The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed. "Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen across _my_ house, and what one does not see one does not fear--but when he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening--we leaning from the window as did everyone--Alberic da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls--red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain--to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes--back he comes in madder haste--the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down--the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese.... Ah!" Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion. But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme. "Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince." The stranger rose abruptly. "Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure." "Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man, Messer Francisco." "He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona." "And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green willows with lilies in her hands. "For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an altar-piece--for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will make the border." He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths. Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name. "Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?" Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes. "Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble." Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humoredly. "Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring. "His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried. "Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee," laughed the painter, "and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all his time; thou but a few meager hours a week! Still, they love each other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paint well or ill." Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up with radiant eyes. "I am very happy," she laughed softly, "so never mind whether he paint the best or the second best in Italy." The painter grasped the oars and pushed out into the stream: "Good-bye," he called, and Graziosa waved a hand; then something in the stranger's aspect made the little painter pause again. "Gladly would we offer our poor hospitality, messer," he said, "only the gates are sternly barred to any stranger...." But Graziosa, glancing also at the strong, commanding figure, and the stern set face, checked her father's impulse. "We are too humble, father," she said gently, "but if there were any service we could render, any message--? We live at the sign of _Lo Scudo_, the armorer's, near to the western gate." "I will remember it," said Francisco simply. Graziosa drew her blue cloth hood about her smiling face, and, with gentle strokes from the painter's paddle, the boat disappeared. When Francisco found himself alone again, momentary misgiving seized him that he had lost an opportunity. Could these folk have been of service? They were of a sort unknown to him; courtiers, soldiers, burghers, merchants, with all such he was at home, but these plebeians of kindly natures and good speech, of humble rank and careless happiness, were new to him. The painter's talk of his craft had had no meaning for Francisco, it had passed from his mind for craziness; but the girl had said they dwelt near the western gate--could they perchance have been of service? But presently he dismissed the notion; they were too simple for his purpose. Raging in the pain of rekindled memory and present helplessness, Francisco paced to and fro, waiting for Vittore's figure in the distance. Suddenly his eyes rested again on the great clump of yellow lichen, and he stopped, arrested. In the midst of it he had seen something that interested him, something very much its color, but not quite its kind. He approached, and thrusting his hand in among the great tufts, touched the rusty iron of a disused bolt. There was a door here, then, that led into the grounds of the deserted villa! Francisco's heart beat strongly. From the finding of the silver goblet in the ruined hut, he had associated with the Visconti's name the darkened dwelling and its silent grounds. There was none to question, for there was none of whom they dared inquire; but more than once Francisco had thought of trying to enforce an entrance, only to find, however, that by whomsoever abandoned, ingress to the villa had been left well nigh impossible. But here was an entrance that had been overlooked, and it was not to be wondered at, for the rusty bolt could have been discerned only by eyes as keen as his, and the door belonging was completely hidden by close-growing ivy, too frail to climb by, but the most effectual of all concealments. Tearing up the lichen from its roots, Francisco set to work upon the ivy. The delicate, ropelike strands clung with their black filaments like fingers bewitched, and little had been accomplished when Francisco, taking cautious survey around him, saw Vittore returning across the meadows. Concealing what he was about, Francisco waited till the lad came up, flushed and triumphant from a successful errand. "What news going in the city?" asked Francisco. "All is quiet. One of the soldiers snatched a leek from me, another bade me tell my sister he was still unwed. They jested finely, but I should not like them to have turned to questioning me. They were so many, and so finely armed." "And the money? Didst thou need to change the pieces that I gave thee?" "Yes, messer, I had not enough! They said that it was Veronese." "Nothing new to them in Milan now--the money of the Veronese," said Francisco, with a flashing glance toward the ramparts. "They told me 'twas no longer taken; that the Duke was having it recast. But a bystander reached forward, and gave me a piece of Milanese. He said that he would keep my piece; it bore the Della Scala arms, he said, and was a curiosity." Francisco muttered something that the lad did not catch. "Well, thou hast faced the soldiers and the market now," he said aloud, "and art safe for other journeys, as I promised thee. Go on to the hut, and give thyself food and Tomaso. Keep close and answer none. I will be with thee presently." The boy went on obediently. These two days with his rescuer had taught him and Tomaso both that what Francisco said he meant, and his word was their law already. But Francisco needed stronger allies. With some half-formed thought the villa might conceal one, he now returned to his attack upon the ivy, and after many a wrench and cut and struggle, the garden door stood bare enough to use. It was stained, discolored, locked and immovable. But this was nothing to Francisco; with knife and dagger he cut the woodwork around the lock, removed it, and thrusting his hand and arm well through the breach, with no great difficulty withdrew the upper and lower bolts. With knee and shoulder then he pressed inward, driving against the weeds and growths that choked it, and presently had forced an aperture that would admit him. After many a cautious glance along the meadow path, fortunately for his purpose little used, he replaced the loose strands of ivy as far as he was able, and slipping through, pushed the door back into its place, filling up the broken lock with green. He was in a garden of great beauty. The yew-tree overhead shaded a patch of velvety green starred with daisies. Before him a straight path led to a marble seat and a belt of cypress-trees. The ring-doves cooed blissfully; the flowering trees stirred; there was no other sound save the distant one of faintly plashing water. Treading softly, Francisco set forward in the direction in which he knew the villa lay. CHAPTER SIX THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG The house, a low, graceful building of white marble, was approached by a broad flight of steps, flanked by a balustrade almost hidden in early roses, which trailed in great clusters over it and along the velvet turf. Fronting it was a great fountain, and a wide avenue of yew trees, patched with sunshine, led up to the façade. To right and left spread turf-grown paths, edged with orange and lemon trees, and sweet with the scent of the citron and myrtle; around their