Mistrust had insinuated itself into Isabella's heart, like an asp into a nest. Troilo's cruel words rang incessantly in her ears; she saw his cowardly suspicion, she felt that she might even be betrayed and accused by him; and gazing into this abyss of crime, she was overpowered by a moral tremor, not unlike the physical shudder which one experiences while looking down an Alpine precipice; she therefore took every means to avoid meeting Troilo, or if she did meet him, was always accompanied by some one. On the other hand, the necessity of keeping Lelio Torelli near her increased, and the attention of the youth, his devotion, and diligence in pleasing her, could not but make Isabella regard him with singular affection. Destined, as it were, always to be imprudent, she did not consider that the boy was fast approaching manhood, and that at his age the passions overwhelm the soul like a hurricane: she did not fear, she did not even perceive the fatal passion that consumed Lelio. Only instead of kissing him on the forehead as she used when he was a boy, she sometimes smoothed his beautiful hair, and patted him kindly on the cheek, as a mother might caress a dear son; and let him who now feels the ardor of a first love, or has once felt it, judge if this was not adding fuel to the flame. Almost always absorbed in her own imminent danger, Isabella did not care for, or perhaps notice certain acts of Lelio, that in a more peaceful frame of mind she would easily have understood. When she walked in the garden, for she now rarely left the house, she often became so lost in thought, that in order to avoid the trees or statues, she took Lelio's arm, and as her feelings prompted, would press it more or less, so that her soul was, by these means, transfused into the youth more vividly than by an electric shock, and he gazed upon her with long, passionate looks, and drank deep draughts of the poison that had already irremediably darkened his very life.

How changed was Torelli's face! One could hardly have told his age; his lips were parted and burning like a man consumed with tormenting thirst, his cheeks thin and hollow, and often bathed with perspiration. The fatal passion, planted like a dagger in his heart, had given birth to so many disorders of his nervous system, that the slightest emotion would cause him to tremble from head to foot, for many minutes; his veins were swollen, and at every slight movement his breast would heave as if about to burst; a continual anxiety tortured him: when any sudden light burst upon him, myriads of sparks or a dizzy mist would veil his eyesight; he had a painful beating in his temples, his food was distasteful to him, his nights were sleepless, or full of frightful dreams. Such misery could not, and did not last.

It was the evening of a most beautiful day in June: the last rays of the setting sun bathed half the globe in a clear golden light, and when this light died away five brilliant rays were diffused over the blue canopy of heaven, representing to the awakened fancy the hand of the Creator, peacefully extended to bless all nature: the triumphal leaves of the laurel, the pointed myrtle, the dented oak, and all the multiform family of trees seemed so distinctly outlined on this glorious field, that one might almost have counted them: the evening wind stirred the topmost branches, which, swaying to and fro, seemed as if interchanging mysterious words; the birds, before closing their eyes to sleep, sang, with the sweetest notes that nature teaches, and that nature alone can teach, a hymn to the Lord; the rivulet, breaking over the stones, did not seem to weep, but to murmur joyfully in its noisy babbling; sweet odors arose from the open chalices of the flowers; with all the powers granted by heaven to created things, the sky, the earth, and the waters seemed vieing with each other in testifying their gratitude towards the Great Father of the universe, and an enchantment sprang from all, and a voice arose, which seemed to say,—We are born to love!

Isabella had come out upon the terrace, and sitting there, leaned her arm upon Lelio's shoulder, and supported her face upon her hand; her eyes uplifted, she seemed a Niobe, or rather a penitent Magdalen, as the noble imagination of Guido afterwards conceived her. This attitude of prayer, of mute sorrow, and of weary peace was almost unearthly to look upon: misfortune had indeed faded her beauty; the slow fever that consumed her life veiled it in a sad cloud, but still her brow appeared, as ever, of wonderful loveliness—beautiful as that of a fallen angel!

She gazed upon the heavens, and Lelio upon her, for in the lady's face he saw his heaven; and thus he remained absorbed and motionless as a statue; his eyes were filled with tears, that flowed abundantly down his cheeks without anguish or any other sensation; as I have sometimes seen the dew gathered in the hollow of some statue's eyes, so that it seemed to be weeping; then his tears ceased to flow, his eyes became dry and dilated, glittering with an evil light, a tremor like the chill of a fever spread through him; suddenly, scarce knowing what he did, overcome by a power stronger than himself, he threw his arms round Isabella, and covered her face, neck, and bosom with kisses, with such convulsive madness, such great passion, that in truth it was deserving of pity, for one would have said,—This youth pours out his soul in these kisses.

Isabella, taken for a moment by surprise, resumed the haughtiness of her offended dignity, and more than dignity, her royal pride, and trembling herself, but from intense scorn, pushed the young page violently from her, and unlocked her arm from his; then without a word, her eyes sparkling, she walked to her room that opened upon the terrace: Lelio, trance-like, followed her, as if unconscious of what he had done. Isabella quickly approached a table, and took a little silver bell resolutely in her hand; then paused suddenly, as if "at war 'twixt will and will not;" already a milder thought seemed to bloom amid this storm of passion, although anger predominated; as we sometimes see the fury of the winds striving with the fury of the waves; but when the wind is calmed, and the glorious light of the sun again shining forth, the roaring of the angry and turbulent billows still continues. After some hesitation, the first impulse conquered, and she rang the bell twice, once was not enough; a valet appeared, to whom the Duchess said:—"Send the major-domo."

The major-domo, after some delay, entered to receive the commands of the Duchess. Don Inigo was a Spaniard by birth, as faithful and discreet as a good Toledo blade; he never laughed, beyond what was absolutely necessary; one hardly heard him speak three words in a month; robust in form, haughty in aspect, bilious in temperament,—who knows what ever passed in the mind of such a man? He was as secret as the grave.

"My Lady," he said, bowing.

"Don Inigo, our page, Lelio, has expressed a wish to return to the home of his aged parents, and it does not seem right in us to oppose so natural a desire. His mother, poor woman! who knows with how many prayers she recalls him, and it would seem cruelty to refuse her this consolation. She will see her son improved in every kind of accomplishment that is required in a gentleman; she will see him honorable, honest, and, above all, innocent, and may he be the pride of her life. Don Inigo, you will accompany Lelio to Fermo, and say to his parents that he has always been a good and honest page, that he leaves with us the loving memory of a son, that in anything wherein my influence can aid him, it shall be my pleasure to exert it: assure his mother especially that depraved habits have no power over him, that I complain of nothing in the youth, except certain boyish faults, too bold, but which time will surely remedy, because they are boyish ones; nevertheless, I advise her to select from among the young ladies of Fermo, one who, by her beauty, her sweet manners, and tender love, may subdue a spirit of too much ardor, a heart that is not without some passion. You will take with you, Inigo, his white jennet, with all its crimson-velvet trappings, his clothes, and everything that belongs to him, so that nothing of his may remain with us, that we have given him or intend to give. From the wardrobe of the Duke, our husband, select a chain, and a medallion to be affixed to his cap, and put it in his valise; also a hundred gold sequins, and an ample certificate showing his valued services, which you will sign and seal with our ducal signet. If the youth should not be well, take one of our coaches, and in our name take the post-horses, which will be given you, and set out at any rate. Tomorrow's sun must not see you in Florence. Adieu!"

