“You spare me nothing,” she said. “You strip me naked in your brutal scorn, and then fling mud upon me. I have been your friend, Bellarion—aye, and more. But that is over now.”
“Madonna, if I have offended …”
“Let be.” She became imperious. “Listen now. You must not continue with my Lord Facino because where he goes thither must I go, too.”
“You ask me to take my dismissal from his service?” He was incredulous.
“I beg it … a favour, Bellarion. It is yourself have brought things to the pass where I may not meet you without humiliation. And continue daily to meet you I will not.” Her ready wicked temper flared up. “You’ll go, or else I swear …”
“Swear nothing,” he thundered, very suddenly aroused. “Threaten, and you bind me to Facino hand and foot.”
Instantly she was all soft and pleading. A fool she was. Nevertheless—indeed, perhaps because of it—she had a ready grasp of the weapons of her sex.
“Oh, Bellarion, I do not threaten. I implore … I …”
“Silence were your best agent now.” He was curt. “I know your wishes, and …” He broke off with a rough wave of his hand. “Where should I go?” he asked, but the question was addressed to Fate and not to her. She answered it, however.
“Do you ask that, Bellarion? Why, in this past month since Alessandria fell your fame has gone out over the face of Italy. The credit for two such great victories as those of Travo and Alessandria is all your own, and the means by which you won them are on every man’s tongue.”
“Aye! Facino is generous!” he said, and his tone was bitter.
“There’s not a prince in Italy would not be glad to employ you.”
“In fact the world is full of places for those we would dismiss.”
After that they rode in silence until they were under the walls of the city.
“You’ll go, Bellarion?”
“I am considering.” He was very grave, swayed between anger and a curious pity, and weighing other things besides.
In the courtyard of the citadel he held her stirrup for her. As she came to earth, and turned, standing very close to him, she put her little hand on his.
“You’ll go, Bellarion, I know. For you are generous. This, then, is farewell. Be you fortunate!”
He bowed until his lips touched her hand in formal homage.
As he came upright again, he saw the square-shouldered figure of Facino in the Gothic doorway, and Facino’s watching eyes, he thought, were narrow. That little thing was the last item in the scales of his decision.
Facino came to greet them. His manner was pleasant and hearty. He desired to know how the hawking had gone, how many pheasants his lady had brought back for supper, how far afield she had ridden, where Bellarion had joined her, and other similar facts of amiable commonplace inquiry. But Bellarion watching him perceived that his excessively ready smile never reached his eyes.
Throughout supper, which he took as usual in the company of his captains and his lady, Facino was silent and brooding, nor even showed great interest when Carmagnola told of the arrival of a large body of Ghibelline refugees from Milan to swell the forces which Facino was assembling against the coming struggle, whether defensive or offensive, with Malatesta and Duke Gian Maria.
Soon after the Countess had withdrawn, Facino gave his captains leave. Bellarion, however, still kept his place. His resolve was taken. That which the Countess claimed of him as a sacrifice to her lacerated vanity, he found his sense of duty to Facino claiming also, and his prudent, calculating wits confirming.
Facino raised heavy eyes from the contemplation of the board and leaned back in his chair. He looked old that night in the flickering candlelight. His first words betrayed the subject upon which his thoughts had been lingering.
“Ha, boy! I am glad to see the good relations between Bice and yourself. I had fancied a coolness between you lately.”
“I am the Countess’s servant, as I am yours, my lord.”
“Aye, aye,” Facino grunted, and poured himself wine from a jug of beaten gold. “She likes your company. She grudged you once, when I sent you on a mission to Genoa. I’m brought to think of it because I am about to repeat the offence.”
“You wish me to go to Boucicault for men?” Bellarion showed his surprise.
Facino looked at him quizzically. “Why not? Do you think he will not come?”
“Oh, he’ll come. He’ll march on Milan with you to smash Malatesta, and afterwards he’ll try to smash you in your turn, that he may remain sole master in the name of the King of France.”
“You include politics in your studies?”
“I use my wits.”
“To some purpose, boy. To some purpose. But I never mentioned Boucicault, nor thought of him. The men I need must be procured elsewhere. Where would you think of seeking them?”
And then Bellarion understood. Facino wanted him away, and desired him to understand it, which was why he had dragged in that allusion to the Countess. Facino was made reticent by his deep love for his unworthy lady; his need for her remained fiercely strong, however she might be disposed to stray.
Bellarion used his wits, you see, as he had lately boasted.
Why had Facino spied that night in Milan? Surely because in the relations between Bellarion and the Countess he had already perceived reason for uneasiness. That uneasiness his spying had temporarily allayed. Yet not so completely but that he continued watchful, and now, at the first sign of a renewal of that association, it took alarm. Though Facino might still be sure that he had nothing to avenge, he could be far from sure that he had nothing to avert.
A great sorrow welled up from Bellarion’s heart. All that he now was, all that he possessed, his very life itself, he owed to Facino’s boundless generosity. And in return he was become a thorn in
