The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
Complete liberty was allowed him; still the soldiers behind were rather
guards than servants, and charged to see he did not leave the gates.
Dropping his loose reins on the palfrey's neck, Tisio Visconti looked
around him with lack-luster eyes and a dull smile. He was riding through
the long, narrow streets, cobbled and overhung with high straight
houses, that lead to the western gate.
Through this gate his father lately, his brothers months ago, had been
driven to their deaths; his father, infamously, his mother beside him,
in the full light of day to Brescia; his brothers, secretly, at dead of
night, to Brescia also, from whence they returned no more.
Yet to Tisio the gate and street had no memory or meaning; he looked
ahead of him at the green trees beyond, and his eyes lit up. It was to
see them he came. To him the world outside Milan was paradise; sometimes
the soul within him rose and chafed at his dull captivity, and then he
longed passionately for those green fields and trees, which he knew only
from within the city gates.
The street was empty now; it was noontide, the hour Tisio preferred,
when there were few abroad. The sun was hot, its rays flashing on the
pikes of the sentinels who paced the walls; and Tisio's followers wiped
their brows and chafed. But he gazed with wistful eyes, unheeding, into
the beauty and the calm, the green and the gold. The sentry took no heed
of him; so many times he had done the same; ridden to the gates, waited,
looking eagerly through, then patiently returned to the gloom of the
Visconti palace.
Either side the massive entrance lay houses, low, of gray stone,
enclosed in square courtyards, entered by doors deep set in the thick
walls.
From one of these, as Tisio turned, a girl emerged in a scarlet robe.
She carried a bunch of lilies, on her arm hung the basket that betokened
her errand. She and the little group of horsemen were the only life in
the silent, sunny street. Tisio's eyes lit upon her, and he smiled. Like
all the Visconti, there was poetry mingled with his madness, and the
sight of beauty touched even his crazy brain.
The girl, starting when she saw the horsemen, paused, as if to retire,
her hand on the door, her brilliant robe gorgeous against the background
of gray wall. The color, and the sunshine falling over her golden hair,
made a picture Tisio was not slow to see; his eyes fixed upon her
eagerly; he drew up his horse and turned to the page who, spy and
attendant in one, invariably accompanied him.
"I would speak to her," he said, with the eagerness of a child.
The girl, seeing she attracted notice, turned, frightened and confused,
to make good her escape, but the page, riding up, stopped her
authoritatively, but with a reassuring smile.
"'Tis the Lord Tisio Visconti, lady; fear nothing; he would only speak
with thee," he said.
But the girl's alarm increased at the mention of that dreaded name.
"He mistakes me for another, sir," she said. "I have never so much as
seen even the Duke himself."
"My lord would speak with thee," repeated the page. "He is not the Duke,
but it is the Duke's pleasure that he be obeyed in matters such as this.
Come, maiden, there is no need to fear: it is an honor."
He turned his rein again, and, indeed, not daring to refuse, the girl
followed and stood timidly by Tisio's side. He looked at her long and
eagerly, at her scarlet dress, her sunny hair, the white and green
lilies in her hands. Still he did not speak, and she raised her head and
looked around questioningly and fearful. But the page only smiled: the
men-at-arms sat silent and indifferent.
"Thou art very beautiful," said Tisio at last. "What is thy name? Whose
daughter art thou?"
"Graziosa Vistarnini, my lord; Agnolo Vistarnini is my father. He is a
painter."
But Tisio's eyes grew vacant, and his gaze wandered to the lilies.
"Did they come from yonder?" he asked, and pointed beyond the gate.
"No, my lord. From a friend's garden. My father thinks to paint them."
Still Tisio did not heed her answer; he laughed foolishly.
"I may go?" asked Graziosa timidly. "I may go, my lord?"
He bent from the saddle and lifted from her shoulder a long lock of her
curling hair, and stroked it, dropping it with a sigh.
"Give me these," he said, pointing to the lilies; "all the flowers I
know grow in Gian's garden,--Gian is the Duke of Milan."
And at his words, and the tone in which he spoke them, Graziosa's pity
overcame her fear.
In silence, tears in her eyes, she handed him the flowers. He took them
eagerly, but before she could withdraw her hand, he grasped her arm with
a childish exclamation and touched the bracelet of fine workmanship she
wore upon the wrist.
"I will have this too," he said, laughing with satisfaction: but the
girl drew her arm back sharply and turned to go.
Tisio fumed. "The bracelet," he said peevishly, and the page motioned to
her harshly to remain.
Graziosa turned to him in confusion and distress.
"I cannot give it him," she said, the tears starting. "I entreat thee,
sir, ask him to let me go."