She then raised her right hand, and gave the signal with which pride waves humility to depart. But, as if anxious to soften the harshness of the act, she added:

"Go, Lelio, we shall ever wish you happiness, and be most glad to hear of your prosperity."

Don Inigo could not understand the necessity of wasting so many words upon so small a matter, deeming the word—"Go," sufficient; except what was requisite concerning the horse, the sequins, the medallion and chain; but, before troubling himself with all this conversation, he had resolved not to pay any attention to it. Lelio, with downcast face, his body bent, as if broken by the weight of sorrow that was laid upon him, followed the major-domo like a criminal following the executioner who leads him to death.

Isabella gazed after him, until the door closed and hid him from her sight, then striking both hands upon her head, exclaimed:

"Ah, unfortunate woman that I am! How many are made unhappy for me!"

Isabella remained alone in the room, which was her bridal chamber. The room was divided into two parts; one had three windows looking upon a spacious terrace, and hung with green damask curtains, embroidered with the Medici and Orsini arms; around the room, at equal distances, were some medallions in bas-relief of marble in large gilded frames, representing portraits of different members of the family; two doors opposite each other, at the further extremity of the room, had large pilasters of marble, and over each door a triangular cornice, in the centre of which stood a bust made of different kinds of marble, the head being white, the remainder variegated, while the door beneath was hung with two curtains fringed with gold; in the corners were two large blue Chinese, or rather Japanese, vases, with large carved heads for handles, and other ornaments of silver, most skilfully worked; placed against the walls were two ebony cabinets beautifully inlaid with mother of pearl; the chairs and benches were also of ebony, covered with green damask; in the centre of the room stood a table of ebony and silver of the same workmanship as the cabinets. The first section terminated in an arch, which sprung from a cornice supported by columns, the bases and capitals of which were of gilded bronze of the Corinthian order, but the twisted shafts were fluted and girded round with wreaths of bronze myrtle leaves; the entrance of the alcove was covered by curtains of damask. In this alcove was the bed, of immense size, and loaded, rather than ornamented, with carvings of little cupids, leaves, fruits, and feathers enough to bewilder one who lay beneath them; to describe the quantity of furniture, ornaments, and articles of all kinds, would be wearisome; it is sufficient for us to know, that by the bedside stood a table upon a pedestal two feet high, with the crucifix and the Madonna upon it on one side, and St. John on the other; this table, by means of certain springs, turned upon hinges fixed in the wall, disclosing a secret door, which led by a winding staircase to some rooms on the ground floor, little frequented by the servants.

The shadows of night had rested long upon the earth, before Isabella called her maid and ordered her to light the lamp upon the table, and then to retire. Having asked if she should not assist her in undressing, Isabella answered shortly, "I will do it myself;"—and again dismissing her, went to the door and drew the bolt, so that no one could enter.

A prey to her own thoughts, she began to pace the room, with steps now slow, now rapid: she stopped for a moment and gazed at the lamp. Of singular workmanship, it recalled ornaments, men, and times of which we have but an uncertain account; it was of bronze, and presented in front an elephant's head, from whose uplifted trunk issued the flame; seen in profile, it was a swan, whose neck leaning on the breast, formed the handle; the foot was a Medusa's head with the mouth open, through which the oil was poured in; beneath was another large head, which, with the other parts of the lamp, formed an ingenious whole. Isabella, looking intently at it, thought less of the ruin of the people to whom it had belonged, than of her mother, who had given it to her, together with many other Etruscan antiquities found at the excavations made at Castiglione della Pescaia. Eleonora of Toledo was indeed a woman of cruel temperament, proud spirit, and by nature little disposed to pardon; yet the mother's heart must have been touched to have seen her deserted daughter, now, by the departure of Lelio, entirely deprived of any friend on whom to rely. Isabella endeavored to collect her wandering thoughts, in order to lead them to solve the present difficulty, but, like unbridled horses, they overcame her reasoning powers, and roved hither and thither in a thousand different directions, as her varying emotions agitated her brain; she wearied herself with seeking, but her mind lay extended before her, barren of any means of safety, as an African desert appears destitute of any tree or shelter to a caravan.

Tired of this state of mind she finally moved towards the bed; she raised the drapery of the alcove, and passed within, letting it fall behind her: the bed, neat beyond all comparison, had white sheets from the looms of Holland, trimmed with Malines lace, and a dimity counterpane embroidered with exquisite skill; her careful maid had scattered fresh roses and orange blossoms upon it, so that it seemed indeed a nuptial couch. Isabella folded down the sheet, as one does when opening a bed to lie down; she went no further, however, but stood motionless near it.

"Behold," she said, after gazing at it for some time, "my nuptial bed is as pure and fresh as on my bridal night; it is as white, as soft as the breast of a swan; yet is not the miserable pallet of a beggar less contaminated in the eyes of God than this? Upon my pillow are two sharp points, and whether I turn to the right or to the left, they pierce my temples;—they are adultery and murder; for these two thoughts are twin-born, and I know it. Here at the head of the bed, stands a demon, against whom holy water is of no avail; he flaps his wings, and showers down upon the sleeper feverish dreams and fearful fancies. Yet here I once had nights of heavenly rest; here I was first honored with the title of mother; here taking my rest, I have thought that should my sleep be eternal, my soul might hope to be received as a guest in the celestial mansions. I remember the moment when Giordano led me here from the altar, and pointing to the bed, said:—'My wife, I intrust this bed to you, and with it my honor, and the good name of my house. I, often employed on distant embassies, or in the army, cannot always be by your side to counsel and assist you: assume a manly spirit for the time, and learn to depend upon yourself; know that there is nothing so necessary for yourself, so acceptable to God, so grateful to me, and so honorable to the children that may be born to us, as your chastity, for the virtue of the wife is a crown of glory to the husband; the mother's virtue is the best dowry she can give her daughters, for a gentleman always asks, and with good reason, whose daughter is the woman whom he seeks for wife; virtue in all women is more precious than beauty, for without virtue and without modesty, there can be no beauty,—or it quickly passes away. A lovely face may be praised, but lascivious eyes make it odious with shame and dishonor, pale with grief and wickedness of mind. A beautiful form, a handsome face pleases; but a bold gesture, a dishonorable act of incontinence, quickly renders it ugly and vile. Dishonor is hateful to God, and He is a severe judge of unchastity in women: it renders them infamous, scorned, and ill-satisfied throughout their lives. Nevertheless would you fly every appearance of dishonor, my wife, show yourself virtuous to all, do nothing displeasing to God, to yourself, to me, and to our children, and you shall have praise and gratitude from all.' Should Giordano now come to me, and ask:—'How have you followed my counsels? How kept your vows?' Would not my blushes speak for me? These walls, this furniture, and above all, these holy images would cry with one voice:—We are polluted! We are polluted! Should I or could I, putting aside all shame, ask him in my turn: 'How have you kept yours?' The guilt of others, though it may take away their right of accusing, does not therefore excuse one's own guilt; and when a woman flies to the arms of another than her husband, hate for her husband then arises, she cares no longer for her children, and she dissolves her family ties, which in the husband, compared to the wife, are far less palpable. Besides that, children of shame in a house are an everlasting mark of disgrace, and they cannot be expelled, at least not without difficulty, by law, although they are banished from the heart by hate, give rise in the mind to the wish to put them out of the way, or are regarded as enemies, and persecuted by the other children, looked upon as robbers of their substance, punished, degraded, so that the troubled spirit of the mother knows not whether to wish that they should preserve a life so wretched, or whether they had better die. This rarely or never happens in men's faults, which are committed out of the house. The unfaithful wife contaminates the minds of all; already she has sown the seeds of discord; guilt has engendered crime, and she will reap the penalty of it. Oh! That I had died before I lost my innocence! Or rather, would that I had never been born! Isabella, thou art alone; throw aside thy family pride, put off the haughty look that thy royal birth imposes upon thee in the presence of thy people, and, since misery and tears belong to the wretched, weep now, as thou canst, for thy innocence, thy safety, thy children, and thy family, weep a deluge, for perchance this necessity thou feelest for tears is the first token that God in His mercy sends, to show that his anger is softened towards thee!"

