Leonora D'Orco: A Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XL.

  Days flew; the wife of the prefect arrived at Imola; Ramiro d'Orcowent out to meet her at a league's distance from the city; no honour,no attention did he neglect; the guards at the gates received herdrawn up in martial array; and in the palace which had been engagedfor her, at the foot of the great staircase, Leonora waited with hermaids to welcome the young wife of him whom she had so tenderly loved.

  It was a strange meeting between these two girls--for both were yetgirls--neither twenty years of age. They both gazed upon each otherwith curious, scrutinizing eyes; but their feelings were verydifferent. Eloise de Chaumont marvelled at Leonora's wonderfulbeauty--at the profusion of her jetty hair--at the softened lustre ofher large, full, shaded eyes--at the delicate carving of the evervarying features--at the undulating grace, flowing, with everymovement of her rounded, symmetrical limbs, into some new form ofloveliness. She thought, "Well, she is beautiful, indeed! No wonderLorenzo loved her. But, on my faith, she does not appear one to treatany man cruelly. I should rather think she would yield at love's firstsummons."

  Leonora, on the other hand, though she was calm and perfectlycomposed, felt matter for pain in the gaze which Eloise fixed uponher. She could plainly see that Lorenzo's wife knew of the love whichhad once existed between him and herself. "Perhaps he himself had toldher of it--and how had he told it? Had he boasted that he had won herheart and then cast her off? She would not believe it. Notwithstandingall, she believed him to be noble still. He might be fickle; butLorenzo could not be base. Oh yes, fickle he was even to Eloise," shethought. "From every report which had reached her, he had soon weariedof her who had supplanted the first love of his heart."

  A certain wavering look of grief, which came from time to time intothe countenance of Eloise, showed that she too was somehowdisappointed, and a strange, unnatural bond of sympathy seemed toestablish itself between two hearts the most opposite in feelings andin principles, the least likely, from circumstances, to be linkedtogether.

  They passed nearly an hour together; and Eloise promised on thefollowing day to come and partake of a banquet at the villa on thehill. She had a sort of caressing way with her which was very winning;and when Leonora told her she must go, for that Leonardo, the greatpainter, waited her at home, she took the once promised bride of herhusband in her arms, and held her there for a moment, kissing hercheek tenderly. "You are very beautiful," she whispered; "well may thepainter take you for his model!"

  Leonora blushed and disengaged herself; and, though she was still calmas a statue externally, many an hour passed before her heart recoveredfrom the agitation of that interview.

  She was destined to feel more emotion, too, that day. Leonardo deVinci waited her as she expected, and at once proceeded to his work.While Ramiro d'Orco remained, the painter was nearly silent; but assoon as the baron was gone, he began to speak; and his speech wascruel upon poor Leonora. He asked her many questions regarding herlate meeting with Lorenzo's wife, made her describe Eloise, andcommented as she spoke.

  Then he began to ask questions as to the past--not direct andintrusive, but such as forced indirectly much of the truth fromLeonora regarding her own feelings and her view of Lorenzo'sconduct--and the painter meditated gloomily. He had not yet mentionedLorenzo's name, but at length it was spoken with a melancholy allusionto the many chances, deceits, and accidents which might bring disunionbetween two hearts both true.

  Leonora burst into tears, and, starting up, exclaimed, "I cannot--Icannot, my friend. If you would have my picture, forbear! Cometo-morrow; to-day I can bear no more."

  So saying, she left the room, and Leonardo remained in thought,sometimes gazing at the picture he had commenced, sometimes at thepallet in his hand, figuring in fancy strange forms and glowinglandscapes out of the colours daubed upon it. But though the eye, andthe fancy, and the imagination had occupation, the reasoning mind,which has a strange faculty of separating itself from things whichseem its attributes, nay, even parts of its essence, to thesuperficial eye, was busy with matters altogether different. It wasengaged with Leonora and her fate.

