CHAPTER XXXVI.

Ramiro d'Orco sat in his own splendid room while rumours of the death of the unfortunate Duke of Gandia spread consternation through the city; but he had before him a parchment with a large pendant seal, which gave him the important ecclesiastical fief of Imola, and he thought of little else. The first great step he had ever been able to take in that high road of ambition which he had so long been eager to follow was now taken. He saw before him along career of greatness, and he calculated that, step by step, as Cæsar Borgia rose, he must rise with him. He did not over-estimate at all the abilities of that very remarkable man; and it was no wild calculation to presume that, with such abilities, with such courage, with such ambition, and without a scruple, Cæsar Borgia, in that unscrupulous age, must rise to the highest point of power and dignity.

True, the town of Imola had its own lords; true, it was strongly garrisoned; but the barony had been declared forfeited to the Holy See, and the fortifications were too much decayed to withstand a siege. Linked as he was now with Cæsar Borgia, and knowing that his services, especially with the hostile Cardinal of St. Peter's, were necessary to the Holy See, he doubted not that the forces of the pope, which were soon to be employed against Forli, in the immediate neighbourhood of Imola, would be permitted to place him in possession of the vicariate. He was resolved, however, to make sure of that point as early as possible, and if not successful in his application, to raise troops himself and endeavour to surprise the place.

The second day after the assassination of the Duke of Gandia, Ramiro d'Orco, with more splendour than he had yet displayed in Rome, presented himself first at the Vatican, and then at the palace of the cardinal. At the Vatican he was refused admittance, and the attendants told him the dreadful sufferings of the father for the loss of his eldest and best-beloved son. They assured him, and assured him truly, that the pope, shut up in his cabinet, had neither seen any one, nor tasted food of any kind since the death of the duke had been ascertained. At the Borgia palace he was admitted, and he found in the gorgeous saloons a number of the high nobility of Rome, brought thither by the same motive which he himself professed, namely, to condole with the young cardinal upon his brother's death. With a grave air and a sad look, he advanced slowly toward Borgia, and expressed in graceful and well-chosen terms his regret and horror at the event which had occurred.

The drama was well played on both parts, although, to tell the truth, Cæsar was so much amused at the farce, that, had he not been the most complete master of dissimulation in the world, he must have laughed aloud. He looked grave and sad, however; and when Ramiro, after having stayed for some time in the hope that the other visitors would depart, rose to do so himself, Cæsar said to him, in that bland and caressing tone which he knew so well how to use--

"Stay with me, my Ramiro. Your company will give me consolation. You must partake my poor dinner, though, to say truth, I have no stomach for aught."

One by one the barons departed, and if any one suspected that the cardinal was not so much grieved as he appeared to be, they took care not to express their doubts to any one--no, not to their dearest friends or most trusted confidant. When they were gone, a quiet smile passed over Cæsar Borgia's lips, but neither he nor Ramiro made the slightest allusion to the events of the past.

The cardinal, however, was in the most benign and generous humour. His appetite at dinner showed no signs of decay, nor did he altogether avoid the wine-cup. Ramiro knew that he was necessary to him, and therefore ate and drank with him without fear, although it was not always a very safe proceeding. In the course of the dinner Ramiro alluded to the difficulties he might have in obtaining possession of Imola; but Cæsar cut him short with a kindly smile, saying--

"I have thought of all that, and that will be easily arranged, I trust. My journey to Naples once over--and it will only take ten days--I march against these traitor vicars of the Holy See, and will expel them from the possessions they unjustly retain. The pope, my friend, does not bestow a fief without putting the recipient in possession of it. The first occupation of his forces under my command will be to establish you safely in your city, trusting that I shall have your aid and good counsel in dealing with the others which I have to reduce. Ramiro," he continued, changing his tone and speaking abruptly, "you have done me vast service, and those who serve me well are sure of my gratitude. You have rendered great services, too, to the Holy See, and can render greater still, for there is only one enemy we have to fear, that fierce Julian. Continue to keep him in check for my sake, and as long as my father lives you may count upon me as your friend."

"I hope, indeed, to be able to do still more," and Ramiro; "for when my daughter is united to a cousin of the King of France, his companion and his friend, I shall have a mouthpiece at that court which can whisper a word in the king's closet more potent than all that Julian de Rovera can say at the council table."

"Good--good," said Cæsar Borgia; and then they proceeded to discuss many points in regard to their future proceedings, which would not interest the reader. Suffice it to say, a few weeks after this conversation, a strong body of the papal troops appeared before the gates of Imola, and summoned the garrison to surrender. Merely a show of resistance was made: but at the first mention of terms the garrison agreed to capitulate, and before night marched out. On the following morning Cæsar Borgia pursued his way toward Forli, and Ramiro d'Orco, with a splendid train and a considerable band of armed men, whom he had engaged in Rome, made his public entry into the city. The people, who had suffered some oppression from their late lords, shouted and rejoiced, and all his first acts gave promise of a gentle and paternal rule.

