Light on Lucrezia - By Plaidy, Jean Page 0,153
infertile.
“Something must be done for Giulio,” she said.
Alfonso raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“All these weeks have passed and there is no attempt to administer justice. This harbors dangerous thoughts in Giulio … in Ferrante.”
“So they are plotting together!”
“They do not plot. They fret for justice.”
“You are a fool,” he said, “if you think I can afford to estrange Ippolito.”
“You mean you will shrug your shoulders at what he has done?”
“You speak of Cardinal Ippolito d’Este. I could not show favor to a bastard at his expense.”
“Favor! I did not suggest favor. Only justice.”
Alfonso looked exasperated and Lucrezia for once abandoned her serenity. “Oh, I know I am only a woman,” she cried. “I am here to bear children … nothing more. But I tell you this, Alfonso; if you do not administer justice in some form you will have trouble between your brothers.”
“Trouble in the family must be avoided at all cost,” said Alfonso. “I plan to bring my brothers together; there shall be a reconciliation.”
“You think Giulio will ever be reconciled to Ippolito!”
“He must be … for the sake of Ferrara.”
Eventually Alfonso prevailed upon them to meet each other. He stood between them—the mighty brother to whom they both owed allegiance.
“Ippolito, Giulio, my brothers,” he said. “This has been the saddest thing I ever witnessed. I would have given ten years of my life that it should not have happened.”
“Do not look at me,” said Giulio bitterly. “I was but the victim.”
“Giulio, I am asking you to forget your wrongs. I am asking you to forgive your brother.”
“Why does he not speak for himself?”
“I am very displeased that this has happened,” said Ippolito, inclining his haughty head.
“Displeased!” cried Giulio. “I would describe my own feelings in stronger terms.” He snatched up a torch and held it to his face. “Look at me, Alfonso; and you, Cardinal, look at your work. This hideous thing you see before you is your once handsome brother, Giulio.”
Alfonso’s voice was broken with emotion as he cried: “Stop, I beg of you. Giulio, my dear brother, stop.” He went to him and embraced him. “Giulio, I grieve for you, brother. But think now of Ferrara. Think of our family and, for the sake of our ancestors, who made Ferrara great, and of all those who will follow us, make no trouble now. Forgive your brother.”
And Giulio, weeping in Alfonso’s arms, murmured: “I forgive him. It is over and done with. Long live Ferrara!”
It was easy to say one forgave; it was difficult to continue in that noble attitude. He must lie, poor Giulio, in his darkened room, for even after some time passed he could not bear to face the light. He listened to the sound of distant music from other parts of the castle and brooded on the old days.
Ippolito would be flashing his brilliant robes, making assignations with beautiful women. Ippolito who had ruined his brother’s life and thought he had made amends by lowering his haughty head and saying he was sorry.
There was only one comfort in his life: Ferrante.
Ferrante spent most of his time in Giulio’s room, where they talked of past adventures. Ferrante could often make his brother laugh, but such laughter was always followed by melancholy. What could memories of the joyous past do but lead to the melancholy present? Why should they not talk of the future? What was the future for him? Giulio demanded. He would spend long hours in a dark room, and if he ventured abroad he would have to be masked to hide his hideous face; even then people would turn from him, shuddering.
There was only one way to bring Giulio out of his melancholy, and that was to talk of revenge. Revenge on Ippolito the author of his miseries; revenge on Alfonso who had taken Ippolito’s side against his brother.
It amused them to make plots—wild plots which they knew they could never carry out.
Ferrante, always reckless, sought means of enlivening his brother’s fancies, and one day Giulio in a fit of depression cried: “What fools we are with our pretences! Our plots were never meant to be carried out. They are idle games which we play.”
From that moment Ferrante decided that they should have a real plot, and he set about finding conspirators who would join them. It was not difficult to find men who believed they had been ill-treated by Alfonso; it was even easier to find those who resented Ippolito’s high-handed ways. There was a certain Albertino Boschetti who had lost some