CHAPTER XII. THE GOVERNOR OF CESENA
That night I would have supped in my own quarters but that Filippo sentfor me and bade me join him and swell the little court he kept. At timesI believe he almost thought that he was the true Lord of Pesaro--anopinion that may have been shared by not a few of the citizensthemselves. Certainly he kept a greater state and was better housed thanthe duke of Valentinois' governor.
It was a jovial company of perhaps a dozen nobles and ladies that metabout his board, and Filippo bade his servants lay for me beside him. Aswe ate he questioned me touching the occupation that I had found duringmy absence from Pesaro. I used the greatest frankness with him, andanswered that my life had been partly a peasants, partly a poet's.
"Tell me what you wrote," he bade me his eyes resting on my face with anew look of interest, for his love of letters was one of the few thingsabout him that was not affected.
"A few novelle, dealing with court-life; but chiefly verses," answeredI.
"And with these verses--what have you done?"
"I have them by me, Illustrious," I answered. He smiled, seemingly wellpleased.
"You must read them to us," he cried. "If they rival that epic of yours,which I have never forgotten, they should be worth hearing."
And presently, supper being done, I went at his bidding to my chamberfor my precious manuscripts, and, returning, I entertained the companywith the reading of a portion of what I had written. They heard me withan attention that might have rendered me vain had my ambition reallylain in being accounted a great writer; and when I paused, now andagain, there was a murmur of applause, and many a pat on the shoulderfrom Filippo whenever a line, a phrase or a stanza took his fancy.
I was perhaps too absorbed to pay any great attention to the impressionmy verses were producing, but presently, in one of my pauses, theLord Filippo startled me with words that awoke me to a sense of myimprudence.
"Do you know, Lazzaro, of what your lines remind me in an extraordinarymeasure?"
"Of what, Excellency?" I asked politely, raising my eyes from mymanuscript. They chanced to meet the glance of Madonna Paola. It wasriveted upon me, and its expression was one I could not understand.
"Of the love-songs of the Lord Giovanni Sforza," answered he. "Theyresemble those poems infinitely more than they resemble the epic youwrote two years ago."
I stammered something about the similarity being merely one of subject.But he shook his head at that, and took good note of my confusion.
"No," said he, "the resemblance goes deeper. There is the same facilebeauty of the rhymes the same freshness of the rhythm--remotelyresembling that of Petrarca, yet very different. Conceits similar tothose that were the beauty spots of the Lord Giovanni's versesare ubiquitous in yours, and above all there is the same ferventearnestness, the same burning tone of sincerity that rendered hisstrambotti so worthy of admiration."
"It may be," I answered him, my confusion growing under the steady gazeof Madonna Paola, "it may be that having heard the verses of the LordGiovanni, I may, unconsciously, have modelled my own lines upon thosethat made so deep an impression on me."
He looked at me gravely for a moment.
"That might be an explanation," he answered deliberately, "but frankly,if I were asked, I should give a very different one."
"And that would be?" came, sharp and compelling, the voice of Madonna.
He turned to her, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "Why, since youask me," he said, "I should hazard the opinion that Lazzaro, here, wasof considerable assistance to the Lord Giovanni in the penning of thoseverses with which he delighted us all--and you, Madonna, I believe,particularly."
Madonna Paola crimsoned, and her eyes fell. The others looked at uswith inquiring glances--at her, at Filippo and at me. With a fresh laughFilippo turned to me.
"Confess now, am I not right?" he asked good-humouredly.
"Magnificent," I murmured in tones of protest, "ask yourself thequestion. Was it a likely thing that the Lord Giovanni would enlist theservices of his jester in such a task?"
"Give me a straightforward answer," he insisted. "Am I right or wrong?"
"I am giving you more than a straightforward answer, my lord," I stillevaded him, and more boldly now. "I am setting you on the high-road tosolve the matter for yourself by an appeal to your own good sense andreason. Was it in the least likely, I repeat, that the Lord Giovanniwould seek the services of his Fool to aid him write the verses inhonour of the lady of his heart?"
With a burst of mocking laughter, Filippo smote the table a blow of hisclenched hand.
"Your prevarications answer me," he cried. "You will not say that I amwrong."
"But I do say that you are wrong!" I exclaimed, suddenly inspired. "Idid not assist the Lord Giovanni with his verses. I swear it."
