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Updated: May 13, 2025
To confute them do I set down these facts of which my knowledge cannot be called in question, and also that you may know the true story of Paola di Santafior and more particularly that part of it which lies beyond the death she did not die. The sun of that Christmas day was setting as we drew near to Biancomonte and the humble dwelling of my old mother. We fell into talk of her once more.
Giacopo answered briefly that I was that man. "I am in your debt, sir," she protested, with an odd earnestness. "You do not know how great a service you have rendered me. But if at any time Paola Sforza di Santafior may be able to discharge this obligation, you shall find me very willing." White-faced, black-browed Giacopo scowled at this proclamation of her identity.
Grooms were those four, as all the world might see at the first glance, and the livery they wore was that of the noble House of Santafior the holy white flower of the quince being embroidered on the breast of their gabardines. They bore upon them such signs of hard and hasty travelling that it was soon guessed they had spent the night in the saddle.
Then he looked again, and being a man whose mind was above puerile superstitions, he assured himself that by what miracle the thing was wrought, the figure before him was the living body of Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior. He swept the velvet cap with its jewelled plume from off his auburn locks, and bowed low before her.
"But I have thought of that. Paula Sforza di Santafior is dead. Requiescat! We must dispose that they will let her rest in peace." 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?
"Is this cold argument, this weighing of issues, consistent with the stormy passion you professed so lately?" "It is," I answered stoutly. "It is because I love you more than I love myself that I would have you reflect ere you adventure your life upon such a broken raft as mine. You are Paola Sforza di Santafior, and I " "Enough of that," she interrupted me, rising.
Ramiro announced his intention of leaving Pesaro on the morrow, and ere he went he begged leave to pledge the beautiful Lady of Santafior, who was so soon to become the bride of the valiant and mighty Ignacio Borgia.
"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.
I cast aside my hat, and thrust my motleyed head through the curtains with a jangle of bells, to inquire into the reason of this halt. Whom my appearance astounded the more whether the lacqueys of Santafior, or the Borgia men-at-arms that now encircled us I cannot guess. But in the crowd of faces that confronted me there was not one but wore a look of deep amazement.
Of the Lord Giovanni there was little news, saving that he was living under the protection of the Gonzagas in Mantua, and that so long as he was content to abide there the Borgias seemed disposed to give him peace. Next I made him tell me what he knew of Filippo di Santafior and Madonna Paola. On this subject he was better informed.
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