Light on Lucrezia

IX THE BROTHERS OF FERRARA

Pietro was lost to her. The tender relationship was over, as were the flowers which had bloomed so beautifully in the gardens which had provided its background.

Lucrezia was trying to give all her thoughts to the child who was due to be born in September. Her pregnancy was a difficult one and she often felt very ill. Alfonso, who could not endure sickness in women, left her very much alone, and now that Pietro had gone from Ferrara the suspicious husband no longer made his unheralded visits through the corridor.

Alfonso had many difficulties to contend with in those months and little time to spare even for his foundry. The plague had been more devastating than usual during the hot summer days; and the results of famine in Ferrara had been alarming; moreover the death of old Ercole seemed to have brought certain festering sores to a head. These were the petty jealousies and rivalries between the brothers.

The most disturbing of these brothers was the bastard Giulio. The very fact of being a bastard made Giulio constantly anxious to prove that he was every bit as important as his brothers. It was unfortunate that Giulio happened to be the most handsome member of the family; he was also the wittiest, and he had the gift of ingratiating himself with the people. He was more popular than any of his brothers, although the solid worth and practical ability of Alfonso were appreciated.

Ferrante was like a pale shadow of Giulio, almost as madly reckless, but lacking that quick wit of the bastard. And it now seemed that Ferrante and Giulio were ranging themselves against Ippolito. Sigismondo however could be ignored; his ideas were becoming more and more mystic, and he would never be a menace to the dukedom.

In his new position Alfonso was quick to realize that harmony within his dukedom was essential, and he tried to placate Giulio by presenting him with a palace and a good income such as he could never have possessed under the rule of mean Duke Ercole.

This however, while it made Giulio more arrogant than ever, also aroused the jealousy of Ippolito, who showed his rancour by arresting a chaplain who belonged to Giulio’s household. The man may have slighted Ippolito; no one but Ippolito was sure of this, but what did seem obvious was that Ippolito was trying to show Giulio, and Ferrara, that his upstart bastard brother must remember his place in the dukedom and that therein he must behave with due respect to his legitimate brothers.

This was the state of affairs during that hot summer when the city, with a hundred noisome smells, was the breeding place of plague.

It would be folly, Lucrezia decided, to remain there for the birth of her precious heir; and she called her women to her and told them that she planned to leave for Modena where, in more suitable conditions, her child should be born.

She noticed that her cousin Angela seemed to have lost her usual high spirits, and she wondered whether this was due to the fact that she would be leaving Giulio.

She decided to speak to her, and eventually sent all her women away with the exception of Angela; and when they were alone she said: “Now, cousin, you had better tell me about it.”

Angela began to protest vigorously—too vigorously—that nothing was wrong; then she broke down and sobbing blurted out: “I’m going to have a baby.”

“Giulio?” said Lucrezia at length.

“Who else?” demanded Angela fiercely.

“Giulio knows?”

Angela nodded.

“And what says he, my dear?”

“He says that we must marry.”

“Well, then you should be happy.”

“We are afraid that there will be obstacles. Alfonso’s permission must be obtained.”

“I doubt not that he will give it.”

“Ippolito will do all in his power to frustrate us. He hates Giulio.”

“And you, my pretty cousin, are in part responsible for that.”

Angela, always the coquette, smiled through her tears. “Was it my fault?”

Lucrezia smiled gently. “Well, do not be distressed. I doubt not that all will be well for you. But in the meantime I would advise caution. It would not be wise for you to marry without Alfonso’s consent, as Giulio would then arouse the enmity of his eldest brother as well as that of Ippolito. Heaven knows, enough trouble is caused by the quarrels between himself and Ippolito. Now listen to me. Keep this matter secret for the present and ask Giulio to do the same. Believe me, this is the best way if you would marry in the end. Your pregnancy can be kept secret for a while. We will make a new fashion for skirts. Leave it to me.”

“Dearest and beloved cousin, how I adore you!” cried Angela. “What should we do without you?”

“You will need more than my help,” said Lucrezia. “You have urgent need of more discretion on your own part.”

And looking at Angela she wondered how she was suddenly to acquire that valuable asset in which so far she had shown herself to be entirely lacking.

Lucrezia and her party set out for Modena. When Lucrezia traveled a large retinue went with her. There were her dressmakers and many personal servants, her jesters, dwarfs, musicians.

Angela had regained her spirits and seemed to have reconciled herself to parting with Giulio, in a manner which surprised Lucrezia. But when a few miles from Ferrara they were overtaken by a small party of horsemen at the head of whom rode Giulio, she understood the reason for Angela’s contentment. He looked very handsome, very sure of himself, his dark eyes flashing as he scanned the company for a glimpse of Angela.

“Guilio!” cried Lucrezia. “What are you doing here? Why have you followed us?”

He brought his horse alongside hers and taking her hand kissed it tenderly.

“Sweet Duchessa,” he said, “how could I bear to be separated from you!”

“Your soft words do not deceive me,” Lucrezia told him with a smile. “You have other reasons.”

“Allow me to ride with you, dear Duchessa, and I will tell you why I have found it necessary to fly from Ferrara, although, my dear, dear Duchessa, I insist on your understanding this: Whether it had been necessary for me to fly or not, I should have followed you, for how could I bear to cut myself off from the light of your bright eyes?”

“And Angela’s?” she added softly.

“Ah, and my sweet Angela’s,” he answered.

“You and I must have a talk about that matter soon,” said Lucrezia quietly. “But not here.”

“The saints preserve you for your sweet goodness, Duchessa.”

Angela had taken her place beside Lucrezia, and she and Giulio exchanged passionate glances.

They were reckless, thought Lucrezia, but how could she blame them for that? As they rode, Giulio told them why he had found it necessary to ride full speed out of Ferrara.

“You will remember that my accursed brother, Ippolito, had the insolence to imprison one of my chaplains. I could not allow that so I have stormed the man’s prison and freed him. What my brother Ippolito will say when he discovers I can well imagine.”

“He would like to have you imprisoned for what he would call violating the sanctity of his castle,” said Angela shortly.

“One day,” said Giulio, “I shall have followers to equal those of proud Ippolito. Then I shall stand and face him, and if it be necessary to fight to the death I will do this. It would seem to me that there is not room for the two of us in Ferrara.”

Angela’s eyes shone with admiration for her lover, but Lucrezia was sad.

“I wish for an end to these troubles,” she said. “I should like to see you friends.”

Angela and Giulio smiled at each other. Dear Lucrezia! they thought. What did she know of passionate love and passionate hate?

Plague and famine were sweeping across Italy and, as Lucrezia came into the town of Reggio where she was to rest for the birth of her child, no banners were hung out, no shouting crowds waited to welcome her. The hot streets were deserted and the people hid themselves behind their shutters.

It was depressing for Lucrezia who was always conscious of the miseries of others, and she remained melancholy as she awaited the birth of her child.