His laughter faded; and his eyes surveyed me with a sudden solemnity.
"Then why did you evade my question?" he demanded shrewdly. And then hiscountenance changed as swiftly again. It was illumined by the light ofsudden understanding. "I have it," he cried. "The answer is plain. Youdid not assist the Lord Giovanni to write them. Why? Because you wrotethem yourself, and you gave them to him that he might pass them off ashis own."
It was a merciful thing for me that the whole company fell into a burstof laughter and applauded Filippo's quick discernment, which they neverdoubted. All talked at once, and a hundred proofs were advanced insupport of Filippo's opinion. The Lord Giovanni's celebrated dullnessof mind, amounting almost to stupidity, was cited, and they reminded oneanother of the profound astonishment with which they had listened to thecompositions that had suddenly burst from him.
Filippo turned to his sister, on whose pale face I saw it written thatshe was as convinced as any there, and my feelings were those of adastard who has broken faith with the man who trusted him.
"Do you appreciate now, Madonna," he murmured, "the deceits and wiles bywhich that craven crept like a snake into your esteem?"
I guessed at once that by that thrust he sought to incline her more tothe union he had in view for her.
"At least he was no craven," answered she. "His burning desire to pleaseme may have betrayed him into this foolish duplicity. But he stillmust live in my memory as a brave and gallant gentleman; or have youforgotten, Filippo, that noble combat with the forces of Ramiro del'Orca?"
To such a question Filippo had no answer, and presently his mood sobereda little. For myself, I was glad when the time came to withdraw fromthat company that twitted and pestered me and played upon my sense ofshame at the imprudence I had committed.
Now that I look back, I can scarce conceive why it should have sowrought upon me; for, in truth, the little love I bore the Lord Giovannimight rather have led me to rejoice that his imposture should be laidbare to the eyes of all the world. I think that really there was anelement of fear in my feelings--fear that, upon reflection, MadonnaPaola might ask herself how came that burning sincerity into thelove-songs written in her honour which it was now disclosed that I hadpenned. The answer she might find to such a question was one that mightarouse her pride and so outrage it as to lead her to cast me out of herfriendship and never again suffer me to approach her.
Such a conclusion, however, she fortunately did not arrive at. Haply sheaccounted the fervour of those lines assumed, for when on the morrow shemet me, she did no more than gently chide me for the deceit that I hadhad a hand in practising upon her. She accepted my explanation that myshare in that affair had been wrung from me with threats of torture, andputting it from her mind she returned to the matter of the approachingalliance she sought to elude, renewing her prayers that I should aidher.
"I have," she told me then, "one other friend who might assist us, andwho has the power perhaps if he but has the will. He is the Governor ofCesena, and for all that he holds service under Cesare Borgia, yethe seems much devoted to me, and I do not doubt that to further myinterests he would even consent to pit his wits against those of thefamily he se
rves."
"In which case, Madonna," answered I, spurred to it, perhaps, by aninsensate pang of jealousy at the thought that there should be anotherbeside myself to have her confidence, "he would be a traitor. And itis ever an ill thing to trust a traitor. Who once betrays may betrayagain."
That she manifested no resentment, but, on the contrary, readily agreedwith me, showed me how idle had been that jealousy of mine, and made meashamed of it.
"Why yes," she mused, "it is the very thought that had occurred to me,and caused me to spurn the aid he proffered when last he was here."
"Ah!" I cried. "What aid was that?"
"You must know, Lazzaro," said she, "that he comes often to Pesaro fromCesena, being a man in whom the Duke places great trust, and on whom hehas bestowed considerable powers. He never fails to lie at the Palacewhen he comes, and he seems to--to have conceived a regard for me. He isa man of twice my years," she added hurriedly, "and haply looks upon meas he might upon a daughter."
I sniffed the air. I had heard of such men.