And weeping bitterly she sank on her face upon the bed, uttering the saddest lament that ever woman made in this world. She had lain thus for some time when she thought that she heard a noise of footsteps outside of the alcove. She arose quickly, and lifting the curtain saw, not without some wonder mingled with fear, Lelio Torelli standing before her. Although a fatal foreboding oppressed her, yet rendered bold by the pressing danger, she drew herself up before him, saying—

"Wherefore are you come? What do you seek?"

"I come to demand of you my heart which you have broken, my life which you have destroyed, my soul which you have lost."

"Ah! Lelio, have pity upon me; do not wish to increase my sorrows, for they are already too heavy for me to bear."

"Have you felt pity for me? You have broken me like a flower that, carelessly plucked from its stalk in the garden, you scarcely smell and then throw away. Should a Christian's soul be cast aside like a withered rose? Should a heart that beats but for you be trampled upon like a stone? No, no; your cruelty has aroused mine, and I come"——

"For what, madman?"

"I come to ask your love and to redeem my former promise. I come to seek the reward of past sufferings."

"You rave, boy. Of what promise do you speak? And who has caused you suffering?"

"And the kisses, the smiles, the sweet words, the pressure of hands, the soft glances—have you forgotten them? I could not forget them; they have kindled in my bosom the flame that consumes me. But what are words? What necessity is there of speaking? The lip is more powerless than any other part of the body to testify love; it says one thing alone; but the face, the eyes, reveal a thousand affections at once; and it is with all these caresses that you have promised me. How could you, a woman of such great wisdom, believe my weak soul strong enough to resist so much? Have pity on me. You ought to feel compassion for a misery that is your own fault. Isabella, for God's sake, a little love, one ray of love to this desperate"——

"What do I hear, Lelio? Do you not see that I am old enough to be your mother."

"What is that to me? Your face is beautiful. When did man ever love with a calendar in his hand? Of what consequence is time? All our life is but the twinkling of an eye. Who knows whether the heavens will cover the earth to-morrow? At least the present moment this fleeting breath may be comforted with a little love. Have I not deserved it?"

"Lelio, do you not know, do you not see that I am a wife?"

"Did that prevent you from giving yourself to another? Why make an impediment with me of what did not exist for another? Will you be chary of your affection to me when you have lavished it in such abundance upon a man unworthy of it?"

"Hear me, Lelio. See, I will not be angry with you, but if this is not enough, think of my eternal salvation."

"And if I should kill myself with my own hands; if I should be lost through you, do you think that your soul could be saved if it were the cause of my losing mine?"

"I have sinned, and I bear the penalty of my sin, and what you now inflict upon me is no less bitter. You see me humbled before you. Where is my pride? Behold I am a contrite sinner at the feet of my servant. Leave me the virtue of repentance. Our souls, by penitence, can become as pure as baptism makes them."

"You may repent afterwards; but now love me."

"I cannot love you."

"Then let yourself be loved."

"What shameless words, what importunities are these? Go, or I will call the servants."

"Beware of attempting to do so, Isabella! I am determined to kill myself and to kill"——

"Holy Mother of God, Lelio, have pity on your mother; think of your own mother who is expecting you."

"My mother! Yes, cruel woman, you feel pity for my mother. You have taken a son from her, and give her back a corpse. I know neither mother, father, nor myself, none; you alone are my life, my blood. Isabella, have mercy on Lelio; I am in your hands. Do you wish me to be a hero? I will be one. A murderer? I will. Do you ask me to throw myself down from the balcony which I scaled with such difficulty, to come to you? I swear to do it; but intoxicate me once with your love; say that you love me; one drop, only one drop to this burning lip."

"Oh! vengeance of God! How heavily it strikes me. My heart will break with agony."

"Hear, whether or not I deserve your regard. When I saw your love for Troilo I loved and was silent. That was not all. Not to wound you I did not tell you how low you had placed your affections, nor how the unworthy man was entangled with vulgar intrigues. For your sake I concealed from the eyes of all his vain boasts. I endeavored no less to veil your own indiscretion. You owe it to me that the report of your intrigue has not reached the Duke's ears. I surrounded you with mystery, I watched over you by night and by day. When Troilo came creeping in the dead of night to your chamber, I followed him with noiseless steps. I could have killed him without difficulty, and God knows how often the temptation assailed me; yet I did not do it, thinking of the grief that you would have felt. Therefore I went with him; I guarded him; I frightened the servants with tales of a midnight ghost, so that none dared to pass through the rooms before daylight; and I posted myself to watch outside the door, heedless of sleep or cold, to save you from surprise, to which your own imprudence often laid you open. Imagine what I felt when I heard, after a long interview, the tender adieus, sweet kisses, and promises to meet again the next night! All this I did, and all this I bore for your love; and I would have suffered still in silence if you had loved him still. But now you know him—you know him to be your enemy; you have more to fear from him than from any one, and you do fear him; and when I pray you now to love me, to accept me as what you most need, a protector, a slave—in short, everything for your——"

"Lelio, my son, be calm; I, with deep blushes, understand the depth of your love; even after death, I will preserve a memory of you; you love more than men usually do; but listen to the prayer of one fallen into a gulf of misery; listen as if your mother was speaking; have pity upon me, hear the prayer a dying woman makes you from her inmost heart, for I know that I have not long to live, nor does the knowledge grieve me. Some day you will be glad that you showed me mercy: on your death-bed, when the mind's eye sees life passing away, when the soul pants in doubt whether, in its search, it can discern a hope of salvation, the holy deed you now do me, will then shine forth, like the pillar of fire and cloud before the Israelites, to unveil to you the path to Heaven. Time will heal this wound; perhaps God tempts your virtue, to see if it will not come forth victorious, and already prepares a reward equal to your merits; the angels themselves now guard you. Do not be unworthy of what Heaven promises you. A good and virtuous wife and honored children in this life; and lasting fame and immortal glory after death."

