Gennaro’s house.
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