The Royal Pawn of Venice Part 44

Then, at last, came rest, and the sylvan-shades of Asolo--vine-crowned among the hills, with the sea spreading far below--blue, shimmering, laughing--as if she laved but sh.o.r.es of content, under happy skies.

Whatever of good there remained for Caterina to do in this petty domain which the munificence of the Signoria had bestowed in exchange for Cyprus, she did with a gracious and queenly hand, so that her realm was wider than her territory, for she had won the love of the people wherever she had pa.s.sed, and in the years of her tried and chequered life, no evil was ever spoken of her. Yet often the gentle Queen slipped away from the modest festivities she had devised for the pleasure of her slender mimic court--the music tourneys--the recitations--the fanciful quibbles in words--which could have had for her great weariness of empty hands but a pale moonlight charm--to the lovely gardens of her hillside castle, to woo sad memories--and sweet as sad--of the far-off terraces of Potamia which Ja.n.u.s had prepared for his girl-bride.

Then once again Venice decreed a pageant for the gentle Lady of Asolo.

It was night, and the skies had clothed themselves in gloom; out on the lagoon the lights in the shipping scarce pierced the mists, and the rain fell in flurries, drifting in gusts under the arcades of the Ducal Palace, and lifting the cloaks of the Senators and Councillors who sought shelter there while the procession was forming. But none turned back for the wildness of the night, for the order of the Senate was imperative that all the State officials and all the emba.s.sies must do her honor; and the time had been appointed by a King who bows to no mortal will and brooks no delay. Across the Piazza, down through the Palace Court-yards and through the _calle_ the people were flocking--dark groups over which the lights of the torches flared fitfully: the n.o.bles were waiting in their gondolas--each at his palace portal, to take his place--there were no sounds but the wind and the rain--footsteps plashing over the wet pavements--a whispered order.

And now to strange, solemn music,--the sobbing of the 'cellos, the tenderer melancholy of the flute--the long procession was moving up the Ca.n.a.l Grande--the ducal barge and the gondola of the Patriarch not keeping decorous line, for the roughness of the waters. From the portals of the Palazzo Corner Regina a bridge of boats had been thrown across the Ca.n.a.l Grande to the mouth of the Rio of San Ca.s.san, and out of the blackness of the great Cornaro Palace the bearers met them, bringing in reverent state the form of the gracious Queen for whom all earthly problems were solved--who might never again answer their devotion with smiles or benediction.

Silently each n.o.ble stepped up from his gondola, crossing himself devoutly and bowing his head as he joined the long, never-ending procession: like a phantom vision it swept through the mists--each dark figure bearing its torch--_as if it were the soul of him above his head_, casting a ghostly reflection, in lessening rays, down through the blackness--gliding in air across the water, over the arch of the bridge which was all but invisible in the darkness--and down through the narrow rio to the Church of the Sant'Apostolli--the weird harmonies of the songs of the dead echoing faintly back through the windings of the rio, like half-heard whispers from the spirit land.

When the solemn music of the midnight ma.s.s had been chanted over the n.o.ble company in the Church of the Sant'Apostolli, they left her lying in state before the altar of the Cappella Cornaro, while in the church, outside the chapel, the Ducal guards kept watch. Very still and pale she was in the light of the tall wax candles burning about her and the torches flaring from the funeral pyre, and strange to look upon in the coa.r.s.e brown cape and cowl of the habit of St. Francis, with a hempen cord for girdle. But the Lady Margherita had tenderly folded the hood away from the beautiful face and head, and in the pale patrician hands a rose lay lightly clasped, and a wealth of floral tributes heaped her bier--which was crowned with the royal crown of Cyprus.

Now that the gentle Sovereign had put aside forever her robes of royalty and donned for her last vestment the symbol of service and humility, how should Venice fear the unconfessed rivalry of her rare spirit,--a mere woman--conquered by the power of the State and stricken by death?

Now that the slight hands, folded nerveless over the quiet breast, might never more thrill to her emotions of large motherliness, and scatter gladness with gracious flutterings, in swift response to a too-adoring populace--now that the sleeping eyes might never again unclose to smile her loving soul out to her people--the Signoria could be magnanimous in homage: and through the days that the proud city mourned for her, the sable hatchments on church and palace bore the arms of Venice and of Cyprus.