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Updated: June 9, 2025
"It is with Monna Valentina," answered him Francesco, raising head and voice, so that Gonzaga recognised him for the wounded knight of Acquasparta, remembered and scowled. "I am Monna Valentina's captain here," he announced, with arrogance. "And you may deliver to me such messages as you bear."
And so it befell that whilst by Guidobaldo's orders the preparations for Valentina's nuptials went forward with feverish haste whilst painters, carvers, and artificers in gold and silver applied themselves to their hurried tasks; whilst messengers raced to Venice for gold leaf and ultramarine for the wedding-chests whilst the nuptial bed was being brought from Rome and the chariot from Ferrara; whilst costly stuffs were being collected, and the wedding-garments fashioned the magnificent Romeo Gonzaga was, on his side, as diligently contriving to render vain all that toil of preparation.
Their confidence in him increased a hundredfold by this proof of the accuracy of his foresight. They were a gay company at supper in consequence, and gayest of all was Messer Gonzaga, most bravely dressed in a purple suit of taby silk to honour so portentous an occasion. Francesco was the first to quit the table, craving Monna Valentina's leave to be about some duty that took him to the walls.
"And do not let it transpire among your fellows that it is I who have suggested this." "Why no. I'll keep your secret," laughed the bravo offensively, shouldering his partisan and resuming his sentinel's pacing. Gonzaga sought his bed. A fierce joy consumed him at having so consummately planned Valentina's ruin, yet he did not wish to face her again that night.
Yet so excellent an actor was he as to deceive even himself by his acting, and in this suggestion of some vague fine deeds that he would do, he felt himself stirred by a sudden martial ardour, and capable of all. He was stirred, too, by the passion with which Valentina's beauty filled him a passion that went nearer to making a man of him than Nature had succeeded in doing.
Huddled together, more like a flock of frightened sheep than a body of men of war, they stood near the entrance tower, the mock of Peppe, who from the stone-gallery above much to the amusement of Valentina's ladies and two pert pages that were with him applauded in high-flown terms their wondrous valour. They stirred at last, but it was at Valentina's bidding.
By whose orders was the bridge let down?" "By the orders of Monna Valentina's captain," answered Francesco, wondering what madman might be this. "Captain?" cried the other, coming to a standstill and his face turning purple. "Body of Satan! What captain? I am captain here." The Count looked him over in surprise. "Why, then," said he, "you are the very man I seek.
Zaccaria's presence had told him that Fanfulla must at last have written, and he could but assume that the letter, falling into Monna Valentina's hands, should have contained something that she construed into treason on his part.
On this green lawn Valentina's ladies and a page beguiled the eventide in a game of bowls, their clumsiness at the unwonted pastime provoking the good-humoured banter of Peppe, who looked on, and their own still better-humoured laughter. Fortemani, too, was there, brazening out the morning's affair, which it almost seemed he must have forgotten, so self-possessed and mightily at his ease was he.
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