The Hill of Venus Read online

  CHAPTER IV

  PROSERPINA

  Francesco arrived at Avellino at dusk. It was the hour when the castlecourtyard was comparatively deserted. Only two bow-men guarded thelowered drawbridge, and they paid little heed to the familiar form ofthe youth as he slowly rode through the gate.

  Throwing the reins of his steed to an attendant, Francesco dismountedand entered the castle, undecided what to do first. Seeing a pagelounging in the hallway, he inquired if the Viceroy was in hisapartments.

  "He returned from the falcon hunt at dusk and has retired," came theresponse.

  "Go, ask him if he will receive me," Francesco entreated,heavy-hearted.

  The page bowed and ran up the winding stairway, leaving Francesco towait in the hall below.

  Presently he returned.

  "The serving-man in my lord's antechamber has orders that my lord isto be disturbed by no one, since he is preparing for his departure onthe morrow--"

  "For his departure?"

  The page eyed Francesco curiously, as if he wondered at his ignoranceof that which was on the lips of all the court.

  "You have not heard?"

  "I have just returned to Avellino,--from a mission," he replied,avoiding the inquisitive gaze he knew to be upon him.

  "Then you know not that King Conradino has crossed the Alps? The courtdeparts on the morrow to join him before the walls of Pavia!"

  Francesco's hand had gone to his head.

  "Conradino has crossed the Alps?" he spoke as out of the depths of adream.

  "I will see the Viceroy on the morrow!"

  Leaving the page to gaze after him in strange wonderment, Francescowent slowly towards the stairs. He shrank unspeakably fromexplanations and scenes of farewell. At the idea of pity and amazementwhich his fate might call up, he fairly shuddered. Perhaps there mightbe even sneers from his companions. And, by the time he had reachedhis own chamber, he was debating the possibility of departing as iffor a journey with excuses to none save his liege lord, the Viceroy ofApulia.

  Upon a wooden settle in his chamber, with the moonbeams pouring downfrom the window above it, he seated himself, and his heart beat up inhis throat.

  If it were true! If the ecstatic dream of his life might be realized!If face to face he might meet Conradino, the imperial youth, therightful heir and ruler of these enchanting Southlands which smartedunder Anjou's insufferable yoke!

  How often had that fair-haired youth, gazing with longing eyes towardsthe Land of Manfred from the ramparts of his castle in the distantTyrol, been the topic of converse at Avellino. His very name hadkindled a holy flame in every heart. At his beck, the beck of the lastof the Hohenstauffen, Ghibelline Italy would fly to arms as one man.Had the hour come at last?

  A cold hand suddenly clutched his heart.

  What was it to him? What was anything to him now? What right had he toenter the lists of those who would flock to the banners of theimperial youth? Had he not, from the day of his birth, forfeited theright to live and to act according to the dictates of his own heart?While they fought he must look on, bound foot and hand, an enemy tothe cause which was his cause. An involuntary groan broke from hislips.

  Too late--too late!

  He arose, and, opening a chest in the wall of his chamber, Francescotook from it a faded flower wrapped in its now dry cloth. The formerscarlet glory was gone, the petals were purple and old. He recalledthe joy with which he had received it. A week ago he would haveproclaimed it to all the world. Now the rose and his life were alike.Now he was conscious only of a sickening, benumbing bitterness ofspirit, as he laid the faded flower tenderly into its former place.Then, lighting a cresset lantern in a niche in the wall, he turnedaway to look through his possessions, to pack what little he mighttake with him on the morrow. And the first necessity which came to hishand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted dagger,--Ilaria's gift.

  From without the encircling gardens of the castle there came strangesounds of laughter and merriment which struck Francesco with a deeperpang. For a time he resumed his seat and, with hands clasped round hisknees, stared in immobile despair into the darkness. Eventually, theoppression of his mind becoming well-nigh unbearable, and, knowingthat sleep would not come to him in his present overwrought state,Francesco arose and strayed out into the dimly lighted corridor, untilhe emerged on a terrace, whence a flight of broad marble stairsconducted to the rose-garden below. Beyond, a pile of gray buildings,rising among thickly wooded hills, was barely discernible in the mistymoonlight. A fault breeze, blowing up from the gardens, bathed him inthe fragrance of roses. He shuddered. From below where he stood camethe sound of laughing voices.

