The Duchess of Trajetto Part 16

"Nay, but," said Donati, solicitously, "if the Cardinal himself desires him, I see not how you are exonerated from having him, baptised, or otherwise."

"Send for him yourself, then," said the Prior; "you have plenty of your own people."

"That will I readily," said Donati, and he left the refectory for that purpose.

Those who remained behind, discussed the chances of the Pope's sovereign remedy arriving in time to be of use, and talked over the present political aspect of affairs in Rome, Florence, and Bologna; and of the various deaths of the Medici--which was almost as dreary a subject as their lives.

Meanwhile, there lay the poor Cardinal on his crimson satin mattresses, with his once ruddy, handsome face, now pale as ashes, pressed against a crimson satin pillow fringed with gold--nothing white, nothing cool and comfortable about him--there he lay, alternately flushing and chilling, torn with pain and languishing with sickness and faintness--and all the while ideas were rushing through his distracted head like clouds across a racking sky; and the one predominant thought was, "Treachery!

treachery!" _Now_, he who had conspired, knew what it was to be conspired against. Oh! what a long, long night! He scarcely knew or cared that people from time to time looked in on him, stooped over him to hear if he breathed, touched his heart, his wrist, drew the coverlet closer over him, and went away. He scarcely knew or cared whether many were around him or only the faithful Salviati. His thoughts were following a fleet horse tearing along the road to Fondi, and striking sparks as it clattered down the lava paved street. Then he seemed to see the yellow-faced Jew, in a red night-cap, peering forth from one of the high, unglazed windows, as the courier shouted out his name--and behind him that Hebrew youth, whether son or acolyte, whom the Cardinal had seen at his door in pa.s.sing, only a few hours before, with his pale, delicate face, and long, spiral curls, and look of sadness and submission. How singular that that face, only once seen, and seen for a moment, should have stereotyped itself on his mind as the type of Isaac about to be sacrificed!--and now he seemed to see him collecting medicines, while the old Jew hastily threw on his furred gaberdine and came down to the door.

A din of wild church music seemed to come through the air, and to wax insufferably loud, and then die wailing away like a requiem over the Pontine marshes. And then, wild shouts of "Palle! palle!" and citizens, half-dressed and half-armed, rushing through streets, and some of them crying "Liberty! liberty at last!" And then there was an awful, crushing struggle at a cathedral door; and partisans were rallying round some one who was being borne into the sacristy; and blood was flowing and swords were clashing, and all the while an old pontiff at the altar, who seemed charmed into stone, was holding aloft the consecrated wafer, and the little tinkling bell was perpetually ringing till its shrillness seemed as if it would crack the tympanum of his ears; and sweet childish voices were singing:--

"Et in terra pax! hominibus bonae voluntatis!"

Then all melted away, and he was aware of a long, long suite of marble halls, their silk and gilding covered with dust; and of an old, old man with h.o.a.ry hair borne through them in the arms of his servants, and saying with a sigh, as he wistfully looked around them:

"This is too large a house for so small a family!"

After this stalked the dread pageant of his sins--sins of omission and sins of commission--sins that seemed so little once, and that seemed so crushing now--and as he moved his weary head, gibing faces seemed grinning and skinny fingers pointing at him round the bed; and when he closed his burning eyelids, he seemed to see them still, and to hear a voice say, "Son, thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things."

Oh! where were the sacraments of the Church? Where were they? Why did not some one think of them and bring them? Why had he not voice enough to ask for them? or strength enough to sign for them? And if he had, could they do him any good?

He knew not how time went. It seemed one long, long night, but in fact it covered a few days. Bar Hhasdai arrived at last--he had been absent when sent for. The Christian hangers-on scowled and spat on him as he pa.s.sed. He looked loftily down on them, and he pa.s.sed on; following the pale-faced Giovan Andrea. Pausing at the door, the Jew looked full at him.

"I want a dog," said he.

"A dog?" repeated the steward, aghast.

"Yes: a four-footed one; not a Christian. And a roll of bread."

He pa.s.sed into the sick room, where the faithful Salviati rose from the Cardinal's bedside. The Prior, who was telling his beads, drew his robe closer round him and retired as far from the Jew as possible.

Bar Hhasdai took up a lamp, and held it full in the Cardinal's unwinking eyes.

"He does not see it," said he.

He laid the palm of his hand against his heart: then taking some crumb of the roll the steward had brought him, he rubbed it against his own face and offered it to the lapdog Giovan Andrea held under his arm. The little dog immediately ate it.

"What next?" thought the steward, in wonder. The Prior stood transfixed, curiously on the watch. Salviati's eyes had something imploring in them: the faithful fellow had not once left his master, and was now haggard with his long vigil.

The Jew silently took another piece of bread and rubbed the Cardinal's clammy face with it: then offered it to the little dog. The little dog smelt it, and resolutely refused to taste it.

"You see," said Bar Hhasdai, fixing the steward with his eye, "the Cardinal is poisoned." Then, to the Prior, "Let him have the sacraments of your Church."

Giovan Andrea reeled back, but recovered himself in time to escape falling.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Salviati, springing towards him in rage and despair; but Giovan Andrea glided like a serpent from beneath his grasp, and clapped the door after him.

"He will not escape justice," said the Prior. "I have given orders that he shall be watched."

