Читать книгу The Duchess of Trajetto - Anne Manning - Страница 6

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Emerging from the gallery, the Duchess uttered a faint cry, and would have shrunk back again on seeing some dark figures stealthily approaching; but they proved to be only two of her own servants, each with a led horse, on which she and Cynthia were speedily mounted, and on their way to Vallecorsa.

Meantime a desperate conflict was raging in the town and castle, led on by the fiery Barbarossa himself, his lieutenant Dragut, and the renegade Sinan, the most relentless of his corsairs. Again and again resounds the cry "Where is the Duchess, ye Christian dogs?"—"Out of your reach!" they shout back; and a volley of stones descends from the battlements. Defence is vain; the gates are forced in, the assailants pour through the rooms, and, disappointed of their prey, hack and spoil the rich furniture, and carry off what comes ready to hand. Faithful retainers are cut down; others have their hands tied and are carried off to be sold into slavery; among them, a youth called Tebaldo Adimari, the pride and hope of Fondi.

Day was breaking when the corsairs, laden with booty, drew off from the town in good order and formidable numbers, leaving very few of their party behind them. The little town was sick and gasping. Here and there were low wails and continuous sobbings in-doors. Here and there a hollow groan from some ditch. Here and there a broken scimitar, an unrolled turban, a pool of blood. Monks now began to steal forth in couples from the Dominican convent in which St. Thomas Aquinas had taught theology. They went to shrive the dying, bury the dead, and console the bereaved. A Jewish physician, with a couple of Hebrew servants, was also engaged in offices of benevolence; causing some to be carefully removed; binding up the wounds of others on the spot. The peril of the Duchess—though she escaped unscathed—caused great commiseration and excitement at the time. The death and captivity of the nobodies elicited a slight shudder or a shrug, and was passed over.

Cautiously the withered face of the Mother-of-the-maids peered forth from the cellar-door when all was quiet; and fearfully issued forth the train of scared, bewildered females who had taken shelter under her wing. They were relieved to find themselves alive and safe; but lamentations soon succeeded gratulations. Isaura's betrothed had been carried away captive; Tonina's father lay stark and stiff. As for the cameriera, she was weeping herself blind to find the Duchess's room ransacked, the mirror smashed, the gowns tossed like hay, the pictures stabbed, and many of the properties made booty of. She smote her breast and wrung her hands to that degree that it was dreadful to see her.

The news of the attack reaching Rome, Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, who was much more of a warrior than a churchman, hastened to the rescue with a troop of horse.

Meanwhile, a messenger from Vallecorsa brought a billet from the Duchess.

"Are the wretches gone? Have they done much harm? I have nothing to put on. Is anybody hurt? I suppose I may come back?"

As everybody was at sixes and sevens without the Duchess, a council was held, the Dominican prior was consulted, evidence was heard, and it was finally reported that the Paynims had made off, viâ Itri, and put to sea.

On this, back came the Duchess, in very miscellaneous toilette; and she was met by a general turn-out of the people of Fondi—a rough, wild-looking set at their best, poor creatures! furnishing more than their due quota, then as now, to the briganti. In the midst were two biers, supporting the corpses of men who had been slain in the late attack, and borne by monks, while the populace confusedly pressed around them, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and filling the air with their lamentations. These were redoubled at sight of the Duchess, whose tender heart melted at the scene. The sight of their liege-lady in tears redoubled their woe; they closed round her, kissing her dress, hands, and feet, recounting their losses, and each doing his possible to prove himself more in want of solace than the rest. She condoled with all, promised monetary restitution to the living and masses for the dead; and, to crown all, proceeded straight to church to give thanks for her deliverance and pray for the souls of the slain. Then she re-entered her castle in a chastened frame of mind.

"Caterina," said she to her old nurse, "how little we know what a few hours may bring forth! It seems an age since yesterday. What a turn it gave me when Cynthia first shrieked out! By the way, do you think she was really frightened?"

"Really frightened, Eccellenza?"

"Yes. Do you not think it possible she might be glad the Moors were landing and might carry her off?"

"Barbarossa, Signora?"

"Well, I know it was Barbarossa; but still he was her own countryman, and—"

"I do not think she would acknowledge Barbarossa for a countryman, Illustrissima. She claims descent from the old Moors of Grenada—from the Abencerrages."

"Oh, yes, she may claim descent, and call herself a princess and all that. They all do, I believe. You should have seen her look when I told her Mahound was a false prophet—"

"She's very touchy about that, I well know," said Caterina.