"Siren! Enchantress! Sorceress! Who can deny you the gift of imagining or improvising vanities? Go, your heart is more bronze than is this lamp. Now that you fear falling into the power of others, you speak flattering words; before, in the presence of Inigo, you threatened and scorned, nor do I know whether you are more humble now than you were then insolent. For then you railed at me like a child; how presumptuously you chid me, as if you had not likewise derived your origin from Adam; nothing that ever belonged to me, would you consent to keep near you; you desired to erase me from your memory, and if you could safely, from life; with the greatest insults you threw the necklace of your husband about my neck, like the rope of a criminal, and a handful of money to heal the bleeding wounds of a broken heart. Ah! Let me silence for once the love that I feel for so mean, so base, so unfeeling a woman. The sight of others' cruelty makes me cruel. Why do I wait longer? Why not fly to declare your infamy to the Duke? Why not give myself at least the pleasure of seeing you hurled into the tomb by a dishonored and bloody death?"

"Go, accuse me."

"No, I will not go and accuse you; I will kill you."

"Kill me then."

"Accuse you! kill you! And what good will that do me? Ah no, Isabella! Your love, give me your love——"

"Back!"

"It is impossible! Impossible! You must be mine—one moment—then let death come—and hell——"

Thus speaking, he advanced towards Isabella to seize her; she retreated, and he followed. Isabella, breathless, saw no means of escape; she tried to commend herself to God, but doubted whether one so unworthy could be heard: she gave herself up for lost. Suddenly, over the shoulder of the Duchess appears a long, glittering blade; it comes quick as the lightning, and with one cruel thrust penetrates the bosom of Lelio and passes through. He takes one step back, clutching with upraised hands, like a drowning man, but cannot utter a single word; only a few indistinct mutterings escape him; the blood, gushing freely and foamingly from the wound, covers the lamp, and extinguishes the light; in the darkness could be heard the fall of the table, overturned by the force with which Torelli struck it, and the tottering, the sinking; and rolling on the floor of the unhappy man.

A cry burst from Isabella, so full of despairing agony, that it would have drowned any which Lelio could have uttered, if his heart, so horribly cleft in twain, had not deprived him at the same moment both of speech and life; and she then fell senseless to the floor, so that the spirit seemed to have left her also.

Isabella remained insensible for a long time; afterwards, when partially recovered, a voice seemed to reach her ears, a woman's voice, that of a weeping woman, which said: "Give me back my son:" and, as she could not reply, for her tongue refused its utterance, she seemed to hear the same voice add: "Be accursed! The blood of her who has caused blood to be shed shall be shed." Then Lelio seemed to appear before her with a vacant stare, a frightful wound, his face stained, and his hair matted with blood and dust, and fixed himself before her, but spoke not a word; for although she saw that he tried to move as if to articulate, he only succeeded in giving vent to a labored groan, and gathering within the hollow of his hand the dark blood oozing from his wound he cast it at her like a curse! Then Isabella recovered, and tried to sit up: at first, she did not dare to unclose her eyes; but at last, stimulated by courage or fear, she succeeded in opening them. What was this! She was lying in her own bed; the table was in the middle of the room, and the bronze lamp was burning, but with a pallid light. She sprang from her bed, took the lamp and fixed her eyes anxiously upon it, but saw no trace of blood in any of its cavities, nor even any trace that it had been washed off and dried, nor did it even seem as if it had been refilled with oil. With the lamp in her hand, although hesitatingly, she approached the mirror to see if her face were stained with blood, but it was the same as usual; she examined the table, the floor, but behold, all was as neat and dry as was wont. She knew not what to think; she floated in a tempest of fancies, and said to herself: "I have certainly dreamed:"—and as we are ever inclined to believe what is most agreeable and advantageous, so Isabella said again, "It was a dream; a fearful dream indeed! Who knows how many miles distant poor Lelio is by this time!" She had almost persuaded her mind to doubt the atrocious event.

She opened the windows, and knew by the glimmering dawn that the Ave Maria of the morning drew near, and soon after, the chapel bell confirmed this thought; and when the Ave Maria was ended, and the bell still continued to call to mass, she thought that she would go and pray to God and His Saints that a little comfort might be granted to her, so guilty, it is true, but so immeasurably unhappy. The wretched feel the need of prayer. She arranged her hair with her own hands, dressed herself in a dark dress, and went alone to the neighboring chapel.

Formerly it was the custom to bury in churches; we therefore find the pavement covered with tombstones, in the centre of which are round locks, often formed of bronze rings. Upon these tombstones are sculptured the coats of arms in bas-relief (an impediment to the feet), and the statues of the deceased, with arms crossed on their breasts, wrapped in large cloaks, as if they were sleeping, and the inscriptions which record the virtues of those lying beneath; although they testify oftener to the piety or pride of the living than to the virtues of the dead.

Isabella had reached one of these tombstones, and there stood motionless, just where the lock opens, to assist at the divine rites, till the moment when the priest utters the mysterious words which have power to bring the God of Heaven down to earth; then following the example of the rest, and more her own impulse, she fell upon her knees, bending low in a reverent posture of humility; but the ground suddenly shook beneath her, and the fear of falling into the tomb caused her to stretch forth her hands to support herself by some person or object. She felt an arm, and grasped it tightly; somewhat reassured, she looked up through the darkness, and recognised Troilo as her supporter, and in a low tone said to him:

"Alas! God makes the very earth tremble beneath our sacrilegious feet!"

"It is nothing; the tomb was opened to-night. See, the mortar is not yet dry."

Isabella thrust her hands into her hair, and bit her lips hard to restrain a cry of anguish. Wild with horror, she fled precipitately from the church; the deep shadows in the chapel sheltering her movements from observation, prevented them from being detected.

It is said that this dreadful adventure caused part of Isabella's hair to turn white; which, though I do not find it confirmed in the Chronicles, I will not deny, as it is by no means incredible, for it has happened from much less terrible causes.

