CHAPTER III.

Go we now to the grand palace, where the husband and wife watched each other ceaselessly, each ever fearing death at the hands of the other. A happy palace, truly.

See, standing there, in that splendid royal room, are the duke and Rustighello, who had stood watching Gennaro’s house.

“Well?”

“All is done, sire. The prisoner is now within the palace.”

Keeping his eyes fixed upon the other’s face, the duke drew from his waist a small golden key. “‘Tis to unlock the hidden door of a hidden staircase, to be crept up, till a little chamber is reached. Then there are two vases, one of gold, and one of silver, each filled with wine, to be brought down, carried to the next room, and there be ready. Let not the golden vase tempt him, for it holds the wine of the Borgias. Then, if he be called, let him bring the vases; but if there be no call, then, good Rustighello, thy sword.”

Then this mighty duke starts as a servant at the door announces “the Duchess.”

Forward she comes, sparkling with rage and diamonds; no longer dressed in heavy black, but in rich rustling brocade, a sweeping coronet of jewels round her head.

“The duchess seems unquiet.”

“Enraged. I come here to call for justice. A shameful crime hath been committed, the name of thy duchess has been degraded.”

“Softly, duchess, I know it.”

“And thou dost not punish the offender; doth he still live?”

“Live? Yes. That thou mayest destroy him, duchess. Nay, he will be before thee in another minute.”

“Let him be whom he may, I demand his life, and in my presence, duke. Thou wilt give me thy word for this, my lord?”

“I do, most heartily, dear duchess. I give thee my sacred word.”

Then, to a page, who has entered after the duchess:

“Let the prisoner be brought forward.”

“Duchess, thou tremblest, thou dost know this man.”

This man is Gennaro, brought in before the angry duke and duchess, and standing fearlessly.

“I--I do not know him.”

“Pray, may I ask the duke why I am here--why I have been torn from my house? May I dare to ask the meaning of such rigor?”

“Good captain--draw near. Some coward wretch has dared to touch the noble name of Borgia written on this palace door, nay, to destroy the name. The duchess, even as I speak, trembles with anger at the act. We seek the guilty one; perhaps thou knowest him?”

“It was not he--my lord--it was not he,” cried Lucrezia.

“Ah! duchess--duchess--how shouldst _thou_ know?”

“He! he was elsewhere when it was done. ’Twas some of his companions dared----”

“No--no--that is not true.”

“Thou hearest, duchess. Now tell me, captain, and sincerely--art thou not he who dared to do this act.”

“I’m not much used to hesitate, therefore I say _I_ am the man.”

Slowly he turned to the miserable duchess. “Thou dost mark his words” (how lowly the duke spoke!) “Thou dost mark his words, and I gave thee my sacred promise.”

“Alfonzo, Alfonzo, I would speak with thee alone.”

“Oh! surely. A moment, captain, but a moment. Well! duchess mine, we are alone. What wouldst thou ask?”

“The life of this poor youth.”

“Do I hear rightly? And but now such anger as thou didst show!”

“I pity him. ’Twas but a passing anger. I acted but in jest; he is too young to think of consequences. Again, to what good his death? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”

“No, no, dear lady mine, my word is pledged. I never break my word.”

“Nay, dear duke, but _I_ insist. And why, thou seemest to ask? ’Twere ungenerous to refuse thy consort a poor favor such as this. What is the youth to me? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”

“No, no. What! pardon him who hath insulted _thee_! No, thou didst ask his death. And if _I_ could pardon him,--nor could I--for thy dear sake I would not.”

“Let us both pardon, and be clement, duke, for clemency is glorious in us all, and most of all in kings.”

“No king am I, but a poor duke. I cannot spare him, duchess.”

“Why shouldst thou be so angry with this same Gennaro?”

“Dost thou not know?”

“I?”

“Dost thou not LOVE him? Ah! thou dost start, Lucrezia. Even now I read in that face of thine thy crime.”

“Don Alfonzo!”

“Nay, do not speak--”

“If I swear?”

“It were useless. What! shall I _never_ be revenged on thee? If I may not strike thee openly, shall I let pass this hope of wounding thee?”

“Pardon, Don Alfonzo.”

“Pardon!”

“For pity’s sake.”

“What, canst _thou_ speak of pity--thou, Lucrezia?”