She longed for an encouraging message from Alfonso. None came. It was as though Alfonso implied: Produce the heir of Ferrara, and then I shall congratulate you. Before you have done that, what is there to congratulate you about?

There were tender letters from two men, and she knew that she was continually in their thoughts. One of these penned her exquisite lines of poetry—that was Pietro Bembo; the other wrote as a soldier whose arms were always at her disposal. This was Francesco Gonzaga.

These letters brought great comfort. She was delighted that Pietro should continue to think of her. She could not help laughing, when she remembered the cold welcome which had been accorded her by Isabella at the time of her marriage, to consider how solicitous and tender toward her was Isabella’s husband. This seemed Fate’s revenge for all the slights which she had received at Isabella’s hands. Lucrezia was convinced that the proud and domineering woman, while she accepted her husband’s infidelities with other women, would be very put out if she knew that he had some tender feeling for the woman whom she hated and whose position she had resolved to undermine.

But of what importance were these matters? All that mattered now was that she should come through this difficult pregnancy, escape the plague and give Ferrara a healthy heir.

Messengers brought her a letter from Alfonso.

She seized it eagerly. At last he seemed to have remembered her existence. But as she read the letter her eyes clouded with disappointment, for there was scarcely a reference in it to herself.

She threw it aside and asked Angela to bring Giulio to her; and when he came she said, “I have bad news for you both. I am very sorry.”

They waited breathlessly and she went on: “It is from Alfonso. Ippolito has complained about your storming of his castle and freeing your chaplain who, Ippolito claims, insulted him. Alfonso is weary of the strife within the family, and he says that Giulio must immediately leave us. You are to go far away from trouble, Giulio, far away from us all.”

Angela let out a wail, and Giulio’s eyes flashed. “I’ll not go,” he declared.

“Giulio, Angela, you must think of your future. You must obey Alfonso. Only if you do, shall I be able to persuade him to agree to your marriage.”

And after a passionate leave-taking of Angela, Giulio left.

During the heat of September Lucrezia’s baby was born. She called him Alexander, for as she held him in her arms she believed that he might bring her a joy which would help her to forget the loss of that other Alexander.

But the baby was very small. He did not cry; he lay very still; he did not want to be fed. There was surely something wrong with a child who did not cry and did not want his food.

She longed for a word from Alfonso but there were only the letters from Pietro and Francesco to bring comfort.

And one morning when Alexander was scarcely four weeks old Lucrezia awoke with a terrible sense of foreboding. She knew that her baby was dead.

A letter from Francesco Gonzaga brought her out of her melancholy.

His condolences, his most tender thoughts, he sent to her. He knew how she must be suffering. He thought of her constantly in that gloomy town of Reggio. If she would forgive the presumption, he would say that she was unwise to stay there. Let her leave Reggio and all its memories; she should not remain, brooding on her tragedy. She should return to Ferrara, and she should do this by barge, which would be so much more comfortable in her present circumstances. He would suggest that she break her journey at Borgoforte, a small fortress in his possession, on the banks of the Po. It would give him the utmost pleasure there to wait upon her, and entertain her. He was a rough soldier and was no poet to charm her with words, but he could offer something of equal value, he believed. For instance he knew how she suffered on account of her brother’s imprisonment. If they met they could discuss this sad matter. Who knew, he—as a soldier—might be able to suggest some means of alleviating her brother’s suffering. And this he would be at great pains to do, because he knew that the suffering of her brother was hers also.

That letter roused her out of her apathy.

She read it through and read it again, and she found that a smile was curving her lips because she was comparing his blunt phrases with those flowery ones of the poet, Pietro Bembo.

But Francesco was right. What she needed now was a soldier’s help for Cesare. Only in helping her brother could she forget her own misery.

Alfonso’s neglect—he was clearly annoyed by the death of the boy and seemed to blame her, first for bringing a sickly child into the world and then losing it—had hurt her deeply, and this gallant soldier’s tender interest soothed her, wiped away her humiliation.

She called her servants together and cried: “Make ready to leave. I am weary of this place. We shall travel back to Ferrara by barge. But first we shall stop at Borgoforte.”

There was bustle throughout the apartment. The atmosphere had lightened.

Everybody knew that they would now begin to move away from the tragedy which had been wrought by the death of little Alexander.

Francesco was hastily trying to transform the meagre fortress—which was all he possessed at Borgoforte—into a palace worthy to receive the woman he was hoping to make his mistress.

He had not been so excited since the days of his early youth. Lucrezia was different from all other women. That mingling of latent passion, that serenity—they were such an odd combination.

The enchantment of Lucrezia lay partly in the fact that there could not be a woman less like Isabella in the whole of Italy.

The gentle Lucrezia … the domineering Isabella. How different! He believed he was on the verge of the greatest love affair he had ever experienced.

Recently she had been said to be the mistress of a poet. Was she in truth his mistress? Had there been physical love between those two? No one had proved that. They had wandered in gardens together and he had written verses to her; they had set the verses to music and sung them together. It seemed to this rough soldier a poor way of conducting a love affair.

Still he did not dismiss Pietro. He wanted to say to Lucrezia: I can give you all your poet gave you, and more also.

He had even written sonnets to her. He blushed to recall them. Yet all poetry seemed to him equally foolish, so why should his be more so than any other?

If only he had a palace to offer her instead of a miserable fortress! But he could not invite her to his palace of Mantua for Isabella would be there and her alert eyes would be upon them; and although she allowed him a mistress or two, she would never tolerate a love affair between himself and Lucrezia.

But love affair there should be, even though it must flower in a fortress.

His servants were now draping magnificent tapestry about the pillars; the musicians were arriving; and a messenger had come with a letter. He frowned as he took it, for he saw that it was from Isabella.

News had been brought to her, wrote his wife, that he was making an effort to transform the fortress of Borgoforte into a palace in order to entertain some friends. She was surprised that she had had to hear of her husband’s activities from others than himself. Would it not have been more seemly, more gracious, if he himself had told her of his plans? Should she not have been invited to welcome his friends?

Francesco was melancholy. He pictured Isabella’s arrival, her determination to humiliate Lucrezia as she had at every opportunity during the wedding celebrations in Ferrara. This visit he had planned as a preliminary to seduction. Isabella could have no part in such a plan.

Then suddenly Francesco threw off his melancholy. In that moment the great campaigner was in command and the servile husband of Isabella subdued. A curse on Isabella! She had put herself in command in Mantua, and like a fool he had a hundred times given way to her. But this was not Mantua.

Deliberately he wrote a note to his wife telling her that he had not asked her to make the journey to Borgoforte, and had no intention of doing so. She had recently recovered from an attack of fever, and was not in a position to travel. Not only would he refuse to invite her … he would forbid her to come.

He sent off the note and turned his thoughts to the decorating of the fortress.

But Isabella could not be dismissed from his thoughts as easily as that.

Francesco searched his soul and had to admit that he was afraid of his masterful wife.

