*CHAPTER XII*
In a street of the quarter Giovia the armourer Lupo had his smithy. Hehad been a notable artisan in a town famous for its steel and niellowork; but in his age, as in any, a plethora of fine production mustcheapen the value of the individual producer. Therefore when a vengefulcaprice blinded him, and his door remained shut and his chimney ceasedto smoke, patronage transferred its custom to the next house or streetwithout a qualm; and his achievements in his particular business wereforgotten, or confounded with those of fellow-craftsmen, deriving,perhaps, in their art from him. It was a sample of that banalheartlessness of society, which in a moral age breeds collectivists, anddesperadoes in an age of lawlessness. And of the two one may pronouncethe latter the more logical.
In Milan men came quickly to maturity, whether in the art of forging ablade or using it. Life flamed up and out on swift ideals of passion.Parental love, high education, the intricate cults of beauty andchivalry, were all gambling investments in a speculative market. Theodds were always in favour of that old broker Death. Yet the knowledgeabated nothing of the zeal. It was strange to be so fastidious of theterms of so hazardous a lease. One might be saving, just,virtuous--one's life-tenancy was not made thereby a whit securer. Theten commandments lay at the mercy of a dagger-point; wherefore menhurried to realise themselves timely, and to cram the stores of yearsinto a rich banquet or two.
Master Lupo, a sincere workman and a conscientious, was flicked in onemoment off his green leaf into the dust. There, maimed and helpless,the tears for ever welling in his empty sockets, he cogitatedtremulously, fiercely, the one sentiment left to him, revenge--revengenot so primarily on the instrument of his ruin, as on Tassino _through_the system which had made such a creature possible. He lent hisdarkened abode to be the nest to one of those conspiracies, which arenever far to gather in despotic governments, and which opportunity inhis case showed him actually at hand.
Cola Montano, it has been said, had been borne away after his scourgingby some women of the people. Grace, or pity, or fear was in theirhearts, and they nursed him. Scarcely for his own sake; for, democracybeing impersonal, he was at no trouble to be a grateful patient. He tooktheir ministries as conceded to a principle, and individually was assurly and impatient with them as any ill-conditioned cur.
Recovering betimes (the dog had a tough hide), he learned of neighbourLupo's condition, and walked incontinently into that wretchedartificer's existence. He found a blind and hopeless wreck, shelves ofrusting armour, a forge of dead embers, and, brooding sullen beside it,a girl too plainly witnessing to her own dishonour. He heard the rainon the roof; he saw the set grey mother creeping about her work; and hesat himself down by the sightless armourer, and peered hungrily into hisswathed face.
'Dost know me, Lupo? I am Montano.'
The miserable man groaned.
'Master Collegian? Stands yet thy school of philosophy? A' God's name,lay something of that on this hot bandage!'
'The school stands in its old place, armourer; but its doors, likethine, are shut. What then? Its principles remain open to all.'
The poor wretch put out a hand, feeling.
'Where art thou? Have thy wounds healed so quickly? Mine areincurable.'
'What!' croaked Montano jeeringly, 'with such a salve to allay them! Iheard of it--logic meet to an angel--to renew thine image through heryonder. Marry, sir! conception runs before the law. Hast chased thylikeness down and taken it to church? Mistress Lucia there would seem asullen bride. Hath her popinjay come and gone again? Well, you must becontent with the legitimising.'
The armourer writhed in answering.
'What think you? There has been none. Mock not our misery. Is it theconcern of angels to see their sentences enforced?'
'No, but to be called angels. Heaven is not easy surfeited withadulation.'
'He was glorified in his judgment; and there, for us, the matter ended.'
'Not quite.'
The pedagogue bent his evil head to look again into that woful face.
'Lupo, my school is closed; alumnus loiters in the streets. Shall hecome in here?'
There was something so significant in his tone that the broken man headdressed started, as if a hand had been laid on his eyes.
'For what? Who is he?' he muttered.
'I will tell you anon,' answered Montano. 'No prelector but hath hisfavourite pupils. He, alumnus, is in this case threefold--three dearhomeless scholars of mine, Lupo, needing a rallying-place in which tomeet and mature some long-discussed theory of social cure. I have heardfrom them since--since my illness. They chafe to resume their studiesand their mentor--honest, good fellows, confessing, perhaps, to a heresyor so.'
'Master,' muttered the armourer, 'you will do no harm to be explicit.'
