The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala, lying crushed outside Milan — a secret embassy he had long been meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of Verona’s ruin, and his complete triumph.
And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d’Este at Novara had been unfavourable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga’s men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.
And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence. That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the furious onslaught.
For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from the enemy’s hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and della Scala fell back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment of his hopelessness Visconti’s embassy arrived.
‘Give della Scala one day to consider,’ Visconti said to Giannotto, who accompanied de Lana on this mission. ‘And if he mislikes the terms, say thou art to carry them to Ippolito d’Este.’
It was evening, and very still. Visconti stepped on to the balcony, and looked through the clustered pillars of its arcade into the garden.
The setting sun blended all flowers alike with soft gold; a little breeze shook the leaves, and stirred the jasmine that clung to the carved sandstone, fluttering its white stars delicately; the sky was very clear, as pure as a shell, and tinted like a wild rose.
Visconti was busy with his thoughts. His eyes rested on Isotta’s dark prison with an utter satisfaction in gazing on this evidence of his power over della Scala. And then he looked to Graziosa’s dwelling, and a shade crossed his face. Even to himself he would not admit it — but with her it was not perfect success.
Since Valentine’s cruel stab, Graziosa had faded, grown silent and dull; and her beauty had gone with her happiness. She looked no wife for a Visconti. Torn from its setting, her fresh face lost its charm; the simplicity that had pleased him in her father’s house annoyed the Duke in his own palace; the meekness and devotion that had flattered his vanity now angered it — in his eyes she had no more presence than a serving-maid; she was making his choice a mock before all Milan, with her white face and timid voice.
Visconti frowned to himself as he thought of her. She had said no word, she had uttered no reproach; she had remained passive and dull; but she was grown a mere shadow, a reflection of her former self.
‘Maybe her folly will wear away,’ mused Visconti moodily. Tut if not — if she prefers her father before me — she may follow him.’
Today he had not as yet seen her. This was the first thought he had spared her; now he had a free moment and he would visit her — see for himself if her humour should promise of changing — the humour of:
‘My Lady Graziosa Vistarnini, who hath not spirit for her destiny, who hath not the greatness to be proud to be a Duchess of Milan.’
Visconti sneered at her scruples, and was inclined to be angry with his own folly in choosing his wife for a soft heart and true affection; and with more even than anger he thought of Valentine. He took his way alone through the sumptuous gardens.
Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. ‘She had gone to the little summer-house in the garden,’ he was told, ‘to see the sun set, and pray to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it is.’
Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of his shoulders. He was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his palace their best background.
He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance — behind them, the white marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through the deep green.
The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist’s perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved Milan — for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else she might seem to lack.
He picked up a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them — there was a bush in Agnolo’s bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window was open wide, then suddenly blew to — and Visconti started at it curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house.
Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three large windows — the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling colours.
A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches, in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute, tied with a knot of cherry-coloured ribbons.
Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened centre-wise, and the girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees and gardens, clear in the setting sun that sank, a fiery ball, behind the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova.
Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall to with a clang. Someone must come soon. With a piteous little gesture she pulled at the jewelled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.
A rope of pearls bound her waist: with a hasty movement she undid them, and let slip the gorgeous dress, that fell stiff and gemmed on to the marble floor. Beneath was the blue robe she had worn when she first came to the palace.
With hasty fingers she pulled the ornaments from her hair, throwing them to the ground. Her long curls fell about her shoulders; a little sob shook her throat; she looked wistfully around, and sank into the chair. For a little while she sat silent with closed eyes, panting.
Suddenly the sun sank, leaving the room dull, all the light and colour gone.
Graziosa opened her eyes with a little cry.
‘I am so lonely!’ she whispered to herself —‘so lonely. I want someone — to kiss me — good-bye.’
She rose and fumbled among the folds of her fallen gown; she found something small she grasped tight in her cold fingers. ‘I am not brave — ah, I fear I am not brave!’
She rested her head against the arm of the chair, as if collecting herself; then, with a little smile, lifted it with a pitiful show of courage.
The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the wall distant and grey; then it fell to again, leaving the chamber dull, almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the door was pushed open.
Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. Orleans had lost his lute. Tisio remembered it left here. A heap of shimmering yellow satin caught his eye — yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He marked it with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for, made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that someone sat there, someone very still and silent, against the cold white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was not fearful of the dark.
He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.
Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain blue dress.
‘Pretty thing!’ he said gently. ‘Pretty thing!’
He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the streets of Milan, in the sunshine.
She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her attitude struck him.
‘She is sad,’ he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her limp hands.
‘Poor thing!’ he said again. ‘Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor, pretty thing?’
She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly, smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.
Suddenly the door swung under an impetuous hand. It was the Duke, but Tisio was not startled.
‘Gian!’ he said, ‘be kind to her; talk to her, poor thing!’
Visconti stepped into the room, looking at Tisio keenly.
‘Where is she?’ he asked, for in the gloom he could not at once see the silent figure in the corner. ‘Where is she, Tisio?’
‘The girl with the pretty hair —’ began his brother; but Visconti grasped him by the arm with a cry.
‘Bring me a light!’ he cried, ‘a light 2
With trembling hands Tisio lit the lamp and brought it near. Its yellow light fell over Visconti’s green dress and Graziosa’s bright hair.
‘If it should be so!’ muttered Visconti. ‘If it should be so!’ The light was faint, but it showed him enough. He looked into her face, and his own changed darkly.
‘Tisio,’ he said, ‘she’s dead! Graziosa! Graziosa!’
He bent closer, eagerly.
‘Get help, Tisio! Help!’
And Tisio, eager, alert, put the lamp in the window, where it flung long, ghostly shadows, and sped calling down the stairs.
Visconti had sent for help, yet even while he sent he knew it useless: she was dead! He stood looking at her. Poison! — she had poisoned herself! Something was tightly locked in her right hand! He forced the fingers apart, and looked at it — poison. ‘How dared she do it?’ he muttered, with an ever-darkening face. ‘How dared she? Who gave it her? Who dared to give it her?’
He would never have thought it lay in her to do this. All Milan must know she had preferred to die rather than be his bride. He had failed in this, though he had sworn he could not, though he had sworn she should share his throne before them all — the woman who loved him for himself alone. He remembered Valentine. Valentine had done this.
At his feet lay the satin garments and the jewels Graziosa had flung aside: she would not wear them. Not all his power could do that; not all his pride, all his ambition, could make her wear the crown, without the love. Gian Visconti stamped his foot. How dared she! How dared she!
Her eyes would never sparkle at his coming nor sadden at his good-bye. And Visconti, coming back to look at her again, was awed; affection stirred anew, and something like respect at the sight of her still d............