Only two days had passed after he became Lord of Imola, when Father Peter, as he was now called, was summoned to the presence of Ramiro d'Orco, and told to prepare for an immediate journey to Florence.

"I send a noble lady of this place," said the baron, "with twenty men-at-arms and some women servants, to bring my daughter hither; but you, my good Mardocchi, have an especial part to play in this business. You will hand her my letter; tell her, her presence is needful to me, and that the dangers she feared in Rome do not exist at Imola. You have told me, I think, that you have seen and known the young Lord Lorenzo Visconti. He is expected in Florence soon to wed my daughter, and will go at once to the Casa Morelli. You must remain behind after the Signora Leonora has set out, and wait for his coming. When he arrives you must immediately see him, and induce him to come hither. Tell him that I found it expedient for many reasons that Leonora should be with me until he came to claim her hand, but for none more than this: I have certain information that my good cousin, Mona Francesca Morelli, having lost her beauty from the effects of injuries she received some months since, is about immediately to enter the convent of San Miniato. Leonora will then be without protection in Florence, unless she goes with Mona Francesca to the convent, which would not please me, as I fear the influence of the sisters upon her mind. You will tell Signor Visconti, however, that I am forgetful of no promises, and that I am ready to bestow upon him my child's hand as soon as he arrives at Imola."

"But how long am I to wait for him, noble lord?" asked Mardocchi: "young gentlemen are sometimes fickle, and perchance he may not come as soon as you expect."

A sudden flush passed over Ramiro's face, and his brows contracted; but after a short pause he answered, in his usual tone:

"He is not fickle, my good friend. He will be there within a month after you reach Florence; the ways are all open now, and there is nothing to impede him; but even if, from some accident which we cannot foresee, he should be delayed a fortnight or three weeks longer, I would have you stay for him. Few men, my good Mardocchi, are likely to be fickle with _my_ daughter."

He laid an emphasis on the word "my", but yet there was something of paternal pride and tenderness in his tone.

"I should think it would be somewhat dangerous," said the friar with a laugh; "however, I will be ready, my lord, at your command, and will obey you to the tittle."

"Dangerous!" said Ramiro, after the man left him. "But this is nonsense; he dare not slight her."

In some eighteen days' time Leonora appeared in Imola, more beautiful, perhaps, than ever, and many of the young nobles of the neighbouring country would willingly have disputed her hand with any one; but Ramiro d'Orco took care to make it known that her heart, with his approbation, had been won by another, whose bride she was soon to be. Toward her he was, perhaps, in some degree, more tender than he had shown himself before, yet there was but little difference in his manner or his conduct; there was the same indulgence of her slightest wishes; the same grave, almost studied reserve. He told her more as a command than a permission, that she would be united to Lorenzo as soon as he arrived; and Leonora's heart beat high with hope and expectation.

Week passed by after week, and still Lorenzo did not come. One letter arrived from Florence informing Ramiro and his daughter that Mona Francesca, deprived of Leonora's society, which had of late been her only solace, had retired from the world even earlier than she had intended; but nothing was heard of Mardocchi, though he was known to be a good scribe.

Six weeks--two months passed, and fears of various kinds took possession of Leonora's heart. Ramiro d'Orco said nothing, but he appeared more grave and stern than ever.

At length a carrier passing by Imola brought a letter from Mardocchi. It was merely to ask if he should return. He made no mention of Lorenzo, but he merely laconically remarked that he thought he had stayed long enough. Ramiro d'Orco laid the letter before his daughter without remark, but he took advantage of a messenger going to France from Cæsar Borgia to order Mardocchi to return.

And what did Leonora do? A tear or two dropped on the villain's letter. She had no doubt of Lorenzo's constancy. His heart was imaged in her own, and she saw nothing fickle, nothing doubtful there. She thought he must be ill--wounded, perhaps, in some encounter--unable to come or write, But she had heard of the courier's passing too, and she longed to write. There had been something in her father's manner, however, that made her hesitate, and, after long thought she went boldly up to his private cabinet. He was seated, signing some official papers, but he looked up the moment she entered, saying--

"What is it, Leonora?"

A new spirit had entered into her with her love for Lorenzo Visconti, and she answered no longer with the timidity, nay, with that fear which at one time she felt in speaking to her father.

"Lorenzo must be ill, my father," she said. "I am told that there is a courier going to France, and I long to write by him. I feel it would be better, wiser, to have no secrets from my father--to let him know my whole heart and all my acts. I, therefore, will not write without your permission."

"Write--write, my child," said Ramiro d'Orco, with a more beaming look than usually came upon his countenance. "God grant that this young man's disease may be more of the body than the mind. His conduct is strange, but yet I will lose no chance. I cannot write to him, but you may. Woman's love may pardon what man's harder nature must revenge. Perhaps this letter may e explained. God grant it!"

Leonora retired to her chamber and wrote:

"My spirit is very much troubled, dear Lorenzo"--such were the words--"You promised to return in two months after we parted. Five have passed; and you have neither come nor written. I know you are