  Francesco peered down eagerly into the rose-garden, girdled by thewall of the terrace, on the summit of which he stood. The bushes wereheavy with blossoms; they drooped over the white sand-strewn walk,even beneath the occasional shadow of a slender cypress that seemed topierce the violet of the night-sky. They clambered up the sides of thefortress villa, and mingled with the ivy on the opposite sweep of thewall.

  The garden was flooded with that golden moonlight which creates in thebeholder the illusion of unreality; for not in the midnight dark, butwhere radiance is warmest and intensest, are spirits most naturallyexpected by the sensitive mind.

  Where the light of the moon was most translucent, there stood a man inthe mythical garb of Hermes, catching therein the full moon glamour.

  As he looked up he met the gaze of Francesco.

  "Come down, Francesco," he cried in comical despair. "Despite mywinged feet I cannot pull the car of Amor, and he refuses to use hiswings!"

  A strange light leaped into Francesco's eyes.

  "Why not summon Pluto, God of the Underworld?"

  "He declines to waive his right to march beside Proserpina, and youknow the Frangipani is quite capable of making a quarrel out of arevel."

  "And who is Proserpina?"

  "Ilaria Caselli."

  "Who calls me?" a voice at this moment spoke from the thicket, and ereeither could answer a girlish figure stepped into the moonlight,paused and looked in amaze at Francesco.

  The latter exchanged a few words with his companion who bowed andwithdrew.

  Slowly she moved towards the terrace; lithe and languid, she seemedherself the Queen of Blossoms, her dusky hair, flower-crowned,enveloped in rainbow bloom.

  "Francesco!" she called, surprise and appeal in her tone. "I knew notyou were here! Come down!"

  "Yes,--Ilaria," he said, yet stood at gaze and made no sign to stir.The light in his eyes had died. She stood below him, half in thelight, half in the shadow, her neck and throat bare, her arms in tightsleeves of flower-embroidered gauze.

  "Come down!" she called more imperiously. "Why do you delay?"

  He moved round the wall to the descending stair and presently was byher side.

  "When did you return?" she asked, extending her hands to him.

  He took them, pressed them fervently in his own, then, bending overthem, kissed them passionately.

  "Within the hour," he replied, his eyes in hers.

  "And your mission?"

  "It is accomplished!"

  "I am glad," she said, and saw not the look of anguish that passedover his face. "I came to ask you," her bosom was heaving strangely,"to be near me when the pageant breaks. I am afraid of RanieroFrangipani!"

  "Yet you chose the role of Proserpina, knowing--" He broke off, ashiver of constraint in his voice.

  "Who told you?"

  He pointed in the direction where his informant had disappeared.

  "Messer Gualtiero! You knew," he then continued slowly, "that Ranierowould be your companion in the pageant!"

  Ilaria pouted.

  "Mine is the part of Lady of Sorrows--Queen of the Underworld!"

  "And the Frangipani's society is the price you pay for your highestate."

  She looked at him, then dropped her eyelids on a sudden.

  "Why should I fear, when you are by?"

  Something c
lutched at Francesco's throat.

  "I may not always be near you!"

  She arched her eyebrows.

  "Then I must look for another protector!" she retorted with a shrug.

  Noting the pain her words gave him, she added more softly:

  "You will not leave me again?"

  "You shrink from the Frangipani," he replied, ignoring her question."Has he insulted you? Is he your enemy?"

  "It is not because he is an enemy, but rather the opposite, that Iwould avoid Raniero Frangipani," was her low reply.

  All the color had faded from Francesco's lips.

  "You mean--" the words died in the utterance.

  "He wooes me!" she said low.

  A fierce light leaped into Francesco's eyes. She laid a tranquillizingfinger on his arm.

  "You have no cause for wrath, that I can see! And yet I would ratherhave you near than far. The Frangipani is filled with violentpassions. He wooes me violently. Since you left Avellino," she addedwith seeming reluctance, "he seems to have taken new courage,and--some unexplained umbrage at--I know not what! 'Who is thisFrancesco Villani?' he said to me and his eyes glowered. 'What is hisancestry? What should entitle him to your regard?' Again and again hedwelled on this point,--Francesco,--you know I love you,--and I carenot,--so you love me,--but you will tell me,--that I may silencehim,--Francesco,--will you not?"

  A shadow as from some unseen cloud swept over his face.

  "I shall tell him myself,--and in your presence."

  "You will not quarrel?" she said anxiously, holding out her hands tohim.

  He clasped the soft white fingers fiercely in his own, then pressedthem to his throbbing heart. In the distance voices were heardcalling, clamoring.

