on the blurred glass of the mullioned window. And then at last, Count Spigno, a lean, tough, swarthy gentleman, whose expressions had already revealed him the bitterest enemy there of the Marquis Theodore, loosed a short laugh.
‘By the Host! He’s in the right.’ He swung to Bellarion. ‘Sir, we should deserve the scorn you do not attempt to dissemble if our plans went no farther than . . .’
The voices of his fellow conspirators were raised in warning. But he brushed them contemptuously aside, a bold rash man.
‘A choicely posted arbalester will . . .’
He got no further. This time his utterance was smothered by their anger and alarm. Barbaresco and another laid rough hands upon him, and through the general din rang the opprobrious epithets they bestowed upon him, of which ‘fool’ and ‘madman’ were the least. Amongst them they cowed him, and when it was done they turned again to Bellarion who had not stirred from where he stood, maintaining a frown of pretended perplexity between his level black brows.
It was Barbaresco, oily and crafty, who sought to dispel, to deviate any assumption Bellarion might have formed.
‘Do not heed his words, sir. He is forever urging rash courses. He, too, is impatient. And impatience is a dangerous mood to bring to such matters as these.’
Bellarion was not deceived. They would have him believe that Count Spigno had intended no more than to urge a course, whereas what he perceived was that the Count had been about to disclose the course already determined, and had disclosed enough to make a guess of the remainder easy. No less did he perceive that to betray his apprehension of this fact might be never to leave that house alive. He could read it in their glances, as they waited to learn from his answer how much he took for granted.
Therefore he used a deep dissimulation. He shrugged ill-humouredly.
‘Yet patience, sirs, can be exceeded until from a virtue it becomes a vice. I have more respect for an advocate of rash courses’—and he inclined his head slightly to Count Spigno—‘than for those who practise an excessive caution whilst time is slipping by.’
‘That, sir,’ Barbaresco rebuked him, ‘is because you are young. With age, if you are spared, you will come to know better.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Bellarion, completely to reassure them, ‘I see plainly enough that your message to her highness is scarce worth carrying.’ And he flung himself down into his chair with simulated petulance.
The conference came to an end soon afterwards, and the conspirators went their ways again singly. Shortly after the departure of the last of them, Bellarion took his own, promising that he would return that night to Messer Barbaresco’s house to inform him of anything her highness might desire him to convey. One last question he asked his host at parting.
‘The pavilion in the palace gardens is being painted. Can you say by whom?’
Barbaresco’s eyes showed that he found the question odd. But he answered that most probably one Gobbo, whose shop was in the Via del Cane, would be entrusted with the work.
Into that shop of Gobbo’s, found by inquiry, Bellarion penetrated an hour later. Old Gobbo himself, amid the untidy litter of the place, was engaged in painting an outrageous scarlet angel against a star-flecked background of cobalt blue. Bellarion’s first question ascertained that the painting of the pavilion was indeed in Gobbo’s hands.
‘My two lads are engaged upon it now, my lord.’
Bellarion winced at the distinguished form of address, which took him by surprise until he remembered his scarlet suit with its imposing girdle and gold-hilted dagger.
‘The work progresses all too slowly,’ said he sharply.
‘My lord! My lord!’ The old man was flung into agitation. ‘It is a beautiful fresco, and . . .’
‘They require assistance, those lads of yours.’
‘Assistance!’ The old man flung his arms to heaven. ‘Where shall I find assistants with the skill?’
‘Here,’ said Bellarion, and tapped his breast with his forefinger.
Amazed, Gobbo considered his visitor more searchingly. Bellarion leaned nearer, and lowered his voice to a tone of confidence.
‘I’ll be frank with you, Ser Gobbo. There is a lady of the palace, a lady of her highness . . .’ He completed his sentence, by roguishly closing an eye.
Gobbo’s lean brown old face cracked across in a smile, as becomes an old artist who finds himself face to face with romance.
‘You understand, I see,’ said Bellarion, smiling in his turn. ‘It is important that I should have a word with this lady. There are grave matters . . . I’ll not weary you with these and my own sad story. Perform a charitable act to your own profit.’
But Gobbo’s face had grown serious. ‘If it were discovered . . .’ he was beginning.
‘It shall not be. That I promise you full confidently. And to compensate you . . . five ducats.’
‘Five ducats!’ It was a great sum, and confirmed Master Gobbo in the impression made by Bellarion’s appearance, dress, and manner, that here he dealt with a great lord. ‘For five ducats . . .’ He broke off, and scratched his head.
Bellarion perceived that he must not be given time for thought.
‘Come, my friend, lend me the clothes for the part and a smock such as is proper, and do you keep these garments of mine in pledge for my safe return and for the five ducats that shall then be yours.’
He knew how to be irresistible, and he was fortunate in his present victim. He went off a half-hour or so later in the garb of his suddenly assumed profession and bearing a note from Gobbo to his sons.
Late in the afternoon Bellarion lounged in the pavilion in the palace garden to which his pretence had gained him easy admission. He mixed some colours for the two young artists under their direction. But beyond that he did nothing save wait for sunset when the light would fail and the two depart. Himself, though not without the exertion of considerable persuasions based upon a display of his amorous intentions, he remained behind to clear things up.
Thus it happened that, as the Lady Dionara was walking by the lake, she heard herself addressed from the bridge that led to the pavilion.
‘Madonna! Gracious madonna!’
She turned to behold a tall young man with tumbled black hair and a smear of paint across his face in a smock that was daubed with every colour of the rainbow, waving a long-handled brush in a gesture towards the temple.
‘Would not her highness,’ he was asking, ‘graciously condescend to view the progress of the frescoes.’
The Lady Dionara looked down her nose at this greatly presumptuous fellow until he added softly: ‘And receive news at the same time of the young man she befriended yesterday?’ That changed her expression, so swift and ludicrously that Bellarion was moved to silent laughter.
To view those frescoes came the Lady Valeria alone, leaving Monna Dionara to loiter on the bridge. Within the temple her highness found the bedaubed young painter dangling his legs from