“Don Alfonzo, dear husband.” On her knees to him, clinging to him, her eyes dilated, her lips dry and white.

But he stands immovable. Looks down on her unyieldingly. Why, her very humiliation enrages him. For does not this poor unknown wretch, this Venetian, beat down her pride as he, duke and powerful, hath never, never beaten it down yet!

“Thou dost not answer. BEWARE!”

Once more she is the terrible duchess, and if the duke wear opal, let it warn him.

“I know thee, duchess. I have known thee long, Lucrezia. But forget not I am duke, and in Ferrara. Thou art in my power. Ah! well, I’m not unreasonable. I grant thee somewhat. Thou shalt choose the manner of his death. Or poison, or sword. Pray now choose!”

“I--I cannot.”

“Let him then be--stabbed.”

“No, no.”

“Stabbed--stabbed.”

“No, not blood, not blood.”

“The poison. _Thou_ dost choose his death. Pray be seated.--Enter captain, enter. The duchess is all-powerful with me. Why, I cannot tell, but she pardons thy crime, and bids thee go in peace. Italy would grieve to lose so handsome a son.”

“The duke pardons me. Ah! well, now that I can speak without the look of cowardice and hope of mercy, I may tell the duke that his clemency has fallen on a man who doth deserve it. For thy father, surrounded by the enemy, would have died but for the arm of a poor adventurer.”

“The adventurer, good captain, was--”

“My very self.”

“Duke, duke,” lowly, and pulling his dress, “he saved thy father’s life--spare him.”

“The duchess speaks to me, but so lowly that I scarce can hear her. So thou didst save my father’s life--wilt follow his son’s standard?”

“Pardon me, I’m bound by oath to Venice, and oaths are binding.”

“Surely. Oaths are binding--is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good captain, take a golden present.”

“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”

“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so. Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups there--for me the silver one--the golden to the captain. Now, duchess, pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess will bear the cup to thee herself.”

Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has always thought so harsh and full of hate.

“Lady, I did not dream of pardon, and, methinks, my mother, whom I know doth pray for me, hath by her dearest prayers inclined thee and the duke to gracious mercy. I drink to the duke and duchess.”

Courteously the duke relieves the captain of the emptied goblet, lightly places it upon the table, then slowly creeping, like a reptile, he goes up to the duchess and says, softly, “Thou hast perchance somewhat to say to him. Permit me to retire.”

Why does a hopeful flush rush over her face? Why does she touch her bosom with a trembling hand? Why again does her countenance express so much emotion?

The young captain sees her accompany the duke to the doors. The duke bows to him profoundly, and then his back is turned. What next? She stands listening for a moment or so, then rushes madly towards the youth, who looks alarmedly about the room in which are present only their two selves.

As she runs to him she takes her hand from her breast. “Gennaro, thou art poisoned; do not move; quickly take this phial, and begone. A single drop will save thee.”

She stands a little away from him, and draws her dress on one side as she gives him the phial, so that it may hide her hand. When he has it, she presses his hand round it, so that it cannot be seen, and then she stands away from him.

What does he think as he stands there, now full of terror? Death faced on the battle field or on the scaffold may be met calmly; but to die poisoned, treacherously destroyed by a lie, it would make a god tremble. Fool, that for a moment he had trusted the court of Ferrara; and this antidote, perchance ’twas death; perchance the wine had _not_ been poisoned! He had insulted _her_ more deeply than he had the duke. Distrustful and terror-stricken, he stands hesitatingly.

“Drink, drink, he deemed thee his rival.”

As he looks on her face his heart turns towards her--he knows not why, but he believes her--he seems to think she wills that he shall believe her, he sees in the proud face nothing but love for him, not a guilty love. No, she looks, this terrible woman, as his mother might look upon him.

“Drink, save thyself--for--_for thy mother’s sake_.”

Ah! it has decided him, he raises the little bottle to his lips, and he is saved.

She knows now he will obey her.

She runs quickly to a secret door--for such a palace must have secret doors--and slides it open; by a gesture she bids him enter, presses his long hanging sleeve to her breast as he passes her--and he is gone. Then, as she closes the door, she is a lioness guarding her young. She folds her arms and stands there waiting. The gentleness of face which bade the soldier drink the antidote is gone. She stands there--awful, terrible, alone. No one now--no one now beyond the known and hated LUCREZIA BORGIA.