"A week ago, when last he came, I was cast down and grieved by theaffair of this marriage, which Filippo had that day disclosed to me. TheGovernor of Cesena, observing my sadness, sought my confidence with akindliness of which you would scarce believe him capable; for he is afierce and blustering man of war. In the fulness of my heart there wasnothing that seemed so desirable as a friendly ear into which I mightpour the tale of my affliction. He heard me gravely, and when I had donehe placed himself at my disposal, assuring me that if I would but trustmyself to him, he would defeat the ends of the House of Borgia. Notuntil then did I seem to bethink me that he was the servant of thathouse, and his readiness to betray the hand that paid him sowed mistrustand a certain loathing of him in my mind. I let him see it, perhaps,which was unwise, and, may be, even ungrateful. He seemed deeplywounded, and the subject was abandoned. But I have since thought thatperhaps I acted with a rashness that was--"
"With a rashness that was eminently justifiable," I interrupted her."You could not have been better advised than to have mistrusted such aman."
But touching this same Governor of Cesena, there was a fine surprise instore for me. At dusk some two days later there was a sudden commotionin the courtyard of the Palace, and when I inquired of a groom into itscause, I was informed that his Excellency the Governor of Cesena hadarrived.
Curious to see this man whose willingness to betray the house he served,where Madonna was concerned, was by no means difficult to probe, Idescended to the banqueting-hall at supper time.
They were not yet at table when I entered, and a group was gathered inthe centre of the room about a huge man, at sight of whose red head andcrimson, brutal face I would have turned and sought again the refuge ofmy own quarters but that his wolf's eye had already fastened on me.
"Body of God!" he swore, and that was all. But his eyes were on me in amarvellous stare, as were now--impelled by that oath of his--the eyesof all the company. We looked at each other for a moment, then a greatlaugh burst from him, shaking his vast bulk and wrinkling his hideousface. He thrust the intervening men aside as if they had been a growthof sedges he would penetrate, and he advanced towards me; the LordFilippo and his sister looking on with all the rest in interestedsurprise.
In front of me he halted, and setting his hands on his hips he regardedme with a brutal mirth.
"What may your trade be now?" he asked at last contemptuously.
I had taken rapid stock of him in the seconds that were sped, and fromthe surpassing richness of his apparel, his gold-broidered doublet andcrimson, fur-edged surcoat, I knew that Messer Ramiro del' Orca wasgrown to the high estate of Governor of Cesena.
"A new trade even as yours," I answered him.
"Nay, that is no answer," he cried, overlooking my offensiveness. "Doyou still follow the trade of arms?"
"I think," Filippo interposed, "that our Excellency is in some error.This gentleman is Lazzaro Biancomonte, a poet of whom Italy will one daybe proud, despite the fact that for a time he acted as the Lord GiovanniSforza's Fool."
Ramiro looked at his interlocutor, as the mastiff may look at the lapdog. He grunted, and blew out his cheeks.
"There is yet another part he played," said he, "as I have good causeto remember--for he is the only man that can boast of having unhorsedRamiro del' Orca. He was for a brief season the Lord Giovanni Sforzahimself."
"How?" asked the profoundly amazed Filippo, whilst all present pressedcloser to miss nothing of the disclosure that seemed to impend. Myself,I groaned. There was naught that I could say to stem the tide ofrevelation that was coming.
"Do you then keep this paladin here arrayed like a clerk?" quoth Ramiroin his sardonic way. "And can it be that the secret of his feat of armshas been guarded so well that you are still in ignorance of it?"
Filippo's wits worked swiftly, and swiftly they pieced together thehints that Ramiro had let fall.
"You will tell us," said he, "that the fight in the streets of Pesaro,in which your Excellency's party suffered defeat, was led by Biancomontein the armour of Giovanni Sforza?"
Ramiro looked at him with that displeasure with which the jester visitsthe man who by anticipation robs his story of its points.
"It was known to you?" growled he.
"Not so. I have but learnt it from you. But it nowise astonishes me."
And he looked at his sister, whose eyes devoured me, as if they wouldread in my soul whether this thing were indeed true. Under her eyes Idropped my glance like a man ashamed at hearing a disgraceful act of hisparaded.
"Had it indeed been the Lord Giovanni, he had been dead that day,"laughed Ramiro grimly. "Indeed it was nothing but my astonishmentat sight of the face I was about to stab, after having broken thefastenings of his visor that stayed my hand for long enough to give himthe advantage. But I bear you no grudge for that," he ended, turning onme with a ferocious smile, "nor yet for that other trick by which--asBoccadoro the Fool--you bested me. I am not a sweet man when thwarted,yet I can admire wit and respect courage. But see to it," he ended,with a sudden and most unreasonable ferocity, his visage empurpling ifpossible still more, "see to it that you pit neither that courage northat wit against me again. I have heard the story of how you came tobe Fool of the Court of Pesaro. Cesena is a dull place, and we mightenliven it by the presence of a jester of such nimble wits as yours."