Indeed, when the sentence of death was read to Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, her hair became white; and this was a greater reason.[13] When Ludovico Sforza il Moro fell into the power of Louis XII., thinking of the heavy offences done to that king, his hair grew white in the course of a single night;[14] the Lord of Andelot was seated, leaning his head upon his hand when he received the news of the punishment of his brother commanded by the Duke of Alba, as an accomplice of the Counts Egmont and Horn; and all that part of the beard and eyebrow which was touched by his hand, changed color, and looked as if flour had been sprinkled upon it;[15] and this seems perhaps an equal reason. Lastly, Guarino, learning that one of the chests of Grecian manuscripts had been lost, which he had collected with such great trouble in Constantinople, to be carried into Italy, was so disheartened, that his hair, from black, turned instantly white,[16] and this was a lesser motive. But souls are diverse, and mortal events affect differently different minds.[17]

Ernando, or Ferdinando dei Medici, was an excellent Prince, and of noble mind; as the fourth son of Cosimo, he was far from the hopes of the throne. He knew not what destiny lay before him, hidden in the future, but he was certain that it was not so distinguished a lot as his great ambition craved, since Francesco was to succeed his father in the dukedom, Giovanni wore a Cardinal's hat, and Garzia held the Admiralty. This state of inactivity oppressed him so deeply, that he grew sick. When afterwards the accident happened to Cardinal Giovanni and Don Garzia,[18] the father, Cosimo, very eager to provide for the establishment of his family, exerted his influence in the Court of Rome and obtained the transfer of Giovanni's hat to the head of Ferdinando. He was lying sick in bed when, with solemn ceremony, the red hat was presented to him, and so powerful was the action of gratified ambition upon the heart of this youth of fourteen, that from that very day he became convalescent, and very soon regained his usual health.[19] Being sent to Rome with paternal instructions and assisted by men skilful in the management of affairs, not only did he maintain, but succeeded in increasing at that Court, the influence of his house, which was already great. And in truth, the histories of the times relate that Pasquino often published satires, in which was written: Cosmus Medices Pontifex Maximus.[20] Besides the great political skill of Cosimo, his good fortune, in this as in everything else, availed him no little, for Giovanni Angiolo dei Medici being chosen Pope, although he was in no way related to the family of the Medici of Florence, yet, to please his own vanity, he wished to have it supposed so; hence, with this object, he lavished incredible favors upon the family of Cosimo, electing Giovanni a Cardinal, yielding to him his own hat, giving him his palace and garden, and promising to regard him as a son; and so ardent was he in carrying out this idea that he even wrote to Cosimo: "Your concerns we hold as our own, desiring that ours should be also yours, and that we should always give and receive help from each other, and there will always be between us one heart and one mind."[21]

Ferdinando increased this ascendency, partly through the sagacity and good fortune of his father, partly by his own generous patronage of the fine arts and letters, although these were then somewhat on the decline, and partly by the bold readiness which he manifested on difficult occasions. Of this a remarkable instance occurs in the manuscript memoirs, which I ought not to pass over in silence, namely: going on a certain day, when he was Cardinal, to pay his homage to Pope Pius V., in the act of bowing before him, he showed a strong iron cuirass which he wore under the red dress. The Pope noticing it, said pleasantly to him: "Richard Plantagenet, while warring against his barons, took prisoner a bishop, who, armed with mail, had fought against him more than any of his enemies. The Pope interfering, begged Richard to restore this son of his to liberty; but Plantagenet sent back to the Pope the bishop's cuirass, with the words spoken by the sons of Jacob when they showed him the bloody garment of Joseph: 'Know now whether this be thy son's coat or no.' Cardinal dei Medici, what dress is that you wear under your cardinal's robe?" And Ferdinando, striking his breast and making his armor resound, replied proudly: "Most blessed Father, this is the garment suitable to a great prince."

But more than for all these things is the Cardinal to be praised for the wonderful constancy with which, in spite of the great bitterness which his brother Francesco caused him, he strove always to promote the welfare of his family; and indeed Francesco gave him daily and strong reasons to be dissatisfied with him, by avariciously refusing to advance him money on his pensions, of which, on account of his excessive liberality, he was often in need, and by entangling himself more and more with the love of the Venetian courtesan. When the ill-humor of the people reached its climax, on account of the insane conduct of Francesco, who did not blush, while accompanying the funeral of his wife Giovanna, to take off his hat and salute Bianca, as she was looking on from a balcony in the Conti palace,[22] and who, while the ashes of the royal lady were yet scarcely cold, secretly married the woman who had certainly shortened her days, Ferdinando retired to Rome, there to labor for the prosperity and honor of his house.

When afterwards destiny willed that he should ascend the throne of Tuscany, he dismissed the evil counsellors of his brother, and set himself earnestly to the task of rendering his subjects happy. We meet with no public building, nor hospital, nor charitable institution, with which there is not associated the name of Ferdinando, either as the founder or promoter; but since it is easier to build a city than to create a sentiment of nationality, so he was not able to raise the fallen spirits of his people, nor perhaps did he wish to do so, or rather it was an end impossible to be attained by one holding, as he did, the rank of prince, which he would not and could not relinquish. He endeavored, notwithstanding, to relieve Italy from the Spanish yoke, and wrote boldly to the several Italian states, that, laying aside all petty rivalry, they should join him, and vindicate their liberties, but such was the degradation into which they had fallen, that he could not succeed, even in this; and perhaps all attempts would have been vain, since there happen to nations, as well as to individuals, certain moments of agony in which neither motion nor quiet avails, and whilst the latter does not prevent death, the former hastens it. It is true, however, as I thought once, and still believe, that neither a God nor a nation can remain in the sepulchre; Christ remained in it only three days, but perchance the days of nations are composed of centuries. And the Italian princes, in Ferdinando's time, consented to live, act, and breathe at the will of Spain; to her they extended their hands in supplication, on her lips and her looks they hung. Great Heaven! what miserable beings were those princes, who, like the mendicant asking a penny, begged the liberty to do evil of others, of shaving, as a most witty genius used to say, at second-hand! How contemptible did they seem, the agents, as one might say, of the right of life and death! Or rather, negro slave-drivers, with whips in their hands. But enough of this; Ferdinando was not able to accomplish his noble object, which was to contract an alliance with France; for Henri IV. did not act in any degree differently from the nature of the French, who, "when a favor is asked of them, think first what advantage they themselves may derive from it; when they cannot do you good, they promise it, and when they can, they do it reluctantly or never;[23] a people instinctively greedy of others' possessions, and to whom theft comes as naturally as breathing."[24] And strangest of all, the French, fickle in everything, have always shown a singular persistency in this habit, of which even Julius Cæsar gives a proof in his histories. The marriage of Maria dei Medici, daughter of Francesco, to Henri IV., brought about at such an enormous cost, and at the expense of so many sacrifices on the part of Ferdinando, was to strengthen the ties of friendship and blood between France and the Medicis, first formed by the marriage of Catherine; but banished from France, expelled from the house and presence of her son, deprived of everything, she perished miserably at Cologne, and the pity of the painter Rubens gave her burial. Mark what human judgment is, in the power of fortune, which governs it at will!