'Shall I not? Well, if you will, and by grace of an example, such aheresy, say, as that, when the devil rules by divine right, the God whonominated him is best deposed.'
'Yes, yes, to be sure. That is blasphemy as well as heresy. But Ithink of Messer Bembo, who is still His minister, and I believe yourpupils go too far.'
'Why, what hath this minister done for you?'
'Very much, in intention.'
'Well, I thought that was said to pave the other place; but, in truth,the issues of all things are confounded, since we have an angel for theLord's minister and a devil for His vicegerent.'
'Pity of God! are they not? And ye would resolve them by deposing theChrist--by knocking out the very keystone of hope?'
'Nay, by substituting a rock for a crumbling brick.'
'What rock?'
'The people.'
'Might they not, too, elect a tyrant to be their representative?'
'How could tyranny represent a commonwealth?'
'A commonwealth! It is out, then! It is not God ye would depose, butGaleazzo. Commonwealth! Is that a name for keeping all men under acertain height? But the giant will dictate the standard, and any one mayreach to him who can. Messer Montano, I seem to have heard of arepublican called Caesar.'
'Then you must have heard of another called Brutus?'
'Ay, to be sure; and of a third called Octavian.'
'Those were distracted times, my friend.'
'And what are these? Have you ever heard of the times when a man'sinterest was one with his neighbour's? Besides, the flame of art burnsnever so sprightly as under a despot. It finds no fuel inuniformity--each man equal to his neighbour.' He put out groping handspitifully. 'I loved my art,' he quavered. 'They might have spared me toit!'
Montano bit his lip scornfully. It was on his tongue to spurn thisspiritless creature. But he suppressed himself.
'What would you, then?' he demanded; 'you, the wretched victim of thesystem you commend?'
'Ah!' sighed Lupo, 'ideally, Messer, an autocracy, with an angel at itshead.'
The philosopher laughed harshly.
'Why,' he sneered, 'there is your ideal come to hand. Be plain. Shallwe depose a tyrant, and elect in his place this new-arrived, this divineboy, as ye all title him?'
'Why not?'
Montano started and stared at the speaker. There was suggestionhere--of a standard for innovation; of a rallying-point for reform. Arepublic, like a despotism, might find its telling battle-cry in asaint. The boy, as representing the liberty of conscience, was alreadya subject of popular adoration. Why should they not use him as afulcrum to the lever of revolution, and, having done with, return him tothe cloisters from which he drew? There was suggestion here.
He mused a little, then broke out suddenly:--
'Brutus is none the less indispensable.'
'I do not gainsay it, master.'
'What! you do not? Then there, at least, we are agreed. Wilt have himcome here?'
'Who is he, this Brutus? I grope in the dark--O my God, in the dark!'
During all this time the two women had remained passive and apparentlyapathetic listeners. Now
, suddenly, the girl rose from her place by thechimney and came heavily forward, her eyes glaring, her hands clenchedin woe, like some incarnated, fallen pythoness.
'Tell _me_,' she said hoarsely. 'I haven't _his_ patience for mywrongs, nor caution neither. What's gained by caution when one standson an earthquake? Let me make sure of _him_, my fine lover, and theworld may fall in, for all I care.'
The pale mother hurried to her husband's side. He put out helpless,irresolute hands, with a groan. Montano stooping, elbow on knee, andrubbing his bristly chin, conned the speaker with sinister approval.
'Spoken like a Roman,' said he. 'Thou art the better vessel. If allwere as you! Tyranny is hatched of the gross corpse of manliness--abeastly fly. Wilt tell thee my Brutus's name, girl, if thou wilt answerfor these.'
He pointed peremptorily at her parents.
'Ay, will I,' she answered scornfully; 'though I have to wrench outtheir tongues first.'
He applauded shrilly, with a triumphant, contemptuous glance at thecowering couple.
'That is the right way with cowards. I commit my Brutus to thee. 'Tisa threefold dog, as I have said--a fanged Cerberus. Noble, too--asRoman as thou; and, in one part at least, like wounded. He, this thirdpart, this Carlo Visconti, had a sister. Well, she was a flower whichGaleazzo plucked; and, not content therewith threw into the common road.Another head is Lampugnani, beggared by the Sforzas; and GirolamoOlgiati is my third, a dear beardless boy, and instigated only by thenoblest love of liberty.'
The girl nodded.
'And are these all?'