But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do.
There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny
of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious
whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful.
"Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands," said the
page. "Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, to-morrow. Ask
for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before
he grows angry. Thou hadst better."
Tisio's face was darkening.
"Make haste, make haste," cried the page impatiently, "or it will be
thee and thy bracelet both that will be carried off."
"My betrothed gave it to me," she murmured. "I cannot part with it."
"I will have it," repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand.
Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the
bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his
master, and turned the horses' heads toward home.
"Thou wilt be none the worse," he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio,
absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels,
gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's crazy
brain.
Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the
tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the
painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet
gone?
"Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here," she cried, "he would not have let
the Duke himself take it from me--but I--what could I do?--if only he is
not angry that I let it go."
She had not much faith in the page's words; besides, how dare she
venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up
the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she
could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she
half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing.
"It makes the poor crazy lord happy," she said softly, "but it breaks
_my_ heart to lose it." She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a
certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand.
Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace.
The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his
path; the strong noonday sun blended the city into brilliant light and
shade, broken only by the vivid color of the drapery fluttering at some
unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeon's wings against the
golden air.
As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen,
galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew
rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps.
Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them--a band of
his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet
them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was
dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly.
"My lord hears thee not, sir," said the page, "his thoughts are with his
spoils."
The soldier laughed with a grimace.
It was the freedom of one whose services are valuable enough, even when
well paid, to permit him to bear himself with small respect to his
employers. For the mercenaries were a power; the transfer of their
services could ruin states and lose towns, and even Visconti had to pay
them well and concede license to their leaders; for upon them, to a
great extent, his sovereignty rested, and Alberic da Salluzzo could take
more liberties than any. He was a famous captain, noted for his skill in
wars and turbulence in peace, a man with no country and no honor,
endowed with dauntless courage and endurance, of vast rapacity and of
all the cruelty his age allowed.
Making no way for Tisio, and motioning curtly to his men, he strode up
the stairs, a stalwart figure, overdressed in splendid armor, and swung
into the antechamber of the Visconti's audience-room. It was deserted.
Alberic, astonished, paused on the threshold, looking around in
amazement for the crowd--courtiers, servants, seekers, soldiers--wont to
fill it.
Opposite was the closed door of the Visconti's room, but even Alberic
dare not knock there unannounced. He was turning away to seek
enlightenment, when a dark form he had passed unnoticed in the distant
shadows of the great room rose, and he recognized, as it advanced, the
secretary's stooping figure.
"What has happened here?" demanded the soldier.
"Is there need to ask?" answered Giannotto. "The Duke has had the room
cleared. He will see no one." Alberic half-laughed, and shrugged his
shoulders.
"The madness is on him at Count von Schulembourg's escape. Is that it?"
he asked. "But art even thou excluded?" he continued in surprise, for
Giannotto was the one man who could come and go unannounced, unbidden,
the one man who knew Visconti's secrets.
The secretary smiled, the slow smile that men's lips learned in the
Visconti palace.
"It is best for the Duke to be alone, and for me that he should be," he
said. "The news that Count Conrad has escaped hath galled him much; it
came at a bad moment too, following on those parchments twice found
within the grounds"--he paused. "Thou wert sent to find the writer, or
the one who put them there; art thou successful?"
Alberic shook his head. "I return as I went. Beyond finding that doorway
forced in the wall, messer secretary, there is no token whatsoever of
how the Count escaped. But after so long a fast, messer," Alberic showed
his teeth, "it is not likely that it was alone."
"The one who aided him is he who inscribed those parchments?"
"'Twould seem so," answered Alberic. "We have searched anew among the
huts from which we drove Count Conrad's German dogs; on the threshold of
the largest there was--this."
He drew out of his breast a parchment, a long narrow strip, scrawled
across in irregular writing, and handed it to Giannotto.
"What does it say?" he asked.
Giannotto glanced at it hastily, his eyes on the Duke's door.
He read, "Della Scala lives!"
The captain whistled softly. "Now, thou may'st hand that to the Duke
instead of me," he said.
Giannotto searched the writing keenly. "Della Scala cannot live; 'tis
some trick of the Torriani."
Alberic laughed harshly. "Whate'er it be, I say _thou_ shalt have the
pleasure of showing it the Duke!"
"Nay, thou must speak of thy own failures, friend. Besides, the Duke
will need thee for his further orders. Count Conrad must be found, alive
or dead!"
"Was it his ghost attacked the walls last night?" asked Alberic; and not
wholly did he speak in jest.
The secretary cast uneasy looks across his shoulder at the ominously
shut door.