Therefore he wrote to her once more, telling her that one of his guests was her sister-in-law, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara, who would call at Borgoforte on her way back from Reggio to Ferrara. Perhaps it would be a pleasant gesture if he invited her to visit Mantua on her journey. He was sure Alfonso would be delighted if his sister entertained his wife.

Having dispatched the message, Francesco asked himself whether he was a fool or not. If, during Lucrezia’s stay at Borgoforte, he advanced his relationship with her as he intended to, would it not be visible to the alert eyes of Isabella?

Slowly the barge drifted down the Po toward Borgoforte. Surrounded by his muscians whom he had commanded to play sweet music, Francesco saw it take shape through the mist as it glided past the banks thick with birch trees.

As the barge came nearer he saw the brilliant colors of the women’s dresses, and there in their midst Lucrezia herself, her freshly washed hair golden about her shoulders, and a smile of pleasure on her face. As she stepped ashore, he took her hands in his and his heavy-lidded eyes shone with emotion as he studied her slender figure. She seemed more frail than ever, and sorrow had seemed to give her an appearance of even greater childishness.

Francesco had never before felt such pity mingle with desire. Poor child! he thought. Poor, poor child, how she has suffered!

He realized that her stay at Borgoforte was not going to be the merry one he had anticipated; he doubted whether she would become his mistress while there. Quite suddenly that seemed unimportant; the only thing that mattered was to make this young girl gay again.

The gay music seemed out of place in the misty meadow.

He said: “I knew you loved music. I but wished you to know that, while you stay at my poor fortress, I mean to do everything I can to make you happy.”

She had placed her hand in his and had given him that childlike smile.

“I have felt happier since I received your invitation,” she said. “I feel happier still now that I have seen you again.”

He led her into the fortress. She was astonished at its magnificence.

“But you have gone to much trouble,” she said.

“It was of small account,” he told her.

“But no, it is of great account. It was done to cheer me. I know it.”

“Then if it has cheered you one little bit, the effort was well worth while. I have arranged a banquet for this night. You and I will dance a measure.”

She shook her head and the tears filled her eyes. “It seems such a short while since I held my baby in my arms.”

“It is over,” he answered her. “No grieving can change it. You must try to be happy again. If I could make you so, I should be the happiest man on Earth.”

“It is in no man’s power to make me happy, I fear.”

“You speak with your grief fresh upon you. There shall be no dancing if you do not wish it.”

They went into the hall which, with its cleverly painted murals, gave an impression of vistas opening out beyond the walls of the room. She was effusive in her praise, and that pleased him for it showed her awareness of all he had done to attempt to charm her. But still she was sad, and her mind dwelt on the child she had lost.

He could not make love to her. He could not even speak of love. He could only show by actions that he cared for her, that her fragility appealed to him, that her insecurity made him long to protect her.

It was not easy to be alone with her at the fortress. They could only talk during the banquet or while the guests danced together.

“You know,” he said earnestly, “that if you should need my help I would come to you at once.”

“Why should I need your help?” she asked.

“My dearest Lucrezia, you, who were a short time ago protected by the most powerful relations, are now alone.” She was immediately melancholy, thinking of her father’s death, of Cesare’s captivity; and the last thing he had wanted to do was increase her sadness. But he persisted: “Alfonso wants an heir … needs an heir.”

“And I have failed him once more.”

“Do not brood on that. Understand now, that should you need my help at any time and send word to me, no matter where I should be, I would hasten to your side.”

“You are good to me,” she told him.

He did not touch her, but she saw the smoldering light in those heavy-lidded eyes that seemed suddenly robbed of their sleepiness. “It shall always be my greatest joy in life … being good to you.”

“Why are you so good?” she asked. And when he was silent for a few seconds she laughed a little uncertainly. “During my first days in Ferrara I came to know your wife as my most bitter enemy.”

His eyes smoldered. “She was cruel to you. I could hate her for it.”

“You … hate Isabella, your wife!”

“Do you not understand why?” Lucrezia’s heart had begun to beat a little faster; this man was succeeding in making her feel alive again. She waited for the answer. “It is because I am falling in love with you.”

“Oh no! It cannot be so.”

“I was a fool not to know it before. Do you remember our first meeting? Do you remember how you made me talk of my battles? I thought you a child then … an enchanting one, but only a child.”

“I remember it well.”

“And you stood on the balcony and watched me ride away.”

“Giovanni Sforza was there … my first husband.”

Francesco nodded. “He spoke slander against you even then, and I hated him. Yet I did not know why I hated him.”

“I thought what a great soldier you were, and if Giovanni Sforza had been like you I might have felt differently toward him.”

“Lucrezia …”

“You must not misunderstand me. There can be no love between us two.”

“But there is love between us two.”

She shook her head.

“Have I not told you that I love you?”

“They are the words of a courtier.”

“They are spoken from my heart.”

“But of what use is love if only one feels it? Love must be shared to be beautiful.”

“It shall be. It shall be,” he cried passionately.

But she only shook her head once more.

“I will show you the extent of my love,” he told her.

“I pray you do not. Did you not know that the men who love me are unlucky?”

“Alfonso …”

“Alfonso never loved me.” She turned to him smiling. “But it is good of you to show me such kindness. You know how heavy my heart is. You know of the sorrow which has befallen me during this most tragic year. You seek to make me light-hearted. That is so kind of you. I do not forget how kind.”

“You do not believe that I love you truly, and that my love is greater than any you have ever known before. Do not think that poets, who have a gift for flowery speech, can love with the same passion as a soldier. My verses make you smile—or would, had you not the kindest heart in the world; but love does not consist of writing verses. I will show by my deeds that I love you. You have a brother on whose behalf you suffer much pain.”

She had clasped her hands together in an agony of expectation, and he smiled believing he had found the way to her heart.

“I have some influence in this land and in that of Spain. If I sent an envoy to the court of Spain begging for your brother’s release, my request might not go unheeded. What would you say to me then, Lucrezia?”

“I should say you were the kindest man in Italy.”

“Is that all?”

“I could, I believe, begin to love one who could bring so much good to me.”

“How you love this brother of yours!”

“We were brought up together. There are family ties. We have always been of great importance to each other.”

“I have heard that said. I believe, Lucrezia,” he went on seriously, “that there will never be happiness for you while your brother is in captivity.”

“It is as though we are one person,” she said. “While he is a prisoner, so am I.”

“The prisoner of your own emotions, Lucrezia,” he said. “There shall be one in your life who means so much to you that even your love for your brother will seem of small significance. I intend to be that one.”

“You forget Isabella,” she said. “Isabella and Alfonso.”

“I forgot nothing,” he answered. “You will see in time. Tomorrow I send that envoy to Spain.”

“How can I thank you?”

“Between us,” he said, “there shall be no formal gratitude. You will see that I shall put my life at your service and in exchange …”

“Yes?” she asked. “In exchange you will require?”

“Only that you love me.”