'All, save a fellow called Narcisso--a mere instrument to use andbreak--no principles but hate and gain. Was servant to that bully Lantiand dismissed--hum! for excess of loyalty. Fear him not.'
'Alas!' broke in the armourer: 'why should we fear him or anybody?There is no harm in this letting my shop to be thy school'ssuccedaneum.'
Lucia laughed like a fury.
'No harm at all,' sniggered Montano, 'save in these heresies I spoke of.And what are they?--to reorganise society on a basis of political andsocial freedom. No harm in these young Catalines discussing theirdrastic remedies, perhaps in the vanity of a hope that some Sallust maybe found to record them.'
'Nay, have done with all this,' cried the girl witheringly. 'I knownothing of your Catalines and Sallusts. Ye meet to kill--own it, or yemeet elsewhere.'
Her mother cried out: 'O Lucia! per pieta.'
She made no answer, only fixing Montano with her glittering eyes. Herose from his stool stiffly, with a snarl for his aching wounds. Buthis face brightened towards her like a spark of wintry sun.
'We meet to kill, Madonna,' he said, 'ruined, crippled, debauched--thevictims of a monster and his system. And thou shalt have thy share,never fear, when the feast comes to follow the sacrifice.'
Bembo had fled, like one distracted, from the walls, his faithful shadowjumping in his wake. The two, running and following, never slackened intheir pace until a half-mile separated them from the city; and then, ina gloomy thicket, under a falling sky, the boy threw himself down on thegrass, and buried his face from heaven. Pitiful and distraught, theFool stood over, silently regarding him. At length he spoke, pantingand reproachful.
'Nay, in pity, master, wert thou not advised?'
The boy writhed.
'So lying, so wicked cunning, to make me his decoy and seeming abettor!O, I am punished for my faith! Is Christ dead?'
The Fool sighed.
'By thy showing, He lingers behind in the wood.'
'Tell Him I have gone on to my father.'
'Thou wilt?'
Bernardo sat up, a towzled angel. In the interval the tears had comefast, and his face was wet.
'God help you all!' he sobbed. 'You, even you, prevaricated to me.Whither shall I turn? I see everywhere a death-dealing wilderness, liesand lust and inhumanity.'
'I prevaricated,' said Cicada mournfully. 'I admit it. You onceclaimed my wit and experience to your tutoring. Well, do I not know thetyrant--the persistent devil in him? He had his teeth in that monk.Not Christ Himself would have loosened them.'
'Ah! what shall I do?'
'What, but go forward steadfast. This is but a jog by the way. Judgelife on the broad lines of action, the ruts which mark the progress ofthe wheels. 'Tis a morbid sentiment that wastes itself on the quarrelbetween the wheels and the road.'
'Ah, me! if I could but foresee the end of that bloody mire--the sweet,crisp path again! I can advance no further. My weak heart fails. Iwill go back to the wood.'
'Then back, a' God's name, so I come too.'
Bernardo rose and seized the Fool's hand, the tears streaming down hischeeks.
'This dreadful race--monsters all!' he cried. 'Is there one kind deedrecorded to its credit--one, one only, one little deed? Tell me, and ifthere is, by its memory I will persevere.'
'Humph! Should I wish thee to? Think again of that wood.'
'Tell me, kind, good Cicca, my nurse and friend.'
'Go to! Shalt not put a bone in my throat. Well, they are monsters,but made by that same brute Circumstance thou decriest. "Wavering outof chaos," says you? Very like, sir; but, after all, Circumstance isour head artist in a tuneless world. What a dull sing-song 'twould bewithout him--league-long choirs of saints praising God--a universe ofchirping crickets! With respect, sir, I, though his Fool, would not havehim caged in my time.'
'Alas, dear, for thine understanding! Love, that I would have deposehim, is ten thousand times his superior in art--ay, and in humour. Butgo on.'
'I doubt the humour. However, as things are, I owe to him, as do you,and Galeazzo--the Fool, the Saint, and the Monster. Could love conceivesuch a trio? But to the point. Hast ever heard speak of our Duke'sgrand-dad?'
'Muzio?'
'So he called himself, or was called, pretending to trace his descentfrom Mutius Scaevola the Roman. Flattery, you see, will make a brayingass of honesty. He was Giacommuzzo--just that; one of a family offighting yeomen. But he had points. Hast been told how he began?'
'No.'
