There was a knot in my throat and tears in my eyes—a
matter at which I take no shame. Air seemed
to fail me for a moment, and I almost thought that
I should swoon, so overcome was I. Transport the blackest
soul from among the damned of Hell, wash it white
of its sins and seat it on one of the glorious thrones
of Heaven, then ponder its emotions, and you may learn
something of what I felt. At last, when I had
mastered the exquisite torture of my joy—
“Madonna mia,” I cried, “bethink
you of what you say. You are the noble lady
of Santafior, and I—”
“No more of this,” she interrupted me.
“You are Lazzaro Biancomonte, of patrician
birth, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel fortune
may have driven you. Will you take me?”
She had my face between her palms, and she forced
my glance to meet her own saintly eyes.
“Will you take me, Lazaro?” she repeated.
“Holy Flower of the Quince!” was all that
I could murmur, whereat she gently smiled. “Santo
Fior di Cotogno!”
And then a great sadness overwhelmed me. A tide
that neaped the frail bark of happiness high and dry
upon the shores of black despair.
“To-morrow Madonna, comes the Lord Ignacio Borgia,”
I groaned.
“I know, I know,” said she. “But
I have thought of that. Paula Sforza di Santafior
is dead. Requiescat! We must dispose that
they will let her rest in peace.”
AN ILL ENCOUNTER
Speechless I stared at her a moment, so taken was
I with the immensity of the thing that she suggested.
Fear, amazement, and joy jostled one another for
the possession of my mind.
“Why do you look so, Lazzaro?” she exclaimed
at last. “What is it daunts you?
“How is the thing possible?” quoth I.
“What difficulty does it present?” she
questioned back. “The Governor of Cesena
has rendered very possible what I propose. We
may look on him to-morrow as our best friend.”
“But Ramiro knows,” I reminded her.
“True, but do you think that he will dare to
tell the world what he knows? He might be asked
to say how he comes by his knowledge, and that should
prove a difficult question to answer. Tell me,
Lazzaro,” she continued, “if he had succeeded
in carrying me away, what think you would have been
said in Pesaro to-morrow when the coffin was found
empty?”
“They would assume that your body had been stolen
by some wizard or some daring student of anatomy.”
“Ah! And if we were quietly to quit the
church and be clear of Pesaro before morning, would
not the same be said?”
“Probably,” answered I.
“Then why hesitate? Is it that you do
not love me enough, Lazzaro?”
I smiled, and my eyes must have told her more than
any protestation could. Then I sighed.
“I hesitate, Madonna, because I would not have
you do now what you might come, hereafter, bitterly
to repent. I would not let you be misled by
the impulse of a moment into an act whose consequences
must endure as long as life itself.”