Such was Ferdinando dei Medici, and it will not displease my readers, I hope, that I have described him somewhat at length. Besides, I have noticed that most novel writers expatiate upon the appearance, and so much more upon the dress of their personages, as to seem a race of tailors; if you desire to know how Ferdinando dressed and looked, I refer you to the Arsenal at Leghorn, where you will see his marble statue upon a pedestal around which are bound four bronze slaves; to Pisa in the Lungarno at the head of the via Santa Maria, where his marble effigy seems desirous to raise fallen Pisa, which being of marble cannot entirely rise, and remains thus, half-erect, half-falling; and to the square of the Santissima Annunziata, in Florence, where towers pompously his equestrian statue cast of the bronze plundered from the fierce Thracian, as it is written under the strap of the saddle. I thought best at this time to describe his nature and habits; if I was mistaken, or have displeased you, I entreat pardon, and continue my history.

It was Easter morning. A magnificent cavalcade issued from the Medici palace, and rode in state through the streets of Rome. Cardinal Ferdinando was going to pay his respects to the Pope, Gregory XIII. He rode on a white horse, ornamented with crimson velvet, with large tassels of red silk, while the flanks of his steed were almost covered by his cardinal's cloak; by his side rode Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, dressed in Spanish costume, upon a fiery Roman horse, and conversing familiarly with him of matters of little importance, as far as could be judged, for the Cardinal seemed to pay slight attention to him, and only from time to time nodded his head. Behind them came the gay and noisy suite of the Duke, and that of the Cardinal, which was far more splendid; for he, following the promptings of his most generous nature, was accustomed to maintain in state not less than three hundred gentlemen, courtiers, and men renowned for some talent. To tell the truth, rather than the grave retinue of a Cardinal, it resembled the troops of masqueraders, who in carnival time run merry-making through the town; they were either talking, or vieing with each other in managing their horses, making them change their pace every moment, caracol, curvet, or trot, and exchanging soft glances, smiles, and sometimes even salutes with the ladies who stood on the balconies. A rose descended through the air, and the ringing laughter of women was heard, as it fell upon the white mane of the Cardinal's horse; but although people raised their eyes quickly, no one could discern whence it came, for the windows of the houses on both sides of the street were apparently shut. Such license was in some measure attributable to the times, and a little to the easy disposition of the Cardinal, who, young, powerful, and bound by no sacred order, was more lenient in love affairs than was becoming to his dignity; and the courtiers, as we see happening every day, took excessive advantage of the laxity of their master, sure that if ever the Cardinal took it into his head to reprove them, he would begin with a severe countenance and end with a pleasant smile.

After the cavalcade, followed a crowd of the lower classes, who applaud and disapprove equally without reason, and who are always destined, whether cheering or hooting, to be stricken down, until some day, wearied of hurrahing or hissing, they in their turn take the notion of striking, and then, may God guard us in His holy keeping! However, they take this notion but seldom, and the passage of the powerful through the midst of them, is like that of the swallow among the insects of the air—it eats and flies.

Thus passing from street to street, the cortège arrived at the corner of the palace Caracciolo Santo-buono, upon the ruins of which, in modern times, the palace Braschi has been built. There stood at that time Marforio and Pasquino.

What is Marforio? and what is Pasquino?

Marforio is a recumbent colossal statue of the ocean, found in the Forum of Mars, whence it derives its name. Clement XII. had it transported to the capitol, and here it shows itself proudly to the passers-by. Pasquino is a plebeian statue. A worthy artisan, before whose shop it was found, gave it the name; it is mutilated and of doubtful identity; yet all seem to have agreed in baptizing it a torso of Ajax: at any rate, it represents a human being, neither a God nor a demigod; and although its merits far surpass those of Marforio, fortune has treated it very differently, for instead of the honors of the Capitol it came very near being thrown into the Tiber. It was Adrian VI. who raised so bitter a persecution against it; and that he did not succeed we must thank the witty courtier who persuaded him, that from that trunk buried in the mud there would arise more voices than from a whole nation of frogs. And behold how the injustice of man is manifested even in the very busts and marbles; Marforio in the Capitol, like a triumphant captain, Pasquino, hardly escaped the Tiber, and having survived so fearful a danger, happy if he be allowed to remain walled in the corner of the Braschi palace. Marforio, according to the custom of the fortunate, "for whomsoever fortune exalts she first plunges into Lethe,"[25] no longer remembers past times; having been made a lord, and splendidly lodged, he has become a courtier and is silent, or if he sometimes speaks, he does it cautiously, and although a colossus of marble, he treads as lightly as if he were walking on eggs; he almost flatters; but Pasquino, without head, arms, or legs, exposed to the winds and rain, has retained his sympathy with the people, and always talks, satirizes, and never loses his jest happen what may; after all, worse cannot happen to him than losing his head, arms, and legs. The fair fame of Marforio, however, has been diminished, while Pasquino, on the contrary, has never known any decline of popularity. Marforio is a deserter, but Pasquino threw away his legs so as not to fly; hence the people have forgotten Marforio and increased their love for Pasquino ten-fold. Marforio in the Capitol, at the extremity of the court of the Capitoline Museum, accompanied by the bronze satyrs found in the Theatre of Pompey, king of the fountain over which he is placed, grows tired, and if an ocean of marble could gape, he would. Pasquino, on the other hand, breathes and lives and sympathizes with the people; and although headless, speaks, reasons, and reviews accounts better than those who have heads. Indeed, it is not certain that to live in this world there is much need of a head; witness Pliny, who asserts that there are headless people, called by him Blemmii, which, if it appeared a marvellous thing at the time of that writer, has long since ceased to astonish us. Pasquino often is a persecuted Nemesis, who hurls a blow in the dark against the man who drinks the tears of the people, and this blow strikes upon his brow more directly than the stone from David's sling;—he is a Nemesis, who, collecting the bitter water that springs in the countries of oppression, pours it into the foaming wine of pride;—he is a Nemesis, who hides worms among the flowers of vicious pleasures;—he is a Nemesis, who makes the cruel fall into the open sepulchre while menaces yet burn upon his lips;—he mingles darkness with terror, peoples dreams with phantoms, fills pillows with remorse, gives a voice to the clod which conceals the unknown crime, and persecutes life with affliction, death with despair. But Pasquino's satires spring too often from human perfidy; since there are people to whom nature has said, hate! as she has said to the eagle, fly! and the man hates as the eagle flies. O Lord God, why didst thou create the serpent that poisons, the wild beast that devours, the upas that kills, and the man that hates? Behold, the serene heaven is a torment for him, the splendid sun an offence, the limpid lake a mockery, the tranquil mind an insult; he would wish for the eye of the basilisk, the breath of the pestilence, the bitumen of the asphaltum, the despair of Judas, to sadden the serenity of the azure heaven, of the limpid waters, and of the innocent soul.