  For some moments they gazed at each other in silence, then she said:

  "They are calling me! I must return to my task of sorrow!"

  "Strange words for a queen--" he said with an attempt at merriment.

  "Queen of the Shades," she replied. "And I long for life--life--life!With all it has to give, with all it can bestow!"

  A strange, witch-like fire had leaped into her eyes. Her lips,thirstily ajar, revealed two rows of white even teeth, and in thatmoment she looked so alluringly beautiful, that Francesco in a feverof passion threw his arms about her and kissed her passionately againand again, with moist, hungry lips.

  "Will you not come?" she whispered, after having utterly abandonedherself to his embrace.

  He shook his head.

  "I have no part in this! I will await you here!"

  The voices sounded nearer. Now could be distinguished the cry:"Proserpina--Proserpina!"

  She turned reluctantly, with a last glance at him, and hastened backtowards the revels.

  Francesco watched the slender, girlish form, until she had mingledwith the shadows of the trees. Then, with a low cry of anguish, heleaned against the balustrade and covered his face with his hands.--

  And now the pageant began to gather in the garden, a pageant of Lovein a guise such as might have been conceived by Petrarca,--a mediaevaldivertissement, such as the courts of thirteenth century Italy werewont to delight in. And Francesco, slowly waking from a disorderedreverie, leaned over the balustrade, straining his gaze towards theclearing, whence peals of laughter and music of citherns and cymbalsheralded the approach of a procession, which in point offantasticality did indeed honor to those who had contrived it.

  It was a pageant of the Gods, the outgrowth and conception of a mind,not yet set adrift by the speculative theory and philosophy of a Danteor Petrarca, a mind still hovering between Roman austerity andHellenic mystery.

  As the procession emerged from the inner courtyard, a level ray ofmoonlight fell upon attires wherein seemed blended the gayest fantasyof all times: Juno frowning jealously on the bowed figure of her Lord;Mars and Venus, and Pluto, his dark face rising over folds of sombrepurple, beside the magically fair Proserpina. After these there camegroups of languid lovers of all ages; enchanters and victims: Orpheusand Eurydice, Jason and Medea, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristram andIseult. Bound with great ropes of blossom or chains of tinsel, theymoved sadly, crushed and sighing, behind the chariot of the King ofSighs. And he, the dismal ruler, seemed the personified memory of afigure in the lower church at Assisi, driven shrinking towards the pitby Giotto's grave angels of penance.

  Round that chariot gathered fantastic shapes, clad in dim, floatinggarments, their faces concealed by gray masks on which the unknownartist had stamped an expression, now of wild dismay, now of grinningtriumph, a presage, it would seem, of the Dreams and Errors, and theWan Delusions, whom Petrarca conceived to be the closest companions ofthe lord of the mortal race.

  Exclamations of delight from the balconies of the castle, where duskygroups of spectators were dimly discernible, broke the dream stillnessof the night.

  From his vantage point on the terrace Francesco's burning gaze,riveted on the pageant, followed the graceful swaying form ofProserpina with the pale face and lustrous eyes upturned to him, whilethe procession circled round the terrace, and a Wan Delusion,following directly in her wake, flung up her shadowy arms and groaned.

  For these mediaeval folk threw themselves into the pageant with thedramatic impulse native to place and time. Incited by the tragedy ofBenevento, still quivering through men's memory, and the apprehensionof future clouded horizons, this occasion probably meant to many ofthem, as to Ilaria Caselli, the rejection rather than the assumptionof a disguise, the free expression through the imaginative form, sonatural to them, of the allegiance to passion in which their life waspassed. Each acting his or her part, they moved slowly through thegarden, Orpheus gazing back wildly in search of Eurydice, Circechanting low spells, Tristram touching his harp strings, his eyes uponIseult, and all at will sighing and moaning and pointing in patheticdespair to the chains that bound them, and the arrows that transfixed.

  Presently they gathered round a fountain, which, in the centre of arose-garden, sent up its iridescent spray in the silver moonlight, andTristram, stepping to the side of it, began to sing a Canzona, almostlike a church chant, artificially lovely in the intermingling of theimagery of Night and of the Dawn. Orpheus and Circe followed with aCanzona which struck Francesco's ear with music new, yet charged withechoes of much that he had suffered during the past eventful days.