He turned without awaiting my reply, and strode away to take his placeat table, whilst I walked slowly to my accustomed seat, and took littlepart in the conversation that ensued, which, as you may imagine, had meand that exploit of mine for scope.
Anon an elephantine trumpeting of laughter seemed to set the aira-quivering. Ramiro was lying back in his chair a prey to such a passionof mirth that it swelled the veins of his throat and brow until Ithought that they must burst--and, from my soul, I hoped they would.Adown his rugged cheeks two tears were slowly trickling. The LordFilippo, as presently transpired, had been telling him of the epic Ihad written in praise of the Lord Giovanni's prowess. Naught would nowsatisfy that ogre but he must have the epic read, and Filippo, who hadretained a copy of it, went in quest of it, and himself read it aloudfor the delight of all assembled and the torture of myself who saw inMadonna Paola's eyes that she accounted the deception I had practised onher a thing beyond pardon.
Filippo had a taste for letters, as I think I have made clear, and heread those lines with the same fire and fervour that I, myself, hadbreathed into them two years ago. But instead of the rapt and breathlessattention with which my reading had been attended, the present companylistened with a smile, whilst ever and anon a short laugh or a quietchuckle would mark how well they understood to-night the subtle ironieswhich had originally escaped them.
I crept away, sick at heart, while they were still making sport over mywork, cursing the Lord Giovanni, who had forced me to these things, andmy own mad mood that had permitted me in an evil hour to be so forced.Yet my grief and bitterness were little things that night
compared withwhat Madonna was to make them on the morrow.
She sent for me betimes, and I went in fear and trembling of her wrathand scorn. How shall I speak of that interview? How shall I describe theimmeasurable contempt with which she visited me, and which I felt wasperhaps no more than I deserved.
"Messer Biancomonte," said she coldly, "I have ever accounted you myfriend, and disinterested the motives that inspired a heart seeminglynoble to do service to a forlorn and helpless lady. It seems that Iwas wrong. That the indulging of a warped and malignant spirit was theinspiration you had to appear to befriend me."
"Madonna, you are over-cruel," I cried out, wounded to the very soul ofme.
"Am I so?" she asked, with a cold smile upon her ivory face. "Is it notrather you who were cruel? Was it a fine thing to do to trick a ladyinto giving her affection to a man for gifts which he did not possess?You know in what manner of regard I held the Lord Giovanni Sforza solong as I saw him with the eyes of reason and in the light of truth. Andyou, who were my one professed friend, the one man who spoke so loudlyof dying in my service, you falsified my vision, you masked him--eitherat his own and at my brother's bidding, or else out of the malignancy ofyour nature--in a garb that should render him agreeable in my eyes. Doyou realise what you have done? Does not your conscience tell you? Youhave contrived that I have plighted my troth to a man such as I believedthe Lord Giovanni to be. Mother of Mercy!" she ended, with a scornineffable; "when I dwell upon it now, it almost seems that it was toyou I gave my heart, for yours were the deeds that earned my regard--nothis."
Such was the very argument that I had hugged to my starving soul, atthe time the things she spoke of had befallen, and it had consoled me asnaught in life could have consoled me. Yet now that she employed it withsuch a scornful emphasis as to make me realise how far beneath her Ireally was, how immeasurably beyond my reach was she, it was as muchconsolation to me as confession without absolution may be to theperishing sinner. I answered nothing. I could not trust myself to speak.Besides, what was there that I could say?
"I summoned you back to Pesaro," she continued pitilessly, "trusting inyour fine words and deeming honest the offer of services you made me.Now that I know you, you are free to depart from Pesaro when you will."
Despite my shame, I dared, at last, to raise my eyes. But her face wasaverted, and she saw nothing of the entreaty, nothing of the grief thatmight have told her how false were her conclusions. One thing alonethere was might have explained my actions, might have revealed them in anew light; but that one thing I could not speak of.
I turned in silence, and in silence I quitted the room; for that, Ithought, was, after all, the wisest answer I could make.