She had clasped her hands together in an agony of expectation, and he smiled believing he had found the way to her heart.
“I have some influence in this land and in that of Spain. If I sent an envoy to the court of Spain begging for your brother’s release, my request might not go unheeded. What would you say to me then, Lucrezia?”
“I should say you were the kindest man in Italy.”
“Is that all?”
“I could, I believe, begin to love one who could bring so much good to me.”
“How you love this brother of yours!”
“We were brought up together. There are family ties. We have always been of great importance to each other.”
“I have heard that said. I believe, Lucrezia,” he went on seriously, “that there will never be happiness for you while your brother is in captivity.”
“It is as though we are one person,” she said. “While he is a prisoner, so am I.”
“The prisoner of your own emotions, Lucrezia,” he said. “There shall be one in your life who means so much to you that even your love for your brother will seem of small significance. I intend to be that one.”
“You forget Isabella,” she said. “Isabella and Alfonso.”
“I forgot nothing,” he answered. “You will see in time. Tomorrow I send that envoy to Spain.”
“How can I thank you?”
“Between us,” he said, “there shall be no formal gratitude. You will see that I shall put my life at your service and in exchange …”
“Yes?” she asked. “In exchange you will require?”
“Only that you love me.”
Isabella was waiting to receive her sister-in-law at Mantua. She was suspicious. Why had Francesco suddenly become so bold as to forbid her to attend the two days’ festivities at Borgoforte? And who were the guests? Lucrezia and her miserable attendants! All that fuss, all that preparation for the Borgia woman!
Yes, Isabella was very suspicious indeed.
She had been almost unbearable to her servants that day. She had been dressed three times before her appearance satisfied her.
She was assured that no dress in Italy could compare with the one she was wearing. The Borgia woman in her morello and gold would look coarse beside her; she was so slender, so dainty. Isabella cuffed the woman who said that. “Am I a fool?” she demanded. “Can I deny the evidence of my eyes? I am neither slender nor dainty. These are the Borgia’s qualities. But I fancy I have as good a shape as any woman in Italy.”
The more apprehensive she grew, the more she wished to flaunt her superiority. She practiced her singing and dancing steps, as she had before the wedding; she went through her galleries admiring her works of art. The woman would never have seen such treasures, not even in the Vatican. That rogue, her father, had collected women rather than art treasures.
But what annoyed her more than anything was the thought of her husband Francesco’s daring to dance attendance on a woman who she had decided to hate.
She sent for two of her women who she knew had been his mistresses. They were quite handsome still and she bore them no grudge. She had, though he had not known this, chosen them for him. She complimented herself that she knew him so well that she was aware of those occasions when he was ready to go, as she called it, a-roving. That did not worry her. All she asked was to rule Mantua, and if he was deep in a love affair he was more likely to leave her in command than if he were concerned with matters of state. She liked him to have his mistresses in the household so that she could watch the progress of his affairs. What she would not tolerate was that he should choose his own women.
“We must show the Duchess of Ferrara that we can give as good a banquet here as ever she enjoyed in the Vatican,” said Isabella. “And you two shall have new dresses. There is not time for me to design them for you, so I shall select from my own store what most becomes you.”
The women were delighted. They understood, and she knew she could rely on them to use all their wiles to lure the Marquis of Mantua from any fresh love.
Isabella took Lucrezia in her arms and gave her the kiss of Judas.
“How it delights me to see you here!” she exclaimed.
Lucrezia’s smile betrayed nothing. She stood before Isabella, child-like yet self-contained; not in a dress of morello striped with gold but in dark draperies which clung to her figure and which were even more becoming than the bright colors had been. In spite of her troubles she was still a slender and lovely girl.
“Come,” said Isabella, leading the way into the castle, “I long to show you my treasures. I trust my husband entertained you in a manner suited to you?”
Isabella’s eyes were mocking and cruel, full of suggestions, hinting that she suspected Lucrezia of being her husband’s mistress.
Lucrezia replied: “The Marquis and his friends gave me a hearty welcome at Borgoforte. I fear my low spirits disappointed them.”
“Then I trust they were able to raise them a little.”
“It is always comforting to have good friends.”
“Alfonso was not pleased by your sojourn there as my husband’s guest, I gather. He is a jealous husband.”
“He has no need to be.”
Isabella’s laughter rang out.
“The Duchessa has had a long journey,” said Francesco, “and she has not yet fully recovered her health.”
“Forgive me,” said Isabella. “I am forgetful. We will refresh ourselves, and later I will show you my paintings and statues. I’ll swear you have rarely seen a better collection. I pride myself on it.”
Isabella would not leave Lucrezia’s side; she watched her husband’s two ex-mistresses waiting upon him, and Isabella had to admit that they seemed gross beside the newcomer.
It was clear to Isabella that Francesco either had made or determined to make the woman his mistress. Lucrezia with her air of innocence might suggest that she was unaware of this, but she did not deceive Isabella. She is a Borgia, thought Isabella, and therefore a monster.
The light of battle was in Isabella’s eyes. There shall be no love affair between those two, she told herself. I’d see Francesco dead first. He may have all the women in the world if he wishes to—but not that one.
It was a situation which was quite intolerable to Isabella. What was going on behind those sly meek eyes? Was the girl laughing at her? Was she thinking to take her revenge for what had happened at the wedding?
She took Lucrezia’s arm and with a party they toured the castle, for Isabella had a great longing to show Lucrezia the treasures she possessed. She wanted to accentuate the fact that she, Lucrezia Borgia, was no longer a power in Italy, and that even the possessions still left to her were held insecurely.
Francesco was in the party, so were the two women whom she had dressed in two of her most becoming gowns. They were chattering as coquettishly as they knew how, but Francesco was scarcely aware of them.
Lucrezia must gasp in admiration at the beautiful works of art which Isabella had to show her, and even Isabella gloating over them briefly forgot her enmity toward Lucrezia.
Isabella was a born collector with a sincere love of what was beautiful, and as she stood before the glorious Mantegna painting of the Triumphs of Julius Caesar her eyes filled with tears.