Isabella was waiting to receive her sister-in-law at Mantua. She was suspicious. Why had Francesco suddenly become so bold as to forbid her to attend the two days’ festivities at Borgoforte? And who were the guests? Lucrezia and her miserable attendants! All that fuss, all that preparation for the Borgia woman!

Yes, Isabella was very suspicious indeed.

She had been almost unbearable to her servants that day. She had been dressed three times before her appearance satisfied her.

She was assured that no dress in Italy could compare with the one she was wearing. The Borgia woman in her morello and gold would look coarse beside her; she was so slender, so dainty. Isabella cuffed the woman who said that. “Am I a fool?” she demanded. “Can I deny the evidence of my eyes? I am neither slender nor dainty. These are the Borgia’s qualities. But I fancy I have as good a shape as any woman in Italy.”

The more apprehensive she grew, the more she wished to flaunt her superiority. She practiced her singing and dancing steps, as she had before the wedding; she went through her galleries admiring her works of art. The woman would never have seen such treasures, not even in the Vatican. That rogue, her father, had collected women rather than art treasures.

But what annoyed her more than anything was the thought of her husband Francesco’s daring to dance attendance on a woman who she had decided to hate.

She sent for two of her women who she knew had been his mistresses. They were quite handsome still and she bore them no grudge. She had, though he had not known this, chosen them for him. She complimented herself that she knew him so well that she was aware of those occasions when he was ready to go, as she called it, a-roving. That did not worry her. All she asked was to rule Mantua, and if he was deep in a love affair he was more likely to leave her in command than if he were concerned with matters of state. She liked him to have his mistresses in the household so that she could watch the progress of his affairs. What she would not tolerate was that he should choose his own women.

“We must show the Duchess of Ferrara that we can give as good a banquet here as ever she enjoyed in the Vatican,” said Isabella. “And you two shall have new dresses. There is not time for me to design them for you, so I shall select from my own store what most becomes you.”

The women were delighted. They understood, and she knew she could rely on them to use all their wiles to lure the Marquis of Mantua from any fresh love.

Isabella took Lucrezia in her arms and gave her the kiss of Judas.

“How it delights me to see you here!” she exclaimed.

Lucrezia’s smile betrayed nothing. She stood before Isabella, child-like yet self-contained; not in a dress of morello striped with gold but in dark draperies which clung to her figure and which were even more becoming than the bright colors had been. In spite of her troubles she was still a slender and lovely girl.

“Come,” said Isabella, leading the way into the castle, “I long to show you my treasures. I trust my husband entertained you in a manner suited to you?”

Isabella’s eyes were mocking and cruel, full of suggestions, hinting that she suspected Lucrezia of being her husband’s mistress.

Lucrezia replied: “The Marquis and his friends gave me a hearty welcome at Borgoforte. I fear my low spirits disappointed them.”

“Then I trust they were able to raise them a little.”

“It is always comforting to have good friends.”

“Alfonso was not pleased by your sojourn there as my husband’s guest, I gather. He is a jealous husband.”

“He has no need to be.”

Isabella’s laughter rang out.

“The Duchessa has had a long journey,” said Francesco, “and she has not yet fully recovered her health.”

“Forgive me,” said Isabella. “I am forgetful. We will refresh ourselves, and later I will show you my paintings and statues. I’ll swear you have rarely seen a better collection. I pride myself on it.”

Isabella would not leave Lucrezia’s side; she watched her husband’s two ex-mistresses waiting upon him, and Isabella had to admit that they seemed gross beside the newcomer.

It was clear to Isabella that Francesco either had made or determined to make the woman his mistress. Lucrezia with her air of innocence might suggest that she was unaware of this, but she did not deceive Isabella. She is a Borgia, thought Isabella, and therefore a monster.

The light of battle was in Isabella’s eyes. There shall be no love affair between those two, she told herself. I’d see Francesco dead first. He may have all the women in the world if he wishes to—but not that one.

It was a situation which was quite intolerable to Isabella. What was going on behind those sly meek eyes? Was the girl laughing at her? Was she thinking to take her revenge for what had happened at the wedding?

She took Lucrezia’s arm and with a party they toured the castle, for Isabella had a great longing to show Lucrezia the treasures she possessed. She wanted to accentuate the fact that she, Lucrezia Borgia, was no longer a power in Italy, and that even the possessions still left to her were held insecurely.

Francesco was in the party, so were the two women whom she had dressed in two of her most becoming gowns. They were chattering as coquettishly as they knew how, but Francesco was scarcely aware of them.

Lucrezia must gasp in admiration at the beautiful works of art which Isabella had to show her, and even Isabella gloating over them briefly forgot her enmity toward Lucrezia.

Isabella was a born collector with a sincere love of what was beautiful, and as she stood before the glorious Mantegna painting of the Triumphs of Julius Caesar her eyes filled with tears.

Lucrezia was similarly affected, and for a moment they were drawn together.

“It must be one of the finest paintings in Italy,” said Lucrezia.

Isabella nodded. “Painted for me by Andrea Mantegna when Francesco became Marquis of Mantua.”

Isabella had broken the spell; immediately she was herself once more. Painted for me. Arrogant and possessive, implying everything within this castle belongs to me—including Francesco.

There were the beautiful paintings by other artists of note; Isabella had made sure that all the greatest works of art should be housed in her palace. Here were works by Costa and Perugino; the rarest books were in her possession; ornaments finely wrought in gold and silver and decorated with precious stones. She had her grotto to which she took Lucrezia, and there, among the most exquisite sculpture in the world, Lucrezia discovered that which was perhaps the most beautiful of all.

Her eyes dwelt on Michelangelo’s Sleeping Cupid which had once been in the possession of the Duke of Urbino. To Lucrezia it represented more than a beautiful piece of work by one of the world’s most brilliant artists; it was a symbol of Isabella’s ruthless cupidity. Lucrezia remembered that, when those whom Isabella had called her great friends were in distress, her first thought had not been for their safety but for the Sleeping Cupid; and at Cesare’s request she had banished the Duke and Duchess of Urbino in exchange for the Sleeping Cupid.

Did Isabella think of this every time she looked at that exquisite statue? What was she thinking now? Isabella’s mocking eyes held those of Lucrezia briefly, as though to imply: Understand the sort of woman I am. Ruthless to my friends, how much more so should I be to my enemies!

But there was one treasure Isabella had kept to show her visitor, which she guessed rightly would cause her more pain than anything else she could show. This was the handsome young heir of Mantua, one of the most beautiful boys in Italy: Federigo, son of Francesco and Isabella; and Isabella made sure that Lucrezia, who had so recently lost the heir of Ferrara, should have plenty of opportunities to envy her the heir of Mantua.

She sent the younger of the ex-mistresses to her husband’s bedchamber that night, but the woman returned to Isabella and told her she had been dismissed. Isabella then sent the second of the women, and she too failed and returned to her mistress.