"Touchy? Why, I believe she prays to him still—swears by him at any rate. There is no sounding the depths of these Paynims."

"I believe you would find great love for yourself in the depths of Cynthia's heart—poor, darkened young thing—if you could sound it, Signora."

"Ah, but unfortunately, I cannot; and she behaved very improperly to me in the cavern."

"You shock me, Illustrissima!"

"She thrust the lamp into my hand, saying: 'Hold the light!' and stamped!"

"Inconceivable! Abominable!" ejaculated Caterina. "What could she have been thinking of?"

"And she brandished a dagger! Not to kill me, but telling me to kill her. So uncalled for!"

"I fear I must give her up," said Caterina, "though Perez lent her the dagger to defend you, and she has returned it. I was beginning to grow fond of her. She must be corrected, Signora."

"Well, truly, I think she must. Let me speak to her first. I dare say she is as hard as a stone. Call her."

To the Duchess's surprise, when Cynthia was brought to the bar of justice, and accused of lèse-majestéeacute;, she at once pleaded guilty, saying her proud heart sometimes got the better of her; and kneeling down, kissed the hem of her mistress's garment, in token of submission. This appeased the placable Giulia, who contented herself with asking what business she had with pride.

"You doubted my fidelity, Leila," said Cynthia. "No one must doubt the fidelity of an Abencerrage."

"Tut! how do I know that you are an Abencerrage?" said the Duchess lightly. "And what are the Abencerrages, or any other Moors, in the eyes of Christians?"

"They may be nothing now, but they were something once," said Cynthia proudly; without rising, however, from her knees; or rather, sitting upon her heels. "While the western Caliphate lasted, the Christians were few and straggling in the land; and the mountains of Spain echoed back the cry of the muezzins: 'There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet!'"

"Ah, profanity!" exclaimed the Duchess, in disgust; and at the same instant, her seneschal, bowing low, announced to her the arrival of Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici. The Cardinal was already standing in the doorway, noting at his leisure, and with admiration, the contrast between Giulia's high-born beauty and that of the dusky Moorish girl at her feet.

He then advanced, with the mien of a prince and the tread of a soldier, and said:

"Your peril compelled me to fly to your succour. I have brought a troop of horse, and will not leave you till danger and alarm be past."

"How very good of you!" said the Duchess. "I was, indeed, sorely scared—"

"Fear no more," said he. "No harm shall reach you but through myself."

"How very good of you," repeated the Duchess. "I was, indeed, as I said, sorely scared; but all danger, and even the fear of it, is now over—"

"That is more than you can tell," interrupted the Cardinal, "and since you, the noblest and fairest lady in Italy, are so utterly unprotected, I shall make your safety my care as long as Barbarossa is off the coast."

"Though I hope to have no need of you as a guard, you are most welcome as a guest," said the Duchess. Then, addressing her seneschal, she said, "Let suitable apartments be instantly prepared for his Eminence and also for his suite, and provide good quarters for his Eminence's troops and good stabling for their horses—"

"I lodge with the Dominicans," interrupted the Cardinal, "and the Prior will tell me where to bestow my men—"

"Nay, then," said the Duchess, "direct immediate refection to be served for his Eminence, and bid the Prior and a few select friends to supper; to wit, Sertorio Pepe and his sister, Madonna Bianca, the Abate Siffredi and the Abate Vincenzo."

The seneschal bowed low and withdrew.

"Giulia," said the Cardinal, reproachfully, "I am unwelcome."

"On the contrary, you are most welcome," said she; "but I seek to grace my guest, and distrust my own powers of entertainment. You find us in sad disorder, but I will send a line to the Bishop—"

"Pray do nothing so unnecessary, so unwished for—Ah, Giulia! it was not thus I hoped you would welcome me! You will never understand that I am your true friend, and prefer your conversation to that of any one else. Your welfare, your safety, are dear to me; and yet you always distrust me."

"How can you say so?" said she, dropping her eyes.

"How, indeed, save that you always betray it! Come, cannot we be friends?" said he, pleasantly. "Once we might have been more, and now need we be less?"

"By no means, Cardinal, and—"

"I am always Ippolito, to you—"

"By no means, Cardinal; I enjoy using your title, it is so noble, so imposing, it becomes you so well. You have taken a decided part at last, and I esteem you all the more for it. Your learning and genius will adorn your high vocation. What influence you now possess! how many look up to you! Surely your position must be an enviable one?"