  "This is strange--this is unaccountable," he thought; "she loves himstill; she always has loved him. She casts the blame of theirseparation on him; and he--miserable young man!--thinks her to blame,and has put a seal upon his own wretchedness by marrying yon lightpiece of vanity whom I saw in Rome. Pride, pride! How muchwretchedness would be spared if people would condescend to explain;and yet perhaps there has been some dark work under this; it must beso, or some explanation would have taken place. I will search it tothe bottom. I will know the whole ere I am done. They cannot, theyshall not baffle me."

  He started up, laid down his pallet and his brushes, and then, aftergazing at the picture for a moment, took his way down the few stepswhich led from Leonora's saloon down to a little flower-garden, shadedby some pine-trees, in a quiet nook at the end of the terrace. Twomarble steps brought him to the terrace itself, and, hurrying alongits broad expanse, not without feeling and noticing the beauty of theview, Leonardo reached the wide avenue, lined with stone-pines, whichled to the gates of the gardens.

  About half way down he met a man coming leisurely up; and, as hisall-noting eye fell upon him, the painter suddenly stopped, saying:

  "Who are you, my friend? I know your face right well, and yet I cannotattach a name to it."

  "I know yours too, signor," replied the other; "but there is adifference between Leonardo da Vinci, the great master, and poorAntonio, the humble friend and servant of Lorenzo Visconti; the onename will live for ever, the other will never be known. I met you andspoke to you once or twice at Belgiojoso in happier days."

  "Ay, I recollect you now," said Leonardo; "but how happens it, myfriend, that you are going up to the villa of the Signor d'Orco andhis daughter?"

  "I was going to see the young signora," replied Antonio. "I do notperceive why I should not. I have ever loved her in my humble way, andlove her still; for, to tell the truth, signer maestro, I cannotbelieve that she has ever wilfully ill-treated one whom I love betterstill."

  "Nor I--nor I, Antonio," cried the painter, eagerly grasping his arm;"she believes that he has ill-treated her."

  "Nay, God knows, not that," replied Antonio. "Oh, had you seen how hepined, signor, for the least news of her, or how his heart was tornand moved when his letters were returned with nothing but a scrap ofher handwriting, contemptuous in its tone and meaning, you would knowat once he is not to blame."

  "Nor she either, by my hopes of Heaven!" cried Leonardo. "But comewith me, good friend--come with me. You cannot see the lady--she isill; and I have matter for your own private ear. There is some darkmystery here, which I fain would unravel with your aid. I am resoluteto sound it to the very depth."

  "But how can we do that?" said Antonio; "those who have kept theirsecrets so well and so long, are not likely to let it slip out oftheir hands now. These are no babes we have deal with, signor, and ifRamiro d'Orco is at the bottom of it, you might as well hope to seethrough a block of stone as to discover anything that is in his mind."

  "He has no share in it, I think," answered Leonardo, after a moment'sthought. "He is a man moved solely by his ambition or his interests;and all his interests would have led him to seek this marriage ratherthan break it off. Not a man in Italy, who seeks to gain a seat uponthe hill of power, but looks to the King of France to lend a helpinghand, and this breach between his daughter and Lorenzo tends more toRamiro's destruction than his elevation. Do you not know some one whohas some ancient grudge or desperate enmity towards our youngprefect?"

  Antonio started as if some one had struck him a blow. The truth, thewhole truth, flashed upon his mind at once.

  "The villain!" he murmured; "but, to expose him altogether, and todiscover all, we must, we must be very careful. I do know such a man,Signor Leonardo; but let us be very secret or we may frighten him.Satan was never more cunning, Moloch more cruel. He was bred up in aschool of blood and craft, and we must speak of him in
whispers tillwe can grasp him by the neck. Let us be silent as we pass through thetown. There, at your lodgings in the inn, after seeing that all thedoors are closed, and no one eaves-dropping around, I will tell youall I know, and leave you to judge if my suspicions are right."

  Not a word more was spoken; and as the results of the conversationwhich took place between them after they reached the "Keys of St.Peter" will be developed hereafter, it were mere waste of time torelate it in this place.

  Some words, sad, but true, may, indeed, be noted.

  "For our own heart's ease," said Leonardo, "we had better solve alldoubts; but yet what skills it? They can never be happy. Lorenzo'srash marriage puts an everlasting bar between them."