Lucrezia’s bedchamber was well guarded. She should not have the comfort of Francesco during her Mantuan nights, decided Isabella; and after a two-day visit of great strain and tension, Lucrezia re-entered her barge and sailed away from Mantua, leaving behind a regretful, unsatisfied lover and his bitter and revengeful wife.

The barge glided on its leisurely journey along the Po, turning from the main stream on the way to Ferrara, and so it came to rest at Belriguardo.

Here a pleasant surprise awaited them. Giulio was standing on the bank to welcome them.

Eagerly he kissed Lucrezia’s hand and even more eagerly his eyes sought those of Angela.

“But … Giulio!” cried Lucrezia. “Should you not be far away?”

“Have no fear,” Giulio reassured her. “I have not broken parole. Alfonso was in a benign mood when the baby was born. He gave me leave to return to court.”

“I am glad, and so will Angela be.”

Angela certainly was. She was a little anxious also; her pregnancy was drawing toward its end, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her condition which by now several of the women had guessed. Therefore for Angela’s sake, Lucrezia was delighted to see Giulio and still more delighted that Alfonso had decided to forgive him.

Giulio explained that he had called at Belriguardo to welcome them, and was going to ride on ahead of them the very next day to warn the court of their imminent return.

Lucrezia arranged that he and Angela should be alone together, and when the lovers had embraced they began to discuss their plans.

“We must marry soon,” Giulio declared.

“If we do not,” grimaced Angela, “our baby will be born before we do.”

Giulio hesitated. He told her that he longed to marry her immediately, but at the same time he did not wish to offend Alfonso.

“You see, my beloved Angela,” he explained, “after this affair of the chaplain he warned me that there must be no more rash escapades. If there were, he said, he might not forgive me so readily next time.”

“We want no more banishments,” said Angela.

“No. But I will speak to Alfonso. He is not unreasonable, and I feel sure that had I not been banished I could have arranged our marriage before this. The menace is of course Ippolito. He hates me, largely because he knows you love me.”

“A curse on Ippolito!” murmured Angela. “He will do everything within his power to prevent our marriage. I know. But we’ll outwit him. The first thing is to get Alfonso’s consent.”

“Then I will ride to Ferrara tomorrow and consult him on this matter at once.”

True to his word Giulio left Belriguardo the next morning. He rode alone not wishing to be encumbered with attendants. He had not ridden many miles when he saw horsemen approaching, and he laughed to himself when he recognized his half-brother Ippolito at their head.

“Good day to you, Cardinal,” he called in insolent tones.

Ippolito pulled up sharply and gave his brother a look of hatred. He had never seen Giulio look so handsome, so sure of himself.

“You looked pleased with yourself,” cried Ippolito.

“As you would be, were you in my shoes.”

“You have just left the Duchessa?”

Giulio nodded. “And … Angela,” he added softly.

“I have heard news of that girl.”

“That she is to have my child?” said Giulio.

“You speak with pride of that which should fill you with shame.”

“Shame, brother? When you would give so much to be in my place?”

Ippolito was filled with a sudden rage. He thought of Angela, and how his desire for her had become important to him, because it contained more than a physical need; her rejection of him was the symbol of his brother’s superior attractiveness and powers with women. She had said that she cared more for Giulio’s beautiful eyes than all the Cardinal’s power and wealth. For the moment Ippolito’s fury was beyond control; and as Giulio was about to whip up his horse Ippolito shouted: “Seize that man. Put out his eyes!”

His grooms hesitated a second, but Ippolito snarled: “Obey, you knaves, lest that which I command you to do to him be done to you.”

That was enough. They fell upon Giulio; they had him spread-eagled on the ground while they jabbed at his eyes with their daggers and wild agonized screams came from Giulio.

“It is enough,” said Ippolito; and he and his men galloped away, leaving Giulio frantic with pain, lying half dead on the blood-stained grass.

It was some hours later when a rider came panting into the castle of Belriguardo to tell of the terrible sight he had seen in the meadow close by.

Angela, in floods of helpless tears, fell fainting to the floor while Lucrezia gave orders that a litter be hastily made, and Giulio brought back to the castle. There was a doctor present but she sent messengers to Ferrara, demanding that all the best doctors should leave at once for Belriguardo.

And Giulio, more dead than alive, was brought to the castle.

When Alfonso heard the news he was both angry with Ippolito and filled with pity for Giulio; then he was apprehensive. That which he had always feared had broken out: enmity within the family circle.

His first impulse was to send for Ippolito and punish him severely for the terrible thing he had done; but Alfonso was quick to remember that he was first of all Duke of Ferrara and that he could not allow personal feelings to stand between him and the good of his dukedom. Giulio was of little importance to Ferrara; whereas Ippolito was a Cardinal and as such would wield some influence for Ferrara at the Vatican. Therefore Alfonso could not afford to mete out justice at the expense of that man who, next to himself, was the most powerful in Ferrara. Moreover Ippolito, in spite of his haughty and ungovernable temper, in his calmer moments was a sound statesman and there had been many occasions when his advice had been invaluable to Alfonso.

Alfonso was a plain man, and a man who took his duty seriously. He wanted to do what was right and honorable; he had only shortly taken over the reins of government, and fervently he wished that his father were alive to deal with the terrible quandary in which he found himself.

Ippolito in the meanwhile had ridden out of the state of Ferrara, fearing the severe punishment which he had earned; and Alfonso was aware that very soon the terrible story would be spread throughout Italy, and the weakness of a House, in which brothers warred with one another, exposed for all to see.

He wrote at once to his sister Isabella and her husband Francesco, telling them what had happened; and his letter was a plea for advice. When Isabella heard she was maddened with fury, for one of the few people whom she loved was her dashing young half-brother Giulio.

Francesco had rarely seen her so moved. “To think of him,” she cried. “My dear little brother.… To have left him there lying on the grass … in agony! I could murder Ippolito. And Alfonso asks what he should do. He should summon my lord murderer back to Ferrara and he should slash out his eyes. ’Twould be a just punishment.”

Francesco watched her quietly. It is strange, he thought, but I believe I have come to hate Isabella.

He had thought continually of Lucrezia since she had sailed away, and he remembered vividly every little hurt Isabella had given her.

Yet Isabella truly loved Giulio. She did not understand why Alfonso hesitated. She did not realize that to punish Ippolito would be to wound his great pride and make him an enemy of Alfonso and therefore of Ferrara for the rest of their lives. No greater harm could come to Ferrara than strife between these two brothers, and Isabella, in urging the punishment of Ippolito, was urging also the weakening of that structure which was the Este family; yet in her grief she could not see this.

And Francesco? He hated the Este family even as he hated Isabella. He hated their pride, their arrogant feelings that they and they alone were worthy to rule. What did he care for the downfall of Ferrara! But he did care. The matter was of great importance to him. He would be secretly pleased to see his wife’s family in decline. Ferrara and Mantua had never been true friends. And how he hated Isabella!

“Why do you stand there saying nothing?” demanded Isabella. “Is it of no importance to you that Giulio should be mutilated in this way?”

