The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
men, women, saints, martyrs, flowers and birds wrought together, in
simple-minded joyousness of design, executed with the delicate
workmanship of Niccolo Pisano's school. Silk arras, hung from carved
gold rods, here and there concealed the carving. A carpet, the work of
two men's lives, delicate in purple, brown, and gold, spread across the
center, where a long low table of walnut wood, rich and dark, could seat
two hundred guests. Purple velvet chairs were set about in the corners,
and the light streaming through the colored window saints fell in gold
and green across an ivory footstool, inlaid with jewels.
As Visconti entered, the hall was empty, yet he stepped stealthily, as
if he felt eyes watching him. Seating himself in the window recess, he
waited, and presently, as if at an unuttered summons, the curtains at
the far end of the room were rustled apart, and a lady entered. She was
Valentine Visconti, Gian's sister. Her dress was of red and brown,
embroidered with gold, her tawny hair piled high under a golden net upon
her well-set head. She had the clear, colorless skin and the wide red
lips of the fair-haired Italians, their rich presence; she was of a fine
carriage, not easy to overlook; she might have been ten years younger
than her brother; she was as tall and as stately.
She looked straight toward the window where Visconti sat. Gian returned
her gaze, not changing his position. Valentine drew nearer.
"Why hast thou set spies upon me?" she demanded.
"Why didst thou try to fly Milan with Count Conrad?" he returned. "I was
foolish not to spy on thee before."
Her gray eyes glinted.
"I tried to escape from a life that was grown intolerable," she cried,
"and I will try yet again!"
Visconti smiled.
"My sister, thou art much too precious; I shall not let thee go. Thou
art worth a great deal to me. Through thee our family will be united to
the Royal House of France. My sister, thy husband will be the Duke of
Orleans, and not a German fool."
But Valentine was also a Visconti: she advanced with blazing eyes.
"I will not marry to serve thy ambitions; I will not help to steady thee
upon the throne. Mark me, Gian, sooner than wed a Prince whom thou hast
chosen, I will drag thy name into the mire, and sit in rags at thy
palace gates."
"Only thou hast not the choice," he answered pleasantly.
Her anger rose the more as she felt her helplessness.
"I will not marry the Duke!" she cried, "I will not walk up to the
altar."
"Thou canst be carried," said Visconti.
She moved up and down, twisting her hands in an agony of impotence.
"I will appeal to the Duke of Orleans himself!" she cried.
"A bridegroom who is bought for a hundred thousand florins!" sneered her
brother. "And how will thy appeal reach him? Come, my sister, be calm;
the Duke will make as good a husband as Count Conrad. Bethink thyself,
thou mayst live to be crowned Queen of France. Wilt thou not thank me
then, that I saved thee from a German Count?"
Valentine fell to weeping.
"What has become of him?" she sobbed, "the only human being who ever
turned to me in pity. The only one who ever cared for me. What has
become of him?"
"What becomes of a fool when he crosses the path of a Visconti?" asked
her brother calmly.
Valentine lifted her head.
"He is dead, then?" she said.
"It matters not to thee. Thy husband will be the Duke of Orleans, and
thou art a prisoner in the palace till he takes thee from it."
She caught at the arras; Visconti left her, and reached the door, his
figure a shadow among the shadows.
The girl rushed forward with a cry. "Gian!" she called.
He paused, his hand upon the curtain, and looked back at her.
"Gian!" she repeated, and stood still gasping, her hand upon her breast.
The stiff folds of her dress gleamed richly in the subdued light that
fell upon her from the painted window. "I know thee for what thou art,"
she said; "there are only two of us left, only two. Where are our
parents, Gian?"
"They were stricken down at Brescia," and Visconti took a quick step
toward her.
"They are dead," she breathed, "and they died as our brothers died,
Filipo and Matteo----"
"Did they so! Then take warning by it," and Gian, coming stealthily
still nearer, turned a look on her. Valentine quailed, as Francisco
well-nigh had done; the hot words of remorse and rebellion died away
unuttered, and she hid her face, her high spirit cowed again into a
bitter weeping.
Visconti left her noiselessly.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER
Three days had passed since that futile midnight encounter, and
Francisco had found no means to enter Milan.
He stood on the banks of the water looking moodily toward the city,
watching the figure of Vittore, who trudged along the meadows,--his
errand to procure provisions.
The three still sheltered in the ruins, to which no owner had returned,
nor had any signs of life or occupancy broken the silence within the
villa's all-encircling walls. Now, as he watched Vittore out of
sight--the boy looking back often to renew his courage--Francisco's brow
was furrowed, and his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The stream, clear,
deep and sparkling, here ran darkened with the shadow of the willows
that bent over it their long bluish leaves. A path, thickly bordered
with reeds, ran beside the water to the head of the small lake into
which the stream flowed, whence it continued, a scarcely discernible
footway, toward the city.
Behind Francisco, separated from him only by the fosse, was the wall of
the villa, and, Vittore being lost to view, Francisco withdrew his gaze,
always roaming restlessly in quest of something that should aid him, and
glanced along it curiously. His eyes rested on a great tuft of yellow
lichen, brilliant with scarlet spikes; it was so huge and spreading he
could not but stare at it. From the lichen his gaze traveled slowly
upward, but not a foothold could he see. Spreading above the wall the
topmost boughs of a gigantic view showed a clear-cut black against the
sky, and on the broad, fan-like surface brooded a pair of doves, pink,
gray and white. The beauty of the scene, its calmness and repose,
exasperated the man's inaction. He stamped on the little flowers at his
feet, then, with a bitter curse at his folly, threw himself upon the
grass to watch for Vittore's return, and ponder, forever ponder, on his
purpose. Suddenly there shot into sight upon the stream a little boat,
with high curling prow and gaily painted sides. A blue sail was furled
above it, and it was impelled lightly forward by a delicate pair of
oars. The grounds of the villa formed a promontory, and coming around
the brow of it the boat broke upon his gaze and was within hail at one
and the same moment. It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first
impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome
intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the
genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple
pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on.
The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown
robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people
who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the
impression of restlessness; of the good humor common to the people too.
His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a
delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair
were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet
small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack young
figure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair
like a veil about her.
Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly
greeting.
"Good day, messer," he called. "So thou hast found our secret haunt.
Graziosa and I had thought this place our own," and as he spoke he waved
his hand around him at the water.
The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously
approached.
"I am a stranger here," he said.
The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little
friendly wonder.
"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee--this most beautiful part of
Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the
fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I
seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive
hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it
is?"
He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain
new sympathy.
"I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned
Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to
hold in time of need."
The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward,
laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter."
But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the
boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to
follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with
uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face
of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.
The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert,
and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing
out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight
of which had restored all his good humor.
"See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew--so
brilliant, yet so in harmony, so--you do not paint?"
"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I
did?"
The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and
mentally decided he did not.
"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I _am_ a painter.
Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He
swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.
"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can
see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.
"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here
awhile."
And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of
wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the
outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.
Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on,
dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was
wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.
"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the
slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the
model for my angels----"
"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.
Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.
"Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a
model for such found anywhere," he said.
"Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a
bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."
"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care!
Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou,
messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the
Visconti?"
"Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?"
The painter gazed at him in silence.
"But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di
Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti."
"In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause.
"The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in
Milan twenty days!"