  With the cadenza of the last stanzas the glow of torches had faded,and the revellers moved towards the opposite wall, whence Francescowas watching one by one, as they disappeared within a low doorway,leading to an inner stair. As they emerged upon the summit eachreveller bore a lighted torch which hardly quivered in the still,balmy air of the summer night. A moment's confusion, and the entirepageant began to advance in single file against the dusky night-sky inwhich the moon, now soaring high above the trees, gleamed with astrange lustre. Above the garden they moved as above the far dimworld, not earthly men and women in seeming, but phantoms of the air.The car of Pluto was illumined from within, and the red light struckwith almost ghostly effect the gray faces and garments of theDelusions. The actors were hushed into silence by the unearthly beautyof the scene.

  Francesco, from across the garden, watched with eyes heavy and weary,the Triumph of the Gods. As Proserpina came in sight, her pale faceflashed on him by the light of the torches carried by Pluto. It wasstrangely alluring in its marble pallor, the dusky hair wreathed withjasmine stars. Francesco was seized in the grip of sudden terror. Thelust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes were passing visibly beforehim under the violet night-sky. In a mad, delirious impulse, he thrustout his arm, the moonlight striking full upon his face. The revellerspaused for an instant, then extended their arms with welcoming shouts.Proserpina, as she came near, threw a flowery chain round his neck.Breathless, dazed, Francesco saw them move away, the blood throbbingwildly in his temples.

  The moon had passed her zenith when the revellers, having twicecircled the walls, descended once more into the garden and dispersed,each at his or her own will, through the
demesne. Terraces illuminedby torch-light, afforded ample opportunity for wandering, and theilex-wood which covered the castle hill, was a lure for the moreventuresome. The castle itself had flung wide its portals, and acollation was being served within until a late hour. The gay companythat so recently traversed the gardens had swiftly flown from onehaunt of pleasure to the other. Most of the participants in thepageant, however, preferred to remain out-doors. Proserpina, Goddessof the Underworld, and the Delusions seemed still to extend theirdreamy sway over the whole company. Day-light selves had disappeared,carrying with them any teasing pricks of conscience, and the greaternumber of the maskers continued through the night to play their partswithout reserve.

  When Francesco had ensconced himself on the terrace to witness therevels, he had given no thought to the continuation of the same. Hewandered through the labyrinthine walks with troubled mind, every nowand then shrinking, a listener both unwilling and unwelcome, fromsounds that assailed his ear from rose-bower and cypress-wall. Yet thesetting of beauty rendered his repugnance languid. He seemed to feel adetaining hand upon him that would not let him escape. Life had everbeen, even in his happiest moods, as a masque, lived in a dream. Butto-night the masque had seemed very real. The weird loveliness of thepageant had enthralled his soul, had brought home to him with new andintense poignancy the dark fate which lurked in the background.Aimlessly he strolled on, aimlessly he lost himself in thelabyrinthine maze, hoping, yet fearing, to meet Ilaria Caselli.

  He had noted now and again a girlish figure flitting around hispathway, in an open space, where a murmuring water flowed. It came outinto the starlight and he recognized White Oenone.

  She swayed towards him timidly.

  "Though Paris be lost to me, are there not other shepherds in theglades of Ida?"

  Her tones blended with the murmur of the stream.

  The tumult of sense swept over him. He saw her white smiling face soclose to his, in the faint light of the moon her hair shone golden.Then he gave a start and thought of Ilaria, and of her strangerequest.

  "Ay--but thy Paris will return, fair nymph," he replied courteously."For the Greek knights have won Troy-Town at last, and the false witchwho lured him from thy side, has sailed for Argos."

  He turned away, noting the shade of disappointment in her face. Hissteps were aimless no longer. Ilaria was not in the rose-garden, norwould he find her on the terraces through which the flickeringtorch-light gleamed. He hastened onward towards the ilex-wood whichbordered on one side close to the castle. In the dense shadow two dimfigures stood. He knew without seeing that one was Ilaria.

  "Ilaria!" he called.

  She started, took a step towards him, then paused.

  On her face he noted the same dazed, half-bewildered look which he haddiscovered thereon in the pageant.

  "Ilaria!" he called once more. His voice had still the same purity oftone as in his childhood.

  She came to him slowly, holding out both hands.

  "Take me away!" she whispered with a shudder.

  Then, from the deeper shadow of the wood, there stepped a form ofremarkable elegance, advancing with the graceful, but assumed,demeanor of a man immured in his own conceit. He was tall, with awell-poised head of the purely Latin type. The face was long, butunusually handsome; of olive hue with regular features, that revealedmany generations of aristocratic ancestry. The nostrils weredelicately chiselled, the eyebrows high and narrow, the thin, cynicallips revealed the sensualist. There was nothing in the countenance ofRaniero Frangipani to dismay the observer, until one looked at theeyes. They were narrow and intensely black, filled with a balefulbrilliance that feared no man, yet revealed to view a soul utterlydepraved.

