* * *
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.”
Light on Lucrezia Page 37