Truth is the most brilliant sun in the diadem of God. In the days of creation it should have been suspended as the only luminary in the firmament. Truth ought to issue openly from the lips of men like holy incense from golden censers. The work of darkness ought to be consummated in darkness. Truth ought never to take the form of falsehood. Why should it ever assume the semblance of calumny? The heart of a coward may well become a fit resting-place for a nest of vipers, but never the temple of truth. Truth ought to be preached in the face of day from the lofty places, from the mountain-tops, from the open shores of the sea. Truth ought to be declared before the men who detest it, and before the judges who condemn it as they did the innocent Socrates. Truth has been burned at the stake, and has sprung like a Phœnix from its ashes; Truth has mounted the scaffold, and returned to live in the severed limbs as the polyp lives again in the broken fragments. Truth has never deceived nor flattered any one, for she has said: "My name is martyrdom on earth and glory in Heaven; let him who wishes follow me, I am a stern life-companion."[26]

"He that hath ears to hear let him hear;" I return to my story.

Pasquino, and also Marforio, who had not yet been promoted to the Capitol, appeared on that solemn day in the plenitude of their glory, decked all around with a halo of satires of all colors and dimensions; crowds of people were standing reading them or hearing them read, and the more bitter, satirical, and slanderous the words were, the more fitted to sadden a heart, or to cause despair to an immortal soul, the louder they laughed with every token of joy.

The cavalcade, seeing from afar such a magnificent show, exulted, and had they not been restrained by respect would have rushed ahead of the Cardinal; they closed together, endeavoring to decipher the writings from where they were; some rose on their stirrups, some shaded their eyes with their hands to read.

"Oh, he is dressed for a Sunday," said the courtiers; "Pasquino is really celebrating Easter; we shall hear some good jokes; materials are not wanting;" and so on, so that their voices might have been heard a mile distant.

The Cardinal, passing near the dreaded statues, did not turn his head nor even seem to glance at them. Not so the courtiers, who fell upon it like pigeons in a field of grain, neither minding nor caring if they knocked or trampled on the crowd, who sprang to the right and left cursing and yelling like the frogs when a bull approaches the margin of a pond. Why is it that this careless and noisy young crew are suddenly silent? Imagine a flock of sparrows hovering over the broad top of an oak, and chirping incessantly, fluttering through the leaves with restless motions; but if suddenly a falcon appears, soaring in wide circles near the tree, they become so silent and still, that they seem as if struck by sudden death, and shrink and fold their wings, and dare not fly from bough to bough, but seek to hide themselves under the leaves: thus the abashed courtiers continued on their route gravely and in silence.

Pasquino had poured forth a torrent of malignant satires against the Cardinal, because he was reputed the most fortunate of all the Cardinals. One of the pasquinades which was aimed at him ran as follows: Marforio asked Pasquino, "Which is the mule that Medici rides now?" And Pasquino answered, "He rides the mule of Farnese." This alluded to the intrigue which, according to report, Ferdinando had with Clelia, the daughter of Cardinal Farnese. But this could be tolerated; those which appeared really infamous reflected upon Francesco, Bianca, Isabella, her husband, Eleonora of Toledo, and Don Piero de Medici, which, as being too shameful, we will abstain from reporting.

The Cardinal had not turned his head; but, looking askance, he perceived and read those vituperations; advancing his horse a step, he kept the Duke of Bracciano so occupied in conversation that the latter was not able to read a word. When it seemed to him the proper time, he called to one of his retinue and gave him some orders in a low voice. Hardly had the cavalcade turned the corner than the officer turned impetuously back, spurring his horse. The crowd had again collected, and were enjoying their brutal pleasure, and praising Pasquino, voting him by acclamation a crown of laurel. Without even saying, "take care," the officer dashed his horse into the midst of the crowd, who again cleared the way, and struck right and left with the butt-end of his halberd upon the head, shoulders, or arms of those who were not quick enough to avoid him, and reaching Pasquino he thrust his hand, armed with the iron gauntlet, with such force against it that it shows the impression to this day; he made a bundle of all the papers, and carried them off, departing with the same fury with which he had come, without taking the least notice of the crowd, who, as soon as they saw him at a sufficient distance, raised their heads, still like frogs, and vented their anger in screams and curses, like every brutal rabble; it ended, however, as it always does, that he who received a bruise applied a plaster to it, and he whose head was broken had it bound up.

The Cardinal, after having paid his homage to his Holiness, returned home by a shorter road, and there closeting himself within his study he wrote a letter to his brother, Francesco, without availing himself of the assistance of his secretary, in which, saying nothing of the insults that were deservedly aimed at both of them, he related those published to the dishonor of their house, on account of the intrigues of Isabella and Eleonora of Toledo, and advised him to use all means he thought best to cause them to behave more modestly. Having written the letter he gave it to a courier, ordering him to start immediately for Florence, and as he valued his life to put the letter into Francesco's own hands. This epistle reached Francesco only too safely, and the remorse of the Cardinal was inexpressible, when he found that it had caused the mournful events which form the subject of this narrative; and, in truth, he was wrong, for he ought not to have allowed himself to be overcome by hasty passion, knowing as he did the cruel and fierce nature of his brother, his dissimulation, his readiness to imbrue his hands in blood, and his Spanish education, which led him to consider it a point of honor, both in the husband and in the brother, to punish the guilt of the wife or sister; and, moreover, that he had grown up at the Court of Philip II., who, on account of his cruel disposition, had been surnamed, even in his own times, the Demon of the South. Enough, fate willed it thus, and perhaps it was not the first time, nor yet the last, that Pasquino had caused blood and tears to be shed.

Francesco, on the receipt of the letter, read it twice, and placed it carefully in his bosom, and no one could have discovered from his pale and austere face, whether it brought good or bad news; then turning to his sister and sister-in-law who were conversing together, he said to them: "His Eminence Cardinal Ferdinando is well, and sends his love to you."

A few days after, he sent back the same courier of the Cardinal to Rome, with a letter, saying: "that he was very grateful for the interest which he took in the welfare of their house, although unfortunately it concerned a very disagreeable subject; begging him to be assured that he would find a remedy for so much scandal, and in such a manner that his Eminence should be satisfied; moreover, as the case deserved grave consideration, he entreated him, as he had done in all his other most important affairs, still to favor him with his most prudent counsels."

Two or three hours after he had despatched this courier, he sent another, ordering him to take off his livery, dress himself as a trader, and thus go incognito to Rome; when there to present himself to Lord Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, to deliver to him personally the letter which he gave him, and then to return immediately without even stopping in Rome, for he wished his mission there to remain perfectly secret. The letter ran thus:

"Our most beloved brother-in-law, Duke of Bracciano.—On the reception of this, your Excellency will start without delay for Florence, accompanied by only one attendant, or two at the most. You will learn the motive of this summons, which is a most urgent one, from our own lips, it being a matter which cannot be intrusted to writing; in the meantime we inform you that this affair, although somewhat concerning us, regards particularly yourself, and the honor of your family. It would be best that you should acquaint no one of your departure, more especially the most eminent Cardinal Ferdinando, our brother. Travel incognito, studiously avoiding recognition; calculate your time so as to reach the Roman gate towards dark, both you and your servants wearing white feathers in your caps. You will find one who will admit both yourself and the attendants without giving names, and we shall await you at the palace.

"May God keep you in His holy peace, etc."

The Duke, having read and well considered this letter, took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead: then he began to walk up and down, read the letter once more, and was much disturbed.

"I sold myself as a slave," he thought to himself, "to these parvenu merchants! I, a Roman prince! What lineage is theirs? From what did they spring? When honorable barons, knights, and men of great affairs honored my house, their ancestors were not worthy to hold their stirrups.—On the reception of this—with only one attendant or two—studiously avoiding recognition—try to enter about dark.—Thank Heaven! I am not your subject—order your own servants. I shall not go; I am determined not to go, and I will not."

And he began to walk up and down again. In the meantime an inward voice, as if it came from a secret counsellor, humbled him, saying: "But he is your brother-in-law, a crowned prince, who cannot come to see you; he is very powerful and rich, having great authority at the Court of Rome. Besides it concerns you, so that it seems only just that you should go to him, and even thank him if he shows so much interest in your welfare; add to that, he is educating your son Virginio at his court, and will provide for him, since you can rely very little on your own fortune, and in your poverty, in the universal deluge of your debts, who but he can be an ark of safety to you? O Bracciano! Bracciano! I fear that you will become the prey of some fortunate merchant, who after taking your estates will take your title also—and thus after having expelled your illustrious race from the castle, will erase your name from the memory of men. Hence it seems profitable to go, and keep on good terms with this relation of mine, for the love of my debts. Love! I ought to have said hate; but, blessed Saint Peter, how can I hate debts, since they were my swaddling-clothes when I first came into this world, and will be my winding-sheet when I depart from it! Bernia wrote an essay on debt; he did wrong, he should have written an epic poem! To Florence then—Titta! Saddle three good horses; we must travel. You and Cecchino will go with me; take off your livery; put white feathers in your caps, and do not forget the cloaks. It is but a duty to take this poor Cecchino with me; I brought him away from Florence when he was just married; and he would be glad to see his old mother and wife again. I think that he would be grateful to me, or at least I imagine so, and this thought does me good. These people enjoy more than we do; they believe in love, and they love and see each other with pleasure, and separate with sorrow—but I hardly remember that I have a wife; indeed, Isabella is a most beautiful woman, of lofty mind, and accomplished genius, and I have seemed truly to care a great deal for all her merits! I think that I ought to be very grateful if am not hated at home; it would be sufficient to be forgotten."

If I am not mistaken, we may judge in some measure what Paolo Giordano Orsini was by this soliloquy of his: like a pendulum, one side vice, the other virtue, perfectly still and incapable of motion by itself unless caused to oscillate by some external impulse. Careless, prodigal, easily roused to anger, and as easily appeased; but, imbued with the spirit of the times in which he lived, more prone to cruelty than to compassion; and when he was instigated by any one who knew how to incite him, we can imagine no enormity in which he would not be ready to acquiesce. I will not say that he resembled Claudius (who having caused the death of his wife Messalina, sat down to dinner soon after, and inquired, forgetfully, why the Empress did not come[27]); but after his bloody fits of passion, that swayed him at their will, he would be overcome by such oblivion of the crimes which he had committed, that they did not disturb his sleep, nor did he either defer his banquets or forget his balls, but would be as cheerful as if nothing had happened: he was a dissimulator, not by premeditation, but by habit, and so much the more dangerous, as his easy and frank manners gave one an assurance of a sort of natural candor.

He departed, then, from Rome, and arrived at Florence, where he was received in the manner agreed upon, and was introduced soon after into the palace.

Francesco was seated at table in company with Bianca, and no sooner did he perceive the Duke, than he rose, courteously extending his hand, and kissed him on both cheeks. After this greeting, the Duke approached Bianca, who did not move, and bowing very low, obsequiously kissed her hand.

Francesco, sitting down again, said:

"Giordano, you must be tired; but before you go to rest, sit down, I beg of you, and take some refreshment with us; you see, we are en famille."

The Duke, not waiting for another invitation, sat down beside Francesco.

Never was a better opportunity presented to poet or romancer to display his descriptive powers. Few courts at that time, or perhaps even now, could boast the possession of such valuable plate as the Medici; even more precious from its workmanship than its materials; silver side-boards, vases, trays, pitchers, basins, cups, flasks, and chandeliers, all wonderful to behold; but I pass them by, and confine myself to that which is better suited to my subject.

The Duke, although accustomed to Roman profusion, was astonished at the enormous abundance of viands, and observing more carefully, his surprise was increased in considering the variety of the dishes: there were sparrows minced very fine, and kneaded with yelks of eggs and powdered sugar—Indian garlic and cresses—raw onions, German radishes, scallions, and so forth; besides these there were, preserved in beautiful bottles of thin glass, for seasoning, ginger, black pepper, nutmeg, cloves, and the like; in the midst stood a pyramid of eggs, and on all sides little stews and dishes of strange appearance; every variety of iced cheeses, in silver plates, etc.

As the dishes which he knew were not to his taste, the Duke tried some of those which he did not know, and it was well he did, for they were composed of breasts of grouse, pheasant, partridge, and the like, but so highly seasoned as to burn his palate, and to bring tears to his eyes; he called to mind Portia, who swallowed live coals; he could not understand how a man could live upon such viands; he asked frequently for drink to moderate the burning, but the drinks which they gave him were so cold, that they made his teeth and head ache; besides that, there were foaming and sparkling wines, such as make one's brain turn after the second glass. It seemed to him an infernal banquet, and that to get accustomed to such meats and drinks, the Grand Duke and Duchess must have endured more trouble than Mithridates, who could eat and drink any kind of poison, however powerful it might be. In short, his natural appetite was appeased, if not satiated, and he remained watching his brother-in-law, who silently kept gorging himself, with a sort of ravenous hunger, with young onions seasoned with ginger; then suddenly leaving the onions, he would take a boiled egg, break it, and pouring into it a spoonful of black pepper, drink it; then at the onions again; from time to time he ordered "drink." The valet brought him a basin in which were a flask full of water and a small glass of wine; Francesco, pouring nearly all the wine into the basin, filled up the glass with water, and drank it at one gulp. This dissipated habit was not a pleasure, but apparently a labor, for drops of perspiration would roll down from his forehead, his eyes looked heavy, he panted and his face changed color, now turning as red as fire, and now as yellow as the wax candles which were burning before him.[28] This seemed to the Duke, what it really was, a desire to kill himself, and he thought that it would have been better to have thrown himself from the balconies of his palace. With this idea in his mind he glanced towards Bianca, and their eyes meeting, they exchanged a look of intelligence. The Duke had meant: "How is it possible that you, who are so wary a woman, allow him to destroy himself in such a manner?" And Bianca had replied: "I grieve for it, God knows; but you are aware what an obstinate man he is! However, I will try, and you will see."