  "I will not only solve all doubts, but I will punish the traitor,"said Antonio; "for, if we let him escape he may do more mischiefstill. He shall die for his pains, if my own hand does it. But I thinkI have a better hold on him than that; I will make him over to astronger hand."

  That day came and went. There was a great banquet at the villa ofRamiro d'Orco, which passed as such banquets usually do, and was onlymarked by one expression of the Countess Visconti when she was led byLeonora through her own private apartments. She was pleasedparticularly with the beautiful saloon, and the sweet retired gardenon the terrace with the steps between.

  "Oh! what a charming spot to meet a lover!" she said, gazinglaughingly into Leonora's eyes.

  "I meet no lover here but my own thoughts," replied Leonora; and theconversation dropped.

  The next day every one of distinction was invited to the house of theyoung countess; and it seemed strange to Leonora to find there severalgentlemen, both French and Italian, arrived that day from Rome. Theywere evidently very intimate with the fair Eloise, but she wassomewhat on her guard, and nothing appeared to shock or offend,although Leonora thought:

  "If I had a husband, I would not waste so many smiles on other men."

  Balls, festas, parties of pleasure through the country round succeededduring the ensuing week, chequered but not saddened by the news thatthere had been hard fighting at Forli, where lay the army of the Dukeof Valentinois, assisted by the French under Lorenzo Visconti, andthat the town, besieged by them, still held out. Imola had never seensuch gay doings; and Leonora, at her father's desire, took part in allthe festivities of the time, admired, sought, courted, but apparentlyindifferent to all. Strange to say she seemed at once to have won theregard, if not the affections of Eloise Visconti. When there was nogay flatterer near her, she must have the society of her beautifulLeonora; and certainly there was something wonderfully engaging inEloise when she chose. There might be something in her manner, evenapart from her demeanour toward men, which created a doubt, asuspicion in the bosom of a pure-minded woman; but yet it was soonforgotten in her apparent child-like simplicity.

  Leonardo da Vinci did not seem to love her; her beauty was not of thestyle that pleased him, and when asked to paint her portrait hedeclined, alleging that he had undertaken more than he couldaccomplish already. His portrait of Leonora made more progress in aweek than any work he had ever undertaken. The head was finished, thelimbs and the drapery sketched out; but when he had arrived at aboutthe tenth sitting, he requested to have easel and picture both broughtdown to the citadel, where a large room was assigned to him. Itfatigued him, he said, to go to the villa every day; and, havingfinished the face and head, the few more sittings which were requiredcould be given him there whenever he found it necessary to ask them.Leonora willingly consented to come at his call; and for several dayshe worked diligently for nearly twelve hours a day, shut up in thehall where he painted, or in a small room adjoining, where he kept theimplements of his art.

  It was on Tuesday, the 19th of September, early in the morning, thatLeonora received a brief note from the great painter, looselytranslatable as follows:

  "Most beautiful and excellent Lady,--Though to your perfections mypicture owes an excellence which the painter could never have givenfrom his mere mind, yet there are wants which time and observationhave enabled me to detect. Come to me, then, if it be possible, atfour this evening, and enable me to supply those graces which hadpreviously escaped me. Be as beautiful as possible, and, for thatobject, as gay. Might I commend to you the depth of two fingersbreadths of that fine old Pulciano wine before you come? It heightenedyour colour, I saw, when last you tasted it; and I want a little moreof the red in the cheek."

  Leonora was punctual to the appointment, and Leonardo, meeting her atthe door of the hall, led her round by the back of the picture to thesmall room I have mentioned, saying, "You must not see it now till itis finished." Then, seating her in a large arm-chair, he stood andgazed at her for a moment, saying, laughingly, "You must be content tobe stared at, for I wish to take down every shade of expression in thenote-book of my mind, and write it out upon the picture in the otherroom." After a few minutes, changing her attitude once or twice, andchanging her hair to suit his fancy, he went out into the hall, andengaged himself upon the picture.