Salviati cast himself on his expiring master in a paroxysm of grief. At the sound of his wild cry, others rushed in: and the Jew quietly pa.s.sed out. Extreme unction was administered.

Thus perished the brilliant Ippolito de' Medici, who would deserve more pity if he had not designed some very similar end for his cousin Alessandro. He was abundantly regretted; for his companionable qualities and lavish bounties had endeared him to a very large circle of friends, who did not scan his faults too closely; while his death was hailed with intense satisfaction by his enemies. Paul the Third made a frivolous excuse for not sending him the specific he so urgently requested.

Probably it would not have saved him; but the animus of his Holiness was not shown to his advantage on the occasion.

As for the wretched Giovan Andrea, he made straight for the outer gates when he quitted the Cardinal's chamber; but was there collared by a stalwart lay-brother, who, with the a.s.sistance of two of Ippolito's retainers, conveyed him to the lock-up room. Here he remained a short time, in full antic.i.p.ation of being put to the torture; which too surely came to pa.s.s. At first he denied any guilt; but that most odious process being persisted in, his agony at length wrung from him the admission that he had administered poison to the Cardinal, having ground it between two stones, which he had afterwards thrown away.

Where had he thrown those stones?

Upon a rubbish-heap outside the b.u.t.tery-window.

Search was made for the stones. They were found, with marks of some foreign substance upon them. They were shown him: he said they were the same.

The Cardinal's retainers were so enraged with the wretch, that they were with difficulty restrained from falling upon him and putting him to death. Felippo Strozzi had strongly charged his son to deliver him out of their hands, that a regular judicial examination might take place at Rome, and Alessandro's guilt, as the prompter of the crime, be established.

The younger Strozzi, therefore, sent Giovan Andrea, under a sufficient guard, to Rome, where his examination took place; and in the first instance he confirmed his former confession, and stated that he had received the poison from one Otto di Montacuto, a servant of Duke Alessandro's, to be employed as he had used it.

Yet, after this, he denied _both_ his former confessions, and, in spite of all that Strozzi could say or do, was actually let off! He thereupon went straight to Florence, and remained some days in the Duke's palace, openly under his protection. He then retired to his native place, Borgo di San Sepolcro, a little town under the Apennines, some forty miles from Florence. And here, after remaining in safety a few months, whether or no on account of any fresh proof of his crime, he was stoned to death in a sudden outburst of popular indignation.

As for the wicked Duke, his employer, I shall only say that his murder was most horrible: so that Ippolito's death was amply avenged. We may all be very glad to have done with the subject.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE d.u.c.h.eSS AND THE MARCHIONESS.

It was given out to the world that Ippolito had been carried off by fever, caught on the marshes during his hot ride to and from Fondi; and this filled the tender-hearted d.u.c.h.ess with grief, as she knew not but that, had she been at home, he might yet be alive. She dwelt with mournfulness on his long-cherished attachment, wept over his poems, recalled his brightest points, and even questioned herself whether she ought to have accepted him; but the answer always was no. And surely she was right; for whatever Ippolito's society-attractions might have been, and however his character might have been purified by household a.s.sociation with a better nature, his worse qualities would undoubtedly have cropped out as long as he remained an unconverted man. Might not she have converted him? Why, Vittoria, who knew her best, would have told you that, at this time, Giulia was not even converted herself. She was very sweet, very amiable and charming; but she had not the faith which saves. Vittoria, with her higher views and deeper nature, was almost out of patience with her sometimes.

"What is it you want? What is it you need?" she would say to her; trying to rouse her to a n.o.bler life. "I can tell you: you want the Holy Spirit; and He will come to you if you seek Him: but unsought, He is unfound."

"O Vittoria! why _will_ you torment me so?" said Giulia, fretfully. "I want rest; I want peace."

"Rest and peace? Why, you have a great deal too much of both to be good for you; and as for your lawsuit, that is a mere mosquito-sting, that draws neither blood nor tears. Fie on you, Giulia! with all your advantages, you ought not to sit and wail about nothing. I think you loved Ippolito more than you say you did, or you would not give way so."

"I did not love Ippolito at all," said Giulia, nettled. "I suppose one may be sorry for a friend, without having been in love with him. You do injustice to the memory of my dear Duke, to suppose I could ever forget him."

"As to that," said Vittoria, "considering your good Duke's years and infirmities, it is difficult for any one to see why you should be inconsolable. I am sure I am quite ready to do justice to all his qualities of head and heart; but, if I am to speak sincerely, I must own that your deploring him in the way you have done has always seemed to me a little exaggerated."

"I never asked you to speak sincerely," returned Giulia; "and people generally make that a pretext for saying things that are disagreeable.

As for exaggeration, n.o.body possessed of any feeling could consistently accuse me of having too much of it."

"I am the last person to make an inconsistent accusation," observed Vittoria, "and my own irreparable and immense loss is too world-known for any one to say I want feeling. I think, cousin, there is no one in Italy, unless yourself, who has not compa.s.sionated me in having been bereaved of my beloved, adored Pescara, a man of infinite virtues, graces, and attractions; in war a hero, in wisdom a sage; in love and constancy a perfect phoenix,--reft from me, me wretched! in the very prime and flower of his life."

"Well, and I was very sorry for it," said Giulia, "as sorry as it was possible to be for a man I had never seen, because I could feel for _you_, cousin; and I went into the deepest mourning--"