your lordship even this--to crown your perfect triumph."
The Duke was still silent: he looked from Conrad to the crowd, shouting,
throwing up their hats to see the procession pass, and then to the
soldiers, wondering at this strange hesitation.
"Why did you come to Milan?" he asked at last, fingering the gold
tassels on his sleeve, and speaking slowly.
"To save your unhappy sister," cried Conrad. "To try and kill you,
Visconti!" And he struggled fiercely in the grip of his captors.
"Take him away," said Visconti. "Take him----" He paused a moment.
"To the gibbet, my lord?"
"No--outside the gates. Give him a safe-conduct that will take him out
of my soldiers' lines. And so farewell, Count Conrad; I can waste no
more time on you."
"I will not go!" shrieked Conrad furiously. "I will not have your mercy,
Visconti--I will not accept from you my life!"
Visconti passed on.
"I say I will die!" cried Conrad after him. "Do you quail at another
murder, Visconti? Dare you not kill one more?"
The Duke looked back at him.
"I owe you somewhat, Count. You may remember a certain game of chess you
played in Della Scala's camp. It served me well--it saved my life--and
gave me--Della Scala. Now take yours--as a most unequal recompense."
He smiled most unpleasantly, and Conrad was silent, struck, chilled.
"Put him outside the gates," continued Visconti; "and give him money for
his journey. Maybe he left Della Scala too hastily to bear much away;
maybe Della Scala did not in any case pay well; and we would not have
the noble Count beg his way to Germany."
"Visconti----" Conrad choked on the word. "Visconti----"
"I will spare thy thanks," smiled the Duke. "Farewell."
"Give me a dagger--some one!" yelled Conrad. "That villain shall see I
do not live to profit by his scorn. Give me a dagger--I--you truckling
knaves! you shaveling cowards!"
"When your blood is a little cooler," said the soldier calmly, tying his
hands the tighter, "you'll be giving us a ducat apiece for not taking
you at your word."
"Silence, churl! I will not leave Milan; I will not be put outside the
gates!"
"Just whatever the Duke says, messer, you'll do--just whatever the Duke
says; and thank your guardian saint he was not himself to-day, or you'd
have had your death--but not quite so pleasant as you seem to think it."
And for all he could shriek and threaten and pray, struggle and fight,
Count Conrad was escorted through the crowded streets, between soldiers
with immovable faces, and amid a crowd that laughed in huge enjoyment of
his angry threats and bitter entreaties. A good mile outside the gates
they led him, a fine rabble at his heels. And then they left him, with a
good horse, a sword, and a bag of ducats.
"Now, Count, take those and ride to Germany--or if you must die, try and
get back into Milan." And they rode away, laughing heartily.
Count Conrad seated himself on the roadside, and was silent a long
while. Then he rose, and rubbed his stiff arms, bruised by the soldiers'
grip, looked back toward Milan, looked at the horse and sword, gave one
sigh to the past, mounted and rode away out of the shadow of Milan
toward Novara, the first town on the route to Germany.
* * * * *
There was a great coming and going of brilliant company in the Visconti
palace, a constant spurring of horses through its gates, the riding in
of messengers and soldiers, the riding out of officers and nobles.
The Duke d'Orleans and his wife had left for France, with a splendid
cavalcade of knights and ladies, escorted by the flower and the chivalry
of Milan.
All Valentine's struggles and proud resistance and scorn had come to
this: she left for France, as Visconti had ever said she should--left
Milan dull to craziness, forgetful, with no sign of either joy or
regret.
Visconti thought of this consummation with some satisfaction, then
banished his sister from his mind. There were other matters more
important to Visconti than the subdual of his sister--of Mastino della
Scala and his wife for one.
Mastino had kept his pact: in one week, Pavia, Treviso, Cremona,
Vincenza, and Verona had fallen; company after company of Mastino's
soldiers had passed into the hands of the Milanese. Modena and Ferrara
were left, but so weakened that a few days must see their end, though
the deserted garrisons were fighting desperately, and sending wild
messages to Della Scala, imploring aid.
Julia Gonzaga in Mantua was sore beset. At an urgent appeal from
Mastino, almost every trained man holding the city had been sent to his
assistance, to find themselves surrounded and cut to pieces by the
Milanese, and Mantua left defenceless.
