In all the instances history affords of poetic justice to give pause to those who offend against God and Man, none is more arresting than that of the fate of Gian Maria Visconti. Already on the previous Friday word had reached the Duke, not only from Mombelli, but from at least one of the spies he had placed in his brother’s household, that the work of poisoning was done and that Facino’s hours were numbered. Gloating with della Torre and Lonate over the assurance that at last the ducal neck was delivered from that stern heel under which so long it had writhed like the serpent of evil under the heel of Saint Michael, Gian Maria had been unable to keep the knowledge to himself. About the court on that same Friday night he spoke unguardedly of Facino as dead or dying, and from the court the news filtered through to the city and was known to all by the morning of Saturday. And that news carried with it a dismay more utter and overwhelming than any that had yet descended upon Milan since Gian Maria had worn the ducal crown. Facino, when wielding the authority of ducal governor, had been the people’s bulwark against the extortions, brutalities, and criminal follies of their Duke. When absent and deposed from power, he had still been their hope, and they had possessed their soul as best they could against the day of his return, which they knew must dawn. But Facino dead meant an unbridling of the Duke’s bestiality, a free charter to his misrule, and for his people an outlook of utter hopelessness. It may be that they exaggerated in their own minds this calamity. It was for them the end of the world. Despair settled that morning upon the city. The Duke would have laughed if it had been reported to him, because he lacked the wit to perceive that when men are truly desperate catastrophes ensue.
And at once, whilst the great mass of the people were stricken by horror into a dull inertia, there were those who saw that the situation called for action. Of these were members of the leading Ghibelline families of Bagio, of del Maino, Trivulzi, Aliprandi, and others. There was that Bertino Mantegazza, captain of the ducal guard whose face the Duke had one day broken with his iron gauntlet, and fiercest and most zealous of all there was that Giovanni Pusterla of Venegono, whose family had suffered such deep and bitter wrongs at the Duke’s hands.
There was no suspicion in the mind of any that the Duke himself was responsible for the death of Facino. It was simply that Facino’s death created a situation only to be met by the destruction of the Duke. And this situation the Duke himself had been at such hideous pains to bring about.
And so, briefly to recapitulate here a page of Visconti history, it came to pass that on the Monday morning, which was the first day of the Litany of May, as Gian Maria, gaily clad in his colours of red and white, was issuing from his bedroom to repair to Mass in the Church of San Gotthard, he found in the antechamber a score of gentlemen not latterly seen about his court. Mantegazza, who had command of the entrance, was responsible for their presence.
Before the Duke could comment upon this unusual attendance, perhaps before he had well observed it, three of them were upon him.
“This from the Pusterla!” cried Venegono, and with his dagger clove the Duke’s brow, slaying him instantly. Yet before he fell Andrea Bagio’s blade was buried in his right thigh, so that presently that white-stockinged leg was as red as its fellow.
As a consequence, Bellarion reaching Milan at dusk that evening found entrance denied him at the Ticinese Gate, which was held by Paolo del Bagio with a strong following of men-at-arms. Not until he had disclosed himself for Facino’s lieutenant was he admitted and informed of what had taken place.
The irony of the event provoked in him a terrible mirth.
“Poor purblind fool,” was his comment. “He never guessed when he was torturing Mombelli that he was torturing him into signing his own death-warrant.” That, and the laugh with which he rode on into the city, left Bagio wondering whether his wits had turned.
He rode through streets in uproar, where almost every man he met was armed. Before the broken door of a half-shattered house hung some revolting bleeding rags, what once had been a man. These were all that remained of Squarcia Giramo, the infamous kennel-master who had been torn into pieces that day by the mob, and finally hung there before his dwelling which on the morrow was to be razed to the ground.
He came to the Old Broletto and the Church of Saint Gotthard, and paused there to survey the Duke’s body where it lay under an apronful of roses which had been cast upon it by a harlot. Thence he repaired to the stables of the palace, and by making himself known procured a fresh horse. On this he made his way through the ever-increasing tumult of the streets, back to the Ticinese Gate, and he was away through the darkness to cover for the second time that day the twenty miles that lie between Milan and Pavia.
It was past midnight when, so jaded that he kept his feet by a sheer effort of the will, he staggered into Filippo Maria’s bedchamber, ushered by the servant who had preceded him to rouse the Prince.
Filippo Maria sat up in bed, blinking in the candlelight, at that tall, swaying figure that was almost entirely clothed in mud.
“Is that you, Lord Bellarion? You will have heard that Facino is dead—God rest his soul!”
A harsh, croaking voice made him answer! “Aye, and avenged, Lord Duke.”
A quiver crossed
