He smiled. Did she think that because she had behaved badly to Alfonso’s bride he was going to be ordered to do the same?

He was chivalrous by nature, and, as he remembered her, there had been something fragile and feminine in that young Lucrezia whom he had met—it must be nearly ten years ago—which had appealed to his gallantry even then. It must have appealed a great deal because he could recall it vividly now.

And so he rode into Ferrara.

The old Duke, he thought, was ailing, and could not last much longer; Alfonso was as bucolic as ever; Ippolito even more haughty; Ferrante more thoughtless; Sigismondo more pious; and Giulio more vain. He was going to be somewhat bored in Ferrara.

Then he met Lucrezia. He caught his breath at the sight of her; she was more fair and fragile than he had been thinking her. Her grief was so recent that it seemed to hang about her in an aura of melancholy. Slender as a young girl in her flowing draperies, her jewels restricted to a few brilliant diamonds, she was almost unearthly in her beauty; and he was deeply moved by the sight of her.

He kissed her hands and managed to infuse a tender sympathy into the kiss. He felt that he wanted to make up for all the insults and humiliations which his wife had administered.

“It was with the utmost sorrow,” he said in a low and tender voice, “that I heard of your loss.”

Tears came to her eyes, and he hurried on: “Forgive me. I should not have recalled it.”

She smiled gently. “You did not recall it. It is always with me. It will be with me until I die.”

She enchanted him, this girl with one of the most evil reputations in Italy, who yet could look so innocent. He longed then to discover the true Lucrezia, and he was determined to do so before he returned to Mantua.

The visit was to be a brief one, so there was not much time for him to do this; moreover he sensed an aloofness in Lucrezia. She was genuinely concerned, he knew, with her father’s death; and if it were true, as Isabella insisted, that Pietro Bembo was her lover, that would account for her polite indifference to his offer of friendship. She was charming of course, but he sensed she would always be that. He wanted to bring a sparkle to her eyes; to see them light up when he approached as he felt sure they would for a good friend. After all, the poor girl had not many friends whom she could trust—friends of some power, that is to say. Ercole was a hard, mean man; and Alfonso’s indifference to the sort of wife he had was obvious. Her father dead, herself childless—as far as Ferrara was concerned—the French King suggesting there might be a divorce, her brother a prisoner of the new Pope … poor girl, did she not realize the difficult position in which she stood? She should do everything in her power to win the support of a man such as the Marquis of Mantua. But she did not seem to think of her own position. She did not seem to care.

He turned his charm on her ladies. With them he was most successful.

Later they chattered about him to Lucrezia. Oh, but he was charming! Not handsome—they would admit that. His eyes were slanting, yet that gave them a look of humor. His nose was flattened as though his mother had sat on him when he was a baby; but did that not call attention to the tender mouth? He was fond of women; that was understandable. What a life he must have with that harridan, Isabella! They could love him out of very pity because he was married to such a woman.

What a remarkable horseman he was! Why, when he rode out with a party he sat his horse in a manner that set him apart from all others. Did Lucrezia notice how his horse welcomed his approach and became lively and spirited as soon as he mounted?

“He has devoted much of his time to horses,” said Lucrezia.

“It is to be understood,” cried Angela. “Such a wife would drive anyone to something else. It is to his credit that it is only horses.”

“Women,” added Lucrezia lightly, “have also come in for a good deal of his attention, so I have heard.”

“It does not surprise me,” retorted Angela. “I can well believe that he would be … irresistible.”

“I beg of you do not make Giulio jealous of the man,” cried Lucrezia in mock seriousness. “Is it not enough that you give him anxious moments on account of Ippolito?”

“Ippolito!” Angela snapped her fingers. “Let him go back to Sanchia of Aragon.”

Lucrezia laughed at her fiery young cousin, but she was still thinking of Francesco.


* * *

Francesco walked in the gardens of the palace and thought of Lucrezia. Never before had he wanted to linger in Ferrara; now he was going to be loath to leave. She excited him. She, with her gentle appearance, her evil reputation. She looked virginal, yet he knew Alfonso was her third husband, and there must have been lovers. Heaven knew there were scandals enough. What was it that excited him? That essential femininity? Or was it that gentleness? He grimaced. She was the complete antithesis of his wife. Was that the reason?

He felt a little sad, contemplating his overbearing Isabella. If she had only been a little less clever or a little less capable, how much easier she would have been to live with! But perhaps if she had been a little more clever she would have understood that she could have ruled him completely. He might have been ruled by gentleness; he never would be by arrogance.

There were times when he hated Isabella. Surely the gentlest of men must rebel against such a wife. Isabella was determined that everyone in Mantua should be her subject, including her husband. There had been times when he had been amused; but there had been others when even his natural placidity had been ruffled.

She no longer appealed to him as a wife or a woman. It seemed sad that this should have happened, for when they had first married he had marveled at his good fortune in having a wife who was possessed of all the virtues.

He was a sensual man, a man of action, yet a man of peace. He had often given way to Isabella, shrugged aside his own preferences, devoted himself to the horses he loved so that now his stables were famous throughout Italy, and the Gonzaga horses renowned for their excellence. He had also loved many women. That was his life, his escape from Isabella.