'Why, he was digging turnips by the evening star in his father's farm atCotignola, when the sound of pipes and drums disturbed him. 'Twas someband of Boldrino of Panicale come to recruit from the fields; and theyhalted by the big man. "Be a soldier of fortune like us," says they;and he tossed his dusty hair from his eyes, and saw the glint of gold inbaldricks. He looked at the evening star, and 'twas pale beside.Borrowers glean the real heaven of credit in this topsy-turvy world.Look at any pool of water: what a glittering prospectus it makes of themoon! Muzzo flung his spade into an oak hard by, leaving the decisionto Circumstance. If it fell, he would resume it; if it stayed, asoldier he would be. It stuck in the branches.'
'Cicca!'
'Peace! I will tell thee. He fought up and down, but never back toCotignola. He put his ploughing shoulder to his work, and dug a furrowto fame. Popes and kings engaged for and against this Condottieri. Hetook them all to market like his beans. He knew the values of fear andmoney and discipline--bought over honour; wrenched treason by thejoints; flogged slackness for a rusty hinge in its armour; made warriorsof his rabble. Sought letters, too, to spur them on by legend.'
'All this is nothing.'
'He went to Mass every day----'
'Alas!'
'Cast his true plain wife, and took to bed the widow of Naples----'
'Alas! Alas!'
'And lost his life at Pescara, trying to save another.'
'Ah! How was that?'
'He had crossed the river on a blown tide, when he saw his pagea-drowning in the stream. "Poor lad," quoth he, "will none help thee?"And he dashed back, was overwhelmed himself, and sank. They saw hismailed hands twice rise and clutch the air. A' was never seen again.The waters were his tomb.'
Bernardo was silent.
'Was not that a creditable deed?' quoth the Fool.
The boy, pressing the tangled hair from his eyes, fev
erishly seized hiscomrade's hands in his own.
'God forgive me!' he cried; 'am I one to judge him, who have let myfather's friend go under, and never reached a hand?'
The Fool looked frankly amazed.
'Montano,' cried Bembo, 'whom, in my pride of place, I have forgotten!I will go down among the people where he lies, and seek to heal hiswounds, and sing Christ's parables to simple hearts. Love lies not inpalaces. I will seek Montano.'
'Come, then,' said Cicada.
'Nay, in a little,' said the boy. 'Let the kind night find us first. Iwill flaunt my creed no longer in the sun.'
From behind the barred door of Lupo's shop came the sound of muffledlaughter. The tragic incongruity of it in that house of ruin was atleast arresting enough to halt a pedestrian here and there on hispassage along the dark, wet-blown street outside. The mirth brokegustily, with little snarls at intervals, bestial and worrying; hearingwhich, the lingerer would perhaps hurry on his way with a shudder,crossing himself against, or spitting out like a bad odour, theinfluence of the fiend who had evidently got hold of the masterarmourer. _Libera nos a malo_!
The fiend, in fact, in possession was no other than Messer Montano'sCerberus, and its orgy, had the listener known it, had more thanjustified his apprehensions. The mirth which terrified his heart wasperhaps even a degree more deadly in its evocation than anything hecould imagine. It was really laughter so dreadful that, had he guessedits import, he had rushed, in an agony of self-vindication, to summonthe watch. But guessing nothing, unless it might be Lupo's madness underthe shock of his misfortunes, he simply crossed himself and hurriedaway.
Blood conspiracies are rarely successful. Perhaps a too scrupulousforethought against contingencies tends to clog the issues. If that isso, the recklessness of these men may, in a measure, have spelt theirpresent security. A laugh, after all, is less open to suspicion than awhisper. Who could imagine a fatal thrust in a guffaw? Nevertheless,every chuckle uttered here punctuated a stab.
In rehearsal only at present, it is true; but practice, good practice,sirs. The victim of the attack was a dummy, contrived suggestively torepresent Galeazzo. At least the habit made the man; and hate and astinging imagination supplied the rest.
It stood in a dusky corner by the dead forge. Not so much light aswould certainly guide a hand was allowed to fall upon it; for deeds ofdarkness, to be successful, must be prepared against darkness. Itsstuffed, daubed face, staring from out this gloom, was like nothinghuman. To catch sudden sight, within a vista of dim lamp-shine, of itsmotionless eyes and features warped with stabs, was to gasp and shrink,as if one had looked into a glass and seen Death reflected back. Itssuggestion of reality (and it possessed it) was to seek rather in velvetand satin; in a cunning, familiar disposition of its dress; in thesombre but profuse sparkle of artificial gems with which it was loopedand hung. Thence came a grotesque and wicked semblance to a doomedfigure. For the rest, in the bloodless slashes, gaping, rag-exuding,which had taken it cunningly in weak places--through the neck, under thegorget, between joints of the mail with which Lupo's craft had fittedit--there was a suggestiveness almost more horrible than truth.
