The Hill of Venus Page 24

  CHAPTER V

  TWILIGHT WATERS

  Dazed, in a state of mind bordering on utter bewilderment, such as hehad not experienced since the Masque of the Gods in the park ofAvellino, Francesco wandered by the shore, trying to bring order intothe confused chaos of his thoughts. Ilaria loved him, always had sheloved him, and so closely were their fates bound up together thatneither could as much as turn without standing accounted to the other.During the last days the certainty had dawned upon him that thesacrifice had been utterly in vain. He had been cheated of his youthand birthright; utterly helpless, he was the blind tool of a power,which, by no human right nor divine, had constituted itself thearbiter of his destiny. The future held nothing for him. Hissympathies were forever with the vanquished. The temporal power of theChurch held no allurement. He might climb in her service; the road layover the broken and shattered ideals of his youth.--

  The uncertainty of the fate of the Ghibelline host weighed heavilyupon him. Where was Conradino, the fair-haired imperial youth, wherewere the leaders of the vanquished iron-serried companies, whose marchunder the proudly floating banners of the Sun-Soaring Eagle ofHohenstauffen he had witnessed from the summits of Monte Cassino? Hadthey reached the sheltering passes of the Apennines, had they falleninto Anjou's hands?

  Fascinated, yet oppressed by dire forebodings, Francesco gazed outover the land. In a flood of crimson and gold, trailing his bannersthrough the western sky, the sun had sunk to rest. The great mass ofthe castello of Astura was silent and dark in the swiftly descendingsouthern night, save where an errant moonbeam glittered over thegateway and round-towers, shining obliquely over the massive walls,while two great circles of shadows enclosed the stronghold of theFrangipani, like huge Saturnian rings. Brightly, like a silver netflung wide upon the plains below, the moonbeams played upon thesurrounding marshes the wild, rock-strewn maremmas, while a stagnantpool below the Groves of Circe reflected an indigo sky, pierced by theblazing constellations of the south.

  As in a dream, he turned his steps towards the hostelry, where,despite the protests of the Regent, he had persisted in remaining. Itsuffered him not in the palace, amid that gay gentry of the court,near Ilaria, whose society he must forego, while others, lessconstrained, might bask in the perfume of her presence. Forever hethought of her as of a flower, entrusted by a generous divinity toearth-born men, to tend and to surround with care.

  Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by athrong of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure beforemidnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greetedhim civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examinedthe cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him withhis close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room,started upstairs to his chamber.

  Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through thecrowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at himvaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face.

  "Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he saidawkwardly.

  Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder.

  "What is your business with me?"

  "I am sent to bring you to one who is dying."--

  Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly togo, but on a sudden impulse he lingered.

  "Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving.

  "Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause:

  "He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!"

  "Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve.

  The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street.

  "He is in fearsome pain,--about to die," he said. "He is very anxiousabout his soul's salvation."--

  Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about hissoul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughtscame to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The brightvision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning,vanishing.

  The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other imagecould hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; theunshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance asinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched.

  A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco withrelief.

  "Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear theconfession, but the patient will not make it till he has seenyou--Messer Capitano, I withdraw--" he stammered, for the awful eyeshad turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound.

  Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety andsomething else in his face.

  "Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"--

  Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity andhorror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face.

  "Must I ask twice?"

  Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness.

  Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardlyhe wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura.He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction.

  "That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint'sblessing should have great power,--should it not? You ought to knowabout such things!"

  He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have beensupposed possible.

  "It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco.

  "Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curiouslook. "I shall be honest,--and thorough! Have you the indulgence,--andthe last absolution,--and the Host,--and--the oil?" he continuedhoarsely. "They make a good showing,--if one is really holy! One takesone's little precautions!"

  Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as hespoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "Andnow,--for you and me!"--

  White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath thelight of cunning.

  Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love ofGod!

  "I am waiting!" growled Raniero, eyeing the other fiercely. "Speak theprayer for the dying!"