“I am thinking,” he said. His eyes smoldered beneath their heavy lids. “Certainly Ippolito should be brought to justice.”

She put out her hand and he took it.

In this way and this way only, he thought, can I indulge my hatred of Isabella.

She had risen. “I will send doctors to Giulio at once. At least he has a sister who will do all in her power to save his life.”

So the reply was sent to Ferrara. But by that time Alfonso had considered the matter with the utmost calm, and Alfonso Duke of Ferrara was in command over the sentimental brother of the wronged Giulio.

He had already sent word to Ippolito. He must return at once to Ferrara. His absence weakened the Duchy. They must stand together, no matter what happened, against all those who were ready to be the enemies of the state.

Giulio lay in the dark room. There was pain … pain all the time. He could not escape from pain, and even in sleep he would be haunted by dreams of those cruel men standing over him, their daggers in their hands; he would feel again the stabbing pain in his eyes; and he would awaken to more pain.

He would lie still, hating … hating the world which had been so cruel to him, which had first made him strong, handsome, gay—and in one short hour had taken from him all that had made his life good. Hate dominated his thoughts and there was one man to whom all that hatred was concentrated, one man whom he longed to destroy even as he had been destroyed. The only thought which comforted him during those days and nights of pain was of revenge on Ippolito.

He had lain in the darkened room; the slightest shaft of light could make him scream in agony. But even as he cursed his fate he remembered that he had good friends. They—Isabella, Lucrezia, Alfonso—had sent the best physicians in Italy to his bedside. They had not only saved his life, they had prevented him from being completely blind. He knew now that the sight of one eye was left to him, for he could see the outline of objects in the darkened room. Yet as he twisted and turned on his bed he wished that those kind friends had been his enemies, that they had left him to die as Ippolito had.

Lucrezia came into the room. She was a slender graceful shape, a perfumed presence which bent over his bed. She took his hand and kissed it.

“Dearest sister,” he murmured. “My dearest Lucrezia. I should have been dead but for you.”

She touched his forehead lightly and he strained to see her face. There was no mirror in the room and he did not know how much he had changed. They had removed the bandages from his face and at first the air on those scars had been excruciatingly painful.

“You can see me, Giulio?” she asked.

“Yes, sister. Your face becomes clearer to me as I look.”

“Then we must rejoice, for you are not to lose your sight.”

“Angela?” he asked.

“The child has been born,” she told him. “We have kept it a secret. Do not worry. Foster parents have been found. They will be well paid, and perhaps in a short time you will be able to claim the child.”

“I see that you have looked after us both, Lucrezia,” he said emotionally.

“It was my pleasure to do so.”

“Has Alfonso been here?”

“No.”

“He will see justice done,” cried Giulio. “I know Alfonso to be a just man.”

Lucrezia was silent, and Giulio went on: “All Ferrara shall know that Alfonso will not allow any—even the great Cardinal Ippolito d’Este—to deal thus with me.”

“Angela is waiting to see you,” said Lucrezia. “And Giulio, there is another. Ferrante is here.”

He smiled: Lucrezia forced herself to hide the repulsion which the smile aroused in her, for it made the poor mutilated face grotesque.

“Ferrante!” he said. “He was always my friend.”

“Poor Ferrante!” said Lucrezia. “You will have to comfort him. He is both furious and heartbroken.”

“On my account,” whispered Giulio. “It would be thus with Ferrante.”

“I will send Angela to you,” Lucrezia told him, and she left him.

He felt the sweat on his face. He was terrified. Why was there no mirror in his room? Why was he not allowed to see himself? He had cared so much for his looks; he had swaggered before his servants in his fine garments; he had extorted flattery from them. And now?

Angela was in the room. She stood by the door and although he could not see her clearly he sensed her hesitation.

“Angela!” He tried to speak calmly but his voice faltered.

It seemed to him that she took a long time to reach his bedside.

“Why … Giulio!” she whispered.

“Angela … come near to me.…”

She fell on her knees by the bed, and he put his face close to hers; he had to read the expression in her eyes, but she had lowered them. She was steeling herself to look. Lucrezia had prepared her. She could still hear Lucrezia’s unhappy urgent whisper: “Angela, do not let him know … wait until he is stronger. Look straight at him. Smile … do not flinch.”

But frivolous Angela had never learned to hide her feelings. She could not look; she dared not.

She felt his hands on her face; he had grasped her chin and was forcing her to look.

She stared; she flinched; she could not hide the horror in her eyes, for instead of handsome Giulio a hideous mask was staring at her, a travesty of a face, cruely battered, the left eye enormously swollen, the right lidless, and in vain did she try to suppress the shudder which ran through her.

He released her as through she were some poisonous animal. He lay back on his pillows, his head turned away from her.

“You … you will get better, Giulio,” she stammered.

He answered her: “All the money in the world, all the justice in the world, will not buy me a new face, Angela.”

She tried to laugh, and he hated her laughter. He hated her weakness and the hurt she had given him. Ippolito had not only robbed him of his beauty but of Angela. He had removed handsome and charming Giulio from the world, and put a hideous misanthrope in his place.

She seemed to shrink from the bed. She talked about the child, but he had no interest in the child, for what would the child do when confronted with the creature he had become? Turn away in horror. Everyone would do that in future.

“Holy Mother of God,” he cried out suddenly in his anguish, “you too were cruel to me. You should have let me die.”

Angela had one desire; it was for escape.

“I will come again, Giulio,” she said.

But he shook his head and would not look at her. She went and he knew she would never come again—not the Angela who had loved him.

He could have wept, but how could a man, mutilated as he was, shed tears? Tears would have eased his pain, but there was no comfort.

The door had opened and someone else had come into the room.

“Go away,” he cried. “Go away from me. You cannot deceive me. I am hideous … hideous … and it is embarrassing you all to look at me. Do not come with your lies. Do not tell me I shall be myself once more. I am fit for nothing but to be put into a cage and wheeled through the streets, that people may come from their houses to laugh at me … to stone me.…”

“Giulio … Giulio … this is unworthy of you.”

He was held in a pair of strong arms; he was embraced; someone was kissing his scars.

“Ferrante!” he said. “So you came, brother.”

“I came, you old villain. I have been here several days. They would not let me see you. ‘Not see my old friend Giulio!’ I cried. ‘Know you not that he is my brother and that he and I have been together in adventures, so mad that we would not dare speak of them to any other?’ ”

“Those days are over.”

“Never.”

“Look at my face, Ferrante. Now don’t tell me that I am as handsome as ever or that I will be, that everything will be just as it was if I am a good boy and take my medicine.”

Ferrante took his brother’s face in his hands. There was no shrinking in those strong hands, no faltering in the gaze which met his.

“Giulio,” he said, “I am your handsome brother now. There are scars on your face which will never be healed.”

“I have the truth from you, brother.”