It was in actual fact a sop to Cerberus, was this grisly-ludicrous doll,fruit of the decision (which had followed much discussion of ways andmeans) to postpone its prototype's murder to some occasion of publicfestivity, when the sympathies of the mob might be kindled and arevolution accomplished at a stroke. Politic Cerberus must neverthelesshave something to stay the gnawing and craving of a delayed revengewhich had otherwise corroded him. He took a ferociously boyish delightin fashioning this lay-figure, and, having made, in whetting his teethon it; in clothing it in purple and fine linen; in addressing itwheedlingly, or ironically, or brutally, as the mood swayed him. Andto-night his mood, stung by the tempest, perhaps, was unearthly in itswildness. It rose in fiendish laughter; it mocked the anguish of theblast, a threefold litany, now blended, now a trifurcating blasphemy.There were the roaring bass of Visconti, Lampugnani's smooth treble, thedeadly considered baritone of Olgiati. And, punctuating all, like thetap of a baton, flew the interjections of Messer Montano, theconductor:--
'Su! Gia-gia! Bravo, Carlo! That was a Brutus stroke! Uh-uh, Andrea!hast bled him there for arrears of wages! a scrap of gold-cloth, bySocrates! A brave sign, a bright token, Andrea!'
He chuckled and hugged himself, involuntarily embracing in the actionthe long pendant which hung from his roundlet or turban, andhalf-pulling the cap from his skull-like forehead.
'Death!' he screeched in an ecstasy, and Lampugnani, glancing at him,went off into husky laughter, and sank back, breathed, upon a bench.
'Cometh in a doctor's gown,' he panted. 'Nay, sir, bonnet! bonnet! orthe dummy will suspect you.'
He might have, himself, and with a better advantage to his fortunes,could he have penetrated the vestments of that drear philosophic heart.There was a secret there would have astounded _his_ self-assurance.Montano wore his doctor's robe, meetly as a master of rhetoric, not theleast of whose contemplated flights was one timely away from thatpolitical arena, whose gladiators in the meanwhile he was bent only oninflaming to a contest in which he had no intention of personallyparticipating. He had a fixed idea, his back and his principles beingstill painfully at odds, that the cause would be best served by hisabsence, when once the long train to the explosion he was engineeringhad been fired at his hand. And so he hugged himself, and Lampugnanilaughed.
'Look at Master Lupo, with the sound of thy screech in his ears! As ifhe thought we contemplated anything but to bring slashed Venetiandoublets into vogue!'
He was a large, fleshly creature, was this Lampugnani, needing somefastidious lust to stir him to action, and then suddenly violent. Hisface was big and vealy, with a mouth in its midst like a rabbit's,showing prominently a couple, no more, of sleek teeth. His eyes droopedunder lids so languid as to give him an affectation of fatigue inlifting them. His voice was soft, but compelling: he never lent it toplatitudes. An intellectual sybarite, a voluptuary by deliberation, hehad tested God and Belial, and pronounced for the less Philistinelordship of the beast. Quite consistent with his principles, he nothated, but highly disapproved of Galeazzo, who, as consistently, hadpardoned him some abominable crime which, under Francesco the father,had procured him the death sentence. But Messer Andrea had looked for amore sympathetic recognition of his merits at the hands of his delivererthan was implied in an ill-paid lieutenancy of Guards; and his exclusionfrom a share in the central flesh-pots was a conclusive proof to him ofthe aesthetic worthlessness of the master it was his humility to serve.
The Visconti, at whom he breathed his little laugh, was a contrast tohim in every way--a bluff, stout-built man, with fat red chaps flushingthrough a skin of red hair, a braggadocio manner, and small eyes redwith daring. There was nothing of his house's emblematic adder abouthim, save a readiness with poisons; and after all, that gave him noparticular distinction. He took a great, stertorous pull at a flagon ofwine, and smacked his lips bullyingly, before he answered with a roar:--
'Wounds! scarlet scotched on a ground of flesh-tint--a fashion willplease our saint.'
