“The Duchess has been here,” he said.
She dropped into a chair and hid her face from him. A wave of anger mounted from his heart, choking back his words and filling his brain with its fumes. But as it subsided he felt himself suddenly cool, firm, attempered. There could be no wavering, no self-questioning now.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
She shook her head despairingly.
“Fulvia,” he said, “if you will not speak I will speak for you. I can guess what arguments were used—what threats, even. Were there threats?”
burst from him in a fresh leap of anger.
She raised her head slowly. “Threats would not have mattered,” she said.
“But your fears were played on—your fears for my safety?—Fulvia, answer me!” he insisted.
She rose suddenly and laid her arms about his shoulders, with a gesture half-tender, half-maternal.
“Oh,” she said, “why will you torture me? I have borne much for our love’s sake, and would have borne this too—in silence, like the rest—but to speak of it is to relieve it; and my strength fails me!”
He held her hands fast, keeping his eyes on hers. “No,” he said, “for your strength never failed you when there was any call on it; and our whole past calls on it now. Rouse yourself, Fulvia: look life in the face! You were told there might be troubles tomorrow—that I was in danger, perhaps?”
“There was worse—there was worse,” she shuddered.
“Worse?”
“The blame was laid on me—the responsibility. Your love for me, my power over you, were accused. The people hate me—they hate you for loving me! Oh, I have destroyed you!” she cried.
Odo felt a slow cold strength pouring into all his veins. It was as though his enemies, in thinking to mix a mortal poison, had rendered him invulnerable. He bent over her with great gentleness.
“Fulvia, this is madness,” he said. “A moment’s thought must show you what passions are here at work. Can you not rise above such fears? No one can judge between us but ourselves.”
“Ah, but you do not know—you will not understand. Your life may be in danger!” she cried.
“I have been told that before,” he said contemptuously. “It is a common trick of the political game.”
“This is no trick,” she exclaimed. “I was made to see—to understand—and I swear to you that the danger is real.”
“And what if it were? Is the Church to have all the martyrs?” said he gaily. “Come, Fulvia, shake off such fancies. My life is as safe as yours. At worst there may be a little hissing to be faced. That is easy enough compared to facing one’s own doubts. And I have no doubts now—that is all past, thank heaven! I see the road straight before me—as straight as when you showed it to me once before, years ago, in the inn-parlour at Peschiera. You pointed the way to it then; surely you would not hold me back from it now?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her lips to silence.
“When we meet tomorrow,” he said, releasing her, “It will be as teacher and pupil, you in your doctor’s gown and I a learner at your feet. Put your old faith in me into your argument, and we shall have all Pianura converted.”
He hastened away through the dim gardens, carrying a boy’s heart in his breast.
4.10.
The University of Pianura was lodged in the ancient Signoria or Town Hall of the free city; and here, on the afternoon of the Duke’s birthday, the civic dignitaries and the leading men of the learned professions had assembled to see the doctorate conferred on the Signorina Fulvia Vivaldi and on several less conspicuous candidates of the other sex.
The city was again in gala dress. Early that morning the new constitution had been proclaimed, with much firing of cannon and display of official fireworks; but even these great news, and their attendant manifestations, had failed to enliven the populace, who, instead of filling the streets with their usual stir, hung massed at certain points, as though curiously waiting on events. There are few sights more ominous than that of a crowd thus observing itself, watching in inconscient suspense for the unknown crisis which its own passions have engendered.
It was known that his Highness, after the public banquet at the palace, was to proceed in state to the University; and the throng was thick about the palace gates and in the streets betwixt it and the Signoria.
Here the square was close-packed, and every window choked with gazers, as the Duke’s coach came in sight, escorted meagrely by his equerries and the half-dozen light-horse that preceded him. The small escort, and the marked absence of military display, perhaps disappointed the splendour-loving crowd; and from this cause or another, scarce a cheer was heard as his Highness descended from his coach, and walked up the steps to the porch of ancient carved stone where the faculty awaited him.
The hall was already filled with students and graduates, and with the guests of the University. Through this grave assemblage the Duke passed up to the row of armchairs beneath the dais at the farther end of the room. Trescorre, who was to have attended his Highness, had excused himself on the plea of indisposition, and only a few gentlemen-in-waiting accompanied the Duke; but in the brown half-light of the old Gothic hall their glittering uniforms contrasted brilliantly with the black gowns of the students, and the sober broadcloth of the learned professions. A discreet murmur of enthusiasm rose at their approach, mounting almost to a cheer as the Duke bowed before taking his seat; for the audience represented the class most in sympathy with his policy and most confident of its success.
The meetings of the faculty were held in the great council-chamber where the Rectors of the old free city had assembled; and such a setting was regarded as peculiarly appropriate to the present occasion. The fact was alluded to, with much wealth of historical and mythological analogy, by the President, who opened the ceremonies with a polysyllabic Latin oration, in which the Duke was compared to Apollo, Hercules and Jason, as well as to the flower of sublunary heroes.
