The Regent still said nothing, and whilst vaguely suspicious he wondered whether the emphatic refusal of the councillors was based upon some suspicion of himself. Had they, by any chance, despite his caution, been harbouring mistrust of his relations with his nephew, and did they think that this proposal of Facino’s was some part of his own scheming, covering some design nefarious to the boy?
One of them turned to him now: “Your highness says no word to this.” And the others with one voice demanded his own pronouncement. He stirred. His face was grave.
“I am as stricken as are you. My opinion, sirs, you have already expressed for me.”
Bellarion, smiling a little, as one who is entirely mystified, now answered them.
“Sirs, suffer me to say that your heat fills me with wonder. My Lord Facino had expected of you that the proposal would be welcome.”
“Welcome?” cried Carreto.
“To view life in a foreign court and camp is acknowledged to be of all steps the most important in the education of a future prince. This is now offered to the Lord Gian Giacomo in such a way that two objects would simultaneously be served.”
The simple statement, so simply uttered, gave pause to their opposition.
“But if harm should befall him while in Facino’s hands?” cried one.
“Can you suppose, sirs, that my Lord Facino, himself, would dread the consequences of such a disaster less than you? Can you suppose that any measure would be neglected that could make for the safety and well-being of the Marquis?”
He thought they wavered a little, reassured by his words.
“However, sirs, since you feel so strongly,” he continued, “my Lord Facino would be very far from wishing me to insist.” One of them drew a breath of relief. The others, if he could judge their countenances, moved in apprehension. The Regent remained inscrutable. “It remains, sirs,” Bellarion ended, “for you to propose an alternative guarantee.”
“Time will be lost in submitting it to my Lord Facino,” Carreto deplored, and the others by their nods, and one or two by words, showed the returning eagerness to seal this treaty which meant so much to Montferrat.
“Oh, no,” Bellarion reassured them. “I am empowered to determine. We have no time to lose. If this treaty is not concluded by tomorrow, my orders are to assume that no alliance is possible and continue my journey to the Cantons to levy there the troops we need.”
They looked at one another blankly, and at last the Regent asked a question.
“Did the Count of Biandrate, himself, suggest no alternative against our refusing him this particular guarantee?”
“It did not occur to him that you would refuse. And, frankly, sirs, in refusing that which himself he has suggested, it would be courteous to supply your reasons, lest he regard it as a reflection upon himself.”
“The reason, sir, you have already been afforded,” Theodore answered. “We are reluctant to expose our future sovereign to the perils of a campaign.”
“That assumes perils which could not exist for him. But I am perhaps presuming. I accept your reason, highness. It is idle to debate further upon a matter which is decided.”
“Quite idle,” Theodore agreed with him. “That guarantee we cannot give.”
“And yet …” began the Marquis of Carreto.
The Regent interrupted him, for once he was without suavity.
“There is ‘no and yet’ to that,” he snapped.
Again the councillors looked at one another. They were growing uneasy. The immediate benefits, and the future glory of Montferrat which had been painted for them, were beginning to dissolve under their eyes like a mirage.
In the awkward pause that followed, Bellarion guessed their minds. He rose.
“In this matter of determining the guarantee, you will prefer, no doubt, to deliberate without me.” He bowed in leave-taking. Then paused.
“It would be a sad thing, indeed, if a treaty so mutually desirable and so rich in promise to Montferrat should fail for no good reason.” He bowed again. “To command, sirs.”
One of the secretaries came to hold the door for him, and he passed out. An echo of the Babel that was loosed in that room on his departure reached him before he had gone a dozen paces. He smiled quietly as he sought his own apartments. He warmly approved himself. It had been shrewd of him to keep back all hint of the hostage until he stood before the Council. If he had breathed a suggestion of it in his preliminary talks with the Regent, he would have been dismissed at once. Now, however, Messer Theodore was committed to a battle in which his own conscience would fight against him, weakening him by fear of discovery of his true aims.
“The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” said Bellarion to himself. “And you’ll never stand to fight this out, my wicked one.”
An hour and more went by before he was summoned again, to hear the decision of the Council. That decision is best given in Bellarion’s own words as contained in the letter preserved for us in the Vatican Library which he wrote that same night to Facino Cane, one of the very few writings of his which are known to survive. It is couched in the pure and austere Lingua Tosca which Dante sanctioned, and it may be Englished as follows:
My dear Lord: These will reach you by the hand of Wenzel who goes hence to Alessandria tomorrow together with ten of my Swiss to serve as escort for the young Prince of Montferrat. To render this escort worthy of his rank, it is supplemented by ten Montferrine lances sent by his highness the Marquis Theodore. Wenzel also bears the treaty with Montferrat, into which I have entered in your name. Its terms are as we concerted. It was not without a deal of cajolery and strategy and only by setting the Regent at odds with his Council that I was able to obtain as a hostage the person of the Marquis Gian Giacomo. The Regent, had the