“Did you doubt you’d get it? Listen, Giulio, the women are not going to lose their virtue to you so readily in the future. But perhaps they will. There is Strozzi, the cripple. The ladies seem very fond of him. Who can account for women?”

“Ferrante, you seek to cheer me. I am hideous, a monstrosity. You admit it.”

“It’s true, brother. But you’ll grow used to it. You must accept what is.”

“Ferrante, tell me, do you hate to look at me?”

“Fool of a brother, I never loved you for your beautiful eyes. I never loved the long lashes, the red lips. No, it was brother Giulio whom I loved. He is the same.”

“Ferrante!”

“Come, come … no dramatic scenes, I beg of you. I was always bad at them. I shall stay here, Giulio, until you are fully recovered. You and I have much to talk of. Alfonso is our good brother. By God, Ippolito is going to pay for this.”

“Ferrante, brother … stay with me. Life seems suddenly bearable.”

Then Ferrante embraced his half-brother once more and Giulio releasing himself said: “There are tears in your eyes, brother. There would be in mine were that possible. But what is there to weep about? I thought I had lost all that made my life worth while. I was a fool, Ferrante, to have forgotten that my life still held you.”

Lucrezia, a close witness of Giulio’s tragedy, forgot her own sorrows in contemplating it. She believed that more trouble was brewing. Alfonso would never bring Ippolito to justice, and in the dark room of pain where Ferrante was a frequent visitor plans for vengeance were discussed. Lucrezia knew that it was only these plans which gave poor tortured Giulio a reason for living.

As for Angela, who was terrified of having to look at her once handsome lover because his distorted face filled her with horror, Lucrezia believed that the kindest thing she could do was to get the girl married and away from Ferrara.

She had arranged for the care of the child of that tragic love affair even as her father had arranged for her own child, the Infante Romano, the fruit of another such tragic love affair.

Alfonso was helpful in this matter and eventually a bridegroom was found for Angela in Alessandro Pio, Lord of Sassuolo, who held a small territory.

Angela was excited at the prospect of marriage and escape from Giulio, and became absorbed in accumulating her trousseau. Lucrezia bought a dress of cloth of gold for the girl to wear at her wedding and was glad when the ceremony was over and Angela had gone away, though she missed her for, frivolous as she was the girl had been amusing and absolutely loyal to Lucrezia.

It was a long time before she could bring herself to tell Giulio that Angela had married and gone away.

Lucrezia intercepted Alfonso on his way to Giulio’s apartment. “Alfonso,” she cried, “I must speak to you … about Giulio.”

Alfonso studied his wife. He supposed she was very beautiful; he had heard it said that she was; it was a pity she was not his type. He liked fleshy women. Not that he was averse to doing his duty by her; but it did seem as though she was going to prove disappointingly infertile.

“Something must be done for Giulio,” she said.

Alfonso raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“All these weeks have passed and there is no attempt to administer justice. This harbors dangerous thoughts in Giulio … in Ferrante.”

“So they are plotting together!”

“They do not plot. They fret for justice.”

“You are a fool,” he said, “if you think I can afford to estrange Ippolito.”

“You mean you will shrug your shoulders at what he has done?”

“You speak of Cardinal Ippolito d’Este. I could not show favor to a bastard at his expense.”

“Favor! I did not suggest favor. Only justice.”

Alfonso looked exasperated and Lucrezia for once abandoned her serenity. “Oh, I know I am only a woman,” she cried. “I am here to bear children … nothing more. But I tell you this, Alfonso; if you do not administer justice in some form you will have trouble between your brothers.”

“Trouble in the family must be avoided at all cost,” said Alfonso. “I plan to bring my brothers together; there shall be a reconciliation.”

“You think Giulio will ever be reconciled to Ippolito!”

“He must be … for the sake of Ferrara.”

Eventually Alfonso prevailed upon them to meet each other. He stood between them—the mighty brother to whom they both owed allegiance.

“Ippolito, Giulio, my brothers,” he said. “This has been the saddest thing I ever witnessed. I would have given ten years of my life that it should not have happened.”

“Do not look at me,” said Giulio bitterly. “I was but the victim.”

“Giulio, I am asking you to forget your wrongs. I am asking you to forgive your brother.”

“Why does he not speak for himself?”

“I am very displeased that this has happened,” said Ippolito, inclining his haughty head.

“Displeased!” cried Giulio. “I would describe my own feelings in stronger terms.” He snatched up a torch and held it to his face. “Look at me, Alfonso; and you, Cardinal, look at your work. This hideous thing you see before you is your once handsome brother, Giulio.”

Alfonso’s voice was broken with emotion as he cried: “Stop, I beg of you. Giulio, my dear brother, stop.” He went to him and embraced him. “Giulio, I grieve for you, brother. But think now of Ferrara. Think of our family and, for the sake of our ancestors, who made Ferrara great, and of all those who will follow us, make no trouble now. Forgive your brother.”

And Giulio, weeping in Alfonso’s arms, murmured: “I forgive him. It is over and done with. Long live Ferrara!”

It was easy to say one forgave; it was difficult to continue in that noble attitude. He must lie, poor Giulio, in his darkened room, for even after some time passed he could not bear to face the light. He listened to the sound of distant music from other parts of the castle and brooded on the old days.

Ippolito would be flashing his brilliant robes, making assignations with beautiful women. Ippolito who had ruined his brother’s life and thought he had made amends by lowering his haughty head and saying he was sorry.

There was only one comfort in his life: Ferrante.

Ferrante spent most of his time in Giulio’s room, where they talked of past adventures. Ferrante could often make his brother laugh, but such laughter was always followed by melancholy. What could memories of the joyous past do but lead to the melancholy present? Why should they not talk of the future? What was the future for him? Giulio demanded. He would spend long hours in a dark room, and if he ventured abroad he would have to be masked to hide his hideous face; even then people would turn from him, shuddering.

There was only one way to bring Giulio out of his melancholy, and that was to talk of revenge. Revenge on Ippolito the author of his miseries; revenge on Alfonso who had taken Ippolito’s side against his brother.

It amused them to make plots—wild plots which they knew they could never carry out.

Ferrante, always reckless, sought means of enlivening his brother’s fancies, and one day Giulio in a fit of depression cried: “What fools we are with our pretences! Our plots were never meant to be carried out. They are idle games which we play.”

From that moment Ferrante decided that they should have a real plot, and he set about finding conspirators who would join them. It was not difficult to find men who believed they had been ill-treated by Alfonso; it was even easier to find those who resented Ippolito’s high-handed ways. There was a certain Albertino Boschetti who had lost some of his lands to Alfonso; and his son-in-law Gherardo de Roberti, who was a captain in Alfonso’s army, was ready to join in the plot. They would meet with a few others and discuss the Borgia methods of poisoning and wonder whether they could lure Lucrezia into becoming one of them. This they abandoned as impossible; but a priest, Gian Cantore di Guascogna, who was possessed of a beautiful voice and for this reason had been favored by Duke Ercole, joined the plotters for his own reasons. It might have been that he realized the plots were not serious but merely a simple means of bringing a little excitement into Giulio’s life. The priest had received nothing but friendship from Alfonso, and indeed had accompanied him on many of his amorous jaunts.