  The Frangipani having changed his masque, was clothed in the richestapparel of the time. Long hose of crimson silk encased the legs,rising from soft shoes of the same color. A coat of black silk,embroidered with golden flowers, and the Broken Loaf, the emblem ofhis house, was confined at the waist with a golden belt, to which wasaffixed a poniard with an exquisitely jewelled hilt. He advanced withthe graceful yet arrogant swing of the bred courtier, yet his handsomeface was not pleasant to behold, as he turned to Francesco with aninsolent air:

  "I think, Messer Villani, you will find the rose-garden more agreeablethan the wood!"

  Francesco looked at him coldly.

  "I am here at the request of Madonna Ilaria," he replied quietly.

  "Indeed!" sneered the Frangipani, advancing a step closer. "MadonnaIlaria did not hint that she preferred the society of a marplot tothat of a Frangipani!"

  Francesco made an impetuous step forward, feeling for his dagger. ButIlaria caught his arm and clung to it. The two were faintly visible inthe starlight.

  The Frangipani regarded them for a moment with a contemptuous smile.

  "I crave your pardon," he then turned with an ironical bow to thegirl. "I feared Messer Villani would be too fatigued after his journeyin quest of an ancestor!"

  Francesco had turned pale at this palpable insult. There was no doubtthat the Frangipani had spied upon him for reasons not difficult tosurmise. But ere he could carry out his intent, but too plainlyrevealed in his set features, Ilaria had interposed herself betweenthe two.

  "Leave us!" she turned to the Frangipani with a scorn in her voicethat caused the latter to start, while she clung to Francesco's arm,hardly less pale than he.

  Raniero Frangipani regarded them for a moment in silence, tapped withhis foot, like one to whom a new idea has come, then with a long lowsound, very much like a snarl, he vanished in the gloom.

  "Ilaria had interposed herself between the two"]

  Francesco turned to the girl who still clung to him. She knew the lookon his face, but there was in it an expression she had never seenbefore, penetrating, sorrowful, crushed. His breath came and went ingasps, yet he spoke not.

  "Francesco," she said after a pause, while she anxiously watched theplay of light and shadow on his face. "Listen! Messer Raniero seems tobear you a grudge. Promise me to avoid a meeting with him! He has saidmuch to me, thinking thereby to win my favor. He now knows,--let thatsuffice!"

  "He has told you much? What has he told you?"

  "You have not told me what took you away so suddenly!"

  He held up his hand deprecatingly.

  "A secret mission of the Viceroy's," he said blushing, as he stammeredthe falsehood. Yet he could not bring himself to avow even to the girlhe loved best on earth, his father's shame. The pain of life could notbe made less, by adding more pain.

  "Trust me!" he begged. "We have always felt together,--I have neverdeceived you!"

  "Until now!" her voice sounded shrill and strained.

  "No! Ilaria, no! Were it mine to tell,--there is no secret for you inthis heart of mine. But the matter concerns another! Perhaps--intime--"

  He broke off and closed his eyes.

  "I crave my youth!" cried Ilaria unheeding. "My youth, and the joy oflife which comes but once. If one will not give me what I seek--I lookelsewhere, if so I may!" Her lips trembled. "Why do you look at meso?" she continued impatiently after an instant's pause. "Before youcame into the wood I saw your eyes, and I see them still in the dark!What was the object of that mission?"

  Francesco drooped his head, but made no reply. In a clover leaf at hisfeet a dew-drop mirrored a star, breaking the light into a thousandtiny shafts.

  "I will give you your youth," he spoke at last in a low strained voicethat sounded like a broken sob.

  Ilaria laid her hand on his and spoke low. Her light soft fingers werefevered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It is a simple matter!"

  She gazed at him startled, terrified. Suddenly she threw her armsabout him.

  "Forgive me! Forgive!"

  He pressed her to his heart and kissed her dark eyes.

  Then slowly they retraced their steps towards the castle.

  When Francesco reached his chamber, the moon was slowly sinkingthrough the azure night-sky. />
  He noted it not. It seemed to him he was standing in the midst of agreat void. All life about him had died. And he stood there, digginghis own grave, and, as the last spade of turf flew up, the stiflingnight of annihilation swallowed up the universe.