  Francesco moved not. He looked at the sick man spellbound, as a birdwould at a snake. The words he wanted to speak died in the utterance.

  "I have never questioned one of the Church's doctrines," said Raniero."Apparently you are more of a heretic than I."--

  "It may well be," said Francesco absently.

  The other eyed him coldly, and a silence fell. In the heart of it grewand deepened a significance.

  At last Raniero spoke.

  "Of all men living, I have hated you the most!"

  He was rolling his eyes fearfully; the face was on guard.

  "I have never injured you," replied Francesco. "Look within my heart.Naught is there towards you but compassion!"

  "Looking in--your heart, I find therein the image--of my wife, Ilaria.As ever,--looking in her heart,--I find therein--your own!"

  Raniero hissed the words; the dilated glaring eyes were as a weapon topierce the heart of which he spoke.

  "It is true!" Francesco cried out with bitter shame. "Yet if your eyescan see, they behold in my heart the image of the purest woman, beforewhom all my thoughts do worship, save rebels still unconquered."

  Listening on the stair without, soldier and priest nodded to eachother at the sound of the "De Profundis clamavi ad te." All was goingsuitably in the death-chamber.

  And Raniero listened, as the other knelt. A spasm seemed to pass overhis face.

  "Do you still hate me?" asked Francesco anxiously, when the invocationwas ended. It was painful to him to think that his shadow stoodbetween this man and eternity.

  "A little," replied Raniero with that curious smile. "But I am almostsure that I shall hate you less--in a moment. You remember--I havetaken from you--Ilaria!"
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  There was a strange note of triumph in his speech.

  "Do you forgive even that?" asked Raniero with some anxiety.

  "I have forgiven," said the other with bowed head.

  "Come hither then!" cried Raniero. Craving was in his tones and eyes."Make on my forehead, and on my breast, in token of yourforgiveness,--the sign of the holy cross!"

  He seemed to grow faint. A strange restlessness had seized him. He hadclosed his eyes; his lips moved as in prayer. One hand stirred beneaththe cover.

  Francesco came to his side, and stooping began solemnly to trace thesign.

  Concentrated hate, loosed from its leash, snarled, shone in Raniero'sface. Francesco saw nothing. A lifted hand,--a glittering flash: theknife struck fierce and deep. But the hand that guided it, trembled;it missed the heart. With an outcry of pain Francesco staggered andfell backward.

  "Gr-r-r-h!" snarled Raniero, like a great cat, growling over its prey,as he leaped from the bed.

  At the sound of the fall the two waiting without had rushed in.Seizing the opportune moment, Raniero dashed past them, out into thedarkness, leaving them with his unconscious victim.

  Removed to the inn, where Raniero's messenger had found him,Francesco's unconscious state slowly gave way to a delirium, whichmade constant attendance imperative. Terror-stricken by the act andits probable consequences, the two who had been present in Raniero'ssick-chamber had summoned a leech, whose efforts to break the deliriumof the sufferer seemed at first of little avail.

  Now he was at Avellino, in the garden, at dusk. Roses wereeverywhere, in riotous profusion,--flame roses, every one curled intofiery petal-whorls, dancing in the garden-dusk under a red, red sky.Now the chariot of Amor! The rose chaplet has burned Amor's brow! Oh!Turn away from the tortured face of the poor young God of Love! Nomatter, we will see the pageant out! But that woman with the ScarletRobe must not be in the show! She is the Woman of the Red Tower! Leadher away! Francesco must wear the fiery circlet and march with therest!

  Now he is at Viterbo! Clement, most Holy Father, do not caper about sostrangely! Take off those striped clothes! At least, if you will wearthem, put your tiara aside. Yes,--you juggle excellently well withthose many balls. White! Black! How high you toss them up! How deftlyyou catch them! Ha! We see the trick. With each toss a white ballturns black. They are all black now, and Messere, the Cardinals aregrinning! Horror! Are those the Cardinals? Hoofs in red stockings?Horns peering out under the cap? The scarlet robes are flames of aburning village, and the Cardinals point long claws and hiss applause,while the mountebank weeps. And Francesco weeps too!