Giulio lived for the meetings which were held in his dark room; often the sounds of laughter would be heard coming from his apartment. One day Lucrezia, hearing them, smiled with relief. She did not know what was causing the laughter.

Giulio was saying: “As for Alfonso, it should not be so difficult. You, my dear Gian, often accompany him to his low brothels. So what could be easier? Take some of the girls into your confidence. Pay them well. They will do anything for ducats. And when he has drunk deep, tie him to his bed, and then … it should not be difficult to find those who, with their daggers, would be ready to do to him what has been done to me.”

The woman was to Alfonso’s taste. She was voluptuous and silent. He preferred silent women. They had drunk deeply and he was drowsy; he lay stretched on the bed waiting for the woman, while she hovered about the room.

“Come, hurry, woman,” he growled.

But she laughed at him, and he half regretted that he had drunk so deeply that he felt disinclined to rise. She was kneeling at the foot of the bed.

He cried: “What do you there?”

And still she laughed.

She did not know that he was the ruler of Ferrara. Part of the pleasure in these nightly jaunts was that he ventured forth incognito.

He jerked his foot. It did not move. But he felt too listless to care, and the woman was now flitting to the head of the bed.

He reached out an arm to catch her; she took it at the wrist and held it. She had moved behind him and, keeping his arm outstretched, she kissed it at intervals.

He grew impatient; he was never a man to fancy the preliminaries of lovemaking. He implied that he was a practical man; he made no secret of the purpose which had brought him here. Therefore delay irritated him. But tonight he was strangely listless.

Then he found that his feet and hands were securely tied to the bedposts, and he was at the mercy of this woman.

Now he was alert. For what purpose had she tied him thus? How could he have been so foolish as to have lain supine while this was done to him? Suddenly he understood. Something had been slipped into his wine to produce this lassitude.

He was in danger, and the thought of danger, and the need for prompt action, cut through the fumes in his head.

Then the door burst open and there was Gian Cantore di Guascogna, the rascally priest with the divine voice who, like his master, enjoyed a tour of the brothels.

“Free me, you rogue,” shouted Alfonso.

The priest came and stood by the bed. He had taken his dagger from his belt. He lifted his hand as though he were about to plunge the knife into the Duke’s heart.

“Enough!” cried Alfonso. “Come, you old rogue. Cut these ropes at once. ’Twas a good enough joke, and I its victim, but ’tis over.”

Alfonso had been accustomed to command all his life, and there was authority in his voice. His laughter rumbled in his throat, and the priest, under the spell of that strong personality, leaned over the bed and cut the ropes.

Alfonso jumped up; he was laughing heartily, slapping Gian on the back, calling him Scoundrel.

Then he pushed Gian from the room. Gian stood outside the door trembling.

With the coming of the spring Alfonso left Ferrara for one of his missions abroad and, as was the custom, appointed Lucrezia as Regent. Ippolito being so powerful in Ferrara—the most important man next to Alfonso—could not be ignored, so that it was necessary that he should be co-Regent.

Lucrezia was glad of her brother-in-law’s help, for Ippolito, when he was not suffering from imagined slights to his dignity, was a statesman of no small ability.

But Lucrezia was aware that Ippolito’s hatred of his half-brother had been increased through the terrible injury he had done him. Ippolito could not dismiss Giulio from his thoughts; he knew that many people deplored what he had done, and he sought to put himself right in the eyes of Ferrara. To do this he must prove Giulio worthless, and as Ippolito had always had numerous spies in the castle, he was fully aware of the meetings which took place in Giulio’s apartments.

He listened gravely to Alfonso’s account of how he had been tied to a prostitute’s bed, and Alfonso had accused him of lacking a sense of fun. Ippolito had said nothing. He intended to teach all his brothers a lesson.

That the plotting had begun as a game, and had never been anything else, mattered not to Ippolito. He was determined to set himself right in the eyes of the world while he brought some balm to his own conscience.

He did not tell Lucrezia what was in his mind, as he believed Lucrezia might warn Giulio and Ferrante. She was forever searching for some means of making Giulio happy, and Ippolito did not trust her.

Ippolito discovered that an ambush had been laid for Alfonso at some place on his journey. That this was done half-heartedly was of no account; and that the plotters had waited at a spot which Alfonso did not pass was quite unimportant. Ippolito arrested Boschetti and his son-in-law who, when put to torture, confessed that there had been plots against the life of Alfonso and Ippolito, and these had been concocted in Giulio’s room.

Lucrezia came to the dark room.

“Giulio,” she cried in alarm.

He sat up to stare at her.

“Alfonso is back,” she went on, “and something is wrong. Boschetti and his son-in-law have not been here for three days. They are in prison.”

Giulio leaped off his bed; the sight of his poor stricken face made Lucrezia want to weep.

“They are Ippolito’s prisoners,” she said. “There is talk of treason.”

“So … he has done this! He has made a monster of me and now he wants my life.”

“I believe it to be so,” said Lucrezia. “There is little time to spare. You should leave at once, Giulio. Do not let yourself fall into Ippolito’s hands again.”

“Do you think I care what becomes of me?”

“Giulio, you must live. You must live to prove to Alfonso that you had no intention of taking his life. There is only one way you can do this. It is through immediate escape.”

“And where should I go?”

“Isabella, your sister, loves you dearly. She hates Ippolito for what he has done to you. Go to Isabella. She will help you. And her husband is a good man.”

Giulio kissed Lucrezia’s hands; and soon she had the satisfaction of hearing him gallop away from the castle.

But Giulio came back to Ferrara. He came back because Ferrante was in the hands of his enemies, and Giulio could not rest in Mantua while Ferrante was their prisoner. He had to return to explain that their plots had no roots in reality. They had had a hundred opportunities to kill their brothers, but they had not taken advantage of these.

Isabella and Francesco had listened to the demands of Alfonso for his return, and they had allowed him to leave only when Alfonso had given them his word that Giulio’s life should be spared.

Thus Giulio came back to Ferrara where in the company of Ferrante he was forced to witness the barbarous execution of some of his friends.

Ippolito had won. He had assured Alfonso and the people of Ferrara that his prompt action had saved Ferrara from terrible civil war and bloodshed. Ippolito’s conscience was salved. He had attacked his brother in a fit of rage; but see what a villain this brother was—he was a traitor to Ferrara!

Giulio and Ferrante were sentenced to death, but the sentences were reduced to those of life imprisonment, and from that time they were placed in one of the towers of the Castle of Ferrara, there to live out their long lives, there to listen to the music of the balls which took place in the castle, to hear the sounds of the people who passed the castle’s walls. So near to the life they had known, and yet shut away from it, they were two young men before whom the long years stretched out, yet whose lives were over.