Montano chuckled again, and more shrilly.
'Good, good!' he cried: 'scarlet on flesh!' and he squinted roguishly atthe blind smith, who sat beside him on a bench, nervously kneadingtogether his wasted hands.
'Messers,' muttered the poor fellow; 'but will this holy boy approve themeans to such a fashion? For Love to exalt himself by blood!'
He turned his sightless eyes instinctively towards Olgiati, where theboy stood, a dark, fatalistic young figure, breathing himself by theforge. He, he guessed, or perhaps knew, was alone of the companyactuated by impersonal motives in this dread conspiracy. But he did notguess that, by so much as the young man was a pure fanatic of liberty,his hand and purpose were the most of all to be dreaded.
Olgiati gave a melancholy smile, and, stirring a little, looked down.He was habited, as were his two
companions, for the occasion--arecurrent dress-rehearsal--in a coat and hose of mail, and a jerkin ofcrimson satin. It was not the least significant part of his undertakingthat he, like the others, was court-bred and court-employed. The fact,at its smallest, implied in them a certain anatomic-cum-sartorialacquaintance with their present business.
'_Offerimus tibi, Domine, Calicem salutaris!_' he quoted from the Mass,in his sweet, strong voice. 'Hast thou not a first example of thatexaltation, Lupo, in the oblation of the chalice?'
Revolution knows no blasphemy.
'Bah!' grumbled Visconti.
'He died for men: we worship the sacrifice of Himself,' protested thearmourer.
'And shall not Messer Bembo sacrifice himself, his scruples and hisreluctances, that love may be exalted over hate, mercy over tyranny?'asked Olgiati.
'I know not, Messer,' muttered the suffering armourer. 'I cannot tracethe saint in these sophistries, that is all.'
'True, he is a saint,' conceded Lampugnani, yawning as he lolled. 'Now,what is a saint, Lupo?'
'O, Messer! look on his mother's son, and ask!'
'Why, that is the true squirrel's round. We are all born of women'--heyawned again.
'They bear us, and we endure them,' he murmured smilingly, the water inhis eyes. 'It is so we retaliate on their officiousness.'
Montano tittered.
'Lupo,' Lampugnani went on, lazily stirring himself, 'you suggest to metwo-thirds of a syllogism: _I_ am my mother's son; therefore I am asaint.'
'Ho! ho!' hooted Visconti.
'Messer,' entreated the bewildered armourer, 'with respect, it turnsupon the question of the mother.'
'The mother? O dog, to question the repute of mine!'
'I did not--no, never.'
'Well, who was his?'
'None knows. A star, 'tis said.'
'Venus, of course. And his father?'
'Some son of God, perchance.'
'Ay, Mars. He was that twain's by-blow, and fell upon an altar. I knownow how saints are made. Yet shall we, coveting sanctity, wish ourparents bawds? 'Tis a confusing world!'
He sank back as if exhausted, while Montano chirped, and Visconti roaredwith laughter.
'Saints should be many in it, Andrea,' he applauded. 'Knows how they aremade, quotha!' and he stamped about, holding his sides till, reelingnear to the dummy, he paused, and made a savage lunge at it with hisdagger. His mood changed on the instant.
'Death!' he snarled, 'I warrant here's one hath propagated some saintsto his undoing!' and he went muttering a rosary of curses under hisbreath.
Lampugnani, smilingly languid, continued:--
'Well, Lupo, so Messer Bembo is the son of his mother? It seems likeenough--what with his wheedling and his love-locks. He shall be SaintCupid on promotion. I think he will regard scarlet or pink as noobjectionable fashion, does it come to make a god of him.'
The armourer uttered an exclamation:--
'Some think him that already. It is the question of his coming to beDuke that hips me. I can't see him there.'
'Nor I,' said Visconti, with a sarcastic laugh.
Olgiati interposed quietly:--
'Have comfort, Lupo. We are all good republicans. The exaltation ofMesser Bembo is to be provisional only, preceding the consummation. Heis to be lifted like the Host, to bring the people to their knees, andthen lowered, and----'
'Put away,' said Lampugnani blandly.
The armourer started to his feet in agitation.
'Messers!' he cried, 'he poured oil into my wounds; I will consent to nosuch wickedness.'
'_You_ won't?' roared Visconti; but Lampugnani soothed him down.
'When I said "put away," I meant in a tabernacle, like that sacredbread. I assure you, Lupo, he is the rose of our adoration also; heshall cultivate his thorn in peace; he shall wax fat like Jeshurun, andkick.'
'And in the meantime,' grumbled Visconti, 'we are measuring our fishbefore we've hooked him.'
Lampugnani's face took on a very odd expression.
'What the devil's behind that?' hectored the bully.
'O, little!' purred the other. 'I fancy I feel him nibble, that's all.Perhaps you don't happen to know how he hath cut his connection with thepalace?'
'What! When?'
They all jumped to stare at him.
'This day,' he said, 'in offence of some carrion of Galeazzo's which hehad nosed out. The poor boy is particular in his tastes, for ashambles--ran like a sheep from the slaughter-house door, taking hisPatch with him, and a ring her Grace had loaned him for a safe-conduct.I heard it said she would have been ravished of anything rather--by him.'Twas her lord's troth-gift. The castle is one fume of lamentation.'
Montano, rubbing his lean hands between his knees, went into a rejoicingchatter:--
'We have him, we have him! Gods! who's here?'
Their intentness had deafened them some minutes earlier to a moremouthing note in the thunder of the rain, as if the swell of the tempesthad been opened an instant and shut. The moment, in fact, and amaster-key, had let in a new comer. He had closed the latch behind him,and now, seeing himself observed, stood ducking and lowering in theblinking light. The philosopher heaved a tremulous sigh of relief.
'Narcisso!'
The hulking creature grinned, and stabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
'Hist! him you speak of's out there, a-seeking your worship.'
'Seeking _me_? Messer Bembo?'
'Why not? A' met him at the town gate half-drowned, with his Patch toheel. The report of his running was got abroad, and, thinks I tomyself, here's luck to my masters. To take him on the hop of grievancelike----'
Montano seemed to sip the phrase:--
'Exactly: on the hop of grievance. Well?'
'Why, I spoke him fair: "Whither away, master?" A' spat a saintlyword--'twere a curse in a sinner--and sprang back, a' did, glaring atme. But the great Fool pushed him by. "You're the man," says he."Desperation knows its fellows. Where's Montano?" "Why, what would youwith him?" says I, taken off my guard. "A salve for his wounds," heanswered. And so I considered a bit, and brought 'em on, and there theywait.'
Visconti uttered a furious oath, but Lampugnani hushed him down.
'Didst well, pretty innocence,' he said to Narcisso. 'The hop ofgrievance?--never a riper moment. Show in your friends.'
He was serenely confident of his policy--waved all protest aside.
'I see my way: the hook is baited: let him bite.'
'Bite?' growled Visconti. 'And what about our occupation here?'
'Why, 'tis testing mail, nothing more. Is a lay-figure in an armoury sostrange?'
'Ay, when 'tis a portrait-model.'
'O glowing tribute to my art! I designed the doll, true. You make melook down, sir, and simper and bite my finger. Yet my mind misgives methou flatterest. A portrait-model, yes; but will he recognise of whom?'
'The knave may--the shrewder fool of the pair.'
'The greater fool will testify to me? O happy artist! Well, if he do, Iwill still account him naught. He will take the bait also. The shadowswims and bites with the fish. Besides, should this befall, 'twill savemayhap a world of preliminaries. Remember that "hop of grievance." Hecomes, it seems, in a mood to jump with ours. Let them in.'
Like souls salvaged from a wreck they came--the Fool propping theSaint--staggering in by the door. Grief and storm and weariness hadrobbed the boy of speculation, almost of his senses. His drenched hairhung in ropes, his wild eyes stared beneath like a frightened doe's, hisclothes slopped on his limbs.
Narcisso struggled with the door and closed it.
Suddenly Bernardo, lifting his dazed lids, caught sight of the shadowedlay-figure, recoiled, and shrieking out hoarsely:--'Galeazzo! Thou! OGod, doomed soul!' tottered and slid through Cicada's limp arms upon thefloor. Instantly Narcisso was down by his side, and fumbling with hishands.
'A's in a swound,' he was beginning, when, with a rush and heav
e, theFool sent him wallowing.
'Darest thou, hog! darest thou! Go rub thy filthy hoofs in ambergrisfirst!' and he squatted, snarling and showing his teeth.
Narcisso rose, to a chorus of laughter, and stood grinning and rubbinghis head.
'Well, I never!' he said.
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