was not present, and she was relieved. Sanchia, like herself, would be thinking of Alfonso of Bisceglie. It was as well that she was absent from this occasion.
The Bishop of Adria opened the proceedings and began to deliver a sermon which threatened to be of long duration. The Pope, however, was impatient to get on with the important part of the ceremony; he wanted to see his daughter in truth married; he wanted to watch the Este jewels being handed to her.
“Enough! Enough!” he murmured, waving a white hand impatiently, and the Bishop’s sermon came to an abrupt end.
Then Ferrante stepped forward and placed the ring on Lucrezia’s finger. “In the name,” he proclaimed, “of my brother Alfonso.”
The jewel box was then brought and ceremoniously handed to Lucrezia, and the Pope was almost beside himself with laughter on hearing the carefully chosen words of Ippolito. It required great tact to hand over a present which was not in truth a gift, but the dandified Ippolito managed very successfully: and after all it was not jewels which the Borgias sought. They could easily have acquired jewels such as those if they had wanted them.
Lucrezia when accepting the jewels commented rather on the exquisite workmanship which had gone into their making than on the gems themselves.
“And now to feasting and celebration!” cried the Pope.
And thus was Lucrezia married for the third time.
The celebration continued. Lucrezia married, though by proxy, to the heir of Este now seemed possessed of a wild abandon. She remembered that her days in the Vatican circle were numbered, and another great fear took possession of her. In a few days she must say good-bye to her father, and she knew that this was constantly in his thoughts. Every time they were together he talked with almost feverish excitement of the visits she would pay to him, and he to her, in the years to come. He would enumerate all the good points of this marriage as though he were trying to convince himself that it was worth while, even though it was going to take his beloved daughter from him.
Cesare was silently angry, brooding on the marriage, hating it yet realizing that alliance with Ferrara was good for the Papacy and Romagna. But Cesare was young; Cesare would make sure that his duty took him near Ferrara. They would meet again and again.
And now that she had taken the step she was unsure. She plunged as feverishly as any of them into the festivities, taking great pains to dazzle the company with her magnificent clothes, washing her hair every few days so that it shone like gold and won the admiration of her new brothers-in-law.
She chattered with her women concerning this dress and that, which jewels she should wear, whether she should have her hair curled or hanging like a cloak about her shoulders. She tried to pretend that these matters were the most important in the world to her; and each day when she rose from her bed she remembered that the parting was coming nearer; each day brought her closer to a new life with a husband whom she did not know, with a family which she sensed, in spite of the charm of her brothers-in-law, was hostile.
Amongst her attendants was her young cousin, a very beautiful fifteen-year-old girl named Angela Borgia, who was excited to be with Lucrezia at this time and overjoyed because she was to accompany her into Ferrara.
Angela, gay and high-spirited, was determined to get all the fun she could out of life, and, watching her, Lucrezia tried to see everything through the young girl’s eyes and thus feel young again.
Angela was with her while she was dressing for a party which was to be given in the Pope’s apartments, and the irrepressible child was holding one of Lucrezia’s gowns about her—a glorious creation, designed by Lucrezia herself, of gold and black striped satin with cascades of lace falling from its slashed sleeves. She was dancing about the apartment, pretending that she was being married and haughtily deigning to receive the ring from one of the women whom she had made take the part which Ferrante had taken at the wedding.
They were all helpless with laughter. There was that about Angela to inspire mirth. She was so wild and so lighthearted, so outrageously indifferent to etiquette, that at times she reminded Lucrezia of Sanchia who, though in Rome, took little part in the celebrations.
“Have done, child,” said Lucrezia, “and come and help