  Now the serene peace of the wide-glimmering sea! Golden columns areshining through the water! He turns to the shore,--and as he turns thegreat sea stirs. It heaves, it writhes, it rises! With onwardmovement, as of a coiling snake, the whole vast liquid brilliancerushes upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curve and break insheets of whitest foam,--not foam, rather the soft limbs ofsea-nymphs. Within the green translucence,--ah! the threateningsplendor! Behold the awful, tottering walls!

  The crash has come! In the depths of the sea Francesco stands alone!The temple still rises around him, no more a ruin, but perfect inevery part! The light is emerald. He stands by an altar,--no, it isFonte Gaia! Bending down he beholds first a dizzying glimmer, as ofsun-rays reflected from wet bright pebbles, set in gay patterns at thebottom. Presently his own reflection clears: the face of Ilaria,lovely beyond all memory or dream, is bending beside it.

  The White Lady! She is there in her gown, creeping with brightestbroideries. She offers him a golden cup! "Drink, Francesco!" sheimplores. Strange sea-lights waver about her beauty; in a way she ischanged; but it is the voice of the girl he has loved better than allthe world. Suddenly a shadow stands between them. He shivers in thewarm air.--

  What is there between Ilaria and Stefano Maconi!

  Now some one flies past, a cord around his neck.

  "Beware!" cries a voice, and on the rainbow brightness of Ilaria fallsthe shadow of mighty wings. Swooping down from the roof, one of thegreat demons of Lecceto hovers, poised hawk-like. The face isRaniero's; the body, that of a vulture. Francesco, horror-stricken,watches for the fiend to dart, to fasten his claws in Ilaria's duskyhair, to bear her aloft, away, her shrieks trailing after her. Butthis does not happen. In a faint light, like a mountain-mist at dawn,the whole scene fades away, and Francesco bursts into wild and violentweeping that seems as if it would drain his soul away.

  When, after a few days, Francesco opened his eyes, he found himself ina high-vaulted room of the palace, Ilaria bending over him wide-eyed,pale of face. With a choked outcry he grasped the soft white hands tohis lips, his eyes raised to her in long, mute questioning. She bentover him and kissed his lips.

  "I love you," she whispered, then looked away.

  His questionings at last elicited the response that at the behest ofthe Regent he had been brought to the palace, where Ilaria herself hadbeen tending to his comfort. The name of his assailant had remained nosecret. Yet, beyond vague whisperings, it was not again alluded to.

  Sleep, deep and dreamless, blessed the racked body throughout the day;the sleep that leaves one's past life far behind and from which onewakes in weak expectancy and the helpless peace of a new-born child.

  It was at the Vesper hour that this waking came to Francesco. Sunsetlight filled the gloom of the high-vaulted room. A distant silvergleam had filled him with strange comfort and strange sorrow. Ilariahad left him in care of the leech, a little Greek with restless,ever-shifting eyes. Through the casement the evening star looked in.Beyond Castel del Ovo he divined the far-trembling sea, quieted to apure colorless memory of the day that had died, yet brighter than thedarkening skies.--

  Lying peacefully convalescent, Francesco looked back as from a stillhaven on the storms that had shaken him since his departure fromAvellino. Had a great enfranchisement or a great imprisonment befallenhim? Life, the master, would show him in good time. Certainly theentrance into fresh intellectual regions which had intoxicated him forthe time, seemed less important now. For one thing, he perceived thepassion for novelty, as synonymous with progress, to be a meredelusion of the arch-wizard, Time. And, in a flash, he saw that it wasbut the old uncertainty in a new sphere. Was the Church the visibleexpression of Life? Must he remain forever under the yoke, to atonefor his own existence, hungering after that which other men freelyenjoyed? And suddenly, like a flash, a phase of his dream leaped intohis wakeful state. He closed his eyes and groaned.

  What was there between Ilaria Caselli and Stefano Maconi?