In Novara the Estes were shut up, waiting anxiously for news from
Mastino--waiting in vain.
Isotta d'Este had been removed from Milan, and was lodged in a strong
fort some miles outside Brescia, guarded still by Visconti's soldiers,
but also by some of Della Scala's trusted but still unwitting
Veronese--men who kept watch over her night and day, inspected all she
ate, and allowed no emissary from Visconti to see her alone.
Such were the terms.
The thing had been done secretly. Vague rumors that the Duchess's
release was being negotiated were the utmost that got abroad. The
soldiers guarding her for Mastino thought the privilege bought, or that
the Emperor had wrung it from Visconti. There were none who suspected
the truth. Though for those ten days had been disaster on disaster,
though town after town had fallen, squadron after squadron been
ambushed, and though some whispered treachery and pointed to this
captain and to that, none thought of staining the loftiest name in
Lombardy with even a doubt--Mastino della Scala, the son of Can' Gran'
della Scala, of a race that had never lied or betrayed, the one race in
Lombardy of a lofty honor. Men would have as soon thought the stars
would fall as Mastino della Scala.
Visconti, pacing his palace in a fever of triumph, thought of all this;
thought of the d'Estes in Novara, still trusting--thought of Mastino's
Veronese, their devotion, their sympathy--thought of Mastino's feelings.
It was almost enough to satisfy his hate--but not quite--not quite.
"To-morrow," he said, stopping before de Lana--"to-morrow I shall march
from Milan, and I shall lay in ashes every village, every town that has
favored Della Scala. I will let loose my soldiers to pay themselves
from the wealth of Lombardy, and I will makes the Estes take their
proud banner down from the walls of Novara, and hoist with their own
hands the Viper!"
"Mastino della Scala lies at Brescia," said de Lana, with an uplifting
of his dark eyes. "His army has dwindled almost to a handful of picked
Veronese; so a deserter who rode in tells me. He waits there for his
wife."
"And I," said Visconti, leaning against the table, "have given orders
she is to be sent, de Lana. He has kept his word; I will keep mine. He
has paid dearly enough--he shall have his wife. And to-morrow I march on
Novara."
"I have my orders, my lord."
"I have nothing more to say, de Lana. To-morrow we leave Milan."
The captain was turning in silence, when Visconti spoke again.
"Della Scala is at Brescia, ye say? Then his wife will reach him
to-morrow about the time we reach Novara." He paused and looked at de
Lana steadily. "I have sent orders for her release and forwarding in all
due privacy, but with sufficient state, and I have sent her back her
wedding ring."
De Lana only half understood him, but Visconti had small care for that.
"The Estes--in Novara, de Lana--they are unsuspecting?"
"How can they be otherwise, my lord? they are isolated----"
"Waiting for succors from Della Scala doubtless! How many could their
numbers be?"
"Some thousand--no more. Della Scala called his Veronese out, my lord."
"'Twill be almost too easy a victory," said Visconti, smiling. "And
then, from Piedmont to the Apennines, Italy will be under my rule: and
Della Scala--I wonder what will happen to Della Scala, de Lana?"
"There is nothing but death for Della Scala," returned the soldier,
standing at the door as if anxious to be gone. "Nothing is left for him
but that, my lord."
"Ah--you forget," said Visconti softly. "There is his price--his wife;
there is always his wife." And repeating the words, as if to himself,
Visconti motioned de Lana away, and entered the inner room.
Giannotto was looking out of the window, and at Visconti's sudden
entrance turned with a start.
"Giannotto," said the Duke smoothly, "you will come with me on the march
to-morrow--not for love of your company, my friend, but because I do not
trust you. Still, I keep you."
"There is now no Lady Valentine to outwit me in your absence with some
of her brother's skill, my lord," replied the secretary meekly.
Visconti made no reply, but viewed the secretary sullenly. His words had
brought up unpleasant memories: his palace was free of his rebel sister,
but it was free also of another one who should have been his wife.
All his brilliant, his magical successes could not quite obliterate the
sting of that one failure. Graziosa's name was a forbidden one; the