A complex expression crossed his face, as he said, with emphasis,

"Very! And yours?"

"Oh, mine is what it has long been. It has its lights and its shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Not very dark ones, certainly; but three-fourths of my life are spent in a sort of dull twilight, that is—infinitely melancholy!"

"Whence proceeds that melancholy?"

"I know not. My natural disposition, perhaps. I have everything I can want or wish, yet it sometimes seems to me that there is only one thing to reconcile us to life—"

"What is that?"

"The fear of death."

"Just so," said he, abruptly.

"Can you, a churchman, tell me how to overcome that fear?"

"There is no fear of your dying—"

"Die I must, soon or late! Death comes to all. Can you, a churchman, tell me how to meet it?"

"Surely, surely! The Church has provided supports. There are the sacraments. There is absolution. There is extreme unction."

"I do not know how these may support me when the time comes. Meanwhile they do not remove the fear of death."

He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and was about to speak, but refrained. At the same time, the customary refection of wine and comfits was brought in by two of the Duchess's damsels, while a third brought a golden ewer of rose-water, and a fourth a basin and gold-fringed napkin. The duenna and Moorish girl were embroidering at one of the windows.

When the girls had withdrawn, the Cardinal and Duchess resumed their conversation, like two old and familiar friends, who had at some former period seen a good deal more of one another than of late.

He spoke of Hayraddin Barbarossa's descent upon Fondi, and minutely inquired into the particulars, and the amount of damage done. He ended with "Well, a wilful woman must have her way. All this may happen again, and with a worse end."

"Please do not frighten me," said the Duchess. "It is very unkind."

"I mean it for kindness, for I want to put you on your guard."

"I shall be on my guard now. My poor people have suffered sufficiently to be on the alert. And I have long thought I should like to winter at Naples. Now I have a sufficient reason for going."

"The sooner the better. Giulia, how you surprised me just now by what you said! How can one so good, so blameless as you are, be afraid of death? You have never done anything wrong. I cannot conceive you ever to have offended God, even in thought. Can you, then, be afraid to meet Him?"

"Ah! I am always shy of strangers; and, to me, God is such a stranger!—"

"But you believe in Him, do not you? You believe that He is?"

"Of course! But that is so little!"

The Cardinal looked as if he thought it a good deal.

"Your nerves are weak," said he, after a pause. "Your organisation is too delicate. I should advise you to dwell as little as you can on these things."

"Oh, I speak of them to no one. I don't know how I came to do so now. Only, I suppose, because you are a friend and a churchman."

"I like you so to speak. Say on."

"Why, then, I will add that, apart from this fear of death, which sometimes thrills me, and especially did so last night, is a far more permanent feeling—a desire for some higher good. An intense dissatisfaction with myself and with all the things of this life."

"Do you really suppose that that feeling is peculiar to yourself? Everybody has it!—everybody who thinks and feels. I myself suffer martyrdom from it."

"Can you—a churchman—prescribe its remedy?"

"There are two ways," said the Cardinal, after a pause, "in which you may overcome it. In the first case, you must fast, you must pray, you must keep painful vigils, you must perform pilgrimages barefoot, you must deny yourself every innocent enjoyment, you must bestow all your possessions on the Church—"

"Hold, hold, I can never do all that," interrupted the Duchess. "Tell me some other way, I beseech you, of remedying the weariness of life and the fear of death."

"The only other way," said he, hurriedly, "is to take the world as you find it; enjoy the passing hour, indulge every innocent desire, and—let come what may."

"Is there no other course?"

"None, Giulia, none! There is no middle path.[5] You must choose for yourself."

[5] Non c' è mezzo termine.

"Of course I know which I ought to choose," said she, sorrowfully. "But to give up all—and to the Church!—ah! this Church must have charms for you that she has not for me!"

"I am not very deeply in love with her," said the Cardinal, attentively regarding his nails. "But my part is taken and I will play it out. Come, shall we talk of something pleasanter?"

"Yes, and, some of these days, I will try this better way you point out—this watching, this fasting; only I know beforehand, I shall not carry it out."

"No good in trying then."

"I am afraid you are right. I so dread the world's laugh! And I so dislike doing what is disagreeable!"

"Why on earth should you, then?" said he briskly.

"Ay, why indeed?" said she, laughing and changing the subject. Afterwards she thought, "What an answer for a priest! I was a goose to say so much to him. I will not do so again."