  For some five minutes Leonora satin solitude, and all seemed silencethrough the citadel. Then came some noise in the courtyard below--theclatter of horses feet and voices speaking; and then some steps uponthe flight of stairs which led up to the grand apartments of thecastle. All these sounds were so usual, however, that in themselvesthey could excite no emotion. But yet Leonora turned somewhat pale.There was something in the sound of the step of one of those whomounted the stairs which recalled other days to her mind. It might beheavier, firmer, less elastic, but yet it was very like Lorenzo'stread. Who ever forgets the footstep of one we have loved?

  Before she could consider long, Leonardo da Vinci came back to her,and seeming to have noticed nothing that went on without, took hisplace before her, and gazed at her again. He had nearly closed thedoor behind him, but not quite, and the next moment a step was heardin the adjoining hall, and some one speaking.

  "This is the saloon, my lord," said the voice of Antonio, opening thedoor of the hall. "There it stands; and a masterpiece of art it is. Iwill now tell the Signor Ramiro that you are here; but I will goslowly, so you will have time."

  The well-know step sounded across the marble pavement of the hall, atfirst firm and strong, then less regular, then weak and unsteady.

  Next came a silent pause, and Leonora could hear her heart beat in thestillness; and then a voice was raised in lamentation.

  "Oh, Leonora! Leonora!" it cried, "had you been but as true as you arebeautiful, what misery would you have spared the heart that loved youas never woman before was loved! Had you but told me to pour out thelast drop of life's blood in my veins at your feet, you had been kind,not cruel; but you have condemned me to endless tortures for havingloved--nay, for loving you still too well!"

  Leonardo da Vinci took Leonora's hand as if he would have led hertowards the door, but she snatched it from him, and covered her eyes,while her whole frame shook as if with an ague-fit.

  The speaker in the hall was silent; but then came once more the soundof steps upon the stairs, and Lorenzo's voice exclaimed, "Oh, God!have they given me but this short moment?" and his steps could beheard retreating towards the door. Then the voice of Ramiro d'Orco washeard saluting him in courteous terms, and the sound died awayaltogether.

  Profound silence reigned in the hall and in the little room adjoining;but at length Leonora took her hands from her eyes, and said, in amournful and reproachful tone, "If you have done this, you have beenvery cruel."

  "I did it not," answered Leonardo; "but yet I am right glad it hashappened. You accuse him of having been faithless to you, he accusesyou of having been fickle to him. Both have been betrayed, my child.Both have been true, though both may be wretched."

  "But what matters it to either of us?" said Leonora, almost sternly;"the time has passed, the die is cast, and there is no retrieving thefatal throw."

  "And yet," said Leonardo da Vinci, "to a fine mind, methinks it mustbe a grand and noble satisfaction to discover that one we lo
ved, butdoubted or condemned, had been accused unjustly--that we have notloved unworthily--that the high qualities, the noble spirit, thegenerous, sincere, and tender heart, were not vain dreams of fancy oraffection, but steadfast truths of God's own handiwork, which we hadreverenced and loved as the finest gifts of the Almighty Benefactor.You may not feel this now, Leonora, in the bitterness ofdisappointment, but the time will come when such thoughts will becomfort and consolation to you--when you will glory and feel pride inhaving loved and been loved by such a man."

  Leonora snatched his hand and kissed it warmly. "Thank you," she said,"thank you. To-night or to-morrow I shall have to meet him in public,and your words will give me strength. Now that I know him worthy as Ionce thought him, I shall glory in his renown, as you have well said;for my Lorenzo's spirit, I feel, is married to mine, though our handsmust be for ever disunited. Farewell, my friend, farewell. I will nolonger regret this accident; it has had its bitter, but it has itssweet also;" and, clasping her hands together, she exclaimed almostwildly, "Oh, yes, I am loved, I am loved--still loved!"

  She arose from her chair as if to go, but then, catching hold of thetall back, she said, "Let me crave you, Signor Leonardo, bid some ofthe attendants order my jennet round to the back of the palace. I amwonderfully weak, and I fear my feet would hardly carry me in searchof them myself."

  "I will go with you to the villa," said Leonardo. "My horse is herebelow. Sit you still in that chair till I return, and meditate strongthoughts, not weak ones. Pause not on tender recollections, butrevolve high designs, and your mind will recover strength, and yourbody through your mind."