His courtly manners were the key to his success; that gentle charm, that tender care he was always ready to display, were irresistible. He used them diplomatically although they were not feigned, and it was their very sincerity to which they owed their success.

But toward Lucrezia he felt differently from the way in which he had felt toward any other woman, for Lucrezia was different. So depraved, said public opinion. One of the notorious Borgias. So gentle, said the evidence of his eyes, innocent no matter what has happened to her.

He must solve the riddle of Lucrezia although he was half aware that in solving it he might come to love her differently from the way in which he had ever loved a woman before.

This was clear, because had she been any other he would have planned a quick seduction, an ecstatic, but necessarily brief love affair, and would have returned satisfied to Mantua, fortified against the nagging of Isabella.

But this was different. He must seek to please Lucrezia, to win her confidence, to discover what really lay beyond that serene expression, to understand her true feelings for the poet Bembo.

This he set out to do.

At the balls and banquets he would not with obvious intention seek her out, but it was surprising how often she found herself partnered by him. Often when she walked in the gardens with her women, he—also accompanied by his attendants—would meet her. He would bow most graciously and pause for a few words, calling her attention to the flowers and discussing those which bloomed in the gardens of his palace on the Mincio. The others would fall in behind them.

As the time came nearer when he would be forced to leave for Mantua he began to grow desperate, and one day when they walked in the gardens, their attendants following, he told her, with that fervent sincerity which was so attractive, of his desire to be friends with her.

She turned to him and the candor of her expression moved him deeply. “You are truly kind, my lord,” she said. “I know that you are sincere.”

“I would I could help you. I know of your sadness. You feel alone here in this court. You long for sympathy. Duchessa … Lucrezia, allow me to give that sympathy.”

Again she thanked him.

“The Este!” he snapped his fingers and grimaced. “My own family by marriage. But how cold they are! How unsympathetic! And you … so young and tender, left alone to bear your grief!”

“They do not understand,” said Lucrezia. “It seems none can understand. Until I came to Ferrara I lived close to my father. We were rarely separated. We loved each other … dearly.”

“I know it.” He looked at her quickly, thinking of all the rumors he had heard concerning that love; and again he was deeply moved by her look of innocence.

“I feel,” she said, “that nothing can ever be the same for me again.”

“You feel thus because the loss is so recent. Your sorrow will moderate as time passes.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “My brother said that once.… when I was unhappy about another death.”

“It is true,” he answered.

When she had mentioned her brother’s name there had been a tremor in her voice, and Francesco knew then that her fears for her brother exceeded the misery she felt on account of the death of her father. What was the truth concerning this strange family relationship which had provoked more scandal than any other in Roman history?

Francesco longed to know; he wanted to understand every detail of her life. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, make her gay, as he felt she was intended to be.

Then he realized that through this family relationship he might win her confidence.

He said softly: “You are anxious on account of your brother?”

She turned to him appealingly. “The news I have heard of him frightens me.”

“I readily understand that. He trusted the new Pope too well, I fear. He seems to forget that Julius has always been an enemy of himself and your father.”

“Cesare has been sick … sick almost unto death. I have heard disquieting rumors that his sickness has such a hold upon him that it has deadened his judgment.”

Francesco nodded. “He is a man deserted by his friends. I understand full well your fears, now that he is a prisoner in the Vatican.”

“I picture him there … in the Borgia Tower.… I remember every detail of those rooms.”

Haunted by ghosts! she thought, seeing Alfonso—dear and most loved of husbands—lying dead across his bed, Cesare’s victim. And now Cesare, weakened by sickness, humiliated by defeat, was a prisoner in those very rooms.

Francesco laid his hand on her arm, and whispered in that tender voice which had so delighted her women attendants: “If there were aught I could do to ease your anxieties, gladly would I do it.”

An expression of joy flitted temporarily across her face, so that he was immediately aware of that latent gaiety within her. He wanted to arouse it; he wanted to make her joyous. Was it at that moment that he began to be in love with her?

“There might be something I could do for your brother,” he went on.

“My lord …”

“Say ‘Francesco.’ Need we stand on ceremony, you and I?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I mean to earn your gratitude. There is nothing I crave more than to bring back the laughter to your lips.”

She smiled. “You are so kind to me, Francesco.”

“And there has been little kindness. Listen, I beg of you. Pope Julius and I are the best of friends, and I will tell you a secret. He is asking me to take command of the Papal army. You see, these are not idle promises I make. I shall devote my energies to making you smile again. And if you saw your brother restored to health, and once again Lord of Romagna, would you be happy?”

“I should still think of my father, but I believe that if I could know all was well with Cesare I should know such relief and pleasure that I must be happy again.”

“Then it shall be so.”

There were more delightful walks, more tender conversations, more promises, but eventually Francesco found it necessary to depart for Mantua, and this he did with the utmost reluctance.

Lucrezia missed him when he went; she told herself that she longed for the sight of Pietro Bembo; but she did enjoy hearing her ladies discuss the charms of Francesco Gonzaga.