# A Jay of Italy/Chapter 11

pp. 130–138.

### CHAPTER XI

There was consternation in the castello, for its angel visitant had disappeared. The evening following upon the episode of the ring saw his quarters void of him, his household retinue troubled and anxious, and some others in the palace at least as perturbed. It was not alone that the individual sense of stewardship towards so rare a possession filled each and all with forebodings as to the penalty likely to be exacted should Galeazzo return to a knowledge of his loss; the loss itself of so sweet and cleansing a personality was blighting. Now, for the first time, perhaps, people recognised the real political significance of that creed which they had been inclined hitherto merely to pet and humour as the whimsey of a very engaging little propagandist. How sweet and expansive it was! how progressive by the right blossoming road of freedom! Where was their silver-tongued guide? And they flew and buzzed, agitated like a bee-swarm that has lost its queen.
But, while they scurried aimless, a rumour of the truth rose like a foul emanation, and, circulating among them, darkened men's brows and drove women to a whispering gossip of terror. So yet another of the Duke's inhumanities was at the root of this secession! By degrees the secret leaked out—of that living entombment, of the boy's interference, of his bloody forestalling by the executioner, of his flight, accompanied by his Fool, from the gates. And now he was gone, whither none knew; but of a certainty leaving the curse of his outraged suit on the house he had tried to woo from wickedness.
The story gained nothing in relief as it grew. Whispers of that free feminine bandying with their Parablist's name, of Catherine's childish mockery of a sacred sentiment, deepened the common gloom. It mattered nothing to the general opinion that this little vivacious Sforza had but echoed its own bantering mood. Every popular joke that spells disaster must have its scapegoat. And she was not liked. In the absence of her father there were even venturings of frowning looks her way, which, when she observed, the shrewd elfin creature did not forget.
And Bernardo returned not that night, nor during all the following day was he heard of. Inquiries were set on foot, scouts unleashed, the sbirri warned: he remained undiscovered.
Messer Carlo Lanti went about his business with a brow of thunder. Once, on the second day, traversing, dark in cogitation, a lonely corner of the castle enceinte, he came upon a figure which, as it were some apparition of his thoughts suddenly materialised, shocked him to a stand. The walls in this place met in a sunless, abysmal wedge; and, gathered into the hollow between, the waters of the canal, welling through subterranean conduits, made a deep head for the moat. And here, gazing down at her reflection, it seemed, in that black stone-framed mirror, stood Beatrice.
She was plainly conscious, for all her deep abstraction of the moment before, of his approach, yet neither spoke nor so much as turned her head as he came and stood beside her. It must have been some startle more than human that had found her nerves responsive to its shock. Her languor and indolence seemed impregnable, insensate, revealing no token of the passion within. Like the warm, rich pastures which sleep over swelling fires, the placid glow of her cheek and bosom appeared never so fruitful in desire as when most threatening an outburst. Carlo, for all his rage of suspicion, could not but be conscious of that appeal to his senses. He frowned, and shifted, and grunted, while she stood tranquilly facing him and fanning herself without a word. At length he broke silence:—
'I had wished to see thee alone'—he stared fixedly and significantly at the water, struggling to bully himself into brutality—'Nay, by God and St. Ambrose,' he burst out, 'I believe we are well met in this place!'
Not a tremor shook her.
'Alone?' she murmured sleepily. 'Why not? there was not used to be this ceremony between us.'
'I have done with all that,' he cried fiercely. 'I see thee now—myself, at least, in the true light. Harlot! wouldst have turned my hand against the angel that revealed thee! Where is he? Hast struck surer the second time? I know thee—and if——'
He seized her wrist and turned her to the water. She did not resist or cry out, though her cheek flushed in the pain of his cruel clutch.
'Know me!' she said. 'Didst thou ever know me? Only as the bull knows the soft heifer—the nearest to his needs. Thou hast done with me—thou! I tell thee, if Fate had made a sacrament of thy passion, yielding the visible sign, I had brought hither the monstrous pledge and drowned it like a dog. Do we so treat what we love? I am not guilty of Bernardo's death, if that is what you mean.'
He let her go, and retreated a step, glaring at her. Her blood ebbed and flowed as tranquilly as her low voice had stabbed.
'This—to my face!' he gasped. Then he broke into furious laughter. 'Art well requited, if it is the truth. Love him! But, dead or alive, he will not love thee—that saint—a wife dishonoured.'
'O noble bull—thou king of beasts!' she murmured.
'Why should I be generous?' he snarled. 'Have I reason to spare thee? Yet I will be generous, an thou art guiltless of this, Beatrice. I have loved thee, after my fashion.'
'Thou hast. Ah! If I might sponge away that memory!'
'Well, I would fain do the same for his sake.'
'Dog!'
'What!'
'Barest thou talk of love?—thou, who hast rolled me in thine arms, and waked from sated ecstasy to call me murderess!'
'Had I not provocation, then? Faith, you bewilder me!'
'Poor, stupid brute!'
'Stupid I may be, yet not so blind as woman's folly. Hast borne me once, Beatrice. Well, it is past: I ask nothing of it but thy trust.'
'My trust!'
'Ay, when I warn thee. This saint is not for thee. O, I am wide awake! Stupid? like enough; but when a wife, the queenliest, parts with her betrothal ring——'
She made a quick, involuntary gesture, stepping forward; then as suddenly checked herself, with a soft, mocking laugh.
'O this bull!' she cried huskily—'this precisian of the new cult! Not for me, quotha, but for another—a saint to all but the highest bidder!'
'Not for you nor any one,' he said savagely.
'What! not Bona either?' she said. 'Be warned by me, rather. Yours is no wit for this encounter. Love is a coil, dear chuck; no battering-ram. Not for me nor any? Maybe; but the game is in the strife. Go, find your saint: I know nothing of him.'
'No, nor shall. Be warned, I say.'
'Well, you have said it, and more than once.'
He hesitated, ground his teeth, clapped his hands together, and turning, left her.
Glooming and mumbling, he went back to the palace. A page met him with the message that the Duchess of Milan desired his attendance. He frowned, and went, as directed, to her private closet. He found Bona alone, busy, or affecting to be busy, over a strip of embroidery. She greeted him chilly; but it was evident that nervousness rather than hauteur kept her seated. He saluted her coldly and silently, awaiting her pleasure. She glanced once or twice at the closed portière; then braced herself to the ordeal with a rather quivering smile.
'This is a sad coil, Messer Carlo.'
He answered gruffly:—
'If I understand your Grace.'
She put the quibble by.
'We, you and I, are in a manner his guardians—accountable to the Duke.'
'I can understand your Grace's anxiety,' he said shortly.
'Nevertheless, it was not I introduced him to the court,' she said.
'But only to some of its secrets,' he responded.
'I do not understand you.'
'It is very plain, Madonna. You gave him the key to that discovery.'
She rose at once, breathing quickly, her cheeks white.
'Ah, Messer! in heaven's name procure me the return of my ring!'
Her voice was quite pitiful, entreating. He looked at her gloomily, gnawing his upper lip.
'Madonna commands? I will do my best to find and take it from him, alive or dead.'
She fell back with a little crying gasp.
'Find him—yes.'
'No more?' he demanded grimly.
'I thought you loved him?' she gulped.
'Too well,' he answered, 'to be your go-between.'
She uttered a fierce exclamation, and clenched her hands.
'Go, sir!' she said.
He turned at once. She came after him, fawning.
'Good Messer Carlo, dear lord,' she breathed weepingly; 'nay, thou art a loyal and honest friend. Forgive me. We are all in need of forgiveness.'
He faced about again.
'Penitence is blasphemy without reform,' he said.
'Ah me! it is. How well thou hast caught the sweet preacher's style. Hast thou reformed?'
'Ay, in the worst.'
'Thou hast made an enemy of thy mistress? Poor Bembo, poor child! He will need a mother.'
'Wouldst thou be that to him?'
'What else? Get me my ring.'
'Beatrice hates him——'
'She would, the wretch, for his parting you and her.'
'Or loves him—I don't know which.'
'Wanton! how dare she?'
'Well, if you will play the mother to him——'
'Is he not a child to adore? Ah me! to be foster-parent to that boon-comrade of the Christ!'
Carlo looked at her with some satisfaction darkling out of gloom. His honest hot brain was no Machiavellian possession; his temper was the travail of a warm heart. He believed this woman meant honestly; and so, no doubt, she did in her loss, not considering, or choosing not to consider, the emotionalism of regain.
'Ay, Madonna,' said he, kindling, ''tis the most covetable relation. Who but a Potiphar's wife would associate what we call love with this Joseph? God! a look of him will make me blush as I were a brat caught stealing sugar. There is that in him, we blurt out the truth in the very act of hiding it. A child to adore? Is he not, now, the dear put? and to hearken to and imitate what we can. Ay, and more—to shield with this arm—let men beware. Only the women harass me, this way and that. Their loves and hates be like twin babes. None but their dam can tell each from the other. Therefore, would ye mother him—'
'Yes—'
'And cherish and protect—'
'Yes—'
'And of your woman's wisdom keep skirts at a distance—'
'I will promise that most.'
'Why, I will bring him back to thee, ring and all, though I turn Milan upside down first.'
He bowed and was going; but she detained him, with sycophant velvet eyes.
'Dear lord, so kind and loyal. Tell him that without him we find ourselves astray.'
'Ay.'
'Tell him that from this moment his Duchess will aid and abet him in all his reforms.'
'I will tell him.'
'Ask him—' she hesitated, and turned away her sweet head—'doth he seek to retaliate on his mistress's innocent confidence, that, by absenting himself, he would turn it to her undoing?'
Carlo grunted.
'By your Grace's leave, an I find him, I will put it my way.'
She acquiesced with a meek, lovely smile, and the words of the Mass: 'Ite, missa est!'
And when he was gone, she sighed, and looked in a mirror and murmured to herself in a semi-comedy of grief: 'Alas! too weak to be Messalina! I must be good if he asks me.'
And, being weak, she let her thoughts drift.