eyes upon her, she swallowed the contents of her silver dish.
He filled a goblet with wine and toasted her.
“To you, my love! To your future! May it be great and glorious.”
“And to you, Brother.”
“To our future then, which is one and the same. How could it be otherwise?”
He came to stand beside her at the table; he put his arm about her and drew her to him.
She thought: He is the greatest man in Italy. One day all will acclaim him; and he is my brother, who loves me … no matter what he does to others. He loves me … and no matter what he does to me, how can I stop loving him?
She was conscious of the old spell, and he knew it even as she did; he was determined that tonight he would carry her across the bridge which spanned the chasm between past and present; when she was safely over, he would make her look back and see that the past was vague and as shadowy as the Sabine Mountains seen from the castle of Nepi.
They sat talking after the meal was over.
He wanted her to return to Rome. This was no place for her. She was young—only twenty—and was she going to spend the rest of her days pining for what could never be?
“I wish to stay here for a while,” she told him. “Here I have solitude.”
“Solitude! You were meant for company. Go back to Rome. Our father misses you.”
“He does not like to see me with my grief upon me.”
“Then he shall see you without it. He yearns to see you thus.”
“He cannot. So I will remain here where I may nurse my sorrow as I wish to.”
“You shall no longer nurse a sorrow for a worthless man,” cried Cesare.
She rose, saying: “I will not listen to such words.”
He barred her way. “You will,” he said. He took a strand of her hair in his hands. “It is less golden that it was, Lucrezia.”
“I care not,” she said.
“And this gown,” he went on, “is like a nun’s habit. Where are your pretty dresses?”
“They do not interest me.”
“Listen, my child, you will have a new husband soon.”
“Do you think to tempt me with husbands as you would tempt a child with sweetmeats!”
“Yes, Lucrezia. And speaking of children, where is this child of yours?”
“He is sleeping.”
“I have not seen him.”
There was fear in her eyes. Cesare noticed it and exulted. He knew now that if he could not bend her through anything else he would through the child.
“You have no interest in the child,” she said quickly.
Cesare’s eyes were sly. “He is the son of his father.”
“His grandfather … adores him.”
“His grandfather’s affection can be blown by the wind.”
“Cesare,” cried Lucrezia, “do not attempt to harm my child!”
He put his hand on her shoulder and grimaced as it touched the black stuff of her gown. “So ugly!” he said. “So unbecoming to my beautiful sister. Have no fear. No harm shall come to your son.”
“If any tried to kill him, as they killed his father, they would have need to kill me first.”
“Nay, do not excite yourself. Alfonso was a traitor. He sought to take my life, so I took his. But I do not concern myself with babies. Lucrezia, be serious. Be sensible. You will have to come back to Rome; and when you return you must be our merry Lucrezia. Let joyous Lucrezia come home and leave the weeping widow behind her.”
“I cannot do it.”
“You can.” Then insistently: “You shall!”
“None can force me to it.”
His face was close to her own. “I can, Lucrezia.”
She was breathless; and he was laughing again, quietly, triumphantly. The fear of years took on a definite shape; she clung to fear, loving fear even as she loved him. She did not understand herself; nor did she understand him. She knew only that they were Borgias and that the bonds which bound them were indestructible while life lasted.
She was almost fainting with fear and with anticipated pleasure. In her mind two figures were becoming confused—Cesare, Alfonso; Alfonso, Cesare.
She could lose one in the other and, when she did that, she would lose the greater part of her misery.
She was staring at Cesare with wide-open eyes; and Cesare was smiling, tenderly, passionately, reassuringly, as though he were taking her hand and leading her toward the inevitable.
He had gone and she was alone.
Everything had a different aspect now. The landscape was less harsh; she gazed often toward the misty Sabine Mountains.