There could be no greater contrast than that between Francesco de Medici, heir to the Tuscan Grand Dukedom, and the beautiful young wife of the bank-clerk, now playing the role of maid-of-all-work and charwoman.  It is said that Francesco was a madman; and indeed what we know of him makes this description quite plausible.  He was a man of black brow and violent temper, repelling alike in appearance and manner.  He was, we are told, “more of a savage than a civilised human being.”  His food was deluged with ginger and pepper; his favourite fare was raw eggs filled with red pepper, and raw onions, of which he ate enormous quantities.  He drank iced water by the gallon, and slept between frozen sheets.  He was a man, moreover, of evil life, familiar with every form of vicious indulgence.  His only redeeming feature was a love of art, which enriched the galleries of Florence.

Such was the Medici—­half-ogre, half-madman, who, riding one day through a Florence slum, saw at the window of a mean dwelling the beautiful face of Bianca Bonaventuri, and rode on leaving his heart behind.  Here indeed was a dainty dish to set before his jaded appetite.  The owner of that fair face, with the crimson lips and the black, flashing eyes, must be his.  On the following day a great Court lady, the Marchesa Mondragone, presents herself at the Bonaventuri door, with smiles and gracious words, bearing an invitation to Court for the lady of the window.  “Impossible,” bluntly answers Signora Bonaventuri; her daughter-in-law has no clothes fit to be seen at Court.  “But,” persists the Marchesa, “that is a matter that can easily be arranged.  It will be a pleasure to me to supply the necessary outfit, if the Signora and her daughter-in-law will but come to-morrow to the Mondragone Palace.”  The bride, when consulted, is not unwilling; and the following day, in company with her mother-in-law, she is effusively received by the Marchesa, and is feasting her eyes on exquisite robes and the glitter of rare gems, among which she is invited to make her choice.  A moment later Francesco enters, and with courtly grace is kissing the hand of his new divinity....

Then followed secret meetings such as marked Bianca’s first unhappy wooing in Venice—­hours of rapture for the Tuscan Duke, of flattered submission by the runaway bride; and within a few weeks we find Bianca installed in a palace of her own with Francesco’s guards and equipage ever at its door, while his newly made bride, Giovanna, Archduchess of Austria, kept her lonely vigil in the apartments which so seldom saw her husband.

Francesco, indeed, had no eyes or thought for any but the lovely woman who had so completely enslaved him.  As for her, condemn her as we must, much can be pleaded in extenuation of her conduct.  She had been basely deceived and betrayed.  On the one side was a life of sordid poverty and drudgery, with a husband for whom she had now nothing but dislike and contempt; on the other was the ardent homage of the future ruler of Tuscany, with its accompaniment of splendour, luxury, and power.  A fig for love! ambition should now rule her life.  She would drain the cup of pleasure, though